Chapter 61
On that same night--events so crowd upon each other in convulsed anddistracted times, that more than the stirring incidents of a whole lifeoften become compressed into the compass of four-and-twenty hours--onthat same night, Mr Haredale, having strongly bound his prisoner,with the assistance of the sexton, and forced him to mount his horse,conducted him to Chigwell; bent upon procuring a conveyance to Londonfrom that place, and carrying him at once before a justice. Thedisturbed state of the town would be, he knew, a sufficient reason fordemanding the murderer's committal to prison before daybreak, as no mancould answer for the security of any of the watch-houses or ordinaryplaces of detention; and to convey a prisoner through the streets whenthe mob were again abroad, would not only be a task of great danger andhazard, but would be to challenge an attempt at rescue. Directing thesexton to lead the horse, he walked close by the murderer's side, and inthis order they reached the village about the middle of the night.
The people were all awake and up, for they were fearful of being burntin their beds, and sought to comfort and assure each other by watchingin company. A few of the stoutest-hearted were armed and gathered in abody on the green. To these, who knew him well, Mr Haredale addressedhimself, briefly narrating what had happened, and beseeching them to aidin conveying the criminal to London before the dawn of day.
But not a man among them dared to help him by so much as the motion ofa finger. The rioters, in their passage through the village, hadmenaced with their fiercest vengeance, any person who should aid inextinguishing the fire, or render the least assistance to him, or anyCatholic whomsoever. Their threats extended to their lives and all theypossessed. They were assembled for their own protection, and could notendanger themselves by lending any aid to him. This they told him, notwithout hesitation and regret, as they kept aloof in the moonlight andglanced fearfully at the ghostly rider, who, with his head drooping onhis breast and his hat slouched down upon his brow, neither moved norspoke.
Finding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed hardly knowing howto do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd, Mr Haredalebesought them that at least they would leave him free to act forhimself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise and pair ofhorses that the place afforded. This was not acceded to without somedifficulty, but in the end they told him to do what he would, and goaway from them in heaven's name.
Leaving the sexton at the horse's bridle, he drew out the chaisewith his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but that thepost-boy of the village--a soft-hearted, good-for-nothing, vagabond kindof fellow--was moved by his earnestness and passion, and, throwing downa pitchfork with which he was armed, swore that the rioters might cuthim into mincemeat if they liked, but he would not stand by and seean honest gentleman who had done no wrong, reduced to such extremity,without doing what he could to help him. Mr Haredale shook him warmlyby the hand, and thanked him from his heart. In five minutes' time thechaise was ready, and this good scapegrace in his saddle. The murdererwas put inside, the blinds were drawn up, the sexton took his seat uponthe bar, Mr Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the door;and so they started in the dead of night, and in profound silence, forLondon.
The consternation was so extreme that even the horses which had escapedthe flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelter them. Theypassed them on the road, browsing on the stunted grass; and the drivertold them, that the poor beasts had wandered to the village first, buthad been driven away, lest they should bring the vengeance of the crowdon any of the inhabitants.
Nor was this feeling confined to such small places, where the peoplewere timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came near London theymet, in the grey light of morning, more than one poor Catholic familywho, terrified by the threats and warnings of their neighbours, werequitting the city on foot, and who told them they could hire no cart orhorse for the removal of their goods, and had been compelled to leavethem behind, at the mercy of the crowd. Near Mile End they passed ahouse, the master of which, a Catholic gentleman of small means, havinghired a waggon to remove his furniture by midnight, had had it allbrought down into the street, to wait the vehicle's arrival, and savetime in the packing. But the man with whom he made the bargain, alarmedby the fires that night, and by the sight of the rioters passing hisdoor, had refused to keep it: and the poor gentleman, with his wife andservant and their little children, were sitting trembling among theirgoods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and not knowingwhere to turn or what to do.
It was the same, they heard, with the public conveyances. The panicwas so great that the mails and stage-coaches were afraid to carrypassengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If the drivers knewthem, or they admitted that they held that creed, they would not takethem, no, though they offered large sums; and yesterday, people hadbeen afraid to recognise Catholic acquaintance in the streets, lestthey should be marked by spies, and burnt out, as it was called, inconsequence. One mild old man--a priest, whose chapel was destroyed;a very feeble, patient, inoffensive creature--who was trudging away,alone, designing to walk some distance from town, and then try hisfortune with the coaches, told Mr Haredale that he feared he might notfind a magistrate who would have the hardihood to commit a prisoner tojail, on his complaint. But notwithstanding these discouraging accountsthey went on, and reached the Mansion House soon after sunrise.
Mr Haredale threw himself from his horse, but he had no need to knockat the door, for it was already open, and there stood upon the stepa portly old man, with a very red, or rather purple face, who with ananxious expression of countenance, was remonstrating with some unseenpersonage upstairs, while the porter essayed to close the door bydegrees and get rid of him. With the intense impatience and excitementnatural to one in his condition, Mr Haredale thrust himself forward andwas about to speak, when the fat old gentleman interposed:
'My good sir,' said he, 'pray let me get an answer. This is the sixthtime I have been here. I was here five times yesterday. My house isthreatened with destruction. It is to be burned down to-night, and wasto have been last night, but they had other business on their hands.Pray let me get an answer.'
'My good sir,' returned Mr Haredale, shaking his head, 'my house isburned to the ground. But heaven forbid that yours should be. Get youranswer. Be brief, in mercy to me.'
'Now, you hear this, my lord?'--said the old gentleman, calling upthe stairs, to where the skirt of a dressing-gown fluttered on thelanding-place. 'Here is a gentleman here, whose house was actually burntdown last night.'
'Dear me, dear me,' replied a testy voice, 'I am very sorry for it, butwhat am I to do? I can't build it up again. The chief magistrate of thecity can't go and be a rebuilding of people's houses, my good sir. Stuffand nonsense!'
'But the chief magistrate of the city can prevent people's houses fromhaving any need to be rebuilt, if the chief magistrate's a man, andnot a dummy--can't he, my lord?' cried the old gentleman in a cholericmanner.
'You are disrespectable, sir,' said the Lord Mayor--'leastways,disrespectful I mean.'
'Disrespectful, my lord!' returned the old gentleman. 'I was respectfulfive times yesterday. I can't be respectful for ever. Men can't standon being respectful when their houses are going to be burnt over theirheads, with them in 'em. What am I to do, my lord? AM I to have anyprotection!'
'I told you yesterday, sir,' said the Lord Mayor, 'that you might havean alderman in your house, if you could get one to come.'
'What the devil's the good of an alderman?' returned the choleric oldgentleman.
'--To awe the crowd, sir,' said the Lord Mayor.
'Oh Lord ha' mercy!' whimpered the old gentleman, as he wiped hisforehead in a state of ludicrous distress, 'to think of sending analderman to awe a crowd! Why, my lord, if they were even so many babies,fed on mother's milk, what do you think they'd care for an alderman!Will YOU come?'
'I!' said the Lord Mayor, most emphatically: 'Certainly not.'
'Then what,'
returned the old gentleman, 'what am I to do? Am I acitizen of England? Am I to have the benefit of the laws? Am I to haveany return for the King's taxes?'
'I don't know, I am sure,' said the Lord Mayor; 'what a pity it isyou're a Catholic! Why couldn't you be a Protestant, and then youwouldn't have got yourself into such a mess? I'm sure I don't knowwhat's to be done.--There are great people at the bottom of theseriots.--Oh dear me, what a thing it is to be a public character!--Youmust look in again in the course of the day.--Would a javelin-mando?--Or there's Philips the constable,--HE'S disengaged,--he's not veryold for a man at his time of life, except in his legs, and if you puthim up at a window he'd look quite young by candle-light, and mightfrighten 'em very much.--Oh dear!--well!--we'll see about it.'
'Stop!' cried Mr Haredale, pressing the door open as the porter stroveto shut it, and speaking rapidly, 'My Lord Mayor, I beg you not to goaway. I have a man here, who committed a murder eight-and-twenty yearsago. Half-a-dozen words from me, on oath, will justify you in committinghim to prison for re-examination. I only seek, just now, to have himconsigned to a place of safety. The least delay may involve his beingrescued by the rioters.'
'Oh dear me!' cried the Lord Mayor. 'God bless my soul--and body--ohLor!--well I!--there are great people at the bottom of these riots, youknow.--You really mustn't.'
'My lord,' said Mr Haredale, 'the murdered gentleman was my brother; Isucceeded to his inheritance; there were not wanting slanderous tonguesat that time, to whisper that the guilt of this most foul and cruel deedwas mine--mine, who loved him, as he knows, in Heaven, dearly. The timehas come, after all these years of gloom and misery, for avenging him,and bringing to light a crime so artful and so devilish that it has noparallel. Every second's delay on your part loosens this man's bloodyhands again, and leads to his escape. My lord, I charge you hear me, anddespatch this matter on the instant.'
'Oh dear me!' cried the chief magistrate; 'these an't businesshours, you know--I wonder at you--how ungentlemanly it is of you--youmustn't--you really mustn't.--And I suppose you are a Catholic too?'
'I am,' said Mr Haredale.
'God bless my soul, I believe people turn Catholics a'purpose to vexand worrit me,' cried the Lord Mayor. 'I wish you wouldn't come here;they'll be setting the Mansion House afire next, and we shall have youto thank for it. You must lock your prisoner up, sir--give him to awatchman--and--call again at a proper time. Then we'll see about it!'
Before Mr Haredale could answer, the sharp closing of a door and drawingof its bolts, gave notice that the Lord Mayor had retreated to hisbedroom, and that further remonstrance would be unavailing. The twoclients retreated likewise, and the porter shut them out into thestreet.
'That's the way he puts me off,' said the old gentleman, 'I can get noredress and no help. What are you going to do, sir?'
'To try elsewhere,' answered Mr Haredale, who was by this time onhorseback.
'I feel for you, I assure you--and well I may, for we are in a commoncause,' said the old gentleman. 'I may not have a house to offer youto-night; let me tender it while I can. On second thoughts though,' headded, putting up a pocket-book he had produced while speaking, 'I'llnot give you a card, for if it was found upon you, it might get youinto trouble. Langdale--that's my name--vintner and distiller--HolbornHill--you're heartily welcome, if you'll come.'
Mr Haredale bowed, and rode off, close beside the chaise as before;determining to repair to the house of Sir John Fielding, who had thereputation of being a bold and active magistrate, and fully resolved, incase the rioters should come upon them, to do execution on the murdererwith his own hands, rather than suffer him to be released.
They arrived at the magistrate's dwelling, however, without molestation(for the mob, as we have seen, were then intent on deeper schemes), andknocked at the door. As it had been pretty generally rumoured that SirJohn was proscribed by the rioters, a body of thief-takers had beenkeeping watch in the house all night. To one of them Mr Haredale statedhis business, which appearing to the man of sufficient moment to warranthis arousing the justice, procured him an immediate audience.
No time was lost in committing the murderer to Newgate; then a newbuilding, recently completed at a vast expense, and considered to be ofenormous strength. The warrant being made out, three of the thief-takersbound him afresh (he had been struggling, it seemed, in the chaise, andhad loosened his manacles); gagged him lest they should meet with anyof the mob, and he should call to them for help; and seated themselves,along with him, in the carriage. These men being all well armed, madea formidable escort; but they drew up the blinds again, as though thecarriage were empty, and directed Mr Haredale to ride forward, that hemight not attract attention by seeming to belong to it.
The wisdom of this proceeding was sufficiently obvious, for as theyhurried through the city they passed among several groups of men, who,if they had not supposed the chaise to be quite empty, would certainlyhave stopped it. But those within keeping quite close, and the drivertarrying to be asked no questions, they reached the prison withoutinterruption, and, once there, had him out, and safe within its gloomywalls, in a twinkling.
With eager eyes and strained attention, Mr Haredale saw him chained, andlocked and barred up in his cell. Nay, when he had left the jail, andstood in the free street, without, he felt the iron plates upon thedoors, with his hands, and drew them over the stone wall, to assurehimself that it was real; and to exult in its being so strong, andrough, and cold. It was not until he turned his back upon the jail, andglanced along the empty streets, so lifeless and quiet in the brightmorning, that he felt the weight upon his heart; that he knew he wastortured by anxiety for those he had left at home; and that home itselfwas but another bead in the long rosary of his regrets.
Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty Page 61
