Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty

by Charles Dickens

  He had left the House of Commons but that moment, and had come straight down into the Hall, bringing with him, as his custom was, intelligence of what had been said that night in reference to the Papists, and what petitions had been presented in their favour, and who had supported them, and when the bill was to be brought in, and when it would be advisable to present their own Great Protestant petition. All this he told the persons about him in a loud voice, and with great abundance of ungainly gesture. Those who were nearest him made comments to each other, and vented threats and murmurings; those who were outside the crowd cried, “Silence,” and Stand back,” or closed in upon the rest, endeavouring to make a forcible exchange of places: and so they came driving on in a very disorderly and irregular way, as it is the manner of a crowd to do.

  When they were very near to where the secretary, Sir John, and Mr Haredale stood, Lord George turned round and, making a few remarks of a sufliciently violent and incoherent kind, concluded with the usual sentiment, and called for three cheers to back it. While these were in the act of being given with great energy, he extricated himself from the press, and stepped up to Gashford's side. Both he and Sir John being well known to the populace, they fell back a little, and left the four standing together.

  “Mr Haredale, Lord George,” said Sir John Chester, seeing that the nobleman regarded him with an inquisitive look. “A Catholic gentleman unfortunately—most unhappily a Catholic—but an esteemed acquaintance of mine, and once of Mr Gashford's. My dear Haredale, this is Lord George Gordon.”

  “I should have known that, had I been ignorant of his lordship's person,” said Mr Haredale. “I hope there is but one gentleman in England who, addressing an ignorant and excited throng, would speak of a large body of his fellow-subjects in such injurious language as I heard this moment. For shame, my lord, for shame!”

  “I cannot talk to you, sir,” replied Lord George in a loud voice, and waving his hand in a disturbed and agitated manner; “we have nothing in common.”

  “We have much in common—many things—all that the Almighty gave us,” said Mr Haredale; “and common charity, not to say common sense and common decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If every one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they have them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling you that you disgrace your station.”

  “I don't hear you, sir,” he replied in the same manner as before; “I can't hear you. It is indifferent to me what you say. Don't retort, Gashford,” for the secretary had made a show of wishing to do so; “I can hold no communion with the worshippers of idols.”

  As he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and eyebrows, as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr Haredale, and smiled in admiration of the crowd and of their leader.

  “HE retort!” cried Haredale. “Look you here, my lord. Do you know this man?”

  Lord George replied by laying his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing secretary, and viewing him with a smile of confidence.

  “This man,” said Mr Haredale, eyeing him from top to toe, “who in his boyhood was a thief, and has been from that time to this, a servile, false, and truckling knave: this man, who has crawled and crept through life, wounding the hands he licked, and biting those he fawned upon: this sycophant, who never knew what honour, truth, or courage meant; who robbed his benefactor's daughter of her virtue, and married her to break her heart, and did it, with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who has whined at kitchen windows for the broken food, and begged for halfpence at our chapel doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender conscience cannot bear the altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced—Do you know this man?”

  “Oh, really—you are very, very hard upon our friend!” exclaimed Sir John.

  “Let Mr Haredale go on,” said Gashford, upon whose unwholesome face the perspiration had broken out during this speech, in blotches of wet; “I don't mind him, Sir John; it's quite as indifferent to me what he says, as it is to my lord. If he reviles my lord, as you have heard, Sir John, how can I hope to escape?”

  “Is it not enough, my lord,” Mr Haredale continued, “that I, as good a gentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at which the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not teach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but must we be denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to head your No-Popery cry! For shame. For shame!”

  The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester, as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements concerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a shrug or look, “Oh dear me! no. “ He now said, in the same loud key, and in the same strange manner as before:

  “I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and no desire to hear anything more. I beg you won't obtrude your conversation, or these personal attacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my country and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed from emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!”

  They had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the Hall-door, through which they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any leave-taking, turned away to the river stairs, which were close at hand, and hailed the only boatman who remained there.

  But the throng of people—the foremost of whom had heard every word that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him for his advocacy of the popular cause—came pouring out pell-mell, and, forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before them, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of the stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.

  They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct mutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said, “Down with the Papists!” and there was a pretty general cheer, but nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, “Stone him;” another, “Duck him;” another, in a stentorian voice, “No Popery!” This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.

  Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford, as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the head, and made him stagger like a drunken man.

  The blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He turned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion which made them all fall back, demanded:

  “Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.”

  Not a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping to the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.

  “Who did that?” he repeated. “Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it you? It was your deed, if not your hand—I know you.”

  He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.

  “My lord—Sir John,'—he cried, “draw, one of you—you are responsible for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen. “ With that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone, before them all.

  For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in Sir John's smooth face, such as no man ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand on Mr Haredale's arm, while with
the other he endeavoured to appease the crowd.

  “My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion— it's very natural, extremely natural—but you don't know friends from foes.”

  “I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well—” he retorted, almost mad with rage. “Sir John, Lord George—do you hear me? Are you cowards?”

  “Never mind, sir,” said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him towards the stairs with friendly violence, “never mind asking that. For God's sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are as many more in the next street, who'll be round dfrectly,'—indeed they began to pour in as he said the words—'you'd be giddy from that cut, in the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it you'll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a woman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste—as quick as you can.”

  Mr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend's assistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade the waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly as if he had just landed.

  There was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent this interference; but John looking particularly strong and cool, and wearing besides Lord George's livery, they thought better of it, and contented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the boat, which plashed harmlessly in the water; for she had by this time cleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly down the centre of the stream.

  From this amusement, they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and assaulting some stray constables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of Life Guards had been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition, and left the street quite clear.

  Chapter 44

  When the concourse separated, and, dividing into chance clusters, drew off in various directions, there still remained upon the scene of the late disturbance, one man. This man was Gashford, who, bruised by his late fall, and hurt in a much greater degree by the indignity he had undergone, and the exposure of which he had been the victim, limped up and down, breathing curses and threats of vengeance.

  It was not the secretary's nature to waste his wrath in words. While he vented the froth of his malevolence in those effusions, he kept a steady eye on two men, who, having disappeared with the rest when the alarm was spread, had since returned, and were now visible in the moonlight, at no great distance, as they walked to and fro, and talked together.

  He made no move towards them, but waited patiently on the dark side of the street, until they were tired of strolling backwards and forwards and walked away in company. Then he followed, but at some distance: keeping them in view, without appearing to have that object, or being seen by them.

  They went up Parliament Street, past Saint Martin's church, and away by Saint Giles's to Tottenham Court Road, at the back of which, upon the western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes. This was a retired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields. Great heaps of ashes; stagnant pools, overgrown with rank grass and duckweed; broken turnstiles; and the upright posts of palings long since carried off for firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged and rusty nails; were the leading features of the landscape: while here and there a donkey, or a ragged horse, tethered to a stake, and cropping off a wretched meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping with the scene, and would have suggested (if the houses had not done so, sufficiently, of themselves) how very poor the people were who lived in the crazy huts adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who carried money, or wore decent clothes, to walk that way alone, unless by daylight.

  Poverty has its whims and shows of taste, as wealth has. Some of these cabins were turreted, some had false windows painted on their rotten walls; one had a mimic clock, upon a crazy tower of four feet high, which screened the chimney; each in its little patch of ground had a rude seat or arbour. The population dealt in bones, in rags, in broken glass, in old wheels, in birds, and dogs. These, in their several ways of stowage, filled the gardens; and shedding a perfume, not of the most delicious nature, in the air, filled it besides with yelps, and screams, and howling.

  Into this retreat, the secretary followed the two men whom he had held in sight; and here he saw them safely lodged, in one of the meanest houses, which was but a room, and that of small dimensions. He waited without, until the sound of their voices, joined in a discordant song, assured him they were making merry; and then approaching the door, by means of a tottering plank which crossed the ditch in front, knocked at it with his hand.

  “Muster Gashfordl” said the man who opened it, taking his pipe from his mouth, in evident surprise. “Why, who'd have thought of this here honour! Walk in, Muster Gashford—walk in, sir.”

  Gashford required no second invitation, and entered with a gracious air. There was a fire in the rusty grate (for though the spring was pretty far advanced, the nights were cold), and on a stool beside it Hugh sat smoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the secretary, in front of the hearth; and took his seat again upon the stool he had left when he rose to give the visitor admission.

  “What's in the wind now, Muster Gashford?” he said, as he resumed his pipe, and looked at him askew. “Any orders from head-quarters? Are we going to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing,” rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to Hugh. “We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day—eh, Dennis?”

  “A very little one,” growled the hangman. “Not half enough for me.”

  “Nor me neither!” cried Hugh. “Give us something to do with life in it—with life in it, master. Ha, ha!”

  “Why, you wouldn't,” said the secretary, with his worst expression of face, and in his mildest tones, “have anything to do, with—with death in it?”

  “I don't know that,” replied Hugh. “I'm open to orders. I don't care; not I.”

  “Nor I!” vociferated Dennis.

  “Brave fellows!” said the secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he were commending them for some uncommon act of valour and generosity. “By the bye'—and here he stopped and warmed his hands: then suddenly looked up—'who threw that stone to-day?”

  Mr Dennis coughed and shook his head, as who should say, “A mystery indeed!” Hugh sat and smoked in silence.

  “It was well done!” said the secretary, warming his hands again. “I should like to know that man.”

  “Would you?” said Dennis, after looking at his face to assure himself that he was serious. “Would you like to know that man, Muster Gashford?”

  “I should indeed,” replied the secretary.

  “Why then, Lord love you,” said the hangman, in his hoarest chuckle, as he pointed with his pipe to Hugh, “there he sits. That's the man. My stars and halters, Muster Gashford,” he added in a whisper, as he drew his stool close to him and jogged him with his elbow, “what a interesting blade he is! He wants as much holding in as a thorough-bred bulldog. If it hadn't been for me to-day, he'd have had that “ere Roman down, and made a riot of it, in another minute.”

  “And why not?” cried Hugh in a surly voice, as he overheard this last remark. “Where's the good of putting things off? Strike while the iron's hot; that's what I say.”

  “Ah!” retorted Dennis, shaking his head, with a kind of pity for his friend's ingenuous youth; “but suppose the iron an't hot, brother! You must get people's blood up afore you strike, and have “em in the humour. There wasn't quite enough to provoke “em today, I tell you. If you'd had your way, you'd have spoilt the fun to come, and ruined us.”

  “Dennis is quite right,” said Gashford, smoothly. “He is perfectly correct. Dennis has great knowledge of the world.”

  “I
ought to have, Muster Gashford, seeing what a many people I've helped out of it, eh?” grinned the hangman, whispering the words behind his hand.

  The secretary laughed at this jest as much as Dennis could desire, and when he had done, said, turning to Hugh:

  “Dennis's policy was mine, as you may have observed. You saw, for instance, how I fell when I was set upon. I made no resistance. I did nothing to provoke an outbreak. Oh dear no!”

  “No, by the Lord Harry!” cried Dennis with a noisy laugh, “you went down very quiet, Muster Gashford—and very flat besides. I thinks to myself at the time “it's all up with Muster Gashford!” I never see a man lay flatter nor more still—with the life in him—than you did to-day. He's a rough “un to play with, is that “ere Papist, and that's the fact.”

  The secretary's face, as Dennis roared with laughter, and turned his wrinkled eyes on Hugh who did the like, might have furnished a study for the devil's picture. He sat quite silent until they were serious again, and then said, looking round:

  “We are very pleasant here; so very pleasant, Dennis, that but for my lord's particular desire that I should sup with him, and the time being very near at hand, I should he inclined to stay, until it would be hardly safe to go homeward. I come upon a little business—yes, I do—as you supposed. It's very flattering to you; being this. If we ever should be obliged—and we can't tell, you know—this is a very uncertain world'—

  “I believe you, Muster Gashford,” interposed the hangman with a grave nod. “The uncertainties as I've seen in reference to this here state of existence, the unexpected contingencies as have come about!—Oh my eye!” Feeling the subject much too vast for expression, he puffed at his pipe again, and looked the rest.

  “I say,” resumed the secretary, in a slow, impressive way; “we can't tell what may come to pass; and if we should be obliged, against our wills, to have recourse to violence, my lord (who has suffered terribly to-day, as far as words can go) consigns to you two—bearing in mind my recommendation of you both, as good staunch men, beyond all doubt and suspicion—the pleasant task of punishing this Haredale. You may do as you please with him, or his, provided that you show no mercy, and no quarter, and leave no two beams of his house standing where the builder placed them. You may sack it, burn it, do with it as you like, but it must come down; it must be razed to the ground; and he, and all belonging to him, left as shelterless as new-born infants whom their mothers have exposed. Do you understand me?” said Gashford, pausing, and pressing his hands together gently.