The Orange Girl

So they went away and I lay on the floor still wondering stupidly what would happen next.

Just then two watchmen came in. One was leading, or dragging, or carrying a young gentleman richly dressed but so drunk that he could neither stand nor speak: the other brought with him a poor creature – a woman – young – only a girl still – dressed in rags and tatters; shivering: unwashed; uncombed; weak and emaciated: a deplorable object.

The Constable turned to the first case.

'Give the gentleman a chair,' he said. 'Put him before the fire. Reach me his watch and his purse. Search his pockets, watchman.'

'Please your honour,' said the watchman, 'I have searched his pockets. We came too late, Sir. Nothing in them.'

'The town is full of villains – full of villains,' said the officer, with honest indignation. 'Well, put him in the chair. A gentleman can send for guineas if he hasn't got any guineas. Did he assault you, watchman? I thought so – Well – Let him sleep it off. Who's this woman?'

The watchman deposed to finding her walking about the deserted streets because she had nowhere to go.

'Has she got any money? Then just put her in the strong room – and carry this poor devil in after her. If that story holds – well – lay him on the bench – and take care of his head.'

They pushed the girl into the strong-room: carried me after her: laid me down on a wide stone bench without any kind of pillow or covering. Then they went out locking the door behind them.

I suppose that I should have suffered more than I did had it not been for the stupefying effect of the blow upon my head. I have only a dim recollection of the night. The place was filled with poor wretches, men and women, who could not afford to bribe the Constable. In this land of freedom to be a poor rogue is hanging matter: to be a rogue with money in pocket and purse is quite another thing: that rogue goes free. The rogue runs the gauntlet: first, he may get off by bribing the watchman: if he fails to do that, he may bribe the constable: or if the worst happens, he may then bribe the magistrate. I understand, however, that this has been changed, and that there are now no Justices who take bribes. Now, if the watchman brings few cases to the constable, and those all poor rogues, he may lose his place: and if the constable pockets all the bribes and brings the magistrate none, he may lose his place. So that it is mutually agreed between the three that each is to have his share. All mankind are for ever seeking and praying for Justice, and behold, this is all we have got in the boasted eighteenth century. I suppose, however, that in such a case as mine, a charge of highway robbery, in which the prisoner was taken red-handed, no constable would dare to take a bribe.

From time to time in the night we were disturbed by the grating of the key in the lock as the door was opened for the admission of another poor wretch. Then these interruptions ceased, and we were left in quiet.

When the day broke through the bars of the only window, I could look round upon the people, my companions in misfortune. There were three or four women in tawdry finery – very poor and miserable creatures who would be happier in the worst prison than in the way they lived: two or three pickpockets and footpads: one or two prentices, who would be sent to Bridewell and flogged for being found drunk. There was very little talk. Mostly, the wretches sat in gloomy silence. They had not even the curiosity to ask each other as to the offenses with which they were charged.

As the light increased the women began to whisper. They exhorted each other to courage. Before them all, in imagination, stood the dreadful whipping-post of Bridewell. Some of them have had an experience of that punishment.

'It takes but two or three minutes,' they said. 'Then it soon passes off. Mind you screech as if they were murdering you. That frightens the Alderman, and brings down the knocker. Don't begin to fret about it.' They were talking about their whippings in Bridewell. 'Perhaps Sir John will let you go. Sometimes he does.' My head pained, and I closed my eyes again.

At about eight o'clock the doors were flung wide open. Everyone started, shuddered, and stood up. 'Now, then,' cried a harsh voice, 'out with you! Out, I say.'

I was still giddy with last night's blow: my hair was stiff with blood: my head ached, but I was able to walk out with the others. The constables arranged us in a kind of procession, and put the handcuffs on every one. Then we were marched through the streets two by two, guarded by constables, to Bow Street Office, the Magistrate of which was then Sir John Fielding.

There was some slight comfort in the thought that he was blind: he could not be prejudiced against me by my appearance, for my face was smeared with blood: my hair was stiff with blood. There was blood on my coat, and where there was not blood there was the mud of the street in which I had lain senseless.

The business of the Court was proceeding. The Magistrate sat at a table: his eyes were bandaged. The eyes of Justice should be always bandaged. Over his head on the wall hung the Lion and the Unicorn: the prisoners were placed in a railed space: the witnesses in another, those in my case, I observed, were in readiness and waiting: three or four Bow Street runners were standing in the Court: there was a dock for the prisoner facing the magistrate.

The cases took little time. There is a dreadful sameness about the charges. The women were despatched summarily and sent off to Bridewell: they received their sentences with cries and lamentations, which stopped quickly enough when they found that they could not move the magistrate: the pickpockets were ordered to be whipped: the other rogues were committed to prison. They were destined, for the most part, to transportation beyond the seas. It is useful for the country to get rid of its rogues: it seems also humane to send them to a country where they may lead an honest life. Alas! the humanity of the law is marred by the execution of the sentence, for though the voyage does not last more than six or eight weeks, the gaol fever taken on board the ship; the sea sickness; the stench; the dirt; the foul air of the ship, commonly kill at least a third of the poor creatures thus sent out. As for those who are left, many of them run away from their masters: make their way to a port, get on board a ship, and are carried back to London, where they are fain to go back to their old companions and resume their old habits, and get known to Mr. Merridew and his friends, and so at last find themselves in the condemned cells.

My case came on, at last. I was placed in the dock facing the magistrate. The clerk read to him the notes of the case provided by the chief constable.

'Your name, prisoner?' he asked.

'I am William Halliday,' I said, 'only son of the late Sir Peter Halliday, formerly Lord Mayor of London. I am a musician now in the employment of Madam Vallance, Proprietor of the Assembly Rooms in Soho Square.'

The Magistrate whispered to his clerk.

Then the evidence was given. One after the other they manfully stood up: kissed the book: and committed perjury. Sir John Fielding asked the Doctor several questions. He was evidently doubtful: his clerk whispered again: he pressed the doctor as to alleged profession and position. However, the man stuck to his tale. The fact that the purse was found in my pocket was very strong. Then the Captain told his story.

Mr. Merridew did not attempt any disguise: he was too well known in Court: he stated that he was a Sheriff's officer – named Merridew – everybody in the court gazed upon him with the greatest curiosity, the women whispering and looking from him to me. 'Who is he?' they asked each other. 'What has he done? Do you know him – do you?' The surprise at the appearance of a stranger in the dock charged on the evidence of the worthy sheriff's officer caused general surprise. However, Mr. Merridew took no notice of the whispering. He was apparently callous: he took it perhaps as proof of popularity and admiration: he gave his evidence in the manner of one accustomed to bear witness, as indeed he was, having perhaps given evidence oftener than any other living man. He stated that he had joined a stranger to walk from the Tottenham Court Road to Charing Cross, each carrying a cudgel for self-defence: that he observed the action described by the worthy and learned Doctor of Divinity from Ireland: that his companion, this gallant young gentleman, rushed out to the rescue of the clergyman, and so forth. So he retired with a front of iron.

Mr. Probus added to the evidence which you have already heard the statement that he came accidentally upon the party and after the business was over: that he happened to have been attorney to the late Sir Peter Halliday: that he recognized the robber as the unnatural son of that good man, turned out of his father's home for his many crimes and vices: and that in the interest of justice and respect for the laws of his country he went out of his way, and was at great personal loss and inconvenience in order to give this evidence.

The Magistrate put no questions to him. He turned to me and asked if I had anything to say or any evidence to offer.

I had none, except – that I was no highwayman, but a respectable musician, and that this was a conspiracy.

'You will have the opportunity,' said Sir John, 'of proving the fact. Meantime, in the face of this evidence, conspiracy or not, I have no choice but to commit you to Newgate, there to remain until your trial.'

They set me aside and the next case was called.

So you understand, there are other ways of compassing a man's death besides simple murder. It is sufficient to enter into a conspiracy and to charge him with an offence which, by the laws of the country, is punishable by death.

CHAPTER IX

NEWGATE

A man must be made of brass or wrought-iron who can enter the gloomy portals of Newgate as a prisoner without a trembling of the limbs and a sinking of the heart. Not even consciousness of innocence is sufficient to sustain a prisoner, for alas! even the innocent are sometimes found guilty. Once within the first doors I was fain to lay hold upon the nearest turnkey or I should have fallen into a swoon; a thing which, they tell me, happens with many, for the first entrance into prison is worse to the imagination even than the standing up in the dock to take one's trial in open court. There is, in the external aspect of the prison: in the gloom which hangs over the prison: in the mixture of despair and misery and drunkenness and madness and remorse which fills the prison, an air which strikes terror to the very soul. They took me into a large vaulted ante-room, lit by windows high up, with the turnkey's private room opening out of it, and doors leading into the interior parts of the Prison. The room was filled with people waiting their turn to visit the prisoners; they carried baskets and packages and bottles; their provisions, in a word, for the Prison allows the prisoners no more than one small loaf of bread every day. Some of the visitors were quiet, sober people: some were women on whose cheeks lay tears: some were noisy, reckless young men, who laughed over the coming fate of their friends; spoke of Tyburn Fair; of kicking off the shoes at the gallows; of dying game; of Newgate music – meaning the clatter of the irons; of whining and snivelling; and so forth. They took in wine, or perhaps rum under the name of wine. There were also girls whose appearance and manner certainly did not seem as if sorrow and sympathy with the unfortunate had alone brought them to this place. Some of the girls also carried bottles of wine with them in baskets.

I was then brought before the Governor who, I thought, would perhaps hear me if I declared the truth. But I was wrong. He barely looked at me; he entered my name and occupation, and the nature of the crime with which I was charged. Then he coldly ordered me to be taken in and ironed.

The turnkey led me into a room hung with irons. 'What side?' he asked.

I told him I knew nothing about any sides.

'Why,' he said, 'I thought all the world knew so much. There's the State side. If you go there you will pay for admission three guineas; for garnish and a pair of light irons, one guinea; for rent of a bed half a guinea a week; and for another guinea you can have coals and candles, plates and a knife. Will that suit you?' He looked disdainfully at the dirt and blood with which I was covered, as if he thought the State side was not for the likes of me.

'Alas!' I replied, 'I cannot go to the State side.'

'I thought not, by the look of you. Well, there's the master's side next; the fee for admission is only thirteen and sixpence: irons, half a guinea: the rent of a bed or part of a bed half a crown, and as for your food, what you like to order and pay for. No credit at this tavern, which is the sign of the Clinking Iron. Will that suit you?'

'No, I can pay nothing.'

'Then why waste time asking questions? There's the common side; you've got to go into that, and very grateful you ought to be that there is a common side at all for such a filthy Beast as you.'

My choice must needs be the last because I had no money at all: not a single solitary shilling – my obliging friends when they put their purse into my pocket as a proof of the alleged robbery, abstracted my own – which no doubt the worthy Professor of Sacred Theology had in his pocket while he was explaining the nature of the attack to the Constable.

The turnkey while he grumbled about waste of time – a prisoner ought to say at once if he had no money: officers of the Prison were not paid to tell stories to every ragged, filthy footpad; the common side was as good as any other on the way to Tyburn: what could a ragamuffin covered with blood and filth expect? – picked out a pair of irons: they were the rustiest and the heaviest that he could find: as he hammered them on he said that for half a crown he would drive the rivet into my heel only that he would rob his friend Jack Ketch of the pleasure of turning off a poor whining devil who came into Newgate without a copper. 'Damme!' he cried, as he finished his work, 'if I believe you ever tried to rob anyone!'

'I did not,' I replied. At which he laughed, recovering his good temper, and opening a door shoved me through and shut it behind me.

The common side of Newgate is a place which, though I was in it no more than two hours or so, remains fixed in my memory and will stay there as long as life remains. The yard was filled to overflowing with a company of the vilest, the filthiest, and the most shameless that it is possible to imagine. They were pickpockets, footpads, shoplifters, robbers of every kind; they were in rags; they were unwashed and unshaven; some of them were drunk; some of them were emaciated by insufficient food – a penny loaf a day was doled out to those who had no money and no friends: that was actually all that the poor wretches had to keep body and soul together: the place was crowded not only with the prisoners, but with their friends and relations of both sexes; the noise, the cursings, the ribald laugh; the drunken song; the fighting and quarrelling can never be imagined. And, in the narrow space of the yard which is like the bottom of a deep well, there is no air moving, so that the stench is enough, at first, to make a horse sick.

I can liken it to nothing but a sty too narrow for the swine that crowded it; so full of unclean beasts was it, so full of noise and pushing and quarrelling: so full of passions, jealousies, and suspicions ungoverned, was it. Or I would liken it to a chamber in hell when the sharp agony of physical suffering is for a while changed for the equal pains of such companionship and such discourse as those of the common side. I stood near the door as the turnkey had pushed me in, staring stupidly about. Some sat on the stone bench with tobacco-pipes and pots of beer: some played cards on the bench: some walked about: there were women visitors, but not one whose face showed shame or sorrow. To such people as these Newgate is like an occasional attack of sickness; a whipping is but one symptom of the disease: imprisonment is the natural cure of the disease; hanging is only the natural common and inevitable end when the disease is incurable, just as death in his bed happens to a man with fever.

While I looked about me, a man stepped out of the crowd. 'Garnish!' he cried, holding out his hand. Then they all crowded round, crying 'Garnish! garnish!' I held up my hands: I assured them that I was penniless. The man who had first spoken waved back the others with his hand. 'Friend,' he said, 'if you have no money, off with your coat.'

Then, I know not what happened, because I think I must have fallen into a kind of fit. When I recovered I was lying along the stone bench: my coat was gone: my waistcoat was gone; my shirt was in rags; my shoes – on which were silver buckles, were gone; and my stockings, which were of black silk. My head was in a woman's lap.

'Well done,' she said, 'I thought you'd come round. 'Twas the touching of the wound on your head. Brutes and beasts you are, all of you! all of you! One comfort is you'll all be hanged, and that very soon. It'll be a happy world without you.'