Press-yard described—Charges for admission—Extortionate fees paid to turnkeys and governor—The latter’s perquisites—Night carousing in Press-yard—Penalty for excess—Days how spent—Arrival of Jacobite prisoners—Discussed by lower officials—Preparations for them—Their appearance and demeanour—High prices charged for gaol lodgings—They live royally—First executions abate their gaiety—Escapes—Keeper superseded by officials specially appointed by Lord Mayor—Strictness of new rÉgime—A military guard mounts—Rioting and revels among the Jacobites once more checked by execution of members of the party—Rumours of an amnesty—Mr. Freeman, who fired a pistol in theatre when Prince of Wales was present, committed to Press-yard—Freeman’s violent conduct—Prisoners suffer from overcrowding and heat—Pardons—Rob Roy in Newgate—Other prisoners in Press-yard—Major Bernardi—His history and long detentions—Dies in gaol after forty years’ imprisonment.
THE situation of this section of the prison has been already indicated. It was intended more especially for State prisoners, or those incarcerated on “commitments of State,” and was deemed to be part and parcel of the governor’s house, not actually within the precincts of the prison. This was a pious fiction, put forth as an excuse for exacting fees in excess of the amounts prescribed by Art of Parliament. A sum of twenty guineas was charged for admission to this favoured spot; in other words, “for liberty of having room enough to walk two or three of a breadth.”[85] “The gentlemen admitted here are moreover under a necessity of paying 11s. each per week, although two and sometimes three lie in a bed, and some chambers have three or four beds in them.”[86] The act referred to specially provided that keepers might not charge more than half-a-crown per week as rent for every chamber. This rule the governor of Newgate—“for this haughty commander-in-chief over defenceless men is styled by the same name as the constable of the Tower”—entirely ignored, and the prisoner committed to his custody had to decide between submitting to the extortion, “or take up his abode in the common gaol,” where he had thieves and villains for his associates, and was “perpetually tormented and eaten up by distempers and vermin.”
The extortion practised is graphically described by one who endured it. The author of the ‘History of the Press-yard,’ after having been mulcted on first arrival at the lodge for drink and “garnish,”[87] was, although presumably a State prisoner, and entitled to better treatment, at once cast in the condemned hold. In this gruesome place, which has been already described, he lay “seized with a panic dread” at the survey of his new tenement, and willing to change it for another on almost any terms. “As this was the design of my being brought hither, so was I made apprized of it by an expected method; for I had not bewailed my condition more than half-an-hour, before I heard a voice from above crying out from a board taken out of my ceiling, which was the speaker’s floor, ‘Sir, I understand your name is ——, and that you are a gentleman too well educated to take up your abode in a vault set apart only for thieves, parricides, and murderers. From hence criminals after sentence of death are carried to the place of execution, and from hence you may be removed to a chamber equal to one in any private house, where you may be furnished with the best conversation and entertainment, on a valuable consideration.’” The speaker went on to protest that he acted solely from good will; that he was himself a prisoner, and had suffered at first in the same manner, but had paid a sum to be removed to better quarters, “which he thanked God he enjoyed then to his heart’s content, wanting for nothing that a gaol could afford him.” The victim begged to know the terms, and to be put in communication with the proper officer to make a contract for release. The other promised accordingly, and a quarter of an hour afterwards “clang went the chain of my door and bolts, and in comes a gentleman-like man of very smiling aspect,” who apologized profusely, swearing that those who had ill-used a gentleman in such an unhandsome manner should be well trounced for it. “He moreover excused the want of suitable entertainment for persons of condition in prison-houses, and assured me that I should be immediately conducted to the governor’s house, who would take all imaginable care of my reception. After this he very kindly took me by the hand to lead me down into the lodge, which I rightly apprehended as a motive to feel my pulse, and therefore made use of the opportunity to clap two pieces, which he let my hand go to have a fast grip of, in his.”
His deliverer was the head turnkey, by name Bodenham Rouse, whom he accompanied to the Lodge, and there again stood drink. “We gave our service to one another in a glass of wine, drawn by Dame Spurling, the fat hostess who kept the tap in the Lodge.” Over the friendly glass terms were propounded and accepted, and having paid down his twenty guineas—a large sum, excused on the grounds that Mr. Pitt the governor had paid £1000 for his place—the prisoner followed his guide through Phoenix court into the governor’s house, where he had the honour of saluting and taking a dram of arrack with the great Mr. Pitt, who “as a mark of his favourable intentions to me, gave order for furnishing me a bed with clean sheets, after I had paid the woman that brought them to my barrack of a chamber in the press-yard, whither I was soon conveyed through a door with a great iron chain to it, five shillings.”
The new-comer was cordially welcomed and introduced by “George, the cobbler of Highgate,”[88] apparently a prison official, to a congenial companion, who explained to him the ways of the place. It was in the first place incumbent on every arrival to pay his footing. About seven or eight o’clock the entrance fee was demanded. It had previously been only six bottles of wine, and tobacco in proportion. This was now raised to ten or twelve bottles, which, if a prisoner was straitened for money, “could be scored at the bar of the honest tapster, who, though he lost several hundred pounds by that method of proceeding, was not discouraged from going on with it in favour of unhappy gentlemen.” This talk lasted over pipes and a pot of stout, until notice was brought by “a person in gray hairs, who had then the keys of the press-yard, that all things were ready for an evening refreshment, and that honest Tom the butler had carried the bottles, pipes, and tobacco into our refectory, called the tap-room.” Here the giver of the entertainment seated himself at the head of the table, and the guests on each side of him. Among them was a major who had been in the army[89] so long that he was of the same standing as the Duke of Marlborough, and “commanded over General Mallow, now a great officer in Spain, when he was an ensign on the Irish establishment.” Another was “a gentleman, who being of the late King James’s Horse Guards, had adhered to that exiled monarch’s fortunes till he was driven out of Ireland.” Both these gentlemen had married since their confinement, the one, though near seventy,[90] “to a young woman not much above twenty ... the other, of less advanced years, to a widow gentlewoman of a like age, who lived very comfortably with him—” of course in the prison.
They met the new-comer with “all possible civility, and indeed made the hours pass over more agreeably than he could have expected in that place.” They drank deep and late. “I continued whipping out sixpences to advance more bottles, till our cheerfulness was turned into drowsiness, and merriment became the subject of dispute with some of my fellow-prisoners, so it was thought high time by the most sober of us to break up and retire to our chambers, with the ceremony of the turnkeys locking each of the two staircase-doors after us.” The new prisoner, furnished with a clay candlestick, “because he had not yet equipped himself with one of earthenware,” found his way up three pairs of stairs to a large room, which had its entrance through the chapel. The bars were as thick as his wrist, and very numerous. The stone walls, which had borne the same hue for above half a century, were bedaubed with texts of Scripture written in charcoal, such as “Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward,” “Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I have kept Thy word.” There were bedsteads made of boards for the bedding, but neither “flocks nor feathers to make one.” The tables and chairs were of like antiquity and use. “And Potiphar’s wife’s chambermaid’s hat at the coffee-house in Chelsea had as fair a claim to any modern fashion as any one thing in the room.” Our author is disgusted at the accommodation provided for the price, twelve shillings a week, and another twelve pence for the woman or nurse who cleaned the place. But he is consoled by being told what he had escaped by not being locked up on the master’s side, “where, besides a thousand other inconveniences, I must have paid one and sixpence per diem for leave to associate myself with pickpockets in a dark and stinking cellar.”
The following morning he was admitted into other mysteries of the place. All who had exceeded the previous night had to pay the usual forfeit, a groat in drink for the turnkeys, which the latter collect very punctually, and at the payment of the forfeit, “as many persons as think fit may be present.” The names of the offenders having been called over with all ceremony, all pleaded guilty and promptly paid the fine, which was forthwith spent in liquor, to be consumed by the cobbler of Highgate and his fellows. From this time forward the novice was free of the place, and was looked upon by the other prisoners as one of themselves. The morning passed with the ordinary diversions. Talk over the persons of distinction who had gone to Tyburn out of such and such a room, was varied by the perusal of newspapers hired out by the turnkeys, and the discussion of the literary merits of the last dying speech composed by a condemned prisoner, who was on the brink of the gallows. One is given by the author of ‘The Press-yard’ in extenso, the oration of one J—— B—ggs, an “orange merchant,” sentenced to die for outwitting the Bank of England, a flowery piece of rhetoric, hardly worth transcribing, which wound up with these words,—
“So much by way of oration. Here, Jack (Ketch), do your office decently and with despatch; these clothes, hat, and wig are yours; you will find fifteen shillings and some grocery in my pocket. Now, Mr. Ordinary, you may sing the psalm if you please, and I’ll endeavour as well as it is possible to bear a bob with you, but let it be none of your penitential ones.”
Thus passed the day. Towards evening visitors began to flock in from outside to take their bottle and comfort “the distressed inhabitants” of Newgate press-yard in the only way possible, by inordinate drinking. Of the visitors some were friends and relatives, others came from sheer predilection for criminal society. Among them was an alderman’s son, “who, not having so much prudence as his father, rendered himself suspected by keeping suspicious company.” Political affinities attracted more: the eminent merchant, “who would have done much better to relieve the Militia officer (? Bernardi), he came to carouse with, at a distance, than to appear so publicly in support of a person obnoxious to the Government;” or the clergyman, “who had made himself famous at Whitechapel, or in Saint Laurence’s Church, whom it behoved in a particular manner to take heed of his ways, since his zeal had already gained him the opposite party’s displeasure.” All of these came and went as they pleased. Conviviality was general, liquor was freely called for, potations were deep, and the press-yard of Newgate at night time was like the tap-room of a common inn.
The moment was one of considerable political excitement. The Pretender’s first attempt had collapsed in the north, and the press-yard was about to be crowded with more eminent guests. Our author is aroused one fine morning by loud joy-bells pealing from the churches, and he learns from his Jacobite companion that the “king’s (Pretender’s) affairs were ruined, and that the generals Willis and Carpenter had attacked the Jacobite forces in Preston, and taken all prisoners at discretion.” Newgate is convulsed by the news. Its officers are wild with delight, “calling for liquor after an extravagant manner, and drinking to their good luck, which was to arise from the ruin and loss of lives and fortunes in many good families.” A dialogue is overheard between the hangman, the deputy bed-maker, and a turnkey’s understrapper to the following effect:—
Executioner. Come, Doll, here’s to you. Good days to us once more. If this news be true I am made a man for ever.
Bed-maker. What news, Mr. Marvell?[91] Has the Parliament lengthened out the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act?
Deputy Turnkey. No, you fool; something better than that.
Exec. Two or three hundred prisoners for high treason. Drink a bumper to their sudden arrival. They’ll be your tenants very speedily.
Bedm. How! Two or three hundred! Where shall we stow them?
Dep. T. Never heed that we shall find room for them, provided they have wherewithal to pay for it.
Exec. Pay for it! Most of them have very great estates, and are topping gentry, so there is no question we shall all of us make a penny by them.
Dep. T. I for fees to lighten their irons.
Bedm. I for keeping their chambers sweet and clean.
Exec. I for civility money in placing their halters’ knot right under their left ear, and separating their quarters at the place of execution with all imaginable decency.
Bedm. But with fine gentlemen such as these are said to be, what is their crime?
Dep. T. She’s so stupid as not to remember that we are talking of the defeated rebels.
Bedm. True; now I understand you. And those sort of gentry are to be brought hither?
Dep. T. Yes, you fool. Tom, t’other quartern of Geneva; we shall call for our bottle of port in a few days. I’ll e’en think of conning my new lesson against the prisoners come to town. “May it please your honour, this pair of derbys is as bright as silver, and weigh two guineas lighter than those such a gentleman has on.”
Bedm. And I, these sheets are made of the finest holland, and are never used but when persons of the first rank are to lie in them. Sir, such an one gave me a guinea the first night he handselled them.
Exec. I shall not be behindhand with this, though it will come last to my turn to finger any of their money. For you are to remember, that besides £3 per head I shall have from the sheriff for the execution of every peer, their clothes and the money in their pockets will likewise be my perquisites. And for every gentleman hanged and quartered I am to have the like sum, with the respective gratifications they shall make me for a quick and easy despatch; so that in all likelihood, provided the king does not unseasonably spoil my market by reprieves and pardons, which I hope he will never consent to, I shall not only purchase the title of an esquire, but the estate too, and be in a condition of yet taking an apprentice (? as hangman) under the same that are usually given to a Turkey merchant, which may make my wife hold up her head one day or other to the level of an alderman’s wife.
This conversation was presently interrupted by the approach of Mr. Pitt, the governor, who came, accompanied by other officials, to survey the rooms, and estimate the number of new tenants that could be accommodated therein. All due preparations made, a few days more brought to Newgate the unfortunate noblemen and gentlemen who had surrendered at discretion, hoping thus, although vainly, to save both life and estate. On their arrival in London they were led in triumph through the streets to their respective places of durance—viz. the Tower, the Marshalsea, Newgate, and the Fleet. The prisoners on arrival at Highgate were met by Major-General Tarlton with two battalions of Royal Foot Guards, completely armed. Cords were also brought sufficient to pinion each prisoner after the manner of condemned criminals, and to lead their horses with, “for each, from the lord to the footman, was accommodated with a Grenadier to that end.” Thus under safe conduct they marched from the Hill of Highgate to their several places of confinement. The Major-General led the way, being “preceded by several citizens of more loyalty than compassion, who made repeated huzzas to excite the mob to do the like.” After the General commanding came a company of the first regiment of Guards, “who made a very fine appearance.” Then came the division for the Tower, two and two, the Earl of Derwentwater and Lord Widdrington in the first rank, the other lords and noblemen following with haltered horses, bound like common malefactors, and reviled and hooted.
Those for Newgate brought up the rear. They were civilly and humanely treated on arrival there. The officers received them under the gateway, and no sooner were the prisoners alighted from their horses and their names called over, than their cords were immediately cut from their arms and shoulders, and refreshment of wine brought to them. “Their number was about seventy,” says our author.[92] “And amongst them in particular I could not but cast my eye upon one Mr. Archibald Bolair, who in the sixteenth year of his age was said to have signalized his courage, and have displayed as much skill and dexterity in feats of arms in the battle of Preston as the oldest commander of them, Brigadier Macintosh himself, though trained up in warlike affairs, not excepted. What induced me to distinguish him from the rest was the fearless way of expression he made use of when the clerk of the prison cut his cords. ‘By my soul, man,’ said he, ‘you should not have done that, but kept it whole that I might either have been hanged with it, or have it to show, if I escaped the gallows, how I had been led like a dog in a string for twice two miles together.’ Mr. Bolair then enquired feelingly for his followers, who had been brought so many miles from home out of observance of his orders, and he was anxious that they should not want.” Young Mr. Bolair was told off to the same room as our author, into which two additional beds were placed, for the convenience of the keeper, who by four beds in one room, filled each with three tenants, got £6 per week, besides the sums paid as entrance money.
The prisoners included many persons of note. Two of them—Mr. Forster, who thought himself slighted and ill-used because, in consideration of his seat in Parliament, he had not been imprisoned in the Tower; and Francis Anderson, esquire, commonly called Sir Francis, a gentleman of £2000 per annum—had apartments in the governor’s house at £5 per head per week. There were also Colonel Oxborough, Brigadier Macintosh, the two Talbots, the Shaftos, Mr. Wogan, and Captain Menzies, who with their adherents and servants were thrust into the worst dungeons,—such as “the lion’s den” and the “middle dark,”—till for better lodgment they had advanced more money than would have rented one of the best houses in Piccadilly or St. James’s Square. The fee or premium paid by Mr. Forster and Sir Francis Anderson for being accommodated in the governor’s house was £60, and it cost the latter twenty-five guineas more to keep off his irons. Mr. Widdrington, Mr. Ratcliffe, and others paid twenty guineas apiece for the like favour at their first coming in; and every one that would not be turned to the common side, ten guineas, beside two guineas, one guinea and ten shillings per man for every week’s lodging, although in some rooms the men lay four in a bed. As the result of these extortions it was computed that Mr. Pitt cleared some £3000 or £4000 in three or four months, “besides valuable presents given in private, and among others a stone (entire) horse.”
Money was, however, plentiful among the incarcerated Jacobites, and so far as was consistent with their situation, they lived right royally. Sympathetic friends from without plied them with wines and luxurious diet. They had every day a variety of the choicest eatables in season, “and that too as early as the greatest and nicest ladies.”[93] Forty shillings for a dish of peas was nothing to their pockets, nor 13s. for a dish of fish. These, “with the best French wine, was an ordinary regale.” They “lived in this profuse manner, and fared so sumptuously through the means of daily visitants and helps from abroad.” Money circulated plentifully within the prison. While it was difficult to change a guinea at any house in the street, nothing was more easy than to have silver for gold in any quantity in Newgate. Nor did many of them lack female sympathy. Ladies of the first rank and quality, even tradesmen’s wives and daughters, “made a sacrifice of their husbands’ and parents’ rings and precious movables for the use of those whom the law had appointed to be so many sacrifices themselves.”[94] “It is not to be supposed that a champion so noted for the cause as Captain Silk was neglected; for he had his full share of those treats which soon made his clothes too little for his corpse.” When not feasting and chambering, the prisoners found diversion in playing shuttlecock, “at which noble game the valiant Forster beat all who engaged him, so that he triumphed with his feather in the prison though he could not do it in the field.”[95]
For long there was nothing among them but “flaunting apparel, venison pasties, hams, chickens, and other costly meats.” But soon all their jollity came abruptly to an end. The news of the sad fate of the two peers Derwentwater and Kenmure, who had been brought to trial and executed upon Tower Hill, “abated their gaiety.” They were yet more unmistakably reminded of their perilous position by the notice which now came to them to provide themselves with counsel and witnesses for their own defence. Fresh committals too were made to Newgate; prisoners were sent in from the Tower and the Fleet. Among them were Mr. Howard, brother to the Duke of Norfolk, the Master of Nairn, Mr. Baird Hamilton, “a gentleman who behaved with wonderful gallantry at the action of Preston;” Mr. Charles Radcliffe, Lord Derwentwater’s brother, “a youth of extraordinary courage;” Mr. Charles and Mr. Peregrine Widdington, “two gentlemen of diversion and pleasure, both papists;” the two Mr. Cottons, father and son, “nonjurant protestants, and of great estate in Huntingdonshire;” Mr. Thomas Errington, “a gentleman that had been in the French service, ... with the laird of Macintosh, Colonel McIntosh, and Major McIntosh, together with other Scotch gentlemen.”
Brought thus face to face with their very pressing danger, all more or less cast about them for some means of escape. Several desperate attempts were made to break prison. Thus on the 14th March it was discovered that several had tried to get out by breaking through the press-yard wall, “from which they were to be let down by a rope, instead of being tucked up by one at Tyburn.” For this several were placed in irons. Some time later Mr. Forster got clean away,[96] as did Brigadier Macintosh and eight others. Mr. George Budden, formerly an upholsterer near Fleet bridge, also effected his escape; and last, but not least, Mr. Charles Radcliffe, Lord Derwentwater’s brother. After Mr. Forster’s escape the Government took greater precautions, and a lieutenant with thirty men of the Foot Guards was ordered to do constant duty at Newgate. Mr. Pitt, the keeper, was strongly suspected of collusion, and was attached on a charge of high treason, being after arrest committed to the custody of one Wilcox, a messenger, “who used him in a barbarous manner, contrary no doubt to the instruction of the noble lord that issued the warrant for his confinement.” The city authorities, no doubt exercised at the insecurity of their gaol, also roused themselves “to look better after their prison of Newgate,” and instead of leaving Mr. Rouse chief turnkey in charge of the whole place, specially appointed Mr. Carleton Smith, an officer of the Lord Mayor’s, and with him Mr. Russell, to take care of the rebels in the press-yard. These new officials “performed their part so well,” it is said, “by examining all the visitors, debarring entrance to all riding hoods, cloaks, and arms, and by sitting up all night in the prison, each in his turn, that not one man escaped from thence during their time.”
The new keepers appear to have stirred up much animosity from their punctual discharge of their duties. Mr. Russell, we read, shortly after his appointment was very much abused and threatened by Captain Silk and some of the rebels, who surrounded him in the press-yard, but he made his retreat without any harm. There must have been some in the reigning monarch’s service with secret sympathies for the Pretender; for it is recorded, May 14th, that “an officer of the guards with two others conversed with the rebels all day.” They were, moreover, humoursome and abusive to the new keepers because of their care in looking after their prisoners; whereof Messrs. Carleton Smith and Russell complained to the Lord Mayor, who thereupon ordered that no officer should be permitted to visit the prisoners without the express permission of the Secretary of State; and next day it is stated the officer in fault was “submissive and sorry for his offence.” This was not the first offence of the kind. A few days before the officer of the guard went in (even then), “contrary to custom,” with his sword on to see the prisoners. He continued with them for some hours, and whether heated with wine or otherwise, beat one of the turnkeys as he brought in a rebel from trial. This officer was placed in arrest, and another mounted guard in his place, who “prevented the drunkenness and other irregularities of the soldiers which might have given the prisoners an opportunity to escape.”
Matters were not too comfortable for the military guard. The men at the gate were liable to insults as on the 19th May, when they were reviled by a Tory constable. They were also open to efforts to wean them from their allegiance. One day Mr. Carleton Smith detected a prisoner, Isaac Dalton,[97] in durance for libel, endeavouring to corrupt the sentinels by giving them money to drink the Pretender’s health with. “But he missed his aim.” The soldiers heartily drank to King George in wine supplied by Mr. Smith, and declared they would oppose the Pretender to the last drop of their blood. All the guards were not equally loyal, however. On another occasion the soldiers of the guard “had the impudence to sing Captain Silk’s dearly beloved tune, ‘The king shall have his own again,’ for which their officer, Captain Reeve, a very loyal gentleman, threatened them with imprisonment.”
The peril of the prisoners bred a certain reckless turbulence among them. On the 29th May a mob collected in great numbers outside, carrying oaken boughs on pretence of commemorating the restoration. The guard was reinforced, lest the mob should attempt to break open the gaol. Inside the rebels were very noisy, and insulted their keepers; “but they were soon put out of a capacity of doing much harm, for by way of precaution they were all locked up before ten o’clock.” This hour of early closing was continued, and greatly resented by them. A few days later they made a great disturbance at the sound of a bell set up by order of the Lord Mayor to ring them to their apartments at the regular hour. They asked for the order. It was read to them, to their manifest dissatisfaction, for it referred the recent escapes to the unaccountable liberty of indulgence permitted them, and insisted that upon the ringing of the bell in question all should betake themselves to their apartments. Ten was the hour of retiring “at farthest”; any infringement of the rule would be followed by the deprivation of all freedom, and double irons for the offenders. Except Captain Silk, however, all acquiesced in the order. He alone, “with his usual impudence, bullied the keeper, and made many unbecoming reflections upon the Lord Mayor and sheriffs.” Nor did insubordination end here. A day or two later the Lord Mayor’s notice, which had been posted up in the various press-yard rooms, was torn down by the rebels in contempt of authority.
A fresh and more serious riot soon occurred in the streets, on the occasion of the thanksgiving on the anniversary of Preston fight. Several visitors came to the rebels with rue and thyme in their hats and bosoms in contempt of the day; but the new keepers made bold to strip them of their badges and strew the floors with them, “as more worthy to be trodden underfoot than be worn by way of insult on that glorious day.” About midnight brickbats were thrown from the neighbouring houses upon the soldiers on guard; and the guard in retaliation fired up at the places whence came the attack. Mr. Carleton Smith, whose turn it was to sit up, feared some attempt was being made to break the gaol, and “leaping out to know the occasion of the firing, searched several of the houses; in doing which he was like to have been shot by a ball which came up to the room where he was.” But the loyalty of the rebels to their cause was not to be checked. It broke out again on the 10th June, the anniversary of the Pretender’s birth. “Captain Booth, whose window looked into Phoenix Court, was so insolent as to put out a great bunch of white roses at his window,” and several visitors of both sexes came wearing the same rebellious badges. But again the keepers pulled them out and threw them on the floor.
In all these disturbances Captain Silk was a ringleader. He is continually ready to make a noise. Now he swears revenge upon the keeper for not allowing supper to be carried in to him and his “conrogues” after 10 P.M.; now he incites other prisoners to riot. “They are for the most part very drunk and rude, so that it was with great difficulty that they were got to their rooms by one o’clock in the morning.” Next day Captain Silk continues his insolence. He threatens Mr. Smith for refusing to pass in visitors after regulated hours. Again he and his companions are drunk and insolent, and cannot be got to their rooms till the same late hour. A night or two later they crowded about the doors when they were opened, cursing and assaulting the person who rang the night-bell. Captain Silk, as before, encouraged them, and to provoke them further, when the bell sounded cried out, “Get up, ye slaves, and go.”
Sadder moments soon supervened. The trials were proceeding, and already the law had condemned several. Among the first to suffer were Colonel Oxborough and Mr. Gascoigne: the latter was offered his pardon on conditions which he rejected, and both began to make great preparations for “their great change.” Colonel Oxborough, who lay in the condemned hold, behaved with an astonishing serenity of mind; and when his friends expressed their concern in tears, he gravely rebuked them, showing an easiness very unaccustomed in the bravest minds under such a sentence. Next an order of the court came down for the execution of twenty-four more who had been condemned, and “universal sorrow” prevailed in the gaol. Parson Paul,[98] one of the number, was “so dejected he could not eat;” most of the other prisoners retired to their apartments to vent their grief, and a vast number of their friends in tears came to condole with them. After this all were busy with petitions to the court. Some were immediately successful. Handsome young Archibald Bolair was discharged, “at which Lady Faulconbridge, his supposed benefactress, went out with a smiling countenance.” Next night he returned in his kilt to visit his friends, but was denied entrance. That same midnight there were great shouts of joy in the prison: a reprieve had come down for all but Parson Paul and Justice Hall,[99] both of whom were led next day to Tyburn. Neither would admit the ministrations of the Ordinary, to whom they “behaved rudely,” and they were attended at the place of execution by priests of their own stamp in a lay habit. They (the condemned) were hardened to the highest degree, says their implacable opponent, and gave free vent to their treason in seditious speeches at the gallows.
Great consternation prevailed after these executions. It was greatly increased by the known displeasure of the Government at the demeanour of some of the condemned at Tyburn. But the king (George I.) was now gone on a visit to Hanover; and the Prince of Wales, as regent, was pleased to put an end to the further effusion of blood. Rumours of an Act of Indemnity were spread abroad, and abundance of visitors came to congratulate the prisoners on their approaching release. But the happy day being still postponed, the Jacobites became turbulent once more; Mr. Pitt, the old governor, who had been tried for neglect in allowing Mr. Forster and others to escape, had been acquitted, upon which the Lord Mayor and sheriffs recalled Messrs. Carleton Smith and Russell. The latter delivered up their charge, “having performed it so well that not one prisoner had escaped.” But Mr. Pitt was again unfortunate; and suffering another man (Flint) to escape, the court of aldermen resolved to reinstate Smith and Russell. This gave great dudgeon to the rebels in the press-yard, who soon proved very refractory, refusing to be locked up at the proper time. Then they made bitter reflections on the advice given to the new keepers in the ‘Flying Post,’ a Whiggish organ, who were, as the author of the ‘Secret History’ observes sarcastically, “so inhuman, that they would let none of the rebels make their escape, either in the habits of women, footmen, or parsons.” It was difficult for the keepers not to give cause of offence. Their prisoners were angry with them because they would not sit down and drink with them, “as the old ones used to do;” even upon the bribe, offered when the indemnity loomed large, of swallowing a bumper to King George. Captain Silk was troublesome as ever. One Sunday he cursed and swore prodigiously because the doors had been shut during divine service, and his roaring companions could not have access to him. Another time the prisoners insulted the keepers, asking them why they carried arms? The Jacobites declared they could not endure the sight since the battle of Preston. Just about now the keepers were informed that the rebels intended to do them a mischief—a threat which did not deter them, however, from strictly performing their duty.
Another prisoner added greatly to the trials of the keepers about this period. This was Mr. Freeman, who was committed for firing a pistol in the playhouse when the prince was there. Freeman was continually intoxicated when in gaol. He was also very mischievous, and kept a burning candle by him most part of the night, to the great danger of the prison, especially when in his mad freaks. “He is a lusty, strong, raw-boned man, has a stern, dogged look, as of an obstinate temper when vexed, but fawning and treacherous when pleased.” In a day or two Freeman showed the cloven foot. He flew into a violent passion, and beat one of the female servants of the prison, “shutting the door against the keepers, after he had wounded one of them with a fork which he held in one hand, having a knife and pistol in the other.” He was overpowered, and carried to the condemned hold, where he was put in irons. His villainous designs there appeared by his setting his handkerchief on fire, and concealing it in his hat near his bed, and it was suspected that he wished to set the gaol on fire, so that the prisoners might have the opportunity to escape. A day later Mr. Freeman “regretted that he had not murdered his keeper in the last scuffle;” and the same day Mr. Menzies and Mr. Nairn did honestly tell the keepers that the prisoners meant to injure them, Freeman’s disturbance having been raised “chiefly to that end, and that the female servant he only pretended to assault, so as to make her cry out murder before she was in the least hurt.”
Royal clemency was still delayed, and the advancing summer was intensely hot. The close confinement of so many persons in a limited space began to tell seriously on the prisoners. A spotted fever,[100] which had before shown itself with evil effects, reappeared. It had proved fatal to Mr. Pitcairn the previous August, and in the winter Mr. Butler had died of the same. Now it carried off Mr. Kellet, Sir Francis Anderson’s man. Mr. Thornton was also attacked, but through the care of his doctors recovered. Next month (June) Mr. David Drummond died, and Mr. Ratcliffe was indisposed. It was generally feared that the distemper would become contagious; whereupon some of the principal inmates, among them Mr. Ratcliffe, the two Mr. Widdingtons, Mr. Murray, and Mr. Seaton, “who is styled by them the Earl of Dumferline,” petitioned the Prince Regent and council for enlargement to more commodious prisons. The king’s physicians were accordingly despatched to the prison to inquire into its sanitary condition. Their report was that no contagious distemper existed. The matter was therefore ordered to stand until his Majesty’s pleasure should be known at his arrival from Hanover. George I. soon afterwards returned, and signified his orders for an Act of Grace, which duly passed both Houses of Parliament.
The news of an amnesty was joyfully received in the press-yard. One of the first acts of the prisoners so soon to be set free was to get in a poor fiddler, “whom they set to play tunes adapted to their treasonable ballads;.... but this was so shocking to the keepers that they turned the fiddler out.” Next the prisoners had a badger brought in, and baited him with dogs. Other already pardoned rebels came and paid ceremonious visits, such as Mr. Townley, who appeared with much pomp and splendour after his discharge from the Marshalsea. Several clergymen also visited; and a noted common council man, whose friends stood a bowl of punch that night in Captain Silk’s room. The State prisoners were soon “very busy in getting new rigging, and sending away their boxes and trunks; so that they looked like so many people removing from their lodgings and houses on quarter-day.” On July 4th a member of Parliament came to assure Mr. Grierson that the Act of Indemnity would surely pass in a few days. This occasioned great joy. A fortnight later the pardon was promulgated, and all the prisoners remaining were taken to Westminster to plead the Act, “where many were so very ungrateful that they refused to kneel or speak out in asking the king’s pardon till they were forced to it.”[101]
According to this last-quoted writer, the rebels in Newgate were not of exemplary character. “Their daily practice in prison was profane swearing, drunkenness, gluttony, gaming, and lasciviousness.” That such was permitted speaks volumes as to the shameful negligence of prison rule in those unsettled times.
There were other rebel prisoners, who do not seem to have benefited by this act of grace, and who remained much longer in prison. It is recorded in the ‘Weekly Journal’ of January 24th, 1727, that the King (George I.) had pardoned another batch of Jacobites, who had been capitally convicted in the first year of his reign for levying war against him. The pardoned traitors were Robert Stuart, of Appin; Alexander Macdonald, of Glencoe; Grant, of Glenmorrison; Maclimmin, of that Ilk; Mackenzie, of Fairburn; Mackenzie, of Dachmalnack; Chisholm, of Shatglass; Mackenzie, of Ballumakie; MacDougal, of Lorne; and two others, more notable than all the rest, “James, commonly called Lord, Ogilvie,” and “Robert Campbell, alias Macgregor, commonly called Rob Roy.” They had been under durance in London, for it is added that “on Tuesday last they were carried from Newgate to Gravesend, to be put on ship-board for transportation to Barbadoes.” Rob Roy marching handcuffed to Lord Ogilvie through the London streets from Newgate to the prison barge at Blackfriars, and thence to Gravesend, is an incident that has escaped the notice of Walter Scott, and all of Rob’s biographers. The barge-load of Highland chiefs, and of some thieves, seems, however, to have been pardoned, and allowed to return home.
Before leaving the press-yard some reference must be made to certain political “suspects” who were lodged therein for terms varying from nineteen to forty years. Their case is remarkable, as being the last instance of the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act in England, with the full knowledge and sanction of Parliament, and in spite of repeated strongly-urged petitions from the prisoners for release. Their names were John Bernardi, Robert Cassilis, Robert Meldrum, Robert Blackburne, and James Chambers. Of these, the first-named, Major Bernardi, is the old officer referred to by the writer of the ‘History of the Press-Yard.’[102] Bernardi has told his own story in a volume penned in Newgate, and “printed by J. Newcomb, in the Strand, for the benefit of the author, 1729.” Macaulay is disposed to discredit the version given by Bernardi, although there is a certain air of truthfulness in the prisoner’s narrative. Bernardi begins at the beginning. He was of Italian extraction, he tells us. His ancestors had been in the diplomatic service. Count Philip de Bernardi, his great-grandfather, came to England with a Genoese embassy. Francis Bernardi, son of the former, and father of Major John, was also accredited to Charles II. on the restoration, but when replaced as resident, being English born, he preferred to live and die in the land of his birth. According to his son, he was a stern parent, ready to award him penal treatment, with imprisonment for trifles, “in a little dark room or dungeon allowing him only bread and small beer when so confined.” By-and-by John ran away from home, and through the favour of Lady Fisher was employed as a “listed soldier” in a company at Portsmouth when barely fifteen years of age. A year or two later his god-father, Colonel Anselme, took him to the Low Countries, where by gallant conduct in the wars he gained an ensigncy from the Prince of Orange. At the siege of Maestrict he lost an eye, and was badly wounded in the arm. When scarcely twenty he was promoted to a lieutenancy, and eight years later obtained a company in Colonel Monk’s regiment. He was now, by his own account, arrived “at a high pitch of fortune.” He was a captain at twenty-seven in an established service, was personally well known to the Prince of Orange (afterwards William III.), had married well, and was, with his wife’s fortune, in the receipt of “a considerable income.”
James II., on coming to the throne, summoned home all English officers in the service of the States. Among the few who obeyed was Major Bernardi, and he then gave up, as he says, a certainty for an uncertainty. Very soon his former chief, the Prince of Orange, replaced James upon the throne, and Bernardi, unfortunately for himself, thereafter espoused the wrong side. He refused to sign the “association put about by General Kirk,” under which all officers bound themselves to stand by William “against all persons whomsoever,” and proceeded to France to throw in his lot with the exiled king. When James embarked for Ireland, Bernardi followed in command of a party of newly-organized adherents. He was at several of the engagements in that island, and was presently commissioned Major. After that he went to the Highlands with Seaforth Mackenzie on a special mission, and on his return had the honour of dining at the same table with the king. A second mission to Scotland followed, after which Bernardi made his way south, and escaping great perils by the way, reached London, meaning, when he had disposed of horses and effect, to cross over to Flanders. At Colchester, however, from which he hoped to reach easily a port of embarkation, he was seized and committed on suspicion, first to the town gaol, then to that of Chelmsford. After being much harassed he at length obtained his release, only to be soon involved in still greater trouble.
To his great misfortune he now fell in with one Captain Rookwood. It was about the time of the discovery of the assassination plot, of which Major Bernardi declares that he was in absolute ignorance till he heard of it like the rest of the world. He was by chance in the company of Captain Rookwood at a tavern, and was with him arrested on suspicion of being “evil-minded men.” While in the Compter Rookwood incautiously revealed his own identity, and was lost. Rookwood seems at the same time to have unintentionally betrayed Bernardi, whose name had, it appears, and in spite of his protestations of perfect innocence, been included in a proclamation. The inference is that the Government was in the possession of certain information that Bernardi was mixed up in the plot.[103] Both men were carried before the Council, and committed close prisoners to Newgate, “loaded with heavy irons, and put into separate dismal, dark, and stinking apartments.” Rookwood was speedily condemned and executed at Tyburn. Bernardi remained in prison without trial, until after Sir John Fenwick had suffered. Then with his fellow-prisoners he was taken to the Old Bailey to be bailed out, but at the instance of the Treasury solicitor, who “whispered the Judges upon the Bench,” they were relegated to Newgate, and a special Act passed rapidly through the House to keep them for another twelve-month on the plea of waiting for further evidence against them. A second Act was passed prolonging the imprisonment for another year; then a third, to confine them during the king’s pleasure. On the death of the king (William III.), a fresh Act extended the imprisonment during the reign of Queen Anne. During this long lapse of time repeated applications were made to Judges, but the release of the prisoners was always bitterly opposed by the law officers. Bernardi’s doctors certified that imprisonment was killing him; he suffered from fits and the constant trouble of an old wound. Nevertheless he lived on; and when in his sixty-eighth year he married, in Newgate, a second, virtuous, kind, and loving wife, who proved “a true help-meet,” supporting him by her good management, and keeping his heart from breaking in the “English Bastille.” Bernardi had ten children born in Newgate of this second wife. The imprisonment continued through the reigns of George I. and II. Frequent petitions were unheeded, and finally Bernardi died in Newgate in 1736, the last survivor, after forty years’ incarceration, and aged eighty-two.
