of Brodie’s father in his pocket in order to disguise himself.” Little did that decent old gentleman dream to what base uses his respectable wig would one day be assigned by his cynical and degenerate offspring. The Deacon also furnished Smith with a coil of rope to be knotted into a ladder, so that if taken by surprise they could lock the outer door of the office and make good their escape by the back windows into the garden behind. Having decided upon their plan of campaign, the meeting adjourned till the following afternoon.
Wednesday, the 5th of March, 1788, was a busy day for the Deacon. Between two and three o’clock he was back at Smith’s, attired in “the white-coloured clothes he usually wore,” with various requisites for the night’s adventure—pick-locks, false keys, an ivory whistle, “a strong chisel with a brass virral,” and a spur, which was to be left on the scene of the robbery, “to make it believed it had been done by some person on horseback, in order that it might appear, when found, to have dropped from the foot by its being torn by accident at the buckle.”
By three o’clock he was presiding in his own dining-room, with the panel painting and the great arched window, at a dinner-party consisting of his aunt, his two sisters, Matthew Sheriff, his brother-in-law, and “a stranger gentleman” whose identity was not disclosed. “We drank together,” says Mr. Sheriff, “from dinner to tea, which I think was brought in about six o’clock, and then the stranger gentleman went away.” Probably he thought discretion the better part of valour. The brothers-in-law, however, continued the sederunt till shortly before eight o’clock, when Sheriff retired to his residence in Bunker’s Hill—the name by which St. James’ Square was then known. The moment his guest had gone the Deacon, hastily attiring himself in an old-fashioned black suit, a cocked hat, and a light-coloured great-coat, put his pistols and dark lantern in his pocket, and hurried off to the business of the evening.
It had been arranged that the gang should assemble at Smith’s house at seven o’clock, since which hour the others had been impatiently awaiting their leader’s arrival. The Deacon was in a merry mood; his spirits were high as his hopes, and the potations of the afternoon had doubtless contributed to their elation. He burst in upon his anxious friends with a pistol in his hand, singing a stave from his favourite “Beggar’s Opera”—
Let us take the road;
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!
The hour of attack approaches;
To your arms, brave boys, and load.
See the ball I hold;
Let the chemists toil like asses
Our fire their fire surpasses,
And turns our lead to gold.
It was a raw and wintry evening of a type familiar to the Edinburgh spring—that “meteorological purgatory” of Stevenson; there had been a considerable fall of snow, followed by an intense frost, and few people were out of doors. Smith, Brown, and Ainslie were sitting in an upper room beguiling the time with a light refection of herrings and chicken, washed down by draughts of gin and “black cork,” i.e., Bell’s beer. Ainslie and Brown had, whenever it was sufficiently dark, brought the coulter of the plough and the iron wedges from their hiding-place in Salisbury Crags. No time was to be lost, and so soon as the Deacon arrived the final arrangements were quickly made. Three brace of pistols—one of which had been obligingly lent by Michael Henderson—were loaded by Smith with powder and ball, each member of the party, excepting Ainslie, being armed with a pair, “as they were determined not to be taken, whatever should be the consequence.” Three crape masks were also prepared for the use of Smith, Ainslie, and Brown. To Smith and Brown was appointed the task of forcing the doors and rifling the premises; the Deacon was to be stationed in the hall behind the outer door to prevent a surprise; while it was Ainslie’s duty to keep watch within the “palisadoes” outside the office, where, concealed by the parapet wall, he could command a view of the court and entry. Ainslie was provided with a whistle of ivory, purchased by Brodie the night before, with which, if the watchman appeared, he was to give one whistle, so that they might be prepared to secure him; and, if more than one man or any appearance of danger was perceived, he was to give three whistles, and then make the best of his way to the gardens behind, in order to assist the others in escaping by the back windows. Brodie, on hearing the signal, was, in turn, to give the alarm to Brown and Smith within the building.
In pursuance of this arrangement, Ainslie left first for the scene of action in Chessel’s Court, carrying with him the coulter, and, having taken up his position within the “palisadoes,” saw the porter come out with a light and lock the outer door behind him. Shortly thereafter Smith arrived. On hearing that the coast was clear, he lost no time in opening the front door with his false key and went into the office. He was followed five minutes later by Deacon Brodie, who, learning that Smith was within, but that Brown had not yet put in an appearance, went back up the court to look for him. They met in the entry and returned together, Brown explaining that, on his arrival, he had seen the old man who usually locked up the office leaving the court, and had dogged him home as a precautionary measure. Brown then inquired of Ainslie “whether or not he had ‘Great Samuel’?”—by which playful appellation he referred to the coulter—and Ainslie handed it to him through the railings. The Deacon and Brown then entered the office, leaving the outer door on the latch, behind which the former ensconced himself.
Smith had meanwhile opened the spring catch of the inner door with a pair of curling irons or “toupee tongs” which he had prepared for that purpose, and was awaiting Brown in the hall. By means of the coulter and an iron crow—“Little Samuel,” in Brown’s humorous phraseology—the two burglars at length succeeded in forcing the door of the cashier’s room, and by the light of the Deacon’s lantern they proceeded to prize open every desk and press which it contained. In the cashier’s desk they found and appropriated two five-pound notes, six guinea notes, and some odd silver; but after half-an-hour’s diligent searching their utmost efforts failed to discover the accumulated riches which they had confidently expected to secure.
In the hurry of the search, by a curious chance, a secret drawer, concealed beneath the cashier’s desk, containing no less than £600 sterling, escaped their notice.
Unwilling to accept their defeat, the two men were ransacking the desks afresh when they heard the front door open, but, supposing Brodie to be at his post, paid no attention. They were about to leave the room to prosecute their investigation of the premises when they heard some one come hastily down the stairs, “which made them stop or they must have met him.” Upon this Brown whispered, “Here must be treachery; get out your pistols and cock them!” They then heard the front door close with a crash. Perceiving that something was wrong, they now hastened into the hall, when, to their amazement, they found that the Deacon had vanished, and, on opening the door, that Ainslie also had disappeared. Cursing their ill luck and the defection of their companions, the puzzled burglars hurried through the court into the Canongate; and, quite at sea as to what had happened, made the best of their way to Smith’s house, leaving behind them in the office the heavy coulter and the spur which was designed to mislead the discoverers of the robbery.
We must now return to Ainslie, whom we left on the watch behind the railings. A servant girl, returning from a message to her master’s house in the court, saw him looking over the wall, and, “judging him to be a light or suspicious person”—in which diagnosis she was not far wrong—sought safety within doors. He had not been long at his post when the silence of the court was broken by the sound of a man running into it from the street, and Ainslie, peering through the railings, was alarmed to see him go in at the open door of the Excise Office. At the very moment of his entrance another man rushed from the doorway and fled at full speed up the court; and before Ainslie could recover from his surprise at this unlooked-for situation, a third man, as he supposed, came immediately out of the office and also disappeared towards the Canongate after the other.
The scanty oil lamps with which in those days the city was “illuminated” after nightfall served but as feeble foils to the surrounding darkness, and to Ainslie, in the dimly-lighted court, friend and foe were equally indistinguishable. These mysterious and unlooked-for doings proved too much for the watcher’s nerve; so, having hastily given the agreed-on signal