The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl

CHAPTER XXVIII TRANSPORTATION

Margaret returned to Ipswich in a very despondent state of mind; more so, to all appearance, than if her sentence had not been changed from death to transportation. Her feelings on this point are strikingly evinced in the following letter, which she wrote to her mistress soon after her return to gaol: —

"Ipswich Gaol, August 9th, 1800.

"Honoured Madam,

“I am returned from Bury, and I regret to say that I am not to die yet. That day is put off – perhaps that I may be swallowed up by the sea, or be eaten by the savages of Botany Bay. I am to look forward to years of degraded slavery, and to be sent away from my country and my friends. I am so sorrowful, my dear lady, that I require more of your good advice to learn to live than to learn to die. I feel, indeed, as if my judge did it to torment me, and if I had the opportunity, I should certainly tell him so. You told me he would be severe; he was bitterly so, but it made me feel much less grateful to him than I did the first time. Then I thought him like you, dear lady, but I see no traces of that resemblance now. His words were tormenting, his manners towards me tormenting, and his change of sentence is tormenting. I would really have rather been left to die, though by the hand of the public executioner, than be as I am, soon to be sent out of the country to meet a more miserable death. If I never see you more, I shall never forget you. I told the judge that but for your friendship I should not have been sensible of my sin. He called me a hardened sinner, and said I was not fit to live. I wonder, then, that he did not suffer me to die. Dear lady, I feel so very low, that if you do not come and see me I shall be miserable indeed. Do – oh! pray do, if you can! I hope you are suffering less from the effects of your sprain, and that I shall see you. Forgive your poor servant’s boldness and seeming selfishness. I pray earnestly for you and your dear family. Oh that I could see the dear Cliff again! So happy was I when I first lived there, and so should I be now, could I ever hope to see you there again. To be your servant would be something worth living for; but to be a slave in a foreign land! Oh! my dear lady! death would be preferable to

"Your poor servant,

"Margaret Catchpole.

“To Mrs. Cobbold, Cliff, Ipswich.”

Her letter was dated on Saturday, the 9th August. It may be seen in the Ipswich Journal of the 16th of August, A. D. 1800, that the Lord Chief Baron paid a visit to the Ipswich gaol on Tuesday, 12th of August.

He arrived on the morning of that day in his carriage, and was not personally known to the turnkey. He told the man that he came purposely to inspect the gaol, and wished particularly to see the spot where Margaret Catchpole effected her escape.

“Did you fill the office of turnkey at the time?” inquired the visitor.

“I did, sir,” replied the man.

“Then you had a very narrow escape; for, had I been the judge to have tried you, I should have been much inclined to have thought you guilty of connivance in this matter.”

“Then I am very glad, sir, that you are not a judge.”

The Lord Chief Baron did not tell him at the moment who he was.

The turnkey was quite ready to show him the way in which the escape had been made. He set up the frame exactly as he found it on the day of Margaret’s adventure, and showed him the very crotch with which she had fixed the line on the chevaux de frise. The broken spike on the roller was pointed out, and he informed the judge of the trousers and smock-frock which the prisoner had manufactured out of the sheets of her bed. After having examined minutely the place and the frame, and having heard the full report of the turnkey, he again said —

“What an artful woman she must be to do this, and to be able to deceive you in the sound of her voice from the adjoining cell!”

“Aye, sir; and had she not confessed this, I should have been puzzled, up to this hour, to account for her getting out of her cell, as I swore that I heard her answer from within, before I locked the door.”

“She must be a clever person.”

“Yes, sir, I believe she is. She owes a very great deal to a lady in this town, who has taken great pains with her.”

“So I have heard,” said the stranger. “I would give something to see that lady. I understand she is the wife of the gentleman from whom she stole the horse.”

“I wish the lady might call while you are here, sir. It is not unlikely that she may. Pray, sir, were you in court at the time of her trial?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Then, perhaps, sir, you could tell us if it be true that she answered the judge who addressed her in such a manner as to confuse him. Our folks say that he was completely set, and felt so much surprised as to be put out by her speech. I do not, of course, know if it be so, but I heard two of our visiting magistrates talking about it the other day, and they seemed to say as much as if it was so.”

“It did not strike me to be exactly so. The judge was certainly surprised at what she said, but I do not think he was angry with the prisoner. Is the woman in her cell at this time?”

“Yes, she is, sir.”

“Will you tell Mr. Ripshaw that I should like to examine all the cells of the prison?”

“Mr. Ripshaw is gone with two prisoners to Portsmouth, sir; but Mrs. Ripshaw is within, and I can show you the cells.”

The Lord Chief Baron followed the turnkey to the door of the governor’s house, which was in the centre of the gaol. At this moment the chaplain, the Rev. Mr. Sharp, came to pay his visit to the prisoners. The gentlemen were shown into the parlour, where Mrs. Ripshaw sat, busily engaged at some of the gaol accounts.

The Lord Chief Baron presented his card to the chaplain, who immediately explained to Mrs. Ripshaw who it was.

“I am come purposely to inspect the gaol, Mrs. Ripshaw, and I wish to be quite incog. at present. I have already examined the spot where that extraordinary woman, Margaret Catchpole, effected her escape; and if you, sir,” addressing himself to the chaplain, “are going to visit her, and have no objection to my accompanying you, I should like to be brought in as your friend. You need not address me, but I will join you in your duties. I wish to see this singular woman, if possible, without her recognizing me.”

“She is, indeed, my lord,” replied the chaplain, “a most extraordinary person. I have found her, up to this second trial, not only tractable, but intelligent and attentive in the highest degree; but since her return from Bury, she is disappointed and dissatisfied.”

“With what?”

“With her reprieve for transportation.”

“With her reprieve! Does the woman really prefer death to life?”

“Your lordship will be the best judge of that by the tenor of our conversation, if she should not recognize your lordship. And should she do so, she would not scruple to tell you plainly her opinion.”

“I do not think that she can possibly recognize me, if I do not speak to her, and I shall keep strict silence, if I can.”

What a strange alteration do robes and wigs make in the appearance of men of the law! Who could recognize the Lord Chief Baron of our courts of law without the robes of his office? Counsel are not recognized even by their clients when they first see them in their rooms without their wigs and gowns. No wonder, then, that Margaret Catchpole should take her judge for some brother clergyman or friend of the chaplain’s, when he entered the cell, and seated himself upon a chair, which the turnkey placed there for him.

“Well, Margaret,” said the chaplain, “I hope you are a little more reconciled to your prospects than you were when I saw you last.”

“I wish I could say I am, sir; but my prospects look very gloomy, and I feel a great deal more anguish than if I were going to be executed.”

“You ought not to do so, Margaret; I consider it a great mercy that your life is spared.”

“Spared! For what, sir? To drag on a wretched life as a felon, and to live and die, no one knows how or cares, and then to lie in a felon’s grave in a distant land! Here my body would at least have soon rested beside my friends and relatives. My sufferings would have been short, and I think I should have been happy. Oh, sir! pray forgive my poor broken heart; it will give utterance to the language of lamentation. Oh! that cruel judge! He might have let me die, especially as the bitterness of death had already passed over me. But he was angry and displeased at me for speaking, though he asked me if I had anything to say! So he resolved that I should suffer the most excruciating torture by killing me by inches in a foreign land! Is this mercy, Mr. Sharp?”

“You look upon this in an unchristian and too gloomy a light. You here attribute motives to your judge of a very improper kind; such as I am fully persuaded never entered his mind, and never were inmates of his breast. I am persuaded his thoughts toward you were those of pity as well as mercy, and that your change of sentence was meant for your good and that of others. You have no right to judge of his motives in so unchristian a light.”

“My dear sir, again I say, pardon my speech. I speak as I feel. Perhaps, with your help, I may feel differently, but I should then speak differently. Could you, or this gentleman, feel as I do, and were either of you placed in my situation, you would think and argue very differently to what you now do. You sit there, both of you, at liberty to move from this place to the happy associations of kindred, friends, and home. I grant you, a return to their society sweetens life, and teaches you to bear your earthly visitations, whatever they may be, patiently. But let me ask you how you would, either of you, like now to be afflicted with a long, lingering, painful, bodily disease, which permitted you only a few moments’ rest, and those troubled and broken, and disturbed by horrid dreams; that, when you awoke each day, it was only to a sense of increased pain? How would you like years of such increased agony? Tell me, would you not prefer a happier, shorter, and speedier termination of your sufferings than that long distant one which must come at last after years of weariness and pain? Yet you find fault with me because I would rather die now than live many years in all the horrors of slavery, and then die without a friend near me!”

“Still I think you wrong, Margaret. You seem to argue as if we had a choice of our own in these matters, and forget that it must be God’s will, and not our own, to which we must submit.”

“Is it God’s will, or is it man’s will, that I should lead a life of misery?”

“This question almost makes me think you impious, Margaret. It is God’s will that you should live, and I hope for some good: at all events, it is for some wise purpose of His own, either that you may become an instrument of His righteousness or mercy in His hands, or that you may be an example to others. As to the misery you talk of, that will depend much upon your own future individual conduct and character. I have heard that some receive pardon in that country for their good conduct, and they settle in the land; and instead of being slaves, they become useful members of society.”

“That may perhaps be the case with some, sir; but I am looking at my own present state, and I cannot believe that my judge had any such mercy in his view when he changed my sentence from present momentary suffering to such future wretchedness.”

“Of that you can know nothing, neither ought you to take your present state as any other than that of God’s decree by His agent, the judge. How can you ascertain the motives of any man’s heart? I do firmly believe that your judge decided most mercifully and righteously in your case. He might really think that if you were removed from this country, you might be instrumental in doing much good. He might hope that, under different circumstances of life, from the very natural force of your character taking another bias, you might become a blessing to yourself and others.”

“And so, because I yielded to temptation when I had so many good friends around me, he would throw me into the very midst of temptation, where I have not one friend to help me. Oh! Mr. Sharp, would it not be far better to choose present release, when such kind friends are near me, than future death, when no comforter or friend can be near?”

“And is not your God near you, Margaret, in every place, unless you drive Him away by your wickedness? But how can you tell that He may not raise up some benevolent friend to help you in that country to which you are going? I hope for the best. At all events, you must cherish better feelings towards your judge than those you now possess, or your state will be dreadful indeed wherever you may be. You seem to have forgotten all the Christian lessons which your dear mistress and I have taken such pains to teach you.”

“I would not be ungrateful, sir, though I may now appear, as I am, so unhappy. I will try by prayer to conquer the prejudice you speak of. I do suffer such extreme horror in my mind from my view of the future, that there is no rest for me by night or day. I see nothing but chains and darkness. I think sometimes of the long, long journey from my native land, of the dangers of the sea, of the companions with whom I may be mixed. I start sometimes in my dreams, and fancy a great shark dashing at me in the waters. Another time I see the native cannibals ready to devour me. Then I think of home, of you, sir, of dear Dr. Stebbing, of my uncle and aunt, and of my dearest mistress, and I find my prison-pillow is wet with my nightly tears.”

The tears started in more eyes than her own, as she spoke, in her touching simplicity, of these acute feelings. She suffered intensely; and it took many months of rational and devout conversation, on the part of both her mistress and this worthy man, to eradicate those bitter seeds of despair, and to sow those of cheerfulness and hope. After directing Margaret’s mind to Christian duties, the chaplain and the judge left her cell. They conversed some time upon her state of mind and future prospects. The judge declared that he thought her one of the most sensitive persons he had ever seen, with a mind capable of the highest cultivation. He left five guineas with the chaplain to be laid out for her benefit. He stated that she would not, in all probability, leave England till the next summer, and hoped to hear a better account of her some future day. Margaret was not informed of the person who had visited her that day with the chaplain, until she had learned to look upon him and herself in a very different light.

The Lord Chief Baron visited all the cells of the prison, and expressed his approbation of the cleanliness and neatness of the whole place. As he was going away, he told the turnkey that he was the very judge who had tried the female prisoner for breaking out of gaol. The reader may imagine how frightened the poor fellow was at his late boldness of speech. The judge observed his embarrassment, and told him that he had spoken nothing improper; that he had done his duty, and deserved his thanks.

“You may tell your master,” he added, “that I am so well satisfied with the appearance of all things under his care, that when I return to town I shall not fail to give a favourable report of the state of the gaol and of his discipline.” He made the turnkey a present, and left the gaol.

It was not until May, 1801, that Margaret Catchpole was informed of the day of her departure for Botany Bay. She had been instructed in many things relating to the country to which she was going, and her kind mistress had purchased an assortment of useful articles for her future employment. Her mind had been gradually divested of its miserable horrors, and became fortified for the occasion. It will be seen, however, that as the near approach of the day came, she dreaded and lamented it bitterly. On the 25th of May, 1801, Mrs. Cobbold received the following note from her: —

"Ipswich Gaol, May 25th, 1801.

“Dear and Honoured Madam,

“I am sorry to have to inform you of the bad news. I am going away on Wednesday next, or Thursday at the latest, so I have taken the liberty of troubling you with these few lines. It will be the last time I shall ever trouble you from this place of sorrowful, yet, comparatively with the future, blessed captivity. My grief is very great, now that I am really on the eve of banishment from my own country and from all my dearest friends for ever. It was hard for me ever to think of it. Oh! what must it be to endure it! Honoured madam, it would give me some happiness to see you once more, on the Tuesday previous to my leaving England for ever, if you will not think this request of mine too troublesome. I know your kind heart. I would spare you any anxiety about so unworthy a person as myself, but I must entreat your goodness to consider me in this my severest misery. Have pity upon me! Oh! do come! Only let me see your dear face once more, and it will ever be a comfort and satisfaction to your poor unhappy servant,

"Margaret Catchpole.

“To Mrs. Cobbold, Cliff, Ipswich."

On Tuesday, the 26th of May, this benevolent lady paid poor Margaret her last visit. She felt that it would be the last time she should ever see her in this world. It was a painful interview, and one that she would have spared herself, had it not been for the hope of comforting the mind of her disconsolate servant. She found her seated upon the chest which she had sent her from the Cliff a few days before. Her eyes were swollen with weeping; and, as she rose to meet her beloved mistress, she trembled and tottered from the weakness of agitation. Her mistress gently seated her again, and took her seat beside her.

“Oh! my dear lady!" she began, “my time is come, and I feel just as if my heart would burst. Surely this must be worse than death!”

“Do not say so, Margaret. Remember all the advice I have given you, and I have no doubt that you will find yourself rewarded with different treatment to that which you expect.”

“But I shall never see you nor any of my dear friends again. This is my sorrow.”

“But we shall hear from you often, Margaret.”

“And shall I hear from you, dear lady? Will you remember me? Will you not forget your poor servant? Oh! she will never forget you, never cease to bless you!”

“I will write to you, Margaret, as soon as I hear of your arrival.”

“Bless you, dear lady! God bless you! But when I look at you, and think of your dear face, it is like the sun for ever hidden from my sight when you leave me.”

“The same sun, Margaret, will shine upon us both. He will visit you while I am asleep, and me when you are at rest. The same God who causes him to shine upon us all will be, as he is, alike merciful to us both, though we live in different lands. Let me entreat you, as my last solemn injunction, never to forget your duty to Him. Read your Bible whenever you can. You will have much time and opportunity upon your voyage, and I hope you will employ them to the best purposes. You will find in your chest many good books. They will be a great source of comfort to you.”

“Oh! that I will, dear lady! and when I think of you who gave them to me, and of the dear friends who have visited me, and of that good lady you introduced to my cell, Mrs. Sleorgin, who brought me yesterday this packet of books. Oh! how dearly shall I desire to see you and them!”

“Think, too, Margaret, what pleasure it will give us all to hear that you are doing well, that all the instructions of your kind friends have not failed. You will be able to add greatly to my comfort by this. You will also add to my knowledge many things of which I have at present very imperfect information. You will inform me of the state of that new country. Surely this will give you some pleasure, and profit me also.”

“Dear lady! you are so good! You make me almost wish to live, if only for the pleasure of serving you. If it were but permitted me to come to England once more, I do think my journey would seem nothing to me. It looks such a dreary prospect to be deprived of all whom we love, that I feel faint at the idea of loneliness in a foreign land.”

“Exercise your faith, Margaret, and you will never be alone. All lands will be pleasant to you.”

“None so pleasant as my own: but I will try, I do try, I will hope. You are so kind to me, my dear mistress! Give my duty to my good master; my love to all the dear, dear children. Oh! forgive me, my dear lady! I cannot help crying; tears do me good.”

Those friends (for so, in spite of the difference in their station and their character, we must venture to call them) parted from each other for the last time on earth; but they lived to correspond, by letter, for many years after, and both felt an increased interest for each other’s happiness.

The hour of Margaret’s departure arrived. The worthy chaplain was the last person whom Margaret saw in the cell of her prison. Her uncle and aunt Leader saw her the day before. The worthy chaplain presented her with the remainder of the judge’s present. She had long learned to look upon his sentence in a different light to that in which she had once viewed it; and now, with feelings greatly subdued, she knelt with the good chaplain, and prayed earnestly that she might never forget the lessons he had given her. She prayed fervently for pardon for all her sins, and that she might for ever leave them behind her, and thenceforth lead a new and better life. Then, turning to Mr. Sharp, she said —

“One favour more, sir: your blessing.”

“May God bless you, Margaret,” said the good chaplain, “and make you, for the remainder of your days, an instrument of good, to His own glory and the benefit of your fellow-creatures! Amen. Farewell.”

On Wednesday, May 27, Mr. Ripshaw left Ipswich with three female prisoners in his charge, Margaret Catchpole, Elizabeth Killet, and Elizabeth Barker. He took them to Portsmouth, and saw them safe on board the convict-ship, bound for Botany Bay.

Margaret had not left the New Gaol, two hours before the turnkey was summoned to the lodge, and opened the door to a tall, thin man, dressed in the poorest garb, who with a voice soft and gentle, meek and melancholy, requested to see Margaret Catchpole.

“She is just departed with the governor for Portsmouth. Who are you?”

“I am her brother. My misfortunes are indeed heavy: I am just returned from India. I find my father gone, my brothers gone, and this my only sister, worse than all! Oh, bitter cup! gone in disgrace from the country!”

“Pray walk this way. I will introduce you to our chaplain, and some consolation may be found for you.”

The melancholy truth was soon explained. Charles Catchpole, alias Jacob Dedham, alias Collins Jaun, the spy, whom the reader may recognize as mentioned in a former part of this history, returned to his native country literally a beggar. He went out to India, and, upon his arrival in that country, his friend, Lord Cornwallis, had resigned his high office, and returned to England. The account he gave of himself was singularly eventful. He assumed the appearance of a native chief, joined some of the roving tribes of warlike adventurers, and became a conspicuous character. He fell in love with a nabob’s daughter, and married her according to the national customs and ceremonies; but his ill-assorted match did not long prosper. His origin and connexion with the English were discovered, and the spy had to fly the country for his life. He escaped, gained his passage home, and had spent his last shilling in the very public-house at St. Mary Elms where he received his first as an enlisted recruit. His case was that day mentioned to several individuals, amongst others to Edward Bacon, Esq., who had spent many years in India, who pronounced him no impostor. He employed him many days in taking a view of Ipswich and its environs, which he did with extraordinary accuracy, from Savage’s windmill on Stoke Hills. This view was presented by that gentleman to the author of these pages, and it presents all the striking accuracy and patient persevering characteristics of a self-taught artist.

By his own industry, and the generosity of others, he gained a few pounds, with which he determined to settle in one of the colonies. He obtained a passage to the Cape of Good Hope; but the poor fellow met with a severe accident in falling down the hold of the vessel, broke his back, and died upon the passage.

Thus ended the career of Margaret Catchpole in England, where her virtues will long be remembered, together with her crimes. What remains of her history will serve to show what fruits may be gathered from a faithful spirit, a good heart, a high courage, and a strong understanding, when disciplined in the school of adversity, and under the guidance of good principles, seasonably instilled by kind and judicious monitors. It will be seen that her chief temptation having been mercifully removed, a true repentance, and an entire alteration of life and character, entitled her to the full forgiveness, and even approbation, of her fellow-creatures.