Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty

by Charles Dickens

  Chapter 56

  The Maypole cronies, little dreaming of the change so soon to come upontheir favourite haunt, struck through the Forest path upon their way toLondon; and avoiding the main road, which was hot and dusty, kept to theby-paths and the fields. As they drew nearer to their destination, theybegan to make inquiries of the people whom they passed, concerning theriots, and the truth or falsehood of the stories they had heard. Theanswers went far beyond any intelligence that had spread to quietChigwell. One man told them that that afternoon the Guards, conveying toNewgate some rioters who had been re-examined, had been set upon by themob and compelled to retreat; another, that the houses of two witnessesnear Clare Market were about to be pulled down when he came away;another, that Sir George Saville's house in Leicester Fields was to beburned that night, and that it would go hard with Sir George if he fellinto the people's hands, as it was he who had brought in the Catholicbill. All accounts agreed that the mob were out, in stronger numbersand more numerous parties than had yet appeared; that the streets wereunsafe; that no man's house or life was worth an hour's purchase; thatthe public consternation was increasing every moment; and that manyfamilies had already fled the city. One fellow who wore the popularcolour, damned them for not having cockades in their hats, and bade themset a good watch to-morrow night upon their prison doors, for the lockswould have a straining; another asked if they were fire-proof, thatthey walked abroad without the distinguishing mark of all good and truemen;--and a third who rode on horseback, and was quite alone, orderedthem to throw each man a shilling, in his hat, towards the support ofthe rioters. Although they were afraid to refuse compliance with thisdemand, and were much alarmed by these reports, they agreed, having comeso far, to go forward, and see the real state of things with their owneyes. So they pushed on quicker, as men do who are excited by portentousnews; and ruminating on what they had heard, spoke little to each other.

  It was now night, and as they came nearer to the city they had dismalconfirmation of this intelligence in three great fires, all closetogether, which burnt fiercely and were gloomily reflected in the sky.Arriving in the immediate suburbs, they found that almost every househad chalked upon its door in large characters 'No Popery,' that theshops were shut, and that alarm and anxiety were depicted in every facethey passed.

  Noting these things with a degree of apprehension which neither of thethree cared to impart, in its full extent, to his companions, theycame to a turnpike-gate, which was shut. They were passing through theturnstile on the path, when a horseman rode up from London at a hardgallop, and called to the toll-keeper in a voice of great agitation, toopen quickly in the name of God.

  The adjuration was so earnest and vehement, that the man, with a lanternin his hand, came running out--toll-keeper though he was--and was aboutto throw the gate open, when happening to look behind him, he exclaimed,'Good Heaven, what's that! Another fire!'

  At this, the three turned their heads, and saw in the distance--straightin the direction whence they had come--a broad sheet of flame, castinga threatening light upon the clouds, which glimmered as though theconflagration were behind them, and showed like a wrathful sunset.

  'My mind misgives me,' said the horseman, 'or I know from what farbuilding those flames come. Don't stand aghast, my good fellow. Open thegate!'

  'Sir,' cried the man, laying his hand upon his horse's bridle as he lethim through: 'I know you now, sir; be advised by me; do not go on. I sawthem pass, and know what kind of men they are. You will be murdered.'

  'So be it!' said the horseman, looking intently towards the fire, andnot at him who spoke.

  'But sir--sir,' cried the man, grasping at his rein more tightly yet,'if you do go on, wear the blue riband. Here, sir,' he added, taking onefrom his own hat, 'it's necessity, not choice, that makes me wear it;it's love of life and home, sir. Wear it for this one night, sir; onlyfor this one night.'

  'Do!' cried the three friends, pressing round his horse. 'MrHaredale--worthy sir--good gentleman--pray be persuaded.'

  'Who's that?' cried Mr Haredale, stooping down to look. 'Did I hearDaisy's voice?'

  'You did, sir,' cried the little man. 'Do be persuaded, sir. Thisgentleman says very true. Your life may hang upon it.'

  'Are you,' said Mr Haredale abruptly, 'afraid to come with me?'

  'I, sir?--N-n-no.'

  'Put that riband in your hat. If we meet the rioters, swear that I tookyou prisoner for wearing it. I will tell them so with my own lips; foras I hope for mercy when I die, I will take no quarter from them, norshall they have quarter from me, if we come hand to hand to-night.Up here--behind me--quick! Clasp me tight round the body, and fearnothing.'

  In an instant they were riding away, at full gallop, in a dense cloud ofdust, and speeding on, like hunters in a dream.

  It was well the good horse knew the road he traversed, for neveronce--no, never once in all the journey--did Mr Haredale cast his eyesupon the ground, or turn them, for an instant, from the light towardswhich they sped so madly. Once he said in a low voice, 'It is my house,'but that was the only time he spoke. When they came to dark and doubtfulplaces, he never forgot to put his hand upon the little man to hold himmore securely in his seat, but he kept his head erect and his eyes fixedon the fire, then, and always.

  The road was dangerous enough, for they went the nearestway--headlong--far from the highway--by lonely lanes and paths, wherewaggon-wheels had worn deep ruts; where hedge and ditch hemmed inthe narrow strip of ground; and tall trees, arching overhead, made itprofoundly dark. But on, on, on, with neither stop nor stumble, tillthey reached the Maypole door, and could plainly see that the fire beganto fade, as if for want of fuel.

  'Down--for one moment--for but one moment,' said Mr Haredale, helpingDaisy to the ground, and following himself. 'Willet--Willet--where aremy niece and servants--Willet!'

  Crying to him distractedly, he rushed into the bar.--The landlord boundand fastened to his chair; the place dismantled, stripped, and pulledabout his ears;--nobody could have taken shelter here.

  He was a strong man, accustomed to restrain himself, and suppress hisstrong emotions; but this preparation for what was to follow--though hehad seen that fire burning, and knew that his house must be razed to theground--was more than he could bear. He covered his face with his handsfor a moment, and turned away his head.

  'Johnny, Johnny,' said Solomon--and the simple-hearted fellow criedoutright, and wrung his hands--'Oh dear old Johnny, here's a change!That the Maypole bar should come to this, and we should live to seeit! The old Warren too, Johnny--Mr Haredale--oh, Johnny, what a piteoussight this is!'

  Pointing to Mr Haredale as he said these words, little Solomon Daisy puthis elbows on the back of Mr Willet's chair, and fairly blubbered on hisshoulder.

  While Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish, staringat him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possiblesymptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon wassilent again, John followed with his great round eyes the directionof his looks, and did appear to have some dawning distant notion thatsomebody had come to see him.

  'You know us, don't you, Johnny?' said the little clerk, rapping himselfon the breast. 'Daisy, you know--Chigwell Church--bell-ringer--littledesk on Sundays--eh, Johnny?'

  Mr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered, as it weremechanically: 'Let us sing to the praise and glory of--'

  'Yes, to be sure,' cried the little man, hastily; 'that's it--that's me,Johnny. You're all right now, an't you? Say you're all right, Johnny.'

  'All right?' pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirelybetween himself and his conscience. 'All right? Ah!'

  'They haven't been misusing you with sticks, or pokers, or any otherblunt instruments--have they, Johnny?' asked Solomon, with a veryanxious glance at Mr Willet's head. 'They didn't beat you, did they?'

  John knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were mentally engagedin some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the to
tal wouldnot come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to hisshoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar. And then a great, round,leaden-looking, and not at all transparent tear, came rolling out ofeach eye, and he said, as he shook his head:

  'If they'd only had the goodness to murder me, I'd have thanked 'emkindly.'

  'No, no, no, don't say that, Johnny,' whimpered his little friend. 'It'svery, very bad, but not quite so bad as that. No, no!'

  'Look'ee here, sir!' cried John, turning his rueful eyes on Mr Haredale,who had dropped on one knee, and was hastily beginning to untiehis bonds. 'Look'ee here, sir! The very Maypole--the old dumbMaypole--stares in at the winder, as if it said, "John Willet, JohnWillet, let's go and pitch ourselves in the nighest pool of water as isdeep enough to hold us; for our day is over!"'

  'Don't, Johnny, don't,' cried his friend: no less affected with thismournful effort of Mr Willet's imagination, than by the sepulchral tonein which he had spoken of the Maypole. 'Please don't, Johnny!'

  'Your loss is great, and your misfortune a heavy one,' said Mr Haredale,looking restlessly towards the door: 'and this is not a time to comfortyou. If it were, I am in no condition to do so. Before I leave you, tellme one thing, and try to tell me plainly, I implore you. Have you seen,or heard of Emma?'

  'No!' said Mr Willet.

  'Nor any one but these bloodhounds?'

  'No!'

  'They rode away, I trust in Heaven, before these dreadful scenes began,'said Mr Haredale, who, between his agitation, his eagerness to mounthis horse again, and the dexterity with which the cords were tied, hadscarcely yet undone one knot. 'A knife, Daisy!'

  'You didn't,' said John, looking about, as though he had lost hispocket-handkerchief, or some such slight article--'either of yougentlemen--see a--a coffin anywheres, did you?'

  'Willet!' cried Mr Haredale. Solomon dropped the knife, and instantlybecoming limp from head to foot, exclaimed 'Good gracious!'

  '--Because,' said John, not at all regarding them, 'a dead man called alittle time ago, on his way yonder. I could have told you what name wason the plate, if he had brought his coffin with him, and left it behind.If he didn't, it don't signify.'

  His landlord, who had listened to these words with breathless attention,started that moment to his feet; and, without a word, drew SolomonDaisy to the door, mounted his horse, took him up behind again, and flewrather than galloped towards the pile of ruins, which that day's sunhad shone upon, a stately house. Mr Willet stared after them, listened,looked down upon himself to make quite sure that he was still unbound,and, without any manifestation of impatience, disappointment, orsurprise, gently relapsed into the condition from which he had soimperfectly recovered.

  Mr Haredale tied his horse to the trunk of a tree, and grasping hiscompanion's arm, stole softly along the footpath, and into what hadbeen the garden of his house. He stopped for an instant to look upon itssmoking walls, and at the stars that shone through roof and floor uponthe heap of crumbling ashes. Solomon glanced timidly in his face, buthis lips were tightly pressed together, a resolute and stern expressionsat upon his brow, and not a tear, a look, or gesture indicating grief,escaped him.

  He drew his sword; felt for a moment in his breast, as though he carriedother arms about him; then grasping Solomon by the wrist again, wentwith a cautious step all round the house. He looked into every doorwayand gap in the wall; retraced his steps at every rustling of the airamong the leaves; and searched in every shadowed nook with outstretchedhands. Thus they made the circuit of the building: but they returnedto the spot from which they had set out, without encountering any humanbeing, or finding the least trace of any concealed straggler.

  After a short pause, Mr Haredale shouted twice or thrice. Then criedaloud, 'Is there any one in hiding here, who knows my voice! There isnothing to fear now. If any of my people are near, I entreat themto answer!' He called them all by name; his voice was echoed in manymournful tones; then all was silent as before.

  They were standing near the foot of the turret, where the alarm-bellhung. The fire had raged there, and the floors had been sawn, and hewn,and beaten down, besides. It was open to the night; but a part of thestaircase still remained, winding upward from a great mound of dust andcinders. Fragments of the jagged and broken steps offered an insecureand giddy footing here and there, and then were lost again, behindprotruding angles of the wall, or in the deep shadows cast upon it byother portions of the ruin; for by this time the moon had risen, andshone brightly.

  As they stood here, listening to the echoes as they died away, andhoping in vain to hear a voice they knew, some of the ashes in thisturret slipped and rolled down. Startled by the least noise in thatmelancholy place, Solomon looked up in his companion's face, and sawthat he had turned towards the spot, and that he watched and listenedkeenly.

  He covered the little man's mouth with his hand, and looked again.Instantly, with kindling eyes, he bade him on his life keep still, andneither speak nor move. Then holding his breath, and stooping down,he stole into the turret, with his drawn sword in his hand, anddisappeared.

  Terrified to be left there by himself, under such desolatecircumstances, and after all he had seen and heard that night, Solomonwould have followed, but there had been something in Mr Haredale'smanner and his look, the recollection of which held him spellbound. Hestood rooted to the spot; and scarcely venturing to breathe, looked upwith mingled fear and wonder.

  Again the ashes slipped and rolled--very, very softly--again--and thenagain, as though they crumbled underneath the tread of a stealthy foot.And now a figure was dimly visible; climbing very softly; and oftenstopping to look down; now it pursued its difficult way; and now it washidden from the view again.

  It emerged once more, into the shadowy and uncertain light--higher now,but not much, for the way was steep and toilsome, and its progress veryslow. What phantom of the brain did he pursue; and why did he look downso constantly? He knew he was alone. Surely his mind was not affected bythat night's loss and agony. He was not about to throw himself headlongfrom the summit of the tottering wall. Solomon turned sick, and claspedhis hands. His limbs trembled beneath him, and a cold sweat broke outupon his pallid face.

  If he complied with Mr Haredale's last injunction now, it was because hehad not the power to speak or move. He strained his gaze, and fixed iton a patch of moonlight, into which, if he continued to ascend, he mustsoon emerge. When he appeared there, he would try to call to him.

  Again the ashes slipped and crumbled; some stones rolled down, and fellwith a dull, heavy sound upon the ground below. He kept his eyes uponthe piece of moonlight. The figure was coming on, for its shadow wasalready thrown upon the wall. Now it appeared--and now looked round athim--and now--

  The horror-stricken clerk uttered a scream that pierced the air, andcried, 'The ghost! The ghost!'

  Long before the echo of his cry had died away, another form rushed outinto the light, flung itself upon the foremost one, knelt down upon itsbreast, and clutched its throat with both hands.

  'Villain!' cried Mr Haredale, in a terrible voice--for it was he. 'Deadand buried, as all men supposed through your infernal arts, but reservedby Heaven for this--at last--at last I have you. You, whose hands arered with my brother's blood, and that of his faithful servant, shedto conceal your own atrocious guilt--You, Rudge, double murderer andmonster, I arrest you in the name of God, who has delivered you into myhands. No. Though you had the strength of twenty men,' he added, as themurderer writhed and struggled, 'you could not escape me or loosen mygrasp to-night!'