A Woman of the Road Page 9

  “We shall return for you!” Jeffries cried, grabbing Aventis’s saddle and hoisting himself up. “Megs, do not despair!”

  The horse with its dual riders raced off pursued by soldiers. I heard receding hoofbeats, the sharp reports of gunfire, and then, nothing at all.

  A Glimpse of Hell

  When I awoke on a cold stone floor, I knew exactly where I was. It was the bane of every high tobyman who ever sat a horse. Outside my cell, I saw a gaoler with the torn flesh of those just quartered surrounding him in piles. He was busy boiling something in a large pot, and, seeing my horror, held up a severed head with a grin.

  “This way the fowl don’t get ‘em when they put ‘em up on the Bridge,” he said.

  Nice.

  If this was not enough revolt the senses, my nostrils were soon assailed by the stink of unwashed bodies. In general, London smelled bad, but the coal dust perfuming its air was like a garden of flowers compared to this place. To make matters worse, my ears were assailed by the sound of heavy groans coming from all around me.

  I fought the urge to join them. Looking down, I saw I was manacled hand and foot by thick restraints of iron. There could be no escape, and there could be no doubt: I was in London’s Newgate Gaol, from which few ever returned. Few, that is, like me.

  Feeling a pain in my left hand, I saw that it was bound with a filthy white cloth. Though I wanted to cry out, I knew that displaying weakness would be punished by jeers or worse, so I sought to distract myself by surveying my new quarters.

  I lay on a ragged blanket atop a cold stone floor, surrounded by other men more miserable than I. I saw lice crawl over their heads, while the rags they wore were so thin that flesh could be glimpsed in spots. There were perhaps twenty-five of us crammed into a dank space no bigger than a chamber. Who these men were or what crimes they had committed were as unknown to me as how I’d come to be their fellow.

  I turned to the inmate next to me and recoiled at his rasping cough. Gaol fever, I thought. Luck would be I his favor if he survived the week.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” I addressed him. “This is Newgate, is it not?”

  “Thas’ right.” I could barely see his grimace beneath his bristling beard. “The wor’ part: Common Side, Felons. Hope ye enjoy bread and water. You’ll get nothin’ else here.”

  I looked down at my barren belt.

  “Where is my purse?” I asked, anticipating the answer.

  “Emptied. By the garnish—yer price fer entrance; by payment to the cook, an’ the rest to th’ gaolers. They picked ye clean, my friend.”

  “They charge you to stay here?” I asked.

  The man tried to laugh, but instead broke into coughs.

  “Good ‘un, ain’t it?” he asked.

  I slumped back on my blanket.

  “Is the pretty young one awake?”

  A man to my other side, his hair standing straight up, gave me a gap-toothed smile.

  “When ye came in, ye was out,” said the first prisoner. “I been sittin’ watch so ol’ Tom don’ get a piece of ye.”

  “I am appreciative, sir,” I said.

  “Name’s Sam. Samuel for long.”

  “I thank you, Samuel.”

  My chains clinked as I moved them to look down again. Of course, my weapons were gone. Even had I not been robbed, they would have been taken from me.

  “What have these other men done?” I asked. “Incurred a debt or two?”

  “Oh no,” Samuel coughed, “them’s ‘as got their own place. Us ‘ere is thieves: we stole more’n forty shillings, or more’n five from a shop.”

  “And your penalty is to rot here?”

  “Oh no, sir. For that, we get death.”

  I groaned. My fate would be the same.

  “And you, Samuel? What is your crime?”

  He sighed, the sound more like a rattle.

  “Chicken,” he said.

  “Beg parson?”

  “Was ‘ungry, so stole un.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. By these rules, Carnatus would be hanged twice over!

  And ye?” Samuel asked.

  This made me shift in discomfort. How should I answer? Since those who brought me here well knew what I was, I thought it useless to lie.

  “I am called Megs,” I said, “and I am a highwayman. Member of Jeffries’s crew.”

  Samuel whistled in admiration, then called across the cell.

  “Hey gents! We got us an ‘igh-class thief! Rides with th’ captain his’self!”

  Some of the others turned to stare at me. I could not tell what they felt, be it disgust, worship, or both. Perhaps it was sympathy, for those like me did not last long.

  “Do you know if they’ve caught Jeffries?” I asked. “Or any of his men?”

  “Nah. We woulda ‘eard. Guess yere the lucky one!”

  He endured a fit of coughing. Privately, I thought the best luck that could be befall us would be not to flavor the gaoler’s “stew.”

  I lowered my voice.

  “What can I expect?” I asked.

  “Oh, the regular,” said Samuel. “Quick trial, sentence o’ ‘guilty,’ then an ‘anging at Tyburn. Should all ‘appen pretty quick.”

  “I am glad.”

  I meant it, for I had no wish to prolong my stay. Better to swing at Tyburn than to linger here.

  I was almost relieved when they came for me the next morning. Two gaolers unlocked my chains and marched me out of the cell to an old building next door.

  The Old Bailey.

  Once inside, I was led to the dock in a courtroom heavy with statues. Looking up, I saw that a mirrored reflector shone down on my face, accompanied by a sounding board so that I might be seen and heard. Good, I thought. Being at the center suited me.

  I observed the noisy spectators gathered on pew-like benches both behind and across from me: there was a shocking lack of barristers (and of guards, which I thought odd). Rather, the place was filled with merchants and others of the middling sort, while others were clearly in need: of judicial strategy or a good diversion. I turned my head to the left, where a panel of five wigged judges sat solemnly in their robes.

  “Silence!” a heavy voice called.

  “So-called ‘Megs,’ who rides with the Jeffries gang,” the judge closest to me began. His wig shook with indignation. “State for the court your full name.”

  “‘So-called Megs,’” I answered. The courtroom rang with laughter.

  “Order!” the voice called again.

  “No matter,” said the judge. “You may be called Sally Stuart for all we care.”

  I tried to suppress a smile.

  The judge to his right shuffled some papers.

  “You,” he said, “stand accused of two heinous crimes: highway robbery and murder. How do you plead?”

  “Murder?!” I cried. “Of whom?”

  I thought back to the skirmish on the road. To my knowledge, I had not even hit anyone!

  “King’s officer Captain J. Collins. Shot point-blank on the Great Western. Are you or are you not guilty?”

  “Guilty!” the crowd shouted, as if they were watching a cock fight.

  “What does it matter?” I asked, my voice strangely amplified. “On its own, robbery means death. And of that I am surely guilty, as your soldiers can attest.”

  A cry went up round the courtroom. The judge to the far right leaned back. In the window behind him, there hung a lovely cameo of bodies swinging at Tyburn.

  “Attestations are not required,” he said with a wave of his hand. “This is a trial for murder.”

  I knew that to be true. No witnesses need step forth—not for my side or theirs. No barrister need bother to speak on my behalf.

  The chief magistrate in the middle, backed by a throne-like panel, pounded his gavel on the bench.

  “Order!” he cried, and the crowd went silent. “Well …” He looked to his four peers. “This case is simplicity itself. GUILTY! I sentence so-called ‘Megs,’ high tob
yman of Hounslow Heath, to death by public hanging at Tyburn Tree tomorrow.”

  “Next please,” cried a voice.

  I barely noticed as my gaolers led me back next door: not to the cellar of Newgate but a place above it: the condemned men’s hold. I saw that though the room was ill-lit and must be entered though a spiked hatch, at least there was a wood bed, and even a solitary window. Most blessedly, I was alone, free from the smells and disease which lurked somewhere beneath me. Here, I was unfettered, and could tread the small space to my leisure. I determined there were worse places to spend my last night on earth.

  Though I had never been particularly devout, when the candle went out, I prayed for the morrow to come. I knew there would be no remedy: no dashing, last-minute rescue; no pardon from the king, for Newgate was a fortress and I was a stranger to Charles. What pained me chiefly was leaving behind my friends, those “honest thieves” I considered closer than brothers. As for Aventis . . . I closed my eyes tightly—perhaps there was a chance we might meet in the next world . . .

  Later in the darkness, I heard a sexton tolling his hand bell outside the gaol gate. He proceeded to recite:

  You Prisoners that are within, Who for Wickedness and Sin, after many mercies shewn you, are now appointed to dye tomorrow: give ear and understand, that tomorrow morning the greatest bell of St. Sepulchre’s shall toll for you, in form and manner of a passing bell, as used to be tolled for those that are at the point of death. To the end that all godly people hearing that bell, and knowing that it is for you, going to your deaths, may be stirred up heartily to pray to God to bestow His Grace and Mercy upon you while you live: I beseech you, for Jesus Christ, his sake, to keep this night in watching and prayer for the salvation of your own souls, while there is yet time and place for mercy . . .

  But who would show mercy to me? Jesus might but not those on earth. It briefly entered my mind to reveal my true sex, but then I laughed bitterly. As a woman, my behavior was expected to be better than a man’s, and as such would result in harsher treatment. No, I resolved to go to my death as I had lately lived: not as Margaret Tanner, but as so-called Megs, the scourge of Hounslow Heath!

  I knew that morning had come when I heard boots on the stairs. I tried to still the blood which coursed like a stream through my ears. My two guards chained me, then led me back through the hatch and outside, where the sexton (being paid) again tolled his bell.

  As light assaulted my eyes, I was led to the Press Yard where I and six more unfortunates had our fetters removed. Then a cord was wrapped round our bodies, leaving enough room to pray, while our nooses were (thoughtfully!) placed around our necks. Perhaps so we wouldn't stumble, the remainder of the rope was loosely coiled about us. We seven were then led to one of three open carts, where we were provided a seat—upon our own waiting coffin.

  Things only improved from there, for the City Marshal who led us allowed us to stop at the Bowl and then the Mason’s Arms for a last glass of beer. I must admit, that draught tasted sweet!

  After that, the procession to Tyburn passed slowly, as if we rolled down the streets while held by a giant wave. We acquired admirers, for mobs had started to gather on every possible corner. Did not these people have trades? But of course, hanging day was a public holiday! Every sort had turned out, from the gentry in their coaches (unfortunately safe from me) to the indigent in their rags. The general air was festive as when dancing around the Maypole. Well, let them be joyful! Far better than a somber trek.

  Halting after three short miles, we arrived at Tyburn where I saw, with some disappointment, that the hanging tree was not really that at all: rather, it was a gallows, Hines’s gibbet writ large.

  As our carts came to a halt, our ropes were uncoiled, and I resolved to do Jeffries justice. Thus, when I stood up, I gave an expansive bow.

  The sexton (damn his hide!) stepped up and made a second pronouncement, this one more tedious than the first. While he droned, I noted the size of the gathered crowd—perhaps some hundred-thousand!—with the rich seated in Mother Procter’s Pews. I noted some enterprising tradesmen selling fresh pies or hawking pamphlets—this was an occasion not only to rejoice, but also to make some shillings!

  At last, from his high platform, the hangman bid the crowd be silent. He solemnly recited the crimes of my six fellows: several had clipped the edges off coins; one had stolen cattle, and another had purloined sheep.

  The best (that is, I may modestly say, me) was naturally saved for last. The hangman’s oratory lengthened.

  “So-called ‘Megs,’ member of the Jeffries gang, robber of coach and killer of men! His exploits know no shame, for he waved his pistol at a lady and even our very queen!”

  The crowd gasped before it jeered.

  “Do not delay!” they cried, “hang him!”

  “Indeed,” said the hangman, eyeing my length of rope which now draped over the gallows beam. “It has long been our custom to give tobymen leave to speak. Let this ‘Megs’ atone!”

  At this, the crowd cheered, and I embarked on a speech which I hoped would not disappoint.

  “Londoners!” I cried as loud as I could, “atonement is not in my blood. In truth, I regret nothing!”

  A huge roar rang out for me—a person who stood atop her own coffin.

  “The loftier my quarry, the prouder I am of my deed!” I cried.

  “For I put to you: in what other trade may a man of my estate meet our great king’s . . . lady friend, or even our gentle queen? How else could I have made three fortunes and ridden with the noblest of men, those who defended our realm against the scourge of Cromwell!”

  While many applauded, some ladies even wept.

  “Captain Jeffries is no scoundrel—he has bested your courts of law, for he gave back to the Cavaliers that which was rightfully theirs.”

  I saw some older men throw their hats into the air.

  “I would be negligent in my duty,” I went on, “if I did not make mention of our band’s great gift to England. We have spent so much on wine, women, and dinners that if the whole were summed, it would refill the Treasury!”

  This received a great cheer, for Charles had done his best to empty it.

  “You should know that one of our band spent two hundred guineas on a single game of dice!”

  The crowd gasped as I thought of Carnatus.

  “I go to my death a ma—a person who is unafraid, with the words of Shakespeare’s Caesar echoing in my ears: ‘It seems to me most strange that men should fear/Seeing that death, a necessary end,/Will come when it will come.’”

  I actually garnered applause fit for a Caesar! Then, I threw off my hat and cloak, and waved away the chaplain. The two thieves at either side of me began to moan and tremble. A __ was placed around their heads, but thinking of Jeffries, I demurred. Our cart’s horses were harshly whipped forward, leaving us to dangle from our ropes as the noose did it work.

  I had never thought overmuch about my manner of death: on the road, I had hoped a well-placed bullet would do its work in a flash. But this was a terrible way to die: as the rope pressed my windpipe, I gagged and struggled for death.

  Goodbye, Jeffries, I thought. I tried to do you credit. . . Aventis . . .

  Then memory ceased as I thought I saw three angels—but what were they doing on horseback? Did they not have wings to carry them?

  Just before I passed into blackness, I heard something shoot by my neck. It made a whooshing sound as it severed my noose from its rope. I found myself falling forward onto my own coffin, then placed my hands about my neck to pry off that hated loop!

  “I have not lost above a hundred!” a booming voice cried, and as I rose to my knees, saw it came from Carnatus. From his saddle, he nocked a second arrow and sent it spiraling toward the hangman. That fellow leapt off his platform like a tumbler at a fair.

  There followed a pistol’s close blast and as the smell struck my nostrils, Aventis, sword in one hand and gun in the other, raised his mount’s front feet in
an effort to frighten the guard. It worked, for they ran off in a body, deserting their post and the platform.

  “Jump!” Aventis ordered, and I sprang from the cart to the back of his saddle. Though I was weak with my near-hanging and my throat ached like the devil, still I waved to the crowds who almost went mad. Some even parted like the Red Sea so that we could escape, our horses careening past walls made not of water but flesh.

  Of course, it was Jeffries who gave the final flourish.

  “God save the king!” he cried, firing his pistols skyward.

  I strove just to hang on as we flew from Tyburn and onto the Great Western. Nursing my hurt hand, I was vaguely aware of the Heath and our arrival at a hideout.

  “We cannot remain here,” Jeffries said, leaping out of his saddle and placing his ear to the ground. “All is quiet now, but rest assured, they will come.”

  “Where do we go?” asked Carnatus.

  Jeffries stood, rubbing his chin as he thought.

  “We let us make for Epping by nightfall,” he said. “I know it is far, and we travel light.”

  “Except for Megs here,” said Aventis. “To my mount, he appears heavy.” He gave me a backward pat.

  “Tell me, Aventis,” said Jeffries, “have we ever had to struggle to procure a horse?”

  Aventis laughed.

  “We are rather good,” he said. “Let Megs acquire the skill.”

  As Jeffries remounted, I felt a strange sensation: Aventis squeezing my hand! I was filled with such joy that the pain from my burn did not sting. Now back with my friends, thoughts of Newgate and Tyburn floated off on the warm breeze—not to be forgot, of course, but replaced with happier one. As I returned Aventis’s touch, I believe I felt I more festive than even the crowds at Tyburn.

  Companions Only

  Now I had what I needed: a Cavalier pistol from Jeffries, and a gleaming new sword from Aventis. How well they’d prepared for my rescue! Once back on the Great Western, I managed to “persuade” a fellow to part with his dappled gray. He seemed more than a little put out to be left on foot.