The History and Remarkable Life of the Truly Honourable Colonel Jacque, Commonly called Colonel Jack

Well, I carried it home with me to my lodging in the glass-house, and when I went to go to sleep I knew not what to do with it. If I had let any of the black crew I was with know of it, I should have been smothered in the ashes for it, or robbed of it, or some trick or other put upon me for it; so I knew not what to do, but lay with it in my hand, and my hand in my bosom. But then sleep went from my eyes. Oh, the weight of human care! I, a poor beggar-boy, could not sleep so soon as I had but a little money to keep, who before that could have slept upon a heap of brick-bats, or stones, or cinders, or anywhere, as sound as a rich man does on his down bed, and sounder too.

Every now and then dropping asleep, I should dream that my money was lost, and start like one frighted; then, finding it fast in my hand, try to go to sleep again, but could not for a long while; then drop and start again. At last a fancy came into my head that if I fell asleep I should dream of the money, and talk of it in my sleep, and tell that I had money, which if I should do, and one of the rogues should hear me, they would pick it out of my bosom, and of my hand too, without waking me; and after that thought I could not sleep a wink more; so that I passed that night over in care and anxiety enough; and this, I may safely say, was the first night's rest that I lost by the cares of this life and the deceitfulness of riches.

As soon as it was day I got out of the hole we lay in, and rambled abroad in the fields towards Stepney, and there I mused and considered what I should do with this money, and many a time I wished that I had not had it; for, after all my ruminating upon it, and what course I should take with it, or where I should put it, I could not hit upon any one thing, or any possible method to secure it, and it perplexed me so that at last, as I said just now, I sat down and cried heartily.

When my crying was over the case was the same; I had the money still, and what to do with it I could not tell. At last it came into my head that I would look out for some hole in a tree, and seek to hide it there till I should have occasion for it. Big was this discovery, as I then thought it. I began to look about me for a tree; but there were no trees in the fields about Stepney or Mile End that looked fit for my purpose; and if there were any that I began to look narrowly at, the fields were so full of people that they would see if I went to hide any thing there; and I thought the people eyed me as it was, and that two men in particular followed me to see what I intended to do.

This drove me farther off, and I crossed the road at Mile End, and in the middle of the town went down a lane that goes away to the Blind Beggar's at Bethnal Green. When I came a little way in the lane I found a footpath over the fields, and in those fields several trees for my turn, as I thought. At last one tree had a little hole in it, pretty high out of my reach, and I climbed up the tree to get it, and when I came there I put my hand in, and found (as I thought) a place very fit, so I placed my treasure there, and was mighty well satisfied with it; but, behold, putting my hand in again to lay it more commodiously, as I thought, of a sudden it slipped away from me, and I found the tree was hollow, and my little parcel was fallen in quite out of my reach, and how far it might go in I knew not; so that, in a word, my money was quite gone, irrecoverably lost. There could be no room so much as to hope ever to see it again, for 'twas a vast great tree.

As young as I was, I was now sensible what a fool I was before, that I could not think of ways to keep my mpney, but I must come thus far to throw it into a hole where I could not reach it. Well, I thrust my hand quite up to my elbow, but no bottom was to be found, or any end of the hole or cavity. I got a stick of the tree, and thrust it in a great way, but all was one. Then I cried, nay, roared out, I was in such a passion. Then I got down the tree again, then up again, and thrust in my hand again till I scratched my arm and made it bleed, and cried all the while most violently. Then I began to think I had not so much as a halfpenny of it left for a halfpenny roll, and I was hungry, and then I cried again. Then I came away in despair, crying and roaring like a little boy that had been whipped; then I went back again to the tree, and up the tree again, and thus I did several times. The last time I had gotten up the tree I happened to come down not on the same side that I went up and came down before, but on the other side of the tree, and on the side of the bank also; and, behold, the tree had a great open place in the side of it close to the ground, as old hollow trees often have; and looking into the open place, to my inexpressible joy, there lay my money and my linen rag, all wrapped up just as I had put it into the hole; for the tree being hollow all the way up, there had been some moss or light stuff, which I had not judgment enough to know was not firm, and had given way when it came to drop out of my hand, and so it had slipped quite down at once.

I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a child, for I halloed quite out loud when I saw it; then I ran to it, and snatched it up, hugged and kissed the dirty rag a hundred times; then danced and jumped about, ran from one end of the field to the other, and, in short, I knew not what; much less do I know now what I did, though I shall never forget the thing, either what a sinking grief it was to my heart when I thought I had lost it, or what a flood of joy overwhelmed me when I had got it again.

While I was in the first transport of my joy, as I have said, I ran about, and knew not what I did; but when that was over I sat down, opened the foul clout the money was in, looked at it, told it, found it was all there, and then I fell a-crying as savourly as I did before, when I thought I had lost it.

It would tire the reader should I dwell on all the little boyish tricks that I played in the ecstasy of my joy and satisfaction when I had found my money; so I break off here. Joy is as extravagant as grief, and since I have been a man I have often thought, that had such a thing befallen a man, so to have lost all he had, and not have a bit of bread to eat, and then so strangely to find it again, after having given it so effectually over-I say, had it been so with a man, it might have hazarded his using some violence upon himself.

Well, I came away with my money, and having taken sixpence out of it, before I made it up again I went to a chandler's shop in Mile End and bought a halfpenny roll and a halfpenny worth of cheese, and sat down at the door after I bought it, and ate it very heartily, and begged some beer to drink with it, which the good woman gave me very freely.

Away I went then for the town, to see if I could find any of my companions, and resolved I would try no more hollow trees for my treasure. As I came along Whitechapel I came by a broker's shop over against the church, where they sold old clothes, for I had nothing on but the worst of rags; so I stopped at the shop, and stood looking at the clothes which hung at the door.

"Well, young gentleman," says a man that stood at the door, "you look wishfully. Do you see any thing you like, and will your pocket compass a good coat now, for you look as if you belonged to the ragged regiment?" I was affronted at the fellow. "What's that to you," says I, "how ragged I am? If I had seen anything I liked, I have money to pay for it; but I can go where I shan't be huffed at for looking."

While I said thus pretty boldly to the fellow comes a woman out. "What ails you," says she to the man, "to bully away our customers so? A poor boy's money is as good as my Lord Mayor's. If poor people did not buy old clothes, what would become of our business?" And then turning to me, "Come hither, child," says she; "if thou hast a mind to anything I have, you shan't be hectored by him. The boy is a pretty boy, I assure you," says she to another woman that was by this time come to her. "Ay," says the t'other, "so he is, a very well-looking child, if he was clean and well dressed, and may be as good a gentleman's son, for anything we know, as any of those that are well dressed. Come, my dear," says she, "tell me what is it you would have." She pleased me mightily to hear her talk of my being a gentleman's son, and it brought former things to my mind; but when she talked of my being not clean and in rags, then I cried.

She pressed me to tell her if I saw anything that I wanted. I told her no, all the clothes I saw there were too big for me. "Come, child," says she, "I have two things here that will fit you, and I am sure you want them both; that is, first, a little hat, and there," says she (tossing it to me), "I'll give you that for nothing. And here is a good warm pair of breeches; I dare say," says she, "they will fit you, and they are very tight and good; and," says she, "if you should ever come to have so much money that you don't know what to do with it, here are excellent good pockets," says she, "and a little fob to put your gold in, or your watch in, when you get it."

It struck me with a strange kind of joy that I should have a place to put my money in, and need not go to hide it again in a hollow tree, that I was ready to snatch the breeches out of her hands, and wondered that I should be such a fool never to think of buying me a pair of breeches before, that I might have a pocket to put my money in, and not carry it about two days together in my hand, and in my shoes and I knew not how; so, in a word, I gave her two shillings for the breeches, and went over into the churchyard and put them on, put my money into my new pockets, and was as pleased as a prince is with his coach and six horses. I thanked the good woman too for the hat, and told her I would come again when I got more money, and buy some other things I wanted; and so I came away.

I was but a boy, 'tis true, but I thought myself a man, now I had got a pocket to put my money in, and I went directly to find out my companion by whose means I got it; but I was frighted out of my wits when I heard that he was carried to Bridewell. I made no question but it was for the letter-case, and that I should be carried there too; and then my poor brother Captain Jacque's case came into my head, and that I should be whipped there as cruelly as he was, and I was in such a fright that I knew not what to do.

But in the afternoon I met him; he had been carried to Bridewell, it seems, upon that very affair, but was got out again. The case was thus: having had such good luck at the custom-house the day before, he takes his walk thither again, and as he was in the long-room, gaping and staring about him, a fellow lays hold of him, and calls to one of the clerks that sat behind, "Here," says he, "is the same young rogue that I told you I saw loitering about t'other day, when the gentleman lost his letter-case and his goldsmiths' bills; I dare say it was he that stole them." Immediately the whole crowd of people gathered about the boy, and charged him point-blank; but he was too well used to such things to be frighted into a confession of what he knew they could not prove, for he had nothing about him belonging to it, nor had any money but six pence and a few dirty farthings.

They threatened him, and pulled and hauled him, till they almost pulled the clothes off his back, and the commissioners examined him; but all was one; he would own nothing, but said he walked up through the room, only to see the place, both then and the time before, for he had owned he was there before; so, as there was no proof against him of any fact, no, nor of any circumstances relating to the letter-case, they were forced at last to let him go. However, they made a show of carrying him to Bridewell, and they did carry him to the gate to see if they could make him confess anything; but he would confess nothing, and they had no mittimus; so they durst not carry him into the house; nor would the people have received him, I suppose, if they had, they having no warrant for putting him in prison.

Well, when they could get nothing out of him, they carried him into an alehouse, and there they told him that the letter-case had bills in it of a very great value; that they would be of no use to the rogue that had them, but they would be of infinite damage to the gentleman that had lost them; and that he had left word with the clerk, whom the man that stopped this boy had called to, and who was there with him, that he would give £30 to any one that would bring them again, and give all the security that could be desired that he would give them no trouble, whoever it was.

He was just come from out of their hands when I met with him, and so he told me all the story. "But," says he, "I would confess nothing, and so I got off, and am come away clear." "Well," says I, "and what will you do with the letter-case and the bills? Will you not let the poor man have his bills again?" "No, not I," says he; "I won't trust them. What care I for their bills?" It came into my head, as young as I was, that it was a sad thing indeed to take a man's bills away for so much money, and not have any advantage by it neither; for I concluded that the gentleman who owned the bills must lose all the money, and it was strange he should keep the bills, and make a gentleman lose so much money for nothing. I remember that I ruminated very much about it, and though I did not understand it very well, yet it lay upon my mind, and I said every now and then to him, "Do let the gentleman have his bills again; do, pray do;" and so I teased him, with "Do" and "Pray do," till at last I cried about them. He said, "What, would you have me be found out and sent to Bridewell, and be whipped, as your brother Captain Jacque was?" I said, "No, I would not have you whipped, but I would have the man have his bills, for they will do you no good, but the gentleman will be undone, it may be." And then I added again, "Do let him have them." He snapped me short. "Why," says he, "how shall I get them to him? Who dare carry them? I dare not, to be sure, for they will stop me, and bring the goldsmith to see if he does not know me, and that I received the money, and so they will prove the robbery, and I shall be hanged. Would you have me be hanged, Jacque?"

I was silenced a good while with that, for when he said, "Would you have me be hanged, Jacque?" I had no more to say. But one day after this he called to me. "Colonel Jacque," says he, "I have thought of a way how the gentleman shall have his bills again; and you and I shall get a good deal of money by it, if you will be honest to me, as I was to you." "Indeed," says I, "Robin" – that was his name-"I will be very honest; let me know how it is, for I would fain have him have his bills."

"Why," says he, "they told me that he had left word at the clerk's place in the long-room that he would give £30 to any one that had the bills, and would restore them, and would ask no questions. Now, if you will go, like a poor innocent boy, as you are, into the long-room and speak to the clerk, it may do. Tell him if the gentleman will do as he promised, you believe you can tell him who has it; and if they are civil to you, and willing to be as good as their words, you shall have the letter-case, and give it them."

I told him ay, I would go with all my heart. "But, Colonel Jacque," says he, "what if they should take hold of you and threaten to have you whipped? Won't you discover me to them?" "No," says I; "if they would whip me to death I won't." "Well, then," says he, "there's the letter-case; do you go." So he gave me directions how to act and what to say; but I would not take the letter-case with me, lest they should prove false, and take hold of me, thinking to find it upon me, and so charge me with the fact; so I left it with him. And the next morning I went to the custom-house, as was agreed. What my directions were will, to avoid repetition, appear in what happened; it was an errand of too much consequence indeed to be entrusted to a boy, not only so young as I was, but so little of a rogue as I was yet arrived to the degree of.

Two things I was particularly armed with, which I resolved upon: 1. That the man should have his bills again; for it seemed a horrible thing to me that he should be made to lose his money, which I supposed he must, purely because we would not carry the letter-case home. 2. That whatever happened to me, I was never to tell the name of my comrade Robin, who had been the principal. With these two pieces of honesty, for such they were both in themselves, and with a manly heart, though a boy's head, I went up into the long-room in the custom-house the next day.

As soon as I came to the place where the thing was done, I saw the man sit just where he had sat before, and it ran in my head that he had sat there ever since; but I knew no better; so I went up, and stood just at that side of the writing-board that goes upon that side of the room, and which I was but just tall enough to lay my arms upon.

While I stood there one thrust me this way, and another thrust me that way, and the man that sat behind began to look at me. At last he called out to me, "What does that boy do there? Get you gone, sirrah! Are you one of the rogues that stole the gentleman's letter-case a Monday last?" Then he turns his tale to a gentleman that was doing business with him, and goes on thus: "Here was Mr. – had a very unlucky chance on Monday last. Did not you hear of it?" "No, not I," says the gentleman. "Why, standing just there, where you do," says he, "making his entries, he pulled out his letter-case, and laid it down, as he says, but just at his hand, while he reached over to the standish there for a penful of ink, and somebody stole away his letter-case."

"His letter-case!" says t'other. "What, and was there any bills in it?"

"Ay," says he, "there was Sir Stephen Evans's note in it for £300, and another goldsmith's bill for about £12; and which is worse still for the gentleman, he had two foreign accepted bills in it for a great sum-I know not how much. I think one was a French bill for 1200 crowns."

"And who could it be?" says the gentleman.

"Nobody knows," says he; "but one of our room-keepers says he saw a couple of young rogues like that," pointing at me, "hanging about here, and that on a sudden they were both gone."

"Villains!" says he again. "Why, what can they do with them? They will be of no use to them. I suppose he went immediately and gave notice to prevent the payment."

"Yes," says the clerk, "he did; but the rogues were too nimble for him with the little bill of £12 odd money; they went and got the money for that, but all the rest are stopped. However, 'tis an unspeakable damage to him for want of his money."

"Why, he should publish a reward for the encouragement of those that have them to bring them again; they would be glad to bring them, I warrant you."

"He has posted it up at the door that he will give £30 for them."

"Ay; but he should add that he will promise not to stop or give any trouble to the person that brings them."

"He has done that too," says he; "but I fear they won't trust themselves to be honest, for fear he should break his word."

"Why? It is true he may break his word in that case, but no man should do so; for then no rogue will venture to bring home anything that is stolen, and so he would do an injury to others after him."

"I durst pawn my life for him, he would scorn it."

Thus far they discoursed of it, and then went off to something else. I heard it all, but did not know what to do a great while; but at last, watching the gentleman that went away, when he was gone I ran after him to have spoken to him, intending to have broke it to him, but he went hastily into a room or two full of people at the hither end of the long-room; and when I went to follow, the doorkeepers turned me back, and told me I must not go in there; so I went back, and loitered about near the man that sat behind the board, and hung about there till I found the clock struck twelve, and the room began to be thin of people; and at last he sat there writing, but nobody stood at the board before him, as there had all the rest of the morning. Then I came a little nearer, and stood close to the board, as I did before; when, looking up from his paper, and seeing me, says he to me, "You have been up and down here all this morning, sirrah! What do you want? You have some business that is not very good, I doubt."

"No, I han't," said I.

"No? It is well if you han't," says he. "Pray, what business can you have in the long-room, sir? You are no merchant."

"I would speak with you," said I.

"With me!" says he. "What have you to say to me?"

"I have something to say," said I, "if you will do me no harm for it."

"I do thee harm, child! What harm should I do thee?" and spoke very kindly.

"Won't you indeed, sir?" said I.

"No, not I, child; I'll do thee no harm. What is it? Do you know anything of the gentleman's letter-case?"

I answered, but spoke softly that he could not hear me; so he gets over presently into the seat next him, and opens a place that was made to come out, and bade me come in to him; and I did.

Then he asked me again if I knew anything of the letter-case.

I spoke softly again, and said folks would hear him.

Then he whispered softly, and asked me again.

I told him I believed I did, but that, indeed, I had it not, nor had no hand in stealing it, but it was gotten into the hands of a boy that would have burned it, if it had not been for me; and that I heard him say that the gentleman would be glad to have them again, and give a good deal of money for them.

"I did say so, child," said he; "and if you can get them for him, he shall give you a good reward, no less than £30, as he has promised."

"But you said too, sir, to the gentleman just now," said I, "that you was sure he would not bring them into any harm that should bring them."

"No, you shall come to no harm. I will pass my word for it."

Boy. Nor shan't they make me bring other people into trouble?

Gent. No; you shall not be asked the name of anybody, nor to tell who they are.

Boy. I am but a poor boy, and I would fain have the gentleman have his bills; and indeed I did not take them away, nor I han't got them.

Gent. But can you tell how the gentleman shall have them?

Boy. If I can get them, I will bring them to you to-morrow morning.

Gent. Can you not do it to-night?

Boy. I believe I may if I knew where to come.

Gent. Come to my house, child.

Boy. I don't know where you live.

Gent. Go along with me now, and you shall see.

So he carried me up into Tower Street, and showed me his house, and ordered me to come there at five o'clock at night; which accordingly I did, and carried the letter-case with me.

When I came the gentleman asked me if I had brought the book, as he called it.

"It is not a book," said I.

"No, the letter-case; that's all one," says he.

"You promised me," said I, "you would not hurt me," and cried.

"Don't be afraid, child," says he. "I will not hurt thee, poor boy; nobody shall hurt thee."

"Here it is," said I, and pulled it out.

He then brought in another gentleman, who, it seems, owned the letter-case, and asked him if that was it, and he said, "Yes."

Then he asked me if all the bills were in it.

I told him I heard him say there was one gone, but I believed there was all the rest.

"Why do you believe so?" says he.

"Because I heard the boy that I believe stole them say they were too big for him to meddle with."

The gentleman then that owned them said, "Where is the boy?"

Then the other gentleman put in, and said, "No, you must not ask him that; I passed my word that you should not, and that he should not be obliged to tell it to anybody."

"Well, child," says he, "you will let us see the letter-case opened, and whether the bills are in it?"

"Yes," says I.

Then the first gentleman said, "How many bills were there in it?"

"Only three," says he. "Besides the bill of £12, 10s., there was Sir Stephen Evans's note for £300 and two foreign bills."

"Well, then, if they are in the letter-case, the boy shall have £30, shall he not?" "Yes," says the gentleman; "he shall have it very freely."

"Come, then, child," says he, "let me open it."

So I gave it him, and he opened it, and there were all three bills, and several other papers, fair and safe, nothing defaced or diminished; and the gentleman said, "All is right."

Then said the first man, "Then I am security to the poor boy for the money." "Well, but," says the gentleman, "the rogues have got the £12, 10s.; they ought to reckon that as part of the £30." Had he asked me, I should have consented to it at first word; but the first man stood my friend. "Nay," says he, "it was since you knew that the £12, 10s. was received that you offered £30 for the other bills, and published it by the crier, and posted it up at the custom-house door, and I promised him the £30 this morning." They argued long, and I thought would have quarrelled about it.

However, at last they both yielded a little, and the gentleman gave me £25 in good guineas. When he gave it me he bade me hold out my hand, and he told the money into my hand; and when he had done he asked me if it was right. I said I did not know, but I believed it was. "Why," says he, "can't you tell it?" I told him no; I never saw so much money in my life, nor I did not know how to tell money. "Why," says he, "don't you know that they are guineas?" No, I told him, I did not know how much a guinea was.

"Why, then," says he, "did you tell me you believed it was right?" I told him, because I believed he would not give it me wrong.

"Poor child," says he, "thou knowest little of the world, indeed. What art thou?"

"I am a poor boy," says I, and cried.

"What is your name?" says he. "But hold, I forgot," said he; "I promised I would not ask your name, so you need not tell me."

"My name is Jacque," said I.

"Why, have you no surname?" said he.

"What is that?" said I.

"You have some other name besides Jacque," says he, "han't you?"

"Yes," says I; "they call me Colonel Jacque."

"But have you no other name?"

"No," said I.

"How came you to be Colonel Jacque, pray?"

"They say," said I, "my father's name was Colonel."

"Is your father or mother alive?" said he.

"No," said I; "my father is dead."

"Where is your mother, then?" said he.

"I never had e'er a mother," said I.

This made him laugh. "What," said he, "had you never a mother? What, then?"

"I had a nurse," said I; "but she was not my mother."

"Well," says he to the gentleman, "I dare say this boy was not the thief that stole your bills."

"Indeed, sir, I did not steal them," said I, and cried again.

"No, no, child," said he, "we don't believe you did. This is a very clever boy," says he to the other gentleman, "and yet very ignorant and honest; 'tis pity some care should not be taken of him, and something done for him. Let us talk a little more with him." So they sat down and drank wine, and gave me some, and then the first gentleman talked to me again.

"Well," says he, "what wilt thou do with this money now thou hast it?"

"I don't know," said I.

"Where will you put it?" said he,

"In my pocket," said I.

"In your pocket!" said he. "Is your pocket whole? Shan't you lose it?"

"Yes," said I, "my pocket is whole."

"And where will you put it when you get home?"

"I have no home," said I, and cried again.

"Poor child!" said he. "Then what dost thou do for thy living?"

"I go of errands," said I, "for the folks in Rosemary Lane."

"And what dost thou do for a lodging at night?"

"I lie at the glass-house," said I, "at night."

"How, lie at the glass-house! Have they any beds there?" says he.

"I never lay in a bed in my life," said I, "as I remember."

"Why," says he, "what do you lie on at the glass-house?"

"The ground," says I; "and sometimes a little straw, or upon the warm ashes."

Here the gentleman that lost the bills said, "This poor child is enough to make a man weep for the miseries of human nature, and be thankful for himself; he puts tears into my eyes." "And into mine too," says the other.

"Well, but hark ye, Jacque," says the first gentleman, "do they give you no money when they send you of errands?"

"They give me victuals," said I, "and that's better."

"But what," says he, "do you do for clothes?"

"They give me sometimes old things," said I, "such as they have to spare."

"Why, you have never a shirt on, I believe," said he, "have you?"

"No; I never had a shirt," said I, "since my nurse died."

"How long ago is that?" said he.

"Six winters, when this is out," said I.

"Why, how old are you?" said he.

"I can't tell," said I.

"Well," says the gentleman, "now you have this money, won't you buy some clothes and a shirt with some of it?"

"Yes," said I, "I would buy some clothes."

"And what will you do with the rest?"

"I can't tell," said I, and cried.

"What dost cry for, Jacque?" said he.

"I am afraid," said I, and cried still.

"What art afraid of?"

"They will know I have money."

"Well, and what then?"

"Then I must sleep no more in the warm glass house, and I shall be starved with cold. They will take away my money."

"But why must you sleep there no more?"

Here the gentlemen observed to one another how naturally anxiety and perplexity attend those that have money. "I warrant you," says the clerk, "when this poor boy had no money he slept all night in the straw, or on the warm ashes in the glass-house, as soundly and as void of care as it would be possible for any creature to do; but now, as soon as he has gotten money, the care of preserving it brings tears into his eyes and fear into his heart."

They asked me a great many questions more, to which I answered in my childish way as well as I could, but so as pleased them well enough. At last I was going away with a heavy pocket, and I assure you not a light heart, for I was so frighted with having so much money that I knew not what in the earth to do with myself. I went away, however, and walked a little way, but I could not tell what to do; so, after rambling two hours or thereabout, I went back again, and sat down at the gentleman's door, and there I cried as long as I had any moisture in my head to make tears of, but never knocked at the door.