CHARLES PEACE, after the habit of his kind, was born of scrupulously
honest parents. The son of a religious file-maker, he owed to his father
not only his singular piety but his love of edged tools. As he never
encountered an iron bar whose scission baffled him, so there never was a
fire-eating Methodist to whose ministrations he would not turn a repentant
ear. After a handy portico and a rich booty he loved nothing so well as a
soul-stirring discourse. Not even his precious fiddle occupied a larger
space in his heart than that devotion which the ignorant have termed
hypocrisy. Wherefore his career was no less suitable to his ambition than
his inglorious end. For he lived the king of housebreakers, and he died a
warning to all evildoers, with a prayer of intercession trembling upon his
lips.
The hero's boyhood is wrapped in obscurity. It is certain that no
glittering precocity brought disappointment to his maturer years, and he
was already nineteen when he achieved his first imprisonment. Even then
'twas a sorry offence, which merited no more than a month, so that he
returned to freedom and his fiddle with his character unbesmirched.
Serious as ever in pious exercises, he gained a scanty living as strolling
musician. There was never a tavern in Sheffield where the twang of his
violin was unheard, and the skill wherewith he extorted music from a
single string earned him the style and title of the modern Paganini. But
such an employ was too mean for his pride, and he soon got to work again—this
time with a better success. The mansions of Sheffield were his early prey,
and a rich plunder rewarded his intrepidity. The design was as masterly as
its accomplishment. The grand style is already discernible. The houses
were broken in quietude and good order. None saw the opened window; none
heard the step upon the stair; in truth, the victim's loss was his first
intelligence.
But when the booty was in the robber's own safe keeping, the empiricism of
his method was revealed. As yet he knew no secret and efficient fence to
shield him from detection; as yet he had not learnt that the complete
burglar works alone. This time he knew two accomplices—women both,
and one his own sister! A paltry pair of boots was the clue of discovery,
and a goodly stretch was the proper reward of a clumsy indiscretion. So
for twenty years he wavered between the crowbar and the prison house, now
perfecting a brilliant scheme, now captured through recklessness or drink.
Once when a mistake at Manchester sent him to the Hulks, he owned his
failure was the fruit of brandy, and after his wont delivered (from the
dock) a little homily upon the benefit of sobriety.
Meanwhile his art was growing to perfection. He had at last discovered
that a burglary demands as diligent a forethought as a campaign; he had
learnt that no great work is achieved by a multitude of minds. Before his
boat carried off a goodly parcel of silk from Nottingham, he was known to
the neighbourhood as an enthusiastic and skilful angler. One day he
dangled his line, the next he sat peacefully at the same employ; and none
suspected that the mild mannered fisherman had under the cloud of night
despatched a costly parcel to London. Even the years of imprisonment were
not ill-spent. Peace was still preparing the great achievement of his
life, and he framed from solitary reflection as well as from his
colleagues in crime many an ingenious theory afterwards fearlessly
translated into practice. And when at last he escaped the slavery of the
gaol, picture-framing was the pursuit which covered the sterner business
of his life. His depredation involved him in no suspicion; his changing
features rendered recognition impossible. When the exercise of his trade
compelled him to shoot a policeman at Whalley Range, another was sentenced
for the crime; and had he not encountered Mrs. Dyson, who knows but he
might have practised his art in prosperous obscurity until claimed by a
coward's death? But a stormy love-passage with Mrs. Dyson led to the
unworthy killing of the woman's husband—a crime unnecessary and in
no sense consonant to the burglar's craft; and Charles Peace was an
outlaw, with a reward set upon his head.
And now came a period of true splendour. Like Fielding, like Cervantes,
like Sterne, Peace reserved his veritable masterpiece for the certainty of
middle-life. His last two years were nothing less than a march of triumph.
If you remember his constant danger, you will realise the grandeur of the
scheme. From the moment that Peace left Bannercross with Dyson's blood
upon his hands, he was a hunted man. His capture was worth five hundred
pounds; his features were familiar to a hundred hungry detectives. Had he
been less than a man of genius, he might have taken an unavailing refuge
in flight or concealment. But, content with no safety unattended by
affluence, he devised a surer plan: he became a householder. Now, a
semi-detached villa is an impregnable stronghold. Respectability oozes
from the dusky mortar of its bricks, and escapes in clouds of smoke from
its soot-grimed chimneys. No policeman ever detects a desperate ruffian in
a demure black-coated gentleman who day after day turns an iron gate upon
its rusty hinge. And thus, wrapt in a cloak of suburban piety, Peace waged
a pitiless and effective war upon his neighbours.
He pillaged Blackheath, Greenwich, Peckham, and many another home of
honest worth, with a noiselessness and a precision that were the envy of
the whole family. The unknown and intrepid burglar was a terror to all the
clerkdom of the City, and though he was as secret and secluded as Peace,
the two heroes were never identified. At the time of his true eminence he
'resided' in Evelina Road, Peckham, and none was more sensible than he how
well the address became his provincial refinement. There he installed
himself with his wife and Mrs. Thompson. His drawing-room suite was the
envy of the neighbourhood; his pony-trap proclaimed him a man of
substance; his gentle manners won the respect of all Peckham. Hither he
would invite his friends to such entertainments as the suburb expected.
His musical evenings were recorded in the local paper, while on Sundays he
chanted the songs of Zion with a zeal which Clapham herself might envy.
The house in Evelina Road was no mere haunt of quiet gentility. It was
chosen with admirable forethought and with a stern eye upon the
necessities of business. Beyond the garden wall frowned a railway
embankment, which enabled the cracksman to escape from his house without
opening the front door. By the same embankment he might, if he chose,
convey the trophies of the night's work; and what mattered it if the
windows rattled to the passing train?
At least a cloud of suspicion was dispelled. Here he lived for two years,
with naught to disturb his tranquillity save Mrs. Thompson's taste for
drink. The hours of darkness were spent in laborious activity, the open
day brought its own distractions. There was always Bow Street wherein to
loaf, and the study of the criminal law lost none of its excitement from
the reward offered outside for the bald-headed fanatic who sat placidly
within. And the love of music was Peace's constant solace. Whatever
treasures he might discard in a hurried flight, he never left a fiddle
behind, and so vast became his pilfered collection that he had to borrow
an empty room in a friend's house for its better disposal.
Moreover, he had a fervent pride in his craft; and you might deduce from
his performance the whole theory and practice of burglary. He worked ever
without accomplices. He knew neither the professional thief nor his lingo;
and no association with gaol-birds involved him in the risk of treachery
and betrayal. His single colleague was a friendly fence, and not even at
the gallows' foot would he surrender the fence's name. His master quality
was a constructive imagination. Accident never marred his design. He would
visit the house of his breaking until he understood its ground-plan, and
was familiar with its inhabitants. This demanded an amazing
circumspection, but Peace was as stealthy as a cat, and he would keep
silent vigil for hours rather than fail from an over keen anxiety. Having
marked the place of his entry, and having chosen an appropriate hour, he
would prevent the egress of his enemies by screwing up the doors.
He then secured the room wherein he worked, and the job finished, he slung
himself into the night by the window, so that, ere an alarm could be
raised, his pony-trap had carried the booty to Evelina Road.
Such was the outline of his plan; but, being no pedant, he varied it at
will: nor was he likely to court defeat through lack of resource.
Accomplished as he was in his proper business, he was equally alert to
meet the accompanying risks. He had brought the art of cozening strange
dogs to perfection; and for the exigence of escape, his physical equipment
was complete. He would resist capture with unparalleled determination, and
though he shuddered at the shedding of blood, he never hesitated when
necessity bade him pull the trigger. Moreover, there was no space into
which he would not squeeze his body, and the iron bars were not yet
devised through which he could not make an exit. Once—it was at
Nottingham—he was surprised by an inquisitive detective who demanded
his name and trade. 'I am a hawker of spectacles,' replied Peace, 'and my
licence is downstairs. Wait two minutes and I'll show it you.' The
detective never saw him again. Six inches only separated the bars of the
window, but Peace asked no more, and thus silently he won his freedom.
True, his most daring feat—the leap from the train—resulted
not in liberty, but in a broken head. But he essayed a task too high even
for his endeavour, and, despite his manacles, at least he left his boot in
the astonished warder's grip.
No less remarkable than his skill and daring were his means of evasion.
Even without a formal disguise he could elude pursuit. At an instant's
warning, his loose, plastic features would assume another shape; out shot
his lower jaw, and, as if by magic, the blood flew into his face until you
might take him for a mulatto. Or, if he chose, he would strap his arm to
his side, and let the police be baffled by a wooden mechanism, decently
finished with a hook. Thus he roamed London up and down unsuspected, and
even after his last failure at Blackheath, none would have discovered
Charles Peace in John Ward, the Single-Handed Burglar, had not woman's
treachery prompted detection. Indeed, he was an epitome of his craft, the
Complete Burglar made manifest.
Not only did he plan his victories with previous ingenuity, but he
sacrificed to his success both taste and sentiment. His dress was always
of the most sombre; his only wear was the decent black of everyday
godliness. The least spice of dandyism might have distinguished him from
his fellows, and Peace's whole vanity lay in his craft. Nor did the paltry
sentiment of friendship deter him from his just course. When the panic
aroused by the silent burglar was uncontrolled, a neighbour consulted
Peace concerning the safety of his house. The robber, having duly noted
the villa's imperfections, and having discovered the hiding-place of
jewellery and plate, complacently rifled it the next night. Though his
self-esteem sustained a shock, though henceforth his friend thought meanly
of his judgment, he was rewarded with the solid pudding of plunder, and
the world whispered of the mysterious marauder with a yet colder horror.
In truth, the large simplicity and solitude of his style sets him among
the Classics, and though others have surpassed him at single points of the
game, he practised the art with such universal breadth and courage as were
then a revolution, and are still unsurpassed.
But the burglar ever fights an unequal battle. One false step, and defeat
o'erwhelms him. For two years had John Ward intimidated the middle-class
seclusion of South London; for two years had he hidden from a curious
world the ugly, furrowed visage of Charles Peace. The bald head, the
broad-rimmed spectacles, the squat, thick figure—he stood but five
feet four in his stockings, and adds yet another to the list of
little-great men—should have ensured detection, but the quick change
and the persuasive gesture were omnipotent, and until the autumn of 1878
Peace was comfortably at large. And then an encounter at Blackheath put
him within the clutch of justice. His revolver failed in its duty, and,
valiant as he was, at last he met his match. In prison he was alternately
insolent and aggrieved. He blustered for justice, proclaimed himself the
victim of sudden temptation, and insisted that his intention had been ever
innocent.
But, none the less, he was sentenced to a lifer, and, the mask of John
Ward being torn from him, he was sent to Sheffield to stand his trial as
Charles Peace. The leap from the train is already recorded; and at his
last appearance in the dock he rolled upon the floor, a petulant and
broken man. When once the last doom was pronounced, he forgot both fiddle
and crowbar; he surrendered himself to those exercises of piety from which
he had never wavered. The foolish have denounced him for a hypocrite, not
knowing that the artist may have a life apart from his art, and that to
Peace religion was an essential pursuit. So he died, having released from
an unjust sentence the poor wretch who at Whalley Range had suffered for
his crime, and offering up a consolatory prayer for all mankind. In truth,
there was no enemy for whom he did not intercede. He prayed for his
gaolers, for his executioner, for the Ordinary, for his wife, for Mrs.
Thompson, his drunken doxy, and he went to his death with the sure step of
one who, having done his duty, is reconciled with the world. The mob
testified its affectionate admiration by dubbing him 'Charley,' and
remembered with effusion his last grim pleasantry. 'What is the scaffold?'
he asked with sublime earnestness. And the answer came quick and
sanctimonious: 'A short cut to Heaven!'
