“Now what pains had the law taken to make me good—even supposing, that I was really bad at the time of my condemnation? The law locked me up for two years, half-starved me, and yet exacted from me as much labour as a strong, healthy, man could have performed: then the law turned me out into the wide world, so weak, reduced, and feeble, that even the last resource of the most wretched—namely, enlisting in a regiment bound for India—was closed against me!
“Well—that night I wandered into the country and slept under a hedge. On the following morning I was compelled to satisfy the ravenous cravings of my hunger with Swedish turnips plucked from the fields. This food lay so cold upon my stomach that I felt ready to drop with illness, misery, and fatigue. And yet, in this Christian land, even that morsel, against which my heart literally heaved, was begrudged me. I was not permitted to satisfy my hunger with the food of beasts. A constable came up and took me into custody for robbing the turnip field. I was conducted before a neighbouring justice of the peace. He asked me what I meant by stealing the turnips? I told him that I had fasted for twenty-four hours, and was hungry. ‘Nonsense, hungry!’ he exclaimed; ‘I’d give five pounds to know what hunger is! you kind of fellows eat turnips by way of luxury, you do—and not because you’re hungry.’ I assured him that I spoke the truth.—‘Well, why don’t you go to work?’ he demanded.—‘So I will, sir, with pleasure, if you will give me employment.’ I replied.—‘Me give you employment,’ he shouted; ‘I wouldn’t have such a fellow about me, if he’d work for nothing. Where did you sleep last night?’—‘Under a hedge, sir,’ was my answer.—‘Ah! I thought so,’ he exclaimed: ‘a rogue and vagabond evidently.’ And this excellent specimen of the ‘Great unpaid’ committed me forthwith to the treadmill for one month as a rogue and vagabond.
“The treadmill is a horrible punishment: it is too bad even for those that are really rogues and vagabonds. The weak and the strong take the same turn, without any distinction; and I have seen men fall down fainting upon the platform, with the risk of having their legs or arms smashed by the wheel, through sheer exhaustion. Then the miserable fare that one receives in prison renders him more fit for an hospital than for the violent labour of the treadmill.
“I had been two years at the hulks, and was not hardened: I had been a smuggler and a body-snatcher, and was not hardened:—but this one month’s imprisonment and spell at the treadmill did harden me—and hardened me completely! I could not see any advantage in being good. I could not find out any inducement to be honest. As for a desire to lead an honourable life, that was absurd. I now laughed the idea to scorn; and I swore within myself that whenever I did commence a course of crime, I would be an unsparing demon at my work. Oh! how I then detested the very name of virtue. ‘The rich look upon the poor as degraded reptiles that are born in infamy and that cannot possibly possess a good instinct,’ I reasoned within myself. ‘Let a rich man accuse a poor man before a justice, a jury, or a judge, and see how quick the poor wretch is condemned! The aristocracy hold the lower classes in horror and abhorrence. The legislature thinks that if it does not make the most grinding laws to keep down the poor, the poor will rise up and commit the most unheard-of atrocities. In fact the rich are prepared to believe any infamy which is imputed to the poor.’ It was thus that I reasoned; and I looked forward to the day of my release with a burning—maddening—drunken joy!
“That day came. I was turned adrift, as before, without a shilling and without a crust. That alone was as bad as branding the words rogue and vagabond upon my forehead. How could I remain honest, even if I had any longer been inclined to do so, when I could not get work and had no money—no bread—no lodging? The legislature does not think of all this. It fancies that all its duty consists in punishing men for crimes, and never dreams of adopting measures to prevent them from committing crimes at all. But I now no more thought of honesty: I went out of prison a confirmed ruffian. I had no money—no conscience—no fear—no hope—no love—no friendship—no sympathy—no kindly feeling of any sort. My soul had turned to the blackness of hell!
“The very first thing I did was to cut myself a good tough ash stick with a heavy knob at one end. The next thing I did was to break into the house of the very justice who had sentenced me to the treadmill for eating a raw turnip; and I feasted jovially upon the cold fowl and ham which I found in his larder. I also drank success to my new career in a bumper of his fine old wine. This compliment was due to him: he had made me what I was!
“I carried off a small quantity of plate—all that I could find, you may be sure—and took my departure from the house of the justice. As I was hurrying away from this scene of my first exploit, I passed by a fine large barn, also belonging to my friend the magistrate. I did not hesitate a moment what to do. I owed him a recompense for my month at the treadmill; and I thought I might as well add Incendiary to my other titles of Rogue and Vagabond. Besides, I longed for mischief—the world had persecuted me quite long enough, the hour of retaliation had arrived. I fired the barn and scampered away as hard as I could. I halted at a distance of about half a mile, and turned to look. A bright column of flame was shooting up to heaven! Oh! how happy did I feel at that moment. Happy! this is not the word! I was mad—intoxicated—delirious with joy. I literally danced as I saw the barn burning. I was avenged on the man who would not allow me to eat a cold turnip to save me from starving:—that one cold turnip cost him dear! The fire spread, and communicated with his dwelling-house; and there was no adequate supply of water. The barn—the stacks—the out-houses—the mansion were all destroyed. But that was not all. The only daughter of the justice—a lovely girl of nineteen—was burnt to death. I read the entire account in the newspapers a few days afterwards!
“And the upper classes wonder that there are so many incendiary fires: my only surprise is, that there are so few! Ah! the Lucifer-match is a fearful weapon in the hands of the man whom the laws, the aristocracy, and the present state of society have ground down to the very dust. I felt all my power—I knew all my strength—I was aware of all my importance as a man, when I read of the awful extent of misery and desolation which I had thus caused. Oh! I was signally avenged!
“I now bethought me of punishing the baronet in the same manner. He had been the means of sending me for two years to the hulks at Woolwich. Pleased with this idea, I jogged merrily on towards Walmer. It was late at night when I reached home. I found my mother watching by my father’s deathbed, and arrived just in time to behold him breathe his last. My mother spoke to me about decent interment for him. I laughed in her face. Had he ever allowed any one to sleep quietly in his grave? No. How could he then hope for repose in the tomb? My mother remonstrated: I threatened to dash out her brains with my stout ash stick; and on the following night I sold my father’s body to the surgeon who had anatomised poor Kate Price! This was another vengeance on my part.
“Not many hours elapsed before I set fire to the largest barn upon the baronet’s estate. I waited in the neighbourhood and glutted myself with a view of the conflagration. The damage was immense. The next day I composed a song upon the subject, which I have never since forgotten. You may laugh at the idea of me becoming a poet; but you know well enough that I received some trifle of education—that I was not a fool by nature—and that in early life I was fond of reading. The lines were these:—
“THE INCENDIARY’S SONG.
“THE Lucifer-match! the Lucifer-match!
’Tis the weapon for us to wield.
How bonnily burns up rick and thatch,
And the crop just housed from the field!
The proud may oppress and the rich distress,
And drive us from their door;—
But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
From the hand of the desperate poor!
“The purse proud squire and the tyrant peer
May keep their Game Laws still;
And the very glance of the overseer
May continue to freeze and kill.
The wealthy and great, and the chiefs of the state,
May tyrannise more and more;—
But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
From the hand of the desperate poor!
“‘Oh! give us bread?’ is the piteous wail
That is murmured far and wide;
And echo takes up and repeats the tale—
But the rich man turns aside.
The Justice of Peace may send his Police
To scour the country o’er;
But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
From the hand of the desperate poor!
“Then, hurrah! hurrah! for the Lucifer-match;
’Tis the weapon of despair.—
How bonnily blaze up barn and thatch—
The poor man’s revenge is there!
For the worm will turn on the feet that spurn—
And surely a man is more?—
Oh! none can e’er snatch the Lucifer match
From the hand of the desperate poor!
“The baronet suspected that I was the cause of the fire, as I had just returned to the neighbourhood; and he had me arrested and taken before a justice; but there was not a shadow of proof against me, nor a pretence to keep me in custody. I was accordingly discharged, with an admonition ‘to take care of myself’—which was as much as to say, ‘If I can find an opportunity of sending you to prison, I will.’
“Walmer and its neighbourhood grew loathsome to me. The image of Kate Price constantly haunted me; and I was moreover shunned by every one who knew that I had been at the hulks. I accordingly sold off all the fishing tackle, and other traps, and came up to London with the old Mummy.
“I need say no more.”
“And there’s enough in your history to set a man a-thinking,” exclaimed the waiter of the boozing-ken; “there is indeed.”
“Ah! I b’lieve you, there is,” observed the Cracksman, draining the pot which had contained the egg-flip.
The clock struck mid-day when Holford entered the parlour of the boozing-ken.
CHAPTER LXIII.
THE PLOT.
“WELL, young blade,” cried the Cracksman, “you haven’t kept us waiting at all, I suppose?”
“And do you fancy that I could wake myself up again in a minute when I had once laid down?” demanded the lad, sulkily.
“Oh! bother to the laying down, Harry,” said the Cracksman. “Don’t you think me and Tony wants sleep as well as a strong hearty young feller like you? and we haven’t put buff in downy[139] since the night afore last.”
“Well, never mind chaffing about that,” cried the Resurrection Man impatiently: then, having dismissed the waiter, he continued, “Now, about this business at the palace? We must have no delay; and when we make appointments in future, they must be better kept. But I won’t speak of this one now, because there’s some allowance to be made for you, as you were up the best part of the night, and you ain’t accustomed to it as we are. But to the point. How is this affair to be managed?”
“I don’t see how it is to be managed at all,” answered Holford, firmly.
“The devil you don’t,” cried the Cracksman. “Then what was you doing all that time in the palace?”
“Running a thousand risks of being found out every minute——”
“So we all do at times.”
“And sneaking about at night-time to find food.”
“I think you managed to discover the right place for the grist,” said the Resurrection Man, his cadaverous countenance wearing an ironical smile; “for you must recollect that I found you in the pantry.”
“And the pantry’s a good neighbourhood: it can’t be far from where the plate’s kept,” observed the Cracksman.
“The plate is kept where no one can get at it,” said Holford.
“How do you know that, youngster?”
“I overheard the servants count it, lock it up in a chest, and take it up to the apartments of—of—the Lord Steward, I think they call him.”
“The deuce!” ejaculated the Cracksman, in a tone of deep disappointment.
“Now I tell you what it is, young fellow,” said the Resurrection Man; “I think that for some reason or another you’re deceiving us.”
“You think so?” cried the lad. “And why should you fancy that I am deceiving you?”
“Because your manners tell me so.”
“In that case,” said Holford, rising from his seat, “it is not of any use for us to talk more upon the subject.”
“By G—d, it is of use, though!” exclaimed the Cracksman. “You shall tell us the truth by fair means or foul;” and he produced from his pocket a clasp-knife, the murderous blade of which flew open by means of a spring which was pressed at the back.
Holford turned pale, and resumed his seat.
“Now, you see that it is no use to humbug us,” said the Resurrection Man. “Tell us the whole truth, and you will of course get your reg’lars out of the swag. You told me that the Queen was going to Windsor in a day or two; and that was as much as to say that the affair would come off then.”
“I told you the Queen was going to Windsor—and I tell you so again,” replied Holford. “But I can’t help it if they lock up the plate: and I don’t know what else there is for you to carry off.”
The Resurrection Man and the Cracksman exchanged glances of mingled rage and disappointment. They did not precisely believe what the lad told them, and yet they could not see any motive which he was likely to have for misleading them—unless it were to retain all the profits of his discoveries in the palace for his own sole behoof.
“Now, Holford, my good fellow,” said the Cracksman, shutting up his clasp-knife, and returning it to his pocket, “if you fancy that you are able to go through this business alone, and without any help, you are deucedly mistaken.”
“I imagine no such thing,” returned Holford; “and to prove to you that I am convinced there is nothing to be got by the affair, in any shape or way, do you and Tidkins attempt it alone together. He found his way to the pantry as well as I did, and can tell you what he saw there.”
“That’s true,” said the Resurrection Man, apparently struck by this observation. “So I suppose we must give the thing up as a bad job?”
“I suppose we must,” added the Cracksman, grinding his teeth. “But, by G—d, if I thought this younker was humbugging us, I’d plant three inches of cold steel in him, come what would.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” said Holford, not without a shudder. “Another time, get some person to act for you whose word you will believe. And now,” he continued, turning to the Resurrection Man, “please to recollect the terms we agreed upon—a third of all we could get if successful, or five pounds for me in case of failure.”
“Well, I shall keep my word,” returned the Resurrection Man.
“Blow me if I would, though,” exclaimed the Cracksman, fiercely.
“Yes—fair play’s a jewel,” said the Resurrection Man, darting a significant glance at his companion; then, feeling in his pocket, he added, “Holford is entitled to his five pounds, and he shall have them; but, curse me! if I have enough in my pocket to pay him. I tell you what it is, my lad,” he continued, turning towards the young man, “you must meet me somewhere this evening, and I’ll give you the money.”
“That will do,” cried Holford. “Where shall I meet you?”
“Where?” repeated the Resurrection Man, affecting to muse upon the question: “Oh! I will tell you. You know the Dark-House in Brick Lane, Spitalfields?”
“I have heard of it, but was never there.”
“Well—mee
t me there to-night at nine o’clock, Harry,” said the Resurrection Man, in as kind a tone as he could assume, “and I’ll tip you the five couters.”
“At nine punctually,” returned Holford. “I would not press you, but I have lost my place in consequence of being absent all this time without being able to give any account of myself; and so I am regularly hard up. I’m going to look after a situation up somewhere beyond Camden Town this afternoon, that I heard of by accident: but I am afraid I shall not get it, as I can give no reference for character;—and even if I could, it would be to the public-house where I was pot-boy, and the place I’m going to try for is to clean boots and knives, and make myself generally useful in a gentleman’s house. So I am afraid that I am not likely to get the situation.”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 66
