“I told you I would call to bid you farewell, Mr. Figg,” said Jack.
“So you did,” replied the prize-fighter. “Sorry you’re obliged to keep your word. Heard of your last escape. Hoped you’d not be retaken. Never sent for the shirt.”
“I didn’t want it,” replied Jack; “but who are those gentlemen?”
“Friends of yours,” replied Figg; “come to see you; — Sir James Thornhill, Mr. Hogarth, and Mr. Gay. They send you every good wish.”
“Offer them my hearty thanks,” replied Jack, waving his hand to the group, all of whom returned the salutation. “And now, farewell, Mr. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over.”
Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes — for the stout prize-fighter, with a man’s courage, had a woman’s heart — and the procession again set forward.
CHAPTER 32.
THE CLOSING SCENE.
Tyburn was now at hand. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. It was the gallows. Jack, whose back was towards it, did not see it; but he heard, from the pitying exclamations of the crowd, that it was in view. This circumstance produced no further alteration in his demeanour except that he endeavoured to abstract himself from the surrounding scene, and bend his attention to the prayers which the ordinary was reciting.
Just as he had succeeded in fixing his attention, it was again shaken, and he was almost unnerved by the sight of Mr. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him.
Jack instantly sprang to his feet, and as his guards construed the motion into an attempt to escape, several of them drew their swords and motioned to him to sit down. But Jack did not heed them. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor.
“God in Heaven bless you, unhappy boy!” cried. Wood, bursting into tears, “God bless you!”
Jack extended his hand towards him, and looked anxiously for Thames; but he was nowhere to be seen. A severe pang shot through Jack’s heart, and he would have given worlds if he possessed them to have seen his friend once more. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer.
The Last Scene
While this was passing, Jonathan had ridden back to Marvel to tell him that all was ready, and to give him his last instructions.
“You’ll lose no time,” said the thief-taker. “A hundred pounds if you do it quickly.”
“Rely on me,” rejoined the executioner, throwing away his pipe, which was just finished.
A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. Not a breath was drawn. The troops had kept a large space clear around the gallows. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators — so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road — so were the trees — the walls of Hyde Park — a neighbouring barn, a shed — in short, every available position.
The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. The guards, horse and foot, and constables formed a wide circle round it to keep off the mob. It was an awful moment — so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended.
At this terrible juncture, Jack maintained his composure — a smile played upon his face before the cap was drawn over it — and the last words he uttered were, “My poor mother! I shall soon join her!” The rope was then adjusted, and the cart began to move.
The next instant, he was launched into eternity!
Scarcely had he been turned off a moment, when a man with swarthy features leapt into the cart with an open clasp-knife in his hand, and, before he could be prevented, severed the rope, and cut down the body. It was Blueskin. His assistance came too late. A ball from Wild’s pistol passed through his heart, and a volley of musketry poured from the guards lodged several balls in the yet breathing body of his leader.
Blueskin, however, was not unattended. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. Jack’s body was caught, and passed from hand to hand over a thousand heads, till it was far from the fatal tree.
The shouts of indignation — the frightful yells now raised baffle description. A furious attack was made on Jonathan, who, though he defended himself like a lion, was desperately wounded, and would inevitably have perished if he had not been protected by the guards, who were obliged to use both swords and fire-arms upon the mob in his defence. He was at length rescued from his assailants — rescued to perish, seven months afterwards, with every ignominy, at the very gibbet to which he had brought his victim.
The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road.
At this point a carriage with servants in sumptuous liveries was stationed. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. At length, the body was brought towards him. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off. The order was promptly obeyed, and the horses proceeded at a furious pace along the Edgeware Road.
Half an hour afterwards the body of Jack was carefully examined. It had been cut down before life was extinct, but a ball from one of the soldiers had pierced his heart.
Thus died Jack Sheppard.
That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. Sheppard had been interred. Two persons, besides the clergyman and sexton, alone attended the ceremony. They were a young man and an old one, and both appeared deeply affected. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus —
Jack Sheppard
The Tower of London
I. Of the Manner in Which Queen Jane Entered the Tower of London.