Daft Jamie.
The work goes on, with a change of shambles. Some time after the scene in Constantine Burke’s house in Gibb’s Close, Burke and Helen M‘Dougal removed from Log’s house to that of a relation of theirs of the name of Broggan. It was never properly ascertained whether this separation was the consequence of a quarrel between the parties, or whether it was imagined that another establishment would furnish additional opportunities for carrying on the trade. The latter opinion seems to have been justified by their joint operations having undergone no interruption. Broggan’s house was admirably adapted for working the conspiracy, provided the inmates could be relied on, a condition indispensable where the house consisted of only one apartment, though with a convenient dark passage into which the females could retreat as a safeguard to their feelings. If we are surprised that four individuals could be found in the world to harmonise in a confederacy for so extraordinary a purpose, we come to be appalled with wonder and dismay at the apparent facility they found in conciliating the scruples of those who could have derived but little reward for their silence. We have seen Constantine Burke and his wife acting the aiding confidants, and now we see another man and his wife brought over with apparently little difficulty. We seek for the explanation of course in the power of money, but this does not allay the wonder, if it does not rather increase it, as extending the charm of that agent even beyond what we could ever have dreamed of its influence.
The first tragedy in the new theatre involved the fate of a decent woman, the widow of a porter named Ostler, who lived in the Grassmarket, and who had died shortly before. She gained her livelihood in an industrious, if not laborious way, mainly by washing and dressing, eking it out by any desultory work she could find, sometimes in the country during harvest. She had been accustomed to visit Broggan’s house in her vocation of washerwoman, and was well known to the neighbours, both from her long residence among them, and her frequent visits to the mangle at that time kept by a woman of the name of Mrs Law. One day this woman was seen to enter Broggan’s house at a time when Burke was known to be there, and some of the neighbours noticed, though without paying any particular attention to the circumstance, that some time after she entered, there came from the apartment sounds of jollity, as if the inmates had got merry under the influence of drink. Burke himself exerted his musical powers, and Mrs Ostler, not to be behind, favoured the happy party with her favourite song—“Home, sweet home,” which she sung in a wavering treble, not without sweetness. The symposium was no further noticed, nor was it exactly known who formed the party, but that Broggan’s wife was in the house at the time, may be inferred from the fact, afterwards ascertained, that about that period she lay in of a child. From that hour Mrs Ostler was never seen. She was despatched some time after the singing of “Home, sweet home,” and carried to Surgeon’s Square the same evening. The ancients were fond of the subject of the shortness, the brittleness, and the vanity of human life. Homer has his soap-bubble, Plutarch his point of time, Plato his peregrination, and so forth, and the moderns imitate them. Yet, at the worst, man has generally made some little sign even at the death of a beggar. It was reserved for Portsburgh to be the place where life disappeared like a snuffed-out candle in mid-day—the hand unseen, the light scarcely missed—even the material which supplied it gone as if by magic. If Mrs Ostler was soon missed, the speculation died away under the ordinary supposition, that she had fallen into some water; and there was an end.
The first murder after the change of residence was a mere prelude to an act—heu! heu! vita vehementer effera et barbara!—altogether Cyclopic. There lived in Edinburgh in that year—1828—an imbecile of the name of James Wilson, or, as he was called, “Daft Jamie.” His residence was in Stevenson’s Close, Canongate; but, with the exception of the night-time, he was seldom at home, being, like most of his class, a great wanderer; nor were his wanderings limited to the Old Town—he was seen everywhere, and seemed never to be weary. Though evidently deficient in intellect, he was strong and healthy in the body, going in all weathers bareheaded and barefooted, without injury to his constitution, and without a murmur of discontent. Never was there a more happy creature of the kind than Daft Jamie; for while, as we too well know, those thus afflicted were at that time, when they were less than now under the public care, often the objects of hatred, more often of sport and play to the young of the lower classes, Jamie was a universal favourite. It was not that the inhabitants of Edinburgh merely pitied him—they really liked him. Perfectly harmless and inoffensive, and not uncomely in his appearance, he possessed great kindliness of heart; and to all who had occasion to be on the streets of Edinburgh, whether early or late, he was familiar, always dressed much in the same way,—the good-humoured, winning smile never absent from his full round face,—always ready to salute by a peculiar manner of taking the front lock of his hair between his finger and thumb, nodding quickly, bowing and smiling. We can say, from experience, that there was no resisting Jamie’s smile and the twitch of the lock, and you felt this if you had a penny in your pocket, which was all the more readily given that he never seemed to wish for it. Nay, he sometimes rejected money, saying that he didn’t need it, for that he had “the feck o’ half-a-croon on him.” This bonhommie was perfectly genuine, not more the result of the universal favour with which he was regarded than of heartfelt kindliness, and a robust health independent of all weathers.
Another peculiarity consisted in the importance he attached to his brass snuff-box and spoon, which he always carried about with him, and used with great economy, and with so much of selection, that while many might be favoured with the smile and the bow, it was only a very select few, principally favourites among the young collegians, to whom he condescended to offer a spoonful of his rapee. Though undoubtedly imbecile, and incapable of any continuous mental effort, he possessed a small portion of intellect, never exhibiting any of the vagaries of his class. He kept up a correct knowledge of the days of the month and week,—a species of learning of which he was very proud,—and even went far beyond this in a certain facility he had in calculating the day on which any feast or commemoration would take place; so that to the students and boys he served as a kind of walking calendar. He had musical talents too, so well appreciated, that he was often called upon to entertain his juvenile acquaintances with a song, which he executed in tolerable style. In addition to all these recommendations, he was scrupulously clean in his person, changing his linen, it was said, three times a week; and his hands and feet, though always uncovered, appearing as having been carefully washed before he came out.
It was stated at the time that almost all the naturals then recollected on the streets of the city had met with violent or untimely deaths. There was Bobby Auld, who may yet be remembered as being a great crony of Jamie’s. Bobby was killed by the kick of an ass, and fell into the hands of Dr Monro. Some others were mentioned. Nothing was more curious than to witness a forgathering between these two. They talked about affairs in general with the greatest complacency, not hesitating to criticise each other’s knowledge or perspicacity—even venturing the word fool when the detected ignorance or error warranted the liberty. It is narrated that on one occasion Bobby and Jamie met accidentally in the neighbourhood of the Grassmarket. “It’s a cauld day, Bobby.” “Ay is’t, Jamie. Wudna we be the better o’ a dram? hae ye ony siller, man? I hae tippence.” “And I hae fourpence,” says Jamie. “Ou, man,” rejoins the other, “that’ll get a haill mutchkin.” And away they went to a neighbouring public-house, where the money having been first shewn as a necessary security, the whisky was demanded with great dignity, and placed before them But before either of them had tasted the liquor, “Lord, man,” said Bobby, “did ye see the twa dougs fechtin’ on the street? They’re no dune yet; I hear their growling and their biting.” “No,” replied Jamie, “I saw nae dougs fechtin’.” “It’s a grand sight, though,” continued the other natural. “It has lasted half-an-hour, an’s weel worth seeing. I wud advise ye to gang to the door and see it, for ye’ll maybe never see the like again, in this world at least.” Then Jamie proceeded unsuspiciously, for he had no guile or cunning about him, to see this wonderful dog-fight; but speedily returned with the information that he could see nothing of the kind. “They’ll just be dune, then,” coolly observed Bobby. “But what’s come o’ the whisky?” said Jamie, as he opened wide his eyes on the stoup standing empty. “Ou, man,” was the treacherous reply, “ye see I couldna wait.” Upon Jamie’s being questioned how he had revenged this foul play, his answer was in perfect character,—“Ou, what could ye say to puir Bobby? He’s daft, ye ken.”
Though much inferior to his crony in trickery—of which, indeed, he had none—Jamie was much his superior in intellect and knowledge. His father is said to have been a decent religious man, who took him regularly to a place of worship in the Old Town on the Sabbaths; and Jamie, perhaps from habit, continued as regularly to keep up the practice. On one occasion, when examined by a worthy elder of the congregation, it was said that Jamie not only shewed far more knowledge than could have been expected from him, but turned the tables upon his querist, putting considerably more than the old theological questions of the enfants terribles, which no one has been able to answer any more than our learned elder. And then, to crown all, there was the parting valediction, “If ye wud like ony mair information, Mr ——, ye ken brawly whaur to fin’ me.”
One morning in the month of September or early in October of the same year, Jamie was, as usual, wandering about in the Grassmarket, giving his bow and twitch of the lock to any superior person he met; for he well knew the differences of caste, considering himself far above the lowest, if not even up to the line which he drew between the giving and the withholding of the brass box and the spoon. Kindly affected towards his mother,—to whose love in return he was indebted for the clean way in which he was kept, and many attentions, for which, by a wise providence, the natural comes in, as if for compensation, to the exclusion of his brothers and sisters,—Jamie was looking for his parent. At this time he was observed by Mrs Hare,[9] who, going up as she had often done before, asked him who he was looking for. “My mither,” was the answer; “hae ye seen her ony gait?” “Ay,” said the woman, “she’s in my house.” And with this temptation she induced him to go with her. They were soon in the old den—Log’s lodgings—where Hare himself was crouching for prey. Behold Jamie introduced to the court with the old honour—the fatal wink! There left with one who would take special care that he would not escape, the woman, as a provider of another kind—for she catered for life as well as death—went to Mr Rymer’s shop to get some butter, and it chanced that Burke was at the time standing beside the counter. She then asked her friend, who, as we have said, was now in other lodgings, for a dram, which was accordingly handed to her by Mr Rymer, and when she was drinking it off, she stamped with her foot upon Burke’s, as if to tell him that he was wanted. He knew instantly the meaning of the sign, having previously seen her leading Jamie, to use his own words, as a dumb lamb to the slaughter. The moment she departed, he followed; and when he entered, he was accosted by Mrs Hare with the words, “You have come too late; the whisky is all done.” At this time, Jamie was sitting in the front room, with the cup (used for a glass) in his hand, smiling and talking, and every now and then looking round for the entry of his mother. Hare was alongside of him, and Burke took a seat opposite. It was proposed to send for another half-mutchkin, and this having been procured, they invited Jamie to the fatal back room with the window looking out on the dead wall.
On getting him into the apartment, they advised him to sit down on the front of the bed, to which he assented; and Hare’s wife, after getting some of the spirits, went out, and locked the door quietly, and put the key in through an opening below it, supposed to have been made for the purpose. Now was the time to tempt Jamie with the whisky; but to their utter disappointment, they found that he would drink no more than he had done, and that scarcely amounted to a glass. It was his mother he wanted, and for her he repeatedly called, in those accents of yearning which, though coming from a youth, had, in perfect consistency with his nature, all the pathos of infantine simplicity. Alas! there was no mother there. Even the woman, who might have understood the yearning,—for she was herself a mother,—had locked him in with demons. The two men were driven out of their reckoning by Jamie’s refusal to drink, and were necessitated to manœuvre; but in any view, they had a young and strong individual to deal with, and they knew, from prior experience, that unless aided by the effects of drink, they must lay their account with a desperate resistance. No effort was left untried to get Jamie to take more whisky, but still with the unsuccessful result. As yet kindly to him, he did not suspect them; and, at length, so far overcome even by the small quantity of spirits he had drunk, he lay down on the bed and fell asleep. But this state, which even in the most wicked has the appearance of innocence, was to be no guard against those to whom the old proverb so well applied,—“Somnus absit ab oculis.” Yes, they required to be awake, for they had work to do. They must kill a young, full-blooded youth, without the use of a lethal weapon, and without leaving a mark. They must wrestle to do this against the piteous appeals of innocence from one God-stricken, and who had never injured human being. They must do it with the ferocity of the striped lord of the jungle; they must do it without the help or the excuse of revenge; they must do it with the ingenuity of an artist.
Burke, who was up to the pitch of mammon’s inspiration, and all the more that he had been fretted by being so far foiled by an idiot, sat watching his opportunity. The two were silent, only occasionally looking at each other, and then at Jamie, as he lay still sleeping on the bed. At length Burke said, “Shall we do it now?” to which Hare replied, “He is too strong for you yet.” Burke accordingly waited a little, as probably misgivings crossed him that the conflict would be too furious to risk, and the noise might attract attention at that hour. Jamie got some more moments to live.
But this could not continue long; nor did it. Burke, become hot with impatience, suddenly threw himself upon the still sleeping simpleton, and, clutching him by the neck, attempted to strangle him. The onset roused the instinctive energies of the lad, who had sense enough to see his danger. The fear which in other circumstances would have made him run to avoid his enemies, seemed to pass into courage, and nerve him to sudden desperation. He clutched his assaulter with great force—his eye darted forth his fury—the mantling foam stood upon his lips like a lather—and throwing off the tiger with a bound, he sprang to the floor, stood erect, and awaited another onset. Nor did he wait long. Burke, in his turn, roused by opposition to the height of his wrath, again seized him, with the intention to throw him; but Jamie had the greater strength, and, besides, he fought for his life, so that he was again likely to become the master, when Burke cried out to Hare, who had hitherto kept back, as if afraid to enter into the struggle, to come forward and assist him, otherwise “I will stick a knife in you.” The threat had its effect, for Hare, rushing forward at the very moment when Jamie was mastering his enemy, tripped up his heels, and laid him on his back on the floor. Not a moment was now to be lost, as the continued thumping and knocking against the furniture and the screams of the lad might reach the Close, and they must do their work, as we have said, without a knife, (which would have quickly brought matters to a termination,) otherwise no price at Surgeon’s Square. The next moment saw Burke extended upon the body of the still struggling simpleton, while Hare, at his head, was engaged in the old process of holding the nose and mouth. Even after this, it was still a struggle of considerable duration. The men were sweating and breathing loud with their mere efforts to kill, and Burke, roused to fury, was often thrown off, only to spring again with greater ferocity. By and by, Jamie’s struggles got weaker and weaker—relapses into stillness—wild upraisings again—spasmodic jerks of effort—those indescribable sounds which the doctors say attend cynanche—all receding gradually to the last sign. Nor did they quit their grasp till they were pretty sure they had effected their purpose. They hung over him—listened for breathings—made surety surer. Daft Jamie is dead!
This was beyond all question the most imprudent of all the acts of these terrible beings. Without supposing them mad, it is hardly possible to imagine that they could place before young men of the College, who were in the daily habit of conversing with their victim, a body which could scarcely fail to be recognised upon the instant. Yet on that very day it was put into a chest and conveyed to the rooms, where, after examination, it brought the price of £10. Burke, when he rose up after being satisfied that Jamie was dead, rifled his pockets, and took out the small box and the spoon, giving the spoon to Hare, and keeping the box to himself. The clothes he gave to his brothers children, who, when the bundle was unbound, fell to fighting about them; connected with which part of an atrocity which the paper will scarcely bear the impression of, is the curious fact that a baker some time after recognised upon one of Constantine Burke’s sons a pair of trousers he had not long before given to Jamie. But here, again, though the mother of the lad, distracted by his sudden disappearance, ran about searching and inquiring everywhere for her poor boy, and though it was circulated that one of Dr Knox’s students had affirmed that he saw Jamie on the dissecting-table, no suspicion of the manner in which he had been disposed of was ever hinted, till the final discovery, which arose out of another case. Yet it is certain that even before this event there had begun to move an under-current of uneasiness in the public mind, and even some dark hints appeared in the public prints; not that any of these pointed to anything of a defined character, but that they gradually gave rise to a suspicion that there was some great secret to be unfolded—what, no one could tell, no one even surmise—which would startle the public ear, and lay open some terrible conspiracy. Theories flew about in various guises, all as dark as they were ridiculous. Some said that there existed somewhere in the city a secret association of men, bound together by a fearful oath to avenge fancied wrongs by a crusade against society, and that the members prowled about at night for their victims, which they immolated amidst oaths and curses. Others, still more wild, whispered that the missing individuals were slaughtered and eaten by a gang of famished wretches, who having once tasted human flesh, got keen upon the zest. Sawney Bean and Christie of the Cleik rose up again, and became what they had been in olden times, the bugbears of grown children. And, however ridiculous all these fancies might appear after the disclosure of the true secret, it cannot be denied that even sensible people, who looked sharply into human nature, and were not utterly sceptical of the old legends, might, without the charge of being fanciful, be led into thoughts which they would otherwise have been ashamed of. The fact that so many individuals, old and young, had disappeared within so short a time, without a trace being left, and in many cases with their clothes lying unclaimed, remained to be accounted for, and there was no experience to guide, and no theory of human nature to explain. After all, was it possible that any supposition could transcend, yea, come up to the reality?