THE
CONFESSION OF ALBERT W. HICKS,
PIRATE AND MURDERER.
OFFICE U. S. MARSHAL, Southern District of New York.
I hereby certify that the within Confession of ALBERT W. HICKS was made by him to me, and that it is the only confession made by him.
LORENZO DE ANGELIS, Deputy U. S. Marshal.
July 9, 1860.
After his sentence, Hicks seemed to lose that firmness which he had hitherto manifested. His reckless indifference left him, and in place of the stolid look which had marked his face from the time of his arrest, an appearance of deep anxiety gave token that he had abandoned the hope which had supported him, and that dread of his approaching fate, if not remorse for his crimes, had taken possession of him.
He seemed to dread being left alone, and often besought his keeper and the warden of the prison to keep him company in his cell. He was frequently found in tears, and on being questioned as to the cause of his grief, expressed a deep anxiety in regard to the future of his wife and child, about fifteen months old.
He was often begged to make a free confession of his crimes, and though at first he stoutly denied having anything to confess, he at last sent for Mr. De Angelis, and offered not only to confess the crime of which he stood convicted, but also to give a history of his whole life in detail, from his childhood up to the time of his arrest, on condition that the confession should not be published until the day of his execution, and that all the proceeds arising from its sale should be given to his wife.
This was agreed to by Mr. De Angelis, and accordingly, on the 13th of June, that gentleman, accompanied by an amanuensis, visited Hicks in his cell, and there listened to his confession, which is given below in the precise order in which he related it, though not in his own words, his command of language being exceedingly limited. The true spirit of the narrative is strictly preserved, however, and wild, monstrous, and terrible as the details are, there is no doubt of their truth.
After Mr. De Angelis and the amanuensis had taken seats, Hicks being seated upon his iron bedstead, proceeded as follows:
I can stand it no longer. I had hoped that I should carry the secrets of my life with me to my grave. I never thought that I should sit here in my cell crying like a baby, over the remembrance of the past, or that my heart would flinch at meeting any fate in store for me.
I fancied I bore a charmed life, and that having heretofore escaped so many dangers, I should find some loop-hole through which to creep now, or that something would turn up in my favor which would lead to my escape from the mesh into which I had fallen.
I have long felt as though I were the Devil’s own, and that though he had served me so many years, I must at last be his; yet I imagined he would not claim me yet, but allow me to do his work for a time longer. He has stood by me all my life, on ship and on shore, amid the howling storms of the ocean, where every moment the waves threatened to ingulf me; he has snatched me from their deadly embrace on the battle-field, in many a hand-to-hand fight; he has seemed to stand by my side protecting me from danger; and when I have been in the hands of my enemies, and escape has appeared impossible, he has, until now, invariably opened the way for my release. But at last he has deserted me; in vain I call upon him, he will not answer me; and I dare not call on God, for what pity should he show a guilty wretch like me?
For years conscience has slumbered; I have not heard her voice at all. No deed of desperation has seemed to me too desperate; no crime has seemed too dark or bloody. My soul seemed dead to all remorse or dread, and fear has been a feeling which, until now, I have never known.
But in this lonely cell, away from all the excitements which have always been the support of my restless nature—within these solemn walls, where I see none but those who guard me, or those come to look at me, as upon some wild beast; here, where no sounds fall upon my ear but the footsteps of the keeper, as he paces with measured tread the long corridor outside, or harsh, discordant clank of heavy doors slamming, or the grating of bolts and the creaking of hinges—conscience, so long dead, has at last awakened, and now stings me with anguish, and fills my soul with dread and horror.
I look back upon my way of life, and see the path marked with blood and crime, and in the still midnight, if I sleep, I act the dreadful scenes anew. Again I imbrue my hand in the red blood of my victims; again I rob the unsuspecting traveller, or violate the most sacred sanctities of life, to satisfy my greed of gold, or headstrong, unchecked passions; and if I wake, I seem to see my victims glaring at me through the gloom of my cell, or hear them shriek aloud for vengeance on my guilty head.
The past is one great horror! The future one dread fear. A heavy, insupportable weight is on my heart, and I feel as if, did I not reveal its fearful secrets, I should go mad.
But I have resisted the impulse until now, and would die and tell no tales, but that the history of my life may serve as a warning to mankind, and may benefit my wife, perhaps, though it will make her bow her head in deep shame over the crimes of him who is the father of her child.
I feel that after I have unburdened myself of the secrets of my life, I can die easier, and meet my fate like a man; and though I may go to the gallows without hope, without repentance, without any evidence of aught but misery hereafter, the thought that the sale of this, my Confession, will perhaps keep the mother of my child from dependence on such cold charity as the world would show a murderer’s wife, will make me stronger to bear the inevitable doom which is now awaiting me.
For my own sake I would not have done this; but for the sake of her whose fate I have linked in life to mine, and for the sake of the poor little child, who I trust will never know who was its father, I give to the world the wretched