by James McLevy
The trunk, and all the remaining members of the gang, were straightway under better keeping than that of Mr Sim, who considered all so right; but I had to lament the want of my chiefs, the very men on whom my mind was set, and for whom I would have given the whole contents of the locker; but I was not to be done out of them by a mere flight, which did not exclude me from a long shot, and that shot I proceeded to prepare. The prior history of M’Sally enabled me to suspect that he was away down by the east coast to get to London, and I had no doubt Stewart would accompany him, so I straightway got the Lieutenant to forward their portraits to Berwick-on-Tweed, Newcastle, and Shields, with directions to the different Lieutenants to seize and send them back, to Edinburgh, where they were specially wanted. As matters turned out, this was a happy suggestion, and proved a comfort to me after my distress.
My gentlemen, just as I suspected, had made their way down to Berwick, with very little money as it appeared, yet with such a locker at home, upon which they had expected to live and feast for many months, (alas, the vanity of human wishes!) and arrived there pretty late at night. They, of course, wanted lodgings, and why should they not get them for nothing, where the philanthropic people of the old town, reversing their former fire-eating character, had prepared the town-hall, of ancient renown for bellicose orations, as a place of refuge for the destitute. The two refugees were even in their misfortunes inclined to be humorous, and took it into their heads to act the part of industrious “tramps,” travelling to the south in search of work, and apply for a night’s lodging at the very town-hall itself. But who had the privilege of giving out the tickets? Why, who better qualified than the Superintendent of Police himself, who could, from his office, make the proper distinction between the really deserving applicants, and those to whom a jail was a more fitting place of abode? And so it was the Superintendent had the charge of the house of refuge as well as the house of bondage. They had run away for housebreaking, and escaped the fiend M’Levy, and there was a neat squareness in playing off a trick upon his brother of Berwick. A glimpse of the sunshine of fun comes well after the gloom of misfortune; besides, sweet is refuge to the houseless; and then a supper and a breakfast was not to be despised.
They were accordingly soon brought before the dispenser of refuge and justice, who was busy at the time scanning a paper.
“Poor workmen, sir, going south in search of work,” said M’Sally; “would your honour pass us to the town hall?”
“Where from?” said the Superintendent.
“Aberdeen.”
“Your names?”
“James M’Intosh and John Burnet,” was the reply.
“Blue coat and grey trousers,” muttered the Superintendent, as he looked at the paper—“blue coat and grey trousers,” he repeated, as he glanced at M’Sally. “Monkey jacket and buff vest,” looking again at the paper—“monkey jacket and buff vest,” directing his eyes to Stewart.
“We have been travelling all day, sir,” said Stewart, and are weary; please pass us on.”
But the Superintendent was in no hurry.
“Grey eyes and foxey whiskers,” he muttered, again getting more curious, as he read and looked, and looked and read, still going over features—“sharp nose, grey eyes, fiery-coloured whiskers—dark eyes and black whiskers”—and so forth, until at last he came to the conclusion—“the very men.”
“Yes,” he said, as he rose and touched a small bell, “I will pass you, but not to the town-hall of Berwiek.”
“Any other quarters for poor destitutes will do, sir,” said Stewart.
“What think you of the police-office of Edinburgh,” said the Superintendent, “where you, Hector M’Sally and Joseph Stewart, are, according to this paper I have in my hands, and which I got just as you entered, charged with breaking into a house in Minto Street, and another in Claremont Crescent, and stealing therefrom many valuable articles.”
“We are not the men,” said the two, determinedly.
“Read your paper again; sir,” said M’Sally, “and compare, and you’ll find we are not the men.”
The Superintendent was taken aback, and did look again.
“Would you read out the description?” said M’Sally.
“I think you have got on a blue coat and grey trousers,” said the Superintendent.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have got grey eyes and foxey whiskers?”
“No, sir; black eyes and black whiskers.”
“And you,” said the Superintendent, a little put out, turning to Stewart, “you have a monkey-jacket and buff vest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And black eyes and beard?”
“No, sir; grey eyes and light whiskers.”
“Well, then, how stand your noses? You”—to M’Sally—“have a turned-up one, and a little awry, I think?”
“And you”—to Stewart—“have a very long one, raised in the middle?”
“Yes, sir.
“Well, well; suppose the clothes of the one put upon the other—it was easy for you to change them—and we have you to a button. Bertram, pass these gentlemen to a cell for the night, and I shall get them sent off to Edinburgh in the morning.”
Next day we had a letter setting forth the dodge of the exchange, and the curious way they had fallen into the hands of the Superintendent. It was thence an easy business to get our two gentlemen to go to the right shop—Norfolk Island—after having tried the wrong one at Berwick. They and Anderson were transported for seven years. M’Culloch was acquitted.
The Letter
❖
It would be a lucky thing for thieves and robbers, when they are suspected, that people should make no inquiries after them; but, just as if they became of greater importance by guilt, their friends seem often inclined to feel greater interest in them—a tendency which has often resulted very favourably to me. In June 1847, Josiah Milstead, a clerk in a pawn-office at Woolwich, absconded with a sum of £60, a quantity of valuable jewellery, and many articles of wearing apparel. Information was sent to various towns, among the rest to Edinburgh. We had of course the ordinary description of the person of Milstead, to which I gave my best study; but there was not such a peculiarity in his face and appearance as to form a good representation in my mind, so as that I could seize him, if I met him promiscuously. I required in a case of this kind to be wary, lest I should pounce upon some gentleman, and bring trouble upon myself, as well as injure the prestige of the force for prudence and perspicuity.
I have seldom found that a runaway does not leave some trace of where he is to be found with some person, who is dear to him either through relationship or love; or, if his flight has been sudden, he will find some means of telling that person where he is. It is from such considerations that we are so often led to the vestibule of the Post-office, where we smell for other odours than that of the musk which so often perfumes that place, as a kind of memory left by love-letters to those who send them away so hopefully. I was accordingly on my post there, and soon observed a young man of genteel appearance and placid, if not melancholy countenance, who seemed to me to come dangerously within the description of my man. He called at the counter, and, finding no letter, came out to the vestibule; and, as a matter of course—though at present it would, I was aware, do me no good, for he would get no letter addressed to him in his own name—I ascertained from the clerk, that he had asked for a letter to a certain address, which I now forget. I instantly again got to the vestibule, where I found him hanging about with a melancholy look upon his face, suggesting to me that he was a waif, and did not know what to make of himself; but I had other motives for loving him, for every time I looked at him, I was the more certain he was the object on whom my heart ought to have been fixed, and was fixed. Yet I did not feel myself authorised to embrace him; not that I was a bashful lover, but a prudent one, who would make sure against a rejection, with perhaps an insult.
While thus keeping my eye on him with the view of seeing him hom
e,—an attention I have bestowed on many who never thanked me for it,—I observed among the crowd one or two pickpockets; and, what was more strange, these light-fingered gentry seemed to be as fond of my swain as I was myself—a circumstance altogether singular, as in general they have very good reasons for bestowing their favours on those to whom I show the greatest indifference. Watching them with even more interest than I generally feel, I saw one of them jerk a pocket-handkerchief out of one of his outer pockets, and at the same instant a letter fell out upon the ground. I instantly seized the pickpocket; but just as instantly, my interesting gentleman of the melancholy face picked up the letter, and making a bolt, was off. The whole affair occupied only an instant. I found that I had committed a slight mistake. If I had cared less about the pickpocket than the letter, I would likely have had my man; but at least I had got something—the handkerchief; and, what was more, I got my suspicions of my man confirmed to a certainty, because, if that letter had not been sufficient to betray him, he never would have made off, and left the silk handkerchief behind him.
Having taken the pickpocket to the office, I began to think of the singularity of this occurrence—what if this handkerchief, so wonderfully thrown before me as it were, should turn out to be a part of the stolen property? That could soon be ascertained, but then in the meantime I might lose my man. I must, therefore, try to fall in with him again, trusting to the rule that lovers meet, by some kind of chance, oftener than other people; but just while intending to take one of my contemplative walks, I learned at the office a piece of information which altered my scheme. A letter had come from Woolwich, stating that Milstead had a sweetheart there, who had been indiscreet enough to let out that she corresponded with him under a name which he had found means to convey to her. That name was enclosed, and what was my astonishment to find that it was the very one given me by the clerk at the Post-office? And here, too, was the rare example of two lovers after the same man, and yet one of them not only not jealous, but absolutely grateful to and loving the rival!
I had now got hold of the clue, with which I had as yet been merely toying. I must keep a watch at the Post-office, for I was satisfied, from his not having got a letter when he called that forenoon, he had one to get. He was clearly enough acquainted with the arrival of the mails, and I had only to be at my post next day at the same hour to get him into my embrace. I had, however, a little difficulty in my way, for it was clear enough that he had some premonition, from my apprehension of the boy, that I might be again about the Post-office; and he might send some other person for the letter. I required, therefore, to keep out of the way, and my plan was not to go into the clerks’ room at first, but to edge about in the vestibule, till I saw him come up. I therefore took my stand in such a position that I could see him without being myself seen. I was aided in this by some collection of people.
Nor had I occupied my post long, till I saw him come in—more melancholy-looking than before; but then, was he not far away from his sweetheart in Woolwich? and the lover who was near him was one whom he not only did not know, but could not gratify by a return of his affections. He was now wary too,—at least he looked about him as if he feared the presence of him who had seized the thief,—and yet if he had had nothing to fear on his own account, he should have been glad to see him who had recovered the handkerchief; and here in the vestibule, and before going into the counter, there occurred a trifling circumstance that afforded me some amusement. I saw him take out another handkerchief where with he blew his nose, as if he had said to himself, as he sounded his horn, “I can blow my nose yet in spite of pickpockets;” and, what appeared to me to be curious, that handkerchief was of the same piece, being exactly the same pattern as the one he lost yesterday. Yes, and how minute suspicion becomes! It is not often that young men of his appearance buy webs of handkerchiefs; and I concluded, upon such whimsical evidence, that both handkerchiefs had been cut from the pawned piece. This notion amused me at least.
He then went in to the counter. I followed close up, and stood behind some people who were getting their letters or handing them over to be marked. He asked for the old address. It was that given by the Woolwich authorities. He got his letter, and I now expected that he would have walked away far enough from the Post-office. No; he was too keen to get into his widowed heart the words of love. He went out to the vestibule, and, looking about without seeing me, he opened the epistle and began to read. Being myself a suitor for his hand, and something more, I thought I had a right to see what was in my Woolwich rival’s letter; so, as he was scanning it with all the attention of a lover, I quietly stood behind him, and, looking over his shoulder, began to read too,—“My dearest love,” What a strange thing that love is! how independent of the moralities! Here it had flown on the wings of the wind three hundred miles to enfold (ay, and unfold) a thief, and cheer him in his solitude. But he soon observed that some one was standing behind him reading secrets.
“How dare you?” he cried, as he turned round; but my appearance stopped the rest of his sentence; for was I not the very man who had apprehended the boy, and might him?
“I can even dare more than that,” I replied: “I can even ask your name and business.”
He hesitated, and, as I thought, shook.
“But, in the first place,” I continued, “give me that letter,” taking it out of his hands. “This is not your name,” looking to the back of it.
No answer.
“Is not your real name Milstead?”
“No; that is my name on the back of the letter. And why should it not be? I have this moment got it from the clerk.”
“I know that, for I saw you get it.”
“Then why doubt my word, and the name written there?”
“Because it is my trade to doubt, ay, and disbelieve, what I hear from certain people. I happen to know that your real name is Milstead; and if you have any desire to know whether my information comes from Wooler or Woolwich, you must go with me to the Police-office.”
My melancholy friend now understood his position. A deadly paleness dashed his melancholy with increased solicitude; and, as I looked at him, I could not help feeling for one who, from the very arms of love, was transferred into the iron bonds of the law.
He submitted to his fate with a resignation that does not often belong to lovers, and walked with me to the office, where he was put to the question:—
“Where are you putting up here, Mr Milstead?”
“I deny that that is my name.”
“Well, well, then Mr——.” The name on the letter; it is not in my book.
“Nowhere. I am living in Glasgow, and come here only to receive my letters.”
“Then, your luggage will be there?”
“Yes; anything I have.”
“At what lodging-house there?”
“A hotel on the quay.”
“Name?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Well,” said I, “you and I will go to Glasgow together, and you will show me where you are putting up.”
“I have no objections,” he replied, with more confidence than I expected.
About an hour afterwards, my man and I were on the express train, going at the rate of forty miles an hour.
On arriving at the Broomielaw,—where he had said his hotel was,—he showed me the house, and there I ordered some refreshment for both of us. After which I went—leaving him in charge of a Glasgow officer I had picked up on the way—to the landlady of the hotel.
“What is the name of the young man I brought here just now?”
“Mr ——.” The name on the letter again.
“Do you know anything about him?” I asked.
“Nothing. He came here some days ago, intending to set sail for America, and I understood he was waiting for a ship that is to sail to-morrow from Greenock.”
“Has he any luggage?”
“A good deal,” she replied; “but you know it is his, and I have no power over it.”
“An officer! and is that gentle-looking, sorrowful young man a criminal?”
“That’s what I want to know,” said I; “and perhaps the luggage may help us.”
“Well, I will take you to his bed-room; but stop,” she continued, rather hesitatingly, “I have some money of his.”
“How much?”
“Fifty sovereigns,” said she.
“I will take that from you in the meantime,” said I, “and then you will show me the luggage.”
She went and got the money, counted it over to me, and I deposited it in my purse.
We then went into a bed-room, where she showed me his portmanteaus and trunks; a goodly stock for a voyage to America. I proceeded to take a partial survey, previous to a more perfect one when we arrived. My eye sought a certain pattern of a handkerchief, but I was for the present at least disappointed. I had now nothing to do but get my man and his baggage to the metropolis, and, accordingly, we again embarked.
While about half-way between Glasgow and Edinburgh, I noticed that my man was even more serious than ever. There was something passing in his mind; and every now and then he looked at me as if he had something very important to say to me. At length he whispered in my ear,—
“Mr M’Levy,” for he had got my name from the Glasgow officer, “the only evidence upon which they can convict me in London is the articles and money you have got, I understand, from the landlady of the hotel.”
“And enough, too,” said I.
“Enough, and too much,” he sighed; and after a few minutes’ silence he continued, “I have been thinking, that if you are a man of any heart——”
“And conscience,” I added, having a notion of what was coming.
“That if you were just to keep the money and the articles to yourself, and say nothing about it, I will say nothing.”