Lost Sir Massingberd: A Romance of Real Life. v. 2/2

by James Payn

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE PROCESSION.

  At the time of which I write, a dweller in the midlands who wanted to goto town, did not drive down to the nearest railway station, to betransported from thence by the fiery dragon to his destination. Railwayshad been long heard of, and indeed there was one within twenty miles ofFairburn, which we should now call a tramway only, for engine it hadnone. Locomotives were the subject of debate in scientific circles, andof scorn among the rest of the community. A journey such as that mytutor and myself were about to undertake, is scarcely to be understoodby readers of the present generation. Not only did it consume an amountof time which would now suffice for six times the distance, but it wassurrounded by difficulties and dangers that have now no existencewhatever--"extinct Satans," as a writer calls them, who is now scarcelyheld to be "modern," but who at that time had never written a line. Thecoach for which Mr. Long had thought it advisable not to wait, had metin its time with a thousand-and-one strange casualties, and the guardwas a very Scheherazade at relating them. The "Highflyer" had come todreadful grief in racing with an empty stomach, but many "outsides,"against its rival, the "Rapid," which traversed a portion of the sameroad. It had often to open both its doors, to let the water through, incrossing Crittenden Ford, by neglect of which precaution upon oneoccasion, four "insides" had the misfortune to be suffocated. It hadbeen dug out of snow-drifts a hundred times, and now and then it had_not_ been dug out, and the passengers had been frost-bitten. In winterit was usual enough for them to spend a day or two perforce at somecountry inn, because the roads were "not open." The "Highflyer" had oncebeen attacked by a tiger (out of a travelling caravan), which killed theoff-leader; but this was an exceptional adventure. It was attacked byhighwaymen at least once a year, but in this respect was consideredrather a fortunate coach. Only a few weeks previously, there had beenfound by the reapers, in one of Farmer Arabel's wheat-fields, mail-bagswith letters containing many thousand pounds in drafts and bills, whichhad been taken by gentlemen of the road from the custody of the guard ofthe "Highflyer" in the early summer. These persons had gone into thestanding wheat to divide their booty, and left there what was to themunavailable property, or too difficult to negotiate.

  In the two trips I had already taken to the metropolis, I had gone bythis curious conveyance, of which all Fairburn had something to say; butI was now to journey even more gloriously still: so thoroughly had Mr.Long got to be convinced that some immediate danger was imminent toMarmaduke at the hands of his uncle, that he could not bear the leastunnecessary delay in giving him warning. We posted with four horses, andgenerally at full gallop. I agree with the Great Lexicographer inthinking that sensation very pleasurable indeed. The express-train, itis true, goes five times as fast, but you do not feel that there is anycredit due to the steam-horse for that; you take it as a matter ofcourse, and would do so, no matter what exertions it should make foryou, short of bursting. But when you heard the ring of the sixteen hoofsupon the iron road, and the sharp crack of the whips in the frosty air,or leaned out of the window for a moment; and beheld the good steedssmoking in your behalf, you said to yourself, or to your companion, ifyou had one: "This is wonderful fine travelling." Perhaps you contrastedsuch great speed with that attained by the Exeter flying-coaches in yourancestors' time, and smiled with contemptuous pity at their five milesan hour, stoppages excluded.

  The trees and hedges flew by you then, and gave an idea of the velocity,such as the telegraph-posts, seen vanishing thin out of the window of arailway-carriage, fail to convey; while, when you stopped for newcattle, the hurry and bustle attendant on the order, "Horses on," helpedto strengthen the belief in your own fast travelling. Still, after thefirst few hours, even the enjoyments of a post-chaise-and-four begin topall; and long before we had approached our destination, I was cramped,and chilled, and tired enough. It was growing dark, too, so that therewas little to be seen without, and we had passed those dangerous partsof the road where expectations of possible highwaymen had afforded mesome excitement. I was dozing dreamily, unconscious that the light ofLondon was flaring like a dusky dawn in front of us, and that we hadeven already entered its then limits upon the north-east, when I wasroughly roused by the sudden stoppage of the carriage, accompanied bywild cries, and a glare of lurid flame. Mr. Long had put down thewindow, and was leaning out of it. There was a dense fog, and gas hadnot yet been established in that part of London; but a vast assemblageof people were streaming slowly past us, and many of them had torches intheir hands. They took no notice of us whatever, but yelled and shouted,and every now and then cast glances behind them at some approachingspectacle, which seemed to be about to overtake us. Presently, we beheldthis ourselves. First came a great number of constables, marching twentyabreast, and clearing all before them with large staves; then a body ofthe mounted patrol--a corps then but newly formed, and which, althoughnow well-nigh extinct, was destined in its time to do good service; thenmore constables; then a vast quantity of horsemen, armed and unarmed,and lastly this:--Extended on an inclined platform, built to aconsiderable height upon an open cart, was the body of a dead man; itwas attired in blue trousers, and with a white and blue stripedwaistcoat, but without a coat. On the left side of him was a hugemallet, and on the right a ripping chisel.

  "Great Heaven! what is this?" inquired Mr. Long of one of the mountedconstables.

  "Oh, it's him, sir, sure enough; we've got him at last," returned theofficer.

  "Him? Who?" cried I, half stupefied with fatigue and horror. "Have theyfound Sir Massingberd?"

  No, it was not Sir Massingberd. The face which was now being slowlycarried past us was wicked and stern enough, but it was not _his_ face.The skin was black, the eyes were projecting; it was plain that the poorwretch had been strangled. The excitement of those who caught sight ofit was hideous to witness; they cursed and hissed in hate and fury, andbattled to get near the cart, that they might spit upon the corpsewhich it contained. The force of the advancing crowd was so tremendousthat we were compelled to move for some distance side by side with thisappalling sight, and presently immediately behind it; there we seemed tofall in as a part of the procession, and were no doubt considered by themajority of persons to officially belong to it. We were borne southwardsquite out of our proper direction, and were unable to prevent it, for itwas as much as the postillions could do to sit their horses, and avoidbeing shouldered out of their saddles. Our progress was of course at afoot's-pace only, and twice the procession halted, once opposite adraper's, and once opposite a public-house, when the yells and hootingof the crowd were terrible to hear. Not only were these two housesclosely shuttered up (as they well might be), but the shop-frontseverywhere were closed, and the windows and the tops of the housescrowded with spectators. By this time, we had got to know in whatdreadful proceedings we were thus taking an involuntary part. The bodyin the cart was that of the murderer Williams, who had committed suicidetwo days before, to escape, it was thought, not so much the scaffold, asthe execrations of his fellow-creatures. All London was filled with hateof him, as before his capture it had been filled with fear; and thegovernment had caused this public exhibition of his corpse, to convincethe minds of the public that the wholesale assassin was really no longeralive. The houses at which we had halted were those which had once beeninhabited by his unhappy victims, the Marrs and the Williamsons.Subsequently, the corpse was conveyed to St. George's turn-pike, andthere interred with a stake thrust through the middle of it; but beforethat frightful ceremony took place, the postillions had managed toextricate us, and we had driven westward to our destination. Still, Ifor my part had seen enough, and more than enough, to make that entry ofours into London a thing impossible to forget; and I think it rendered,by association, the mystery concerning which we had come up to HarleyStreet, more menacing and sombre than before.