~ Letitia Munro ~

by

Kev Richardson

London, December 1786...

It all happened so quickly.

Guilt, disappointment, frustration, and despair--each emotion flashed through her mind in seconds.

It all should have been so easy. It was not as if they hadn’t rehearsed it over and over, not only in their minds but on their feet, real live movements to make sure everything would happen as planned, that there could be no slip-up, no chance of regrets over something having been overlooked in the planning.

Yet here we are in the watch-house, to be taken from here to be charged, then hustled off to prison until our trial comes up. And there’s no way out of being charged, them catching us red-handed.

“I did my best, Lettice, really I did.”

“Well, we got to face it, Ann. What went wrong doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s over! We mulled it, and we can’t go back to start it over so that it comes out right.”

“Whoever would have thought somebody could come in at that very moment, Lettice, that he looked up to see?”

“Well, we didn’t plan on that happening, Ann, which now we can only put down to us not thinking that it could happen. But it’s too late now to start blaming poor planning.”

It had been but a small bolt of cloth--merely ten yards, the court was to be later told. Titia had chosen it from all the others not because she liked the fabric but simply because it was closest to the door that she could slip it under her cloak and run into the street before old Rolison realised what was happening. Bolts of cloth attracted welcome shillings along Fenchurst Street, shillings that would feed them for a month.

“I did what you’d said, asked him to show me hooks and buttons so he’d have to turn his back. Then that customer comes in so he looks towards the door just as you’re tuckin’ it under your cape. It’s simply awful bad luck.”

“Seven years in the female prison, they’ll give us. No use pleading for a second chance, because they don’t give second chances. We’ve always known that, Ann. But with luck, at your age, you might get out of it easier.”

“Why?”

“They might reckon fourteen is too young to put you in prison. Or you might get a shorter sentence. If you’d thought quick enough you could have acted surprised, pretended you didn’t know me. But to scream and run was stupid.”

“I was frightened. But as you say, it’s too late now.”

Titia nodded. And there was the hint of a shoulder shrug.

She knew nothing could turn time backwards.

The cold, hard fact is that we were caught and must now face the consequence.

They were not close friends. They had teamed up out of desperation. Neither had regular work, so shoplifting at least found them pennies for food. And working together gave them greater opportunity to distract someone’s attention while the other made the grab. It wasn’t easy for single girls to find enough to eat in a world of steal or starve, especially in London. It had worked well enough before, but Titia at least realised that Lady Luck wouldn’t smile on them forever.

Six long, chilly, frightening months they waited in Southwark New Gaol, the frightening part being that there was no protection for girls in prison from men who didn’t hesitate to resort to rape if peaceful overtures didn’t work. But the girls had discovered on the streets that simple bravado was a great defence if they didn’t let the trembling show, that they illustrate only defiance. And defiance came more easily for Titia, being nineteen; she could demonstrate anger and determination more than Ann.

“You always stand behind me when it comes to this sort of argument,” she had instructed, and Ann was happy for the care, despite her natural inclination was to play the coquette, tease the boys along with fluttering eyelids and cheeky smiles.

But in prison it was no game. Self-protection was serious stuff.

And when the trial came, they were sentenced to hang.

“They won’t really hang us, will they, Lettice?”

Titia knew Ann didn’t mean the question, simply sought reassurance.

“No. They only hang killers. They say they will but they won’t.”

“Why say they will, then don’t?”

“Because we’re women. The law says women must hang for theft, so he has to say it. But they always change it. We must now wait for the reprieve.”

“What’s reprieve?”

“What they’ll do with us instead of hanging. Most likely it’ll be the female prison to make uniforms for the army.”

They waited in Newgate Prison, London’s oldest, offering nowt but degeneration of body and disparagement of soul. It had been a gatehouse in the city walls, and six hundred years of damp and decay now offered the added discomforts of mould and stench. There were no cells, simply chambers where prisoners fought for floor space to sit, sleep, or dawdle about to relieve boredom.

However, the girls safely survived it until the reprieve arrived. And it came with a nasty twist ...

“...the following Persons having been tried and convicted... Ann Forbes and Letitia Munro at Kingston upon Thames of stealing Goods value 20 shillings of James Rolison privately in his Shop, Frances Ann Hughes at the same Place of stealing Goods value 40 shillings ... humbly recommended to the King as fit Objects of the Royal Mercy on Condition of Transportation. His Majesty has thereupon been graciously pleased to extend His Royal Mercy to the said several Persons on Condition of their being Transported to the Eastern Coast of New South Wales or someone of the Islands adjacent for the Terms hereafter mentioned Viz: The said Ann Doyle, Ann Poor, Ann Forbes and Frances Ann Hughes for the Term of seven Years and the said Mary Oliver, Ann Harmsden, Ann Fortescue and Letitia Munro for the Term of fourteen Years respectively ...”

“Why fourteen for you, Lettice, instead o’ seven?”

“Don’t know do I?”

“I reckon you got fourteen because you was carryin’ it.”

But Titia’s pragmatism was ever evident in facing problems.

“Knowing why serves no purpose. We can’t change what’s done.”

They prattled on long enough that on the surface at least, tensions eased. Inside, however, Titia’s stomach rolled like a butter churn. But time, the great healer, slowed that down as she lay in her straw bed, lost in contemplation.

Fourteen years!

She could count up to a point, knew the value of sixpence, yet totting fourteen on to her nineteen years was beyond her. She would ask around later.

She had often worried over getting old, becoming helpless, sick, and hungry. No girl on London’s streets could improve her lot without luck chancing by, she had already learned. Many earned sixpence for cuddling up to swains, or even a shilling from a gent if ready to roll in bed. She knew too many who had become the more helpless once age stole their prettiness, to then drop the price and so attract the more uncouth. Debasement then aged them quicker, and soon they were giving themselves to whatever they could get for a penny, unless syphilis claimed them.

And with now the shock of transportation ahead, I feel much that sort of hopelessness now. But I’ll never let others see it.