 67. When darkness broke away, and morning began to dawn, the town wore a strange aspect indeed. Sleep had hardly been thought of all night. The general alarm was so apparent in the faces of the inhabitants, and its expression was so aggravated by want of rest—few persons with any property to lose having dared to go to bed since Monday—that a stranger coming into the streets would have supposed some mortal pest or plague to have been raging. In place of the usual cheerfulness and animation of morning, everything was dead and silent. The shops remained closed. Offices and warehouses were shut. The coach and chair stands were deserted. No carts or wagons rumbled through the slowly waking streets. The early cries were all hushed. A universal gloom prevailed. Great numbers of people were out, even at daybreak, but they flitted to and fro as though they shrank from the sound of their own footsteps. The public ways were haunted rather than frequented, and round the smoking ruins people stood apart from one another, and in silence, not venturing to condemn the rioters, or to be supposed to do so, even in whispers. At the Lord President's in Piccadilly, at Lambeth Palace, at the Lord Chancellor's and Great Ormond Street, in the Royal Exchange, the Bank, the Guild Hall, the Inns of Court, the Courts of Law, and every chamber fronting the streets near Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament, parties of soldiers were posted before daylight. A body of horse guards paraded Palace Yard. An encampment was formed in the park, where fifteen hundred men and five battalions of militia were under arms. The tower was fortified, the drawbridges were raised, the cannon loaded and pointed, and two regiments of artillery busied in strengthening the fortress and preparing it for defence. A numerous detachment of soldiers were stationed to keep guard at the new river head, which the people had threatened to attack, and where it was said they meant to cut off the main pipes so that there might be no water for the extinction of the flames. In the poultry, and on Corn Hill, and at several other leading points, iron chains were drawn across the street, parties of soldiers were distributed in some of the old city churches while it was yet dark, and in several private houses, among them Lord Rockingham's and Groverner Square, which were blockaded as though to sustain a siege, and had guns pointed from the windows. When the sun rose, it shone into handsome apartments filled with armed men. The furniture hastily heaped away in corners, and made of little or no account in the terror of the time. On arms glittering in city chambers, among desks and stools and dusty books, into little smoky church yards in odd lanes and byways, with soldiers lying down among the tombs, or lounging out of the shade of the one old tree, and a pile of muskets sparkling in the light. On solitary sentries pacing up and down in courtyards, silent now, but yesterday resounding with the din and hum of business, everywhere on guardrooms, garrisons, and threatening preparations. As the day crept on, still more unusual sights were witnessed in the streets. The gates of the king's bench and fleet prisons, being opened at the usual hour, were found to have notices affixed to them, announcing that the rioters would come that night to burn them down. The wardens, too well knowing the likelihood there was of this promise being fulfilled, were feigned to set their prisoners at liberty, and give them leave to move their goods. So, all day, such of them as had any furniture were occupied in conveying it, some to this place, some to that, and not a few to the broker's shops, where they gladly sold it, for any wretched price those gentry chose to give. There were some broken men, among these debtors, who had been in jail so long, and were so miserable and destitute of friends, so dead to the world and utterly forgotten and uncared for, that they implored their jailers, not to set them free, and to send them, if need were, to some other place of custody. But they, refusing to comply, lest they should incur the anger of the mob, turned them into the streets, where they wandered up and down, hardly remembering the ways untrodden by their feet so long, and crying. Such abject things those rotten hearted jails had made them, as they slunk off in their rags, and dragged their slipshod feet along the pavement. Even of the three hundred prisoners who had escaped from Newgate, there were some, a few, but there were some, who sought their jailers out, and delivered themselves up, preferring imprisonment and punishment to the horrors of such another night as the last. Many of the convicts, drawn back to their old place of captivity by some indescribable attraction, or by a desire to exalt over it in its downfall and glut their revenge by seeing it in ashes, actually went back in broad noon and loitered about the cells. Fifty were retaken at one time on this next day, within the prison walls, but their fate did not deter others, for there they went, in spite of everything, and there they were taken in twos and threes, twice or thrice a day, all through the week. Of the fifty just mentioned, some were occupied in endeavouring to rekindle the fire, but in general they seemed to have no object in view but to prowl and lounge about the old place, being often found asleep in the ruins, or sitting, talking there, or even eating and drinking, as in a choice retreat. Besides the notices on the gates of the fleet and the king's bench, many similar announcements were left, before one o'clock at noon, at the houses of private individuals, and further the mob proclaimed their intention of seizing on the bank, the mint, the arsenal at Woolwich, and the royal palaces. The notices were seldom delivered by more than one man, who, if it were at a shop, went in and laid it with a bloody threat, perhaps, upon the counter, or if it were at a private house, knocked at the door, and trusted in the servant's hand. Notwithstanding the presence of the military in every quarter of the town, and the great force in the park, these messengers did their errands with impunity all through the day. So did two boys who went down Hoban alone, armed with bars taken from the railings of Lord Mansfield's house, and demanded money for the rioters. So did a tall man on horseback, who made a collection for the same purpose in Fleet Street, and refused to take anything but gold. A rumour had now got into circulation, too, which diffused a greater dread all through London, even than these publicly announced intentions of the rioters, though all men knew that if they were successfully affected, they must ensue a national bankruptcy and general ruin. It was said that they meant to throw the gates of Bedlam open, and let all a madman loose. This suggested such dreadful images to the people's minds, and was indeed an act so fraught with new and unimaginable horrors and the contemplation that it beset them more than any loss or cruelty of which they could foresee the worst, and drove many sane men nearly mad themselves. So the day passed on, the prisoners moving their goods, people running to and fro in the streets, carrying away their property, groups standing in silence round the ruins, all business suspended, and the soldiers disposed, as has been already mentioned, remaining quite inactive. So the day passed on, and dreaded night drew near again. At last, at seven o'clock in the evening, the Privy Council issued a solemn proclamation that it was now necessary to employ the military, and that the officers had most direct and effectual orders by an immediate exertion of their utmost force to repress the disturbances, and warning all good subjects of the King to keep themselves, their servants and apprentices, with indoors that night. There was then delivered out to every soldier on duty thirty-six rounds of powder and ball, the drums beat, and the whole force was under arms at sunset. The city authorities, stimulated by these vigorous measures, held a common council. Past a vote thanking the military associations who had tended their aid to the civil authorities, accepted it, and placed them under the direction of the two sheriffs. At the Queen's Palace, a double guard, the yeoman on duty, the groom porters, and all other attendants were stationed in the passages and on the staircases at seven o'clock, with strict instructions to be watchful on their posts all night, and all the doors were locked. The gentlemen of the temple and the other inns mounted guard within their gates, and strengthened them with the great stones of the pavement which they took up for the purpose. In Lincoln's Inn, they gave up the hall and commons to the Northumberland militia, and to the command of Lord Algernon Percy. In some few of the city wards, the burgesses turned out, and without making a very fierce show, looked brave enough. Some hundreds of stout gentlemen threw themselves, armed to the teeth, into the halls of the different companies, double-locked and bolted all the gates, and dared the rioters, among themselves, to come on at their peril. These arrangements being all made simultaneously, or nearly so, were completed by the time it got dark. And then the streets were comparatively clear, and were guarded at all the great corners and chief avenues by the troops, while parties of the officers rode up and down in all directions, ordering chance stragglers home, and admonishing the residents to keep within their houses, and if any firing ensued not to approach the windows. More chains were drawn across such of the thoroughfares, as were of a nature, to favour the approach of a great crowd, and at each of these points a considerable force was stationed. All these precautions having been taken, and it being now quite dark, those in command awaited the result in some anxiety, and not without a hope that such vigilant demonstrations might of themselves dishearten the populace, and prevent any new outrages. But in this reckoning they were cruelly mistaken. For in half an hour, or less, as though the setting-in of night had been their pre-concerted signal, the rioters having previously in small parties prevented the lighting of the street lamps rose like a great sea, and that in so many places at once, and with such inconceivable fury, at those who had the direction of the troops knew not at first where to turn or what to do. One after another new fires blazed up in every quarter of the town, as though it were the intention of the insurgents to wrap the city in a circle of flames, which, contracting by degrees, should burn the whole to ashes. The crowd swarmed and roared in every street, and none but rioters and soldiers being out of doors it seemed to the latter as if all London were arrayed against them, and they stood alone against the town. In two hours six and thirty fires were raging, six and thirty great conflagrations, among them the burrow-clink in Tooley Street, the King's Bench, the Fleet, and the New Bridewell. In almost every street there was a battle, and in every quarter the muskets of the troops were heard above these shouts and tumult of the mob. The firing began in the poultry, where the chain was drawn across the road, where nearly a score of people were killed on the first discharge. Their bodies having been hastily carried into St Mildred's Church by the soldiers, the latter fired again, and following fast upon the crowd, who began to give way when they saw the execution that was done, formed across Cheepside and charged them at the point of the bayonet. The streets were now a dreadful spectacle. The shouts of the rabble, the shrieks of women, the cries of the wounded, and the constant firing formed a deafening and an awful accompaniment to the sights which every corner presented. Wherever the road was obstructed by the chains, there the fighting and the loss of life were greatest, but there was hot work and bloodshed in almost every leading thoroughfare. At Hoban Bridge, and on Hoban Hill, the confusion was greater than in any other part, for the crowd that poured out of the city in two great streams, one by Ludgate Hill and one by Newgate Street, united at that spot, and formed a mass so dense, that at every volley the people seemed to fall in heaps. At this place a large detachment of soldiery were posted, who fired now up Fleet Market, now up Hoban, now up Snow Hill, constantly raking the streets in each direction. At this place too several large fires were burning, so that all the terrors of that terrible night seemed to be concentrated in one spot. Full twenty times the rioters, headed by one man, who wielded an axe in his right hand, and bestowed a brewers' horse of great size and strength, comparisoned with fetters taken out of Newgate, which clanked and jingle as he went, made an attempt to force a passage at this point, and fire the Vintner's house. Full twenty times they were repulsed with loss of life, and still came back again, and though the fellow at their head was marked and singled out by all, and was a conspicuous object, as the only rioter on horseback, not a man could hit him. So surely as the smoke cleared away, so surely there was he, calling hoarsely to his companions, brandishing his axe above his head, and dashing on as though he bore child life, and was proof against ball and powder. This man was Hugh. At an every part of the riot he was seen. He headed to a tax upon the bank, helped to break open the toll houses on Blackfire's bridge, and cast the money into the street, fired two of the prisons with his own hand, was here and there and everywhere, always foremost, always active, striking at the soldiers, cheering on the crowd, making his horse's iron music heard through all the yell and uproar, but never hurt or stopped. Turn him at one place, and he made a new struggle in another. Force him to retreat at this point, and he advanced on that, directly. Different from Hoburn for the twentieth time, he rode at the head of a great crowd, straight upon St. Paul's, attacked a guard of soldiers who kept watch over a body of prisoners within the iron railings, forced them to retreat, rescued the men they had in custody, and with this accession to his party, came back again, mad with liquor and excitement, and hallowing them on like a demon. It would have been no easy task for the most careful rider to sit a horse in the midst of such a throng and tumult, but though this madman rolled upon his back, he had no saddle, like a boat upon the sea, he never for an instant lost his seat, or failed to guide him where he would. To the very thickest of the press, over dead bodies and burning fragments, now on the pavement, now in the road, now riding up a flight of steps to make himself the more conspicuous to his party, and now forcing a passage through a mass of human beings, so closely squeezed together, that it seemed as if the edge of a knife would scarcely part them. On he went, as though he could surmount all obstacles by the mere exercise of his will. And perhaps his not being shot was in some degree attributable to this very circumstance, for his extreme audacity, and the conviction that he must be one of those to whom the proclamation referred, inspired the soldiers with the desire to take him alive, and diverted many an aim which otherwise might have been more near the mark. The vintner and Mr. Haerdale, unable to sit quietly listening to the noise without seeing what went on, had climbed to the roof of the house, and hiding behind a stack of chimneys were looking cautiously down into the street, almost hoping that after so many repulsors the rioters would be foiled, when a great shout proclaimed that a party were coming round the other way, and the dismal jingling of those accursed fetters warned them next moment that they too were led by Hugh. The soldiers had advanced into fleet market, and were dispersing the people there, so that they came on with hardly any check, and were soon before the house. All's over now, said the vintner, fifty thousand pounds will be scattered in a minute. We must save ourselves. We can do no more, and shall have reason to be thankful if we do as much. Their first impulse was to clamber along the roofs of the houses, and, knocking at some garret window for admission, passed down that way into the street, and so escaped. But another fierce cry from below, and a general upturning of the faces of the crowd, apprised them that they were discovered, and even that Mr. Hairdale was recognised, for Hugh, seeing him plainly in the bright glare of the fire, which in that part made it as light as day, called to him by his name, and swore to have his life. Leave me here, said Mr. Hairdale, and in ever in his name, my good friend, save yourself. Come on, he muttered, as he turned towards Hugh and faced him without any further effort at concealment. This roof is eye, and if we close, we will die together. Madness, said the honest vintner, pulling him back, sheer madness. Hear reason, sir, my good sir, hear reason. I could never make myself heard by knocking at a window now, and even if I could, no one would be bold enough to connive at my escape. Through the cellars there's a kind of passage into the back street, by which we roll casks in and out. We shall have time to get down there before they can force an entry. Do not delay an instant, but come with me, for both are sakes, for mine, my dear good sir. As he spoke, and drew Mr. Hairdale back, they had both a glimpse of the street. It was but a glimpse, but it showed them the crowd, gathering and clustering round the house. Some of the armed men pressing to the front to break down the doors and windows, some bringing brands from the nearest fire, some with lifted faces following their course upon the roof, and pointing them out to their companions, all raging and roaring like the flames they lighted up. They saw some men thirsting for the treasures of strong liquor which they knew were stored within. They saw others who had been wounded, sinking down into the opposite doorways and dying, solitary wretches in the midst of all the vast assemblage. Here a frightened woman trying to escape, and there a lost child, and there a drunken ruffian and conscious of the death wound on his head, raving and fighting to the last. All these things, and even such trivial incidents, as a man with his hat off, or turning round or stooping down or shaking hands with another, they marked distinctly, yet in a glance so brief that in the act of stepping back, they lost the whole, and saw but the pale faces of each other, and the red sky above them. Mr. Herdale yielded to the entreaties of his companion, more because he was resolved to defend him than for any thought he had of his own life, or any care he entertained for his own safety, and quickly re-entering the house, they descended the stairs together. Loud blows were thundering on the shutters, crowbars were already thrust beneath the door, the glass fell from the sashes, a deep light shone through every crevice, and they heard the voices of the foremost in the crowd so close to every chink and keyhole, that they seemed to be hoarsely whispering their threats into their very ears. They had but a moment reached the bottom of the cellar steps, and shut the door behind them when the mob broke in. The vaults were profoundly dark, and having no torch or candle, for they had been afraid to carry one, lest it should betray their place of refuge, they were obliged to grope with their hands. But they were not long without light, for they had not gone far when they heard the crowd forcing the door, and looking back among the low-arched passages, could see them in the distance, hurrying to and fro with flashing links, broaching the casks, staving the great vats, turning off upon the right hand and the left into the different cellars, and lying down to drink at the channels of strong spirits which were already flowing on the ground. They hurried on, not the less quickly for this, and had reached the only vault which lay between them and the passage out, when suddenly, from the direction which they were going, a strong light gleamed upon their faces, and before they could slip aside or turn back or hide themselves, two men, one bearing a torch, came upon them, and cried in an astonished whisper, Here they are! At the same instant they pulled off what they wore upon their heads. Mr. Heardale saw before him Edward Chester, and then saw, when the vintner gasped his name, Joe Willet. I, the same Joe, though with an arm the less, who used to make the quarterly journey on the grey mare to pay the bill to the purple-faced vintner, and that very same purple-faced vintner, formerly of Thames Street, now looked him in the face, and challenged him by name. Give me your hand! said Joe, softly, taking it whether the astonished vintner would or no. Don't fear to shake it. It's a friendly one, and a hearty one, though it has no fellow. Why, how well you look and how bluff you are! And you, God bless you, sir, take heart, take heart, we'll find him. Be a good cheer, we've not been idle. There was something so honest and frank in Joe's speech, that Mr. Heardale put his hand in his involuntarily, though their meeting was suspicious enough. But his glance at Edward Chester, and that gentleman's keeping aloof, were not lost upon Joe, who said bluntly, glancing at Edward while he spoke, Times have changed, Mr. Heardale, and times have come when we ought to know friends from enemies, and make no confusion of names. Let me tell you, that but for this gentleman, you would most likely have been dead by this time, or badly wounded at the best. What do you say? cried Mr. Heardale. I say, said Joe, first it was a bold thing to be in the crowd at all disguise as one of them, though I won't say much about that on second thoughts, for that's my case too. Secondly, that it was a brave and glorious action, that's what I call it, to strike that fellow off his horse before their eyes. What fellow? Whose eyes? What fellow, sir? cried Joe, a fellow who has no good will to you, and who has the daring endeavoury in him of twenty fellows. I know him of old. Once in the house, he would have found you, here or anywhere. The rest owe you no particular grudgeon, unless they see you, will only think of drinking themselves dead. But we lose time. Are you ready? Quite, said Edward. Put out the torch, Joe, and go on. Be silent, there's a good fellow. Silent or not silent? murmured Joe as he dropped the flaring link upon the ground, crushed it with his foot, and gave his hand to Mr. Heardale. It was a brave and glorious action. No man can alter that. Both Mr. Heardale and the worthy Vintner were too amazed and too much hurried to ask any further questions, so followed their conductors in silence. It seemed, from a short whispering, which presently ensued between them, and the Vintner relatively the best way of escape, that they had entered by the back door with the connivance of John Groobie, who watched outside of the key in his pocket, and whom they had taken into their confidence. A party of the crowd coming up that way, just as they entered, John had double locked the door again, and made off for the soldiers, so that means of retreat was cut off from under them. However, as the front door had been forced, and this minor crowd, being anxious to get at the liquor, had no fancy for losing time and breaking down another, but had gone round, and got in from Hoburn with the rest. The narrow lane in the rear was quite free of people. So, when they had crawled through the passage indicated by the Vintner, which was a mere shelving trap for the admission of casks, and had managed with some difficulty to unchain and raise the door at the upper end, they emerged into the street without being observed or interrupted. Joe still holding Mr. Heardale tight, and Edward taking the same care of the Vintner. They hurried through the streets at a rapid pace, occasionally standing aside to let some fugitives go by, or to keep out of the way of the soldiers who followed them, and whose questions, when they halted to put any, were speedily stopped by one whispered word from Joe. End of Chapter 67. Chapter 68 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens. Chapter 68 While Newgate was burning on the previous night, Barnaby and his father, having been passed among the crowd from hand to hand, stood in Smithfield on the outskirts of the mob, gazing at the flames like men who had been suddenly roused from sleep. Some moments elapsed before they could distinctly remember where they were, or how they got there, or recollected that while they were standing idle and listless spectators of the fire, they had tools in their hands which had been hurriedly given them, that they might free themselves from their fetters. Barnaby heavily ironed as he was, if he had obeyed his first impulse, or if he had been alone, would have made his way back to the side of Hugh, who, to his clouded intellect, now shone forth with the new luster of being his preserver and truest friend. But his father's terror of remaining in the streets communicated itself to him when he comprehended the full extent of his fears, and impressed him with the same eagerness to fly to a place of safety. In a corner of the market, among the pens for cattle, Barnaby knelt down, and pausing every now and then to pass his hand over his father's face, or look up to him with a smile, knocked off his irons. When he had seen him spring a free man to his feet, and had given vent to the transport of delight which the sight awakened, he went to work upon his own, which soon fell rattling down upon the ground, and left his limbs unfettered. Gliding away together when this task was accomplished, and passing several groups of men, each gathered round a stooping figure to hide him from those who passed, but unable to repress the clanking sound of hammers, which told that they too were busy at the same work, the two fugitives made towards Clarkinwell, and passing thence to Islington as the nearest point of eagerness were quickly in the fields. After wandering about for a long time, they found in a pasture near Finchley a poor shed with walls of mud and roof of grass and brambles, built for some cowherd, but now deserted. Here they lay down for the rest of the night. They wandered to and fro when it was day, and once Barnaby went off alone to a cluster of little cottages two or three miles away to purchase some bread and milk, but finding no better shelter, they returned to the same place, and lay down again to wait for night. Heaven alone can tell, with what vague hopes of duty and affection, with what strange promptings of nature intelligible to him as to a man of radiant mind and most enlarged capacity, with what dim memories of children he had played with when a child himself, who had prattled of their fathers and of loving them and being loved, with how many half-remembered dreamy associations of his mother's grief and tears and widowhood, he watched and tended this man. But that a vague and shadowy crowd of such ideas came slowly on him, that they taught him to be sorry when he looked upon his haggard face, that they overflowed his eyes when he stooped to kiss him, that they kept him waking in a tearful gladness, shading him from the sun, fanning him with leaves, soothing him when he started in his sleep. Ah, what a troubled sleep it was, and wondering when she would come to join them and be happy is the truth. He sat beside him all that day, listening for her footsteps in every breath of air, looking for her shadow on the gently waving grass, twining the hedge-flowers for her pleasure when she came, and his when he awoke, and stooping down from time to time to listen to his mutterings and wonder why he was so restless in that quiet place. The sun went down, and night came on, and he was still quite tranquil. Busied with these thoughts as if there were no other people in the world, and the dull cloud of smoke hanging on the immense city in the distance, hid no vices, no crimes, no life or death, or cause of disquiet, nothing but clear air. But the hour had now come when he must go alone to find out the blind man, a task that filled him with delight, and bring him to that place, taking a special care that he was not watched or followed on his way back. He listened to the directions he must observe, repeated them again and again, and after twice or thrice returning to surprise his father with a light-hearted laugh, went forth at last upon his errand, leaving grip whom he had carried from the jail in his arms to his care. Fleet of foot and anxious to return, he sped swiftly on towards the city, but could not reach it before the fires began, and made the night angry with their dismal luster. When he entered the town, it might be that he was changed by going there without his late companions, and on no violent errand, or by the beautiful solitude in which he had passed the day, or by the thoughts that had come upon him, but it seemed peopled by a legion of devils. This flight and pursuit, this cruel burning and destroying, these dreadful cries and stunning noises, were they the good Lord's noble cause? Though almost stupefied by the bewildering scene, still he found the blind man's house, it was shut up and tenantless. He waited for a long while, but no one came. At last he withdrew, and as he knew by this time that the soldiers were firing, and many people must have been killed, he went down into Hoban, where he heard the great crowd was, to try if he could find Hugh, and persuade him to avoid the danger, and return with him. If he had been stunned and shocked before, his horror was increased a thousandfold when he got into this vortex of the riot, and not being an actor in the terrible spectacle had it all before his eyes, but there, in the midst, towering above them all, close before the house they were attacking now, was Hugh on horseback, calling to the rest. Sickened by the sight surrounding him on every side, and by the heat and raw and crash, he forced his way among the crowd, where many recognized him, and with shouts pressed back to let him pass. And in time was nearly up with Hugh, who was savagely threatening someone, but whom or what he said he could not in the great confusion understand. At that moment the crowd forced their way into the house, and Hugh, it was impossible to see by what means in such a concourse, fell headlong down. Barnaby was beside him when he staggered to his feet. It was well he made him hear his voice, or Hugh, with his uplifted axe, would have cleft his skull in twain. Barnaby, you! Whose hand was that that struck me down? Not mine. Whose? I say, whose? He cried, reeling back, and looking wildly round. What are you doing? Where is he? Show me! You're hurt, said Barnaby, as indeed he was, in the head, both by the blow he had received, and by his horse's hoof. Come away with me! As he spoke, he took the horse's bridle in his hand, turned him, and dragged Hugh several paces. This brought them out of the crowd, which was pouring from the street into the Vintner's cellars. Where's—where's Dennis? said Hugh, coming to a stop, and checking Barnaby with his strong arm. Where has he been all day? What did he mean by leaving me as he did in the giant last night? Tell me, you! Do you hear? With a flourish of his dangerous weapon, he fell down upon the ground like a log. After a minute, though already frantic with drinking and with the wound in his head, he crawled to a stream of burning spirit, which was pouring down the kennel, and began to drink at it, as if it were a brook of water. Barnaby drew him away, and forced him to rise. Though he could neither stand nor walk, he involuntarily staggered to his horse, climbed upon his back, and clung there. After vainly attempting to divest the animal of his clanking trappings, Barnaby sprung up behind him, snatched the bridle, turned into leather lane, which was close at hand, and urged the frightened horse into a heavy trot. He looked back once, before he left the street, and looked upon a site not easily to be erased, even from his remembrance, so long as he had life. The Vintner's house, with a half a dozen others near at hand, was one great glowing blaze. All night no one had a say to quench the flames, or stop their progress. But now a body of soldiers were actively engaged in pulling down two old wooden houses, which were every moment in danger of taking fire, and which could scarcely fail, if they were left to burn, to extend the conflagration immensely. The tumbling down of nodding walls and heavy blocks of wood, the hooting and the execrations of the crowd, the distant firing of other military detachments, the distracted looks and cries of those whose habitations were in danger, the hurrying to and fro of frightened people with their goods, the reflections in every quarter of the sky, of deep, red, soaring flames, as though the last day had come, and the whole universe were burning. The dust and smoke and drift of fiery particles, scorching and kindling all it fell upon, the hot unwholesome vapor, the blight on everything, the stars and moon and very sky obliterated, made up such as some of dreariness and ruin, that it seemed as if the face of heaven were blotted out, and night and its rest and quiet and softened light never could look upon the earth again. But there was a worse spectacle than this, worse by far than fire and smoke, or even the rabble's unappeasable and maniac rage. The gutters of the street, and every crack and fissure in the stones, ran with scorching spirit, which, being dammed up by busy hands, overflowed the road and pavement, and formed a great pool into which the people dropped down dead by dozens. They lay in heaps all round this fearful pond, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, women with children in their arms, and babies at their breasts, and drank, until they died. While some stooped with their lips to the brink and never raised their heads again, others sprang up from the fiery draught, and danced half in a mad triumph, and half in the agony of suffocation, until they fell, and steeped their corpses in the liquor that had killed them. Nor was even this the worst or most appalling kind of death that happened on this fatal night. From the burning cellars, where they drank out of hats, pails, buckets, tubs and shoes, some men were drawn, alive, but all alight from head to foot, who, in their unendurable anguish and suffering, making for anything that had the look of water, rolled, hissing, in this hideous lake, and splashed up liquid fire, which lapped in all it met with as it ran along the surface, and neither spared the living nor the dead. On this last night of the great riots, for the last night it was, the wretched victims of a senseless outcry, became themselves the dust and ashes of the flames they had kindled, and strewed the public streets of London. With all he saw in this last glance, fixed indelibly upon his mind, Barnaby hurried from the city, which enclosed such horrors, and holding down his head, that he might not even see the glare of the fires upon the quiet landscape, were soon in the still country roads. He stopped at about half a mile from the shed where his father lay, and with some difficulty making hue sensible that he must dismount, sunk the horse's furniture in a pool of stagnant water, and turned the animal loose. That done, he supported his companion as well as he could, and led him slowly forward. CHAPTER 69 It was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with his stumbling comrade, approached the place where he had left his father. But he could see him stealing away into the gloom, distrustful even of him, and rapidly retreating. After calling to him twice or twice that there was nothing to fear, but without effect, he suffered hue to sink upon the ground, and followed to bring him back. He continued to creep away, until Barnaby was close upon him, then turned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice, Let me go! Do not lay hands upon me! You've told her, and you and she together have betrayed me! Barnaby looked at him in silence. You've seen your mother! No! cried Barnaby eagerly. Not for a long time, longer than I can tell. A whole year, I think. Is she here? His father looked upon him steadfastly for a few moments, and then said, drawing nearer to him as he spoke, for, seeing his face and hearing his words, it was impossible to doubt his truth. What man is that? Hue! Hue! Only hue! You know him? He will not harm you? Why, you're afraid of hue! Afraid of gruff old, noisy hue! What man is he, I ask you? He rejoined so fiercely, that Barnaby stopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed him with the look of terrified amazement. Why, how stern you are! You make me fear you, though you are my father. Why do you speak to me so? I want! he answered, putting away the hand which his son with a timid desire to propitiate him, laid upon his sleeve. I want an answer, and you give me only jeers and questions. Who have you brought with you to this hiding place, poor fool? And where is the blind man? I don't know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but no person came. That was no fault of mine. This is Hue, brave Hue, who broke into that ugly jail and set us free. You like him now, do you? You like him now? Why does he lie upon the ground? He has had a fall, has been drinking. The fields and trees go round and round and round with him, and the ground heaves under his feet. You know him? You remember? See? They had by this time returned to where he lay, and both stooped over him to look into his face. I recollect, the man, his father murmured, why did you bring him here? Because he would have been killed if I had left him over yonder, they were firing guns and shedding blood. Does the sight of blood turn you sick, father? I see it does by your face. That's like me. What are you looking at? At nothing, said the murderer softly, as he started back a pace or two, and gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son's head. At nothing. He remained in the same attitude, and with the same expression on his face for a minute or more. Then glanced slowly round as if he had lost something, and went shivering back towards the shed. Shall I bring him in, father? asked Barnaby, who had looked on, wondering. He only answered with a suppressed groan, and lying down upon the ground wrapped his cloak about his head, and shrunk into the darkest corner. Finding that nothing would rouse Hugh now, or make him sensible for a moment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid him on a little heap of refuse hay and straw, which had been his own bed. First having brought some water from a running stream hard by, and washed his wound, and laid his hands and face. Then he lay down himself between the two to pass the night, and looking at the stars fell fast asleep. Awakened early in the morning by the sunshine and the songs of birds, and hum of insects, he left them sleeping in the hut, and walked into the sweet and pleasant air. But he felt that on his jaded senses, oppressed and burdened with the dreadful scenes of last night, and many nights before, all the beauties of opening day, which he had so often tasted, and in which he had had such a deep delight, fell heavily. He thought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding on together through the woods and fields, and the recollection filled his eyes with tears. He had no consciousness, God help him, of having done wrong, nor had he any new perception of the merits of the cause in which he had been engaged, or those of the men who advocated it. But he was full of cares now, and regrets, and dismal recollections and wishes, quite unknown to him before, that this or that event had never happened, and that the sorrow and suffering of so many people had been spared. And now he began to think how happy they would be, his father, mother, he, and Hugh, if they rambled away together, and lived in some lonely place where there were none of these troubles, and that perhaps the blind man, who had talked so wisely about gold, and told him of the great secrets he knew, could teach them how to live without being pinched by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry that he had not seen him last night, and he was still brooding over this regret when his father came and touched him on the shoulder. Ah! cried Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. Is it only you? Who should it be? I almost thought, he answered, it was the blind man. I must have some talk with him, father. And so must I, for without seeing him, I don't know where to fly or what to do, and lingering here is death. He must go to him again, and bring him here. Must I? cried Barnaby, delighted. That's brave, father, that's what I want to do. But you must bring only him and none other, and though you waited his door whole day and night, still you must wait, and not come back without him. Don't you fear that? he cried gaily. He shall come, he shall come. Trim off these googhours, said his father, plucking the scraps of ribbon and the feathers from his hat, and over your own dress wear my cloak, take heed how you go, and they will be too busy in the streets to notice you. Of your coming back, you need take no account, for he'll manage that safely. To be sure, said Barnaby, to be sure he will, a wise man, father, and one who can teach us to be rich. Oh, I know him, I know him. He was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he could be. With a lighter heart he then set off upon his second journey, leaving Hugh, who was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon the ground within the shed, and his father walking to and fro before it. The murderer, full of anxious thoughts, looked after him, and paced up and down, disquieted by every breath of air that whispered among the boughs, and by every light shadow thrown by the passing clouds upon the daisyed ground. He was anxious for his safe return, and yet, though his own life and safety hung upon it, felt a relief while he was gone. In the intense selfishness which the constant presence before him of his great crimes, and their consequences here and hereafter engendered, every thought of Barnaby as his son was swallowed up and lost. Still his presence was a torture and reproach. In his wild eyes there were terrible images of that guilty night, with his unearthly aspect, and his half-formed mind, he seemed to the murderer a creature who had sprung into existence from his victim's blood. He could not bear his look, his voice, his touch, and yet he was forced, by his own desperate condition, and his only hope of cheating the gibbet, to have him by his side, and to know that he was inseparable from his single chance of escape. He walked to and fro, with little rest all day, revolving these things in his mind, and still Hugh lay unconscious in the shed. At length, when the sun was setting, Barnaby returned, leading the blind man and talking earnestly to him as they came along together. The murderer advanced to meet them, and bidding his son go on and speak to Hugh, who had just then staggered to his feet, took his place at the blind man's elbow, and slowly followed towards the shed. Why did you send him? said Stag. Don't you know it was the way to have him lost, as soon as found? Would you have had me come myself? returned the other. Perhaps not. I was before the jail on Tuesday night, but missed you in the crowd. I was out last night too. It was good work last night. Gay work, profitable work, he added, rattling the money in his pockets. Have you seen your good lady? Yes. Do you mean to tell me more or not? I'll tell you all, returned the blind man with a laugh. Excuse me, but I love to see you so impatient. There's energy in it. Does she consent to say the word that may save me? No, returned the blind man emphatically, as he turned his face towards him. No, thus it is. She has been at death's door since she lost her darling, has been insensible, and I know not what. I tracked her to hospital, and presented myself with your leave at her bedside. Our talk was not a long one, for she was weak, and there being people near, I was not quite easy. But I told her all that you and I agreed upon, and pointed out the young gentleman's position in strong terms. She tried to soften me, but that, of course, as I told her, was lost time. She cried and moaned, you may be sure all women do. Then, of a sudden, she found her voice and strength, and said that heaven would help her and her innocent son, and that to heaven she appealed against us, which she did, in really very pretty language, I assure you. I advised her, as a friend, not to count too much on assistance from any such distant quarter, recommended her to think of it, told her where I lived, said I knew she would send to me before noon next day, and left her, either in a faint or shaming. When he had concluded this narration, during which he had made several pauses for the convenience of cracking and eating nuts, of which he seemed to have a pocket full, the blind man pulled a flask from his pocket, took a draft himself, and offered it to his companion. He won't, won't he? He said, feeling that he pushed it from him. Well, then the gallant gentleman who's lodging with you will, hello, bully. Death, said the other, holding him back. Will you tell me what I am to do? Do? Nothing easier. Make a moonlight flitting in two hours' time with the young gentleman. He's quite ready to go. I've been giving him good advice as we came along, and get as far from London as you can. Let me know where you are, and leave the rest to me. She must come round. She can't hold out long, and as to the chances of your being retaken in the meanwhile, why it wasn't one man who got out of Newgate but three hundred. Think of that for your comfort. We must support life, how? How, repeated the blind man, by eating and drinking. And how, get meat and drink, but by paying for it. Money, he cried, slapping his pocket. Is money the word? Why, the streets have been running money. Devil send at the sports not over yet, for these are jolly times. Golden, rare roaring scrambling times. Hello, bully. Hello, hello. Drink, bully, drink. Where are you there? Hello. With such vociferations, and with a boisterous manner which bespoke his perfect abandonment to the general licence and disorder, he groped his way towards the shed, where Hugh and Barnaby were sitting on the ground. Put it about, he cried, handing his flask to Hugh. The kennels run with wine and gold, guineas and strong water flow from the very pumps about with it. Don't spare it. Exhausted, unwashed, unshawn, begrimed with smoke and dust, his hair clotted with blood, his voice quite gone, though bespoken whispers, his skin parched up by fever, his whole body bruised and cut and beaten about, Hugh still took the flask and raised it to his lips. He was in the act of drinking, and the front of the shed was suddenly darkened, and Dennis stood before them. Now offence. Now offence! said that personage in a conciliatory tone, as Hugh stopped in his draught and eyed him with no pleasant look from head to foot. Now offence, brother! Barnaby are you, too, eh? How are you, Barnaby? And two other gentlemen, your humble servant gentleman. Now offence to you either, I hope, eh, brothers? Notwithstanding that he spoke in this very friendly and confident manner, he seemed to have considerable hesitation about entering, and remained outside the roof. He was rather better dressed than usual, wearing the same suit of thread-bear-black, it is true, but having round his neck an unhosn-looking cravat of a yellowish white, and on his hands great leather gloves, such as a gardener might wear in following his trade. His shoes were newly greased and ornamented with a pair of rusty iron buckles. The pack-thread at his knees had been renewed, and where he wanted buttons, he wore pins. Altogether he had something the look of a tip-staff or a bailiff's follower, desperately faded, but who had a notion of keeping up the appearance of a professional character, and making the best of the worst means. You're very snaggy, said Mr. Dennis, pulling out a mouldy pocket-hank chief, which looked like a decomposed halter, and wiping his forehead in a nervous manner. Not snug enough to prevent your finding, must it seems, he answered sulkily. Why, I'll tell you what, brother, said Dennis with a friendly smile. When you don't want me to know which way you're riding, you must wear another sort of bells on your horse. Ah, I know the sound of them you wore last night, and have got quit ears for him, that's the truth. Well, but how are you, brother? He had by this time approached, and now ventured to sit down by him. How am I? answered Hugh. Where were you yesterday? Where did you go, and you left me in the jail? Why did you leave me? And what did you mean by rolling your eyes and shaking your fist at me, eh? I shake my fist at you, brother, said Dennis, gently checking Hugh's uplifted hand, which looked threatening. Your stick, then, it's all one. Lord love you, brother, I meant nothing. You don't understand me by half. I shouldn't wonder now. He added in the tone of a desponding and an injured man. But you thought, because I wanted them chaps left in the prison, that I was going to desert the banners? Hugh told him with an oath that he had thought so. Well, said Mr. Dennis mournfully, if you aren't enough to make a man mistrust his fellow creeders, I don't know what is. Desert the banners, me, Ned Dennis, as were so christened by his own father. Is this axe yourn, brother? Yes, it's mine, said Hugh in the same sullen manner as before. It might have hurt you if you had come in its way once or twice last night. Put it down! Might have hurt me, said Mr. Dennis, still keeping it in his hand and feeling the edge with an air of abstraction. Might have hurt me, and me exerting myself all the time to the very best advantage. Here's a world, and you're not alone to ask me to take a sip out of that air-bottle, eh? Hugh passed it towards him. As he raised it to his lips, Barnaby jumped up, and motioning them to be silent looked eagerly out. What's the matter, Barnaby? said Dennis, glancing at Hugh and dropping the flask, but still holding the axe in his hand. He answered softly, What do I see glittering behind the hedge? What? cried the hangman, raising his voice to its highest pitch, and laying hold of him and Hugh. Not soldiers, surely? That moment the shed was filled with armed men, and a body of horse galloping into the field drew up before it. There, said Dennis, who remained untouched among them when they had seized their prisoners. It's them two young ones, gentlemen, that the proclamation puts a price on. This other's an escaped felon. I'm sorry for it, brother. He added in a tone of resignation, addressing himself to Hugh, but you brought it on yourself. You forced me to do it. You wouldn't respect the soundest constitutional principles, you know. You went and while-ighted the weary framework of society. I'd sooner have given away a trifle in charity than Dennis. I would upon my soul. If you'll keep fast hold on him, gentlemen, I'll think I can make a shift to tie him better than you can. But this operation was postponed for a few moments by a new occurrence. The blind man, whose ears were quicker than most people's sight, had been alarmed before Barnaby by a wrestling in the bushes under cover of which the soldiers had advanced. He retreated instantly, had hidden somewhere for a minute, and probably in his confusion, mistaking the point at which he had emerged, was now seen running across the open meadow. An officer cried directly that he had helped to plunder a house last night. He was loudly called on to surrender. He ran the harder, and in a few seconds would have been out of gun-shot. The word was given, and the men fired. There was a breathless pause and a profound silence, during which all eyes were fixed upon him. He had been seen to start at the discharge as if the report had frightened him. But he neither stopped nor slackened his pace in the least, and ran on full forty yards further. Then, without one reel or stagger or sign of faintness or quivering of any limb, he dropped. Some of them hurried up to where he lay, the hangman with them. Everything had passed so quickly that the smoke had not yet scattered, but curled slowly off in the little cloud, which seemed like the dead man's spirit moving solemnly away. There were a few drops of blood upon the grass, more when they turned him over. That was all. Look here! Look here! said the hangman, stooping one knee beside the body, and gazing up at the disconsolate face of the officer and men. He is a pretty sight! Stand out of the way! replied the officer. Sergeant, see what he had about him. The man turned his pockets out upon the grass and counted beside some foreign coins and two rings, five and forty guineas and gold. These were bundled up in a handkerchief and carried away. The body remained there for the present, but six men and the sergeant were left to take it to the nearest public house. Now then, if you're going, said the sergeant, clapping Dennis on the back and pointing out to the officer who was walking towards the shed, to which Mr. Dennis only replied, Don't talk to me! and then repeated what he had said before, namely, Here's a pretty sight! It's not one that you care for much, I should think. Observe the sergeant coolly. Why, who? said Mr. Dennis Rising. Should care for it, if I don't. Oh, I didn't know you were so tender-hearted, said the sergeant. That's all. Tender-hearted! echoed Dennis. Tender-hearted! Look at this man! Do you call this constitutional? Do you see him shot through and through, instead of being worked off like a Britain? Dummy, if I know which part you decide with. You're as bad as the other. What's to become of the country if the military powers to go are superseding the civilians in this way? Where's this poor fellow-creature's right as a citizen, that he didn't have me in his last moments? I was here. I was willing. I was ready. These are nice times, brother. Do I have the dead crying out against us in this way, and sleep comfortably in our beds afterwards? Very nice. Whether he derived any material consolation from binding the prisoners is uncertain, most probably he did. At all events, his being summoned to that work diverted him for the time from these painful reflections, and gave his thoughts a more congenial occupation. They were not all three carried off together, but in two parties. Barnaby and his father, going by one road in the centre of a body of foot, and Hugh fast bound upon a horse, and strongly guarded by a troop of cavalry, being taken by another. They had no opportunity for the least communication, in the short interval which preceded their departure, being kept strictly apart. Hugh only observed that Barnaby walked with the drooping head among his guard, and without raising his eyes, that he tried to wave his fettered hand when he passed. For himself, he boarded up his courage as he rode along, with the assurance that the mob would force his jail wherever it might be, and set him at liberty. But when they got into London, and more specially into Fleet Market, lately the stronghold of the rioters, where the military were rooting out the last remnant of the crowd, he saw that this hope was gone, and felt that he was riding to his death. End of Chapter 69 Chapter 70 of Barnaby-Rudge A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby-Rudge A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens Chapter 70 Mr. Dennis, having dispatched this piece of business without any personal hurt or inconvenience, and having now retired into the tranquil respectability of private life, resolved to solace himself with half an hour or so of female society. With this amiable purpose in his mind, he bent his steps towards the house, where Dolly and Miss Haerdale were still confined, and with her Miss Miggs had also been removed by order of Mr. Simon Tapetit. As he walked along the streets with his leather gloves clasped behind him, and his face indicative of cheerful thought and pleasant calculation, Mr. Dennis might have been likened unto a farmer ruminating among his crops, and enjoying by anticipation the bountiful gifts of Providence. Look where he would, some heap of ruins afforded him rich promise of a working off. The whole town appeared to have been ploughed and sewn, and nurtured by most genial weather, and a goodly harvest was at hand. Having taken up arms and resorted to deeds of violence, with the great main object of preserving the old Bailey in all its purity, and the gallows in all its pristine usefulness and moral grandeur, it would perhaps be going too far to assert that Mr. Dennis had ever distinctly contemplated and foreseen this happy state of things. He rather looked upon it as one of those beautiful dispensations which are inscrutably brought about for the behoof and advantage of good men. He felt, as it were, personally referred to in this prosperous ripening for the gibbet, and had never considered himself so much the pet and favourite child of destiny, or loved that lady so well or with such a calm and virtuous reliance in all his life. As to being taken up himself for a rioter and punished with the rest, Mr. Dennis dismissed that possibility from his thoughts as an idle chimera, arguing that the line of conduct he had adopted at Newgate, and the service he had rendered that day would be more than a set off against any evidence which might identify him as a member of the crowd, that any charge of companionship which might be made against him by those who were themselves in danger would certainly go for nought, and that if any trivial indiscretion on his part should unluckily come out, the uncommon usefulness of his office at present and the great demand for the exercise of its functions would certainly cause it to be winked at and passed over. In a word he had played his cards throughout with great care, had changed sides at the very nick of time, had delivered up two of the most notorious rioters and a distinguished felon to boot, and was quite at his ease. Saving for the reserve reservation, and even Mr. Dennis was not perfectly happy, saving for one circumstance, to wit the forcible detention of Dolly and Ms. Hairdale in a house almost adjoining his own. This was a stumbling block, for if they were discovered and released they could, by the testimony they had it in their power to give, place him in a situation of great jeopardy, and to set them at liberty, first extorting from them an oath of secrecy and silence, was a thing not to be thought of. It was more perhaps with an eye to the danger which lurked in this quarter, than from his abstract love of conversation with the sex, that the hangman, quickening his steps, now hastened into their society, cursing the amorous natures of Hugh and Mr. Tapetit with great heartiness at every step he took. When he entered the miserable room in which they were confined, Dolly and Ms. Hairdale withdrew in silence to the remotest corner, but Ms. Miggs, who was particularly tender of her reputation, immediately fell upon her knees and began to scream very loud, crying, What will we care of me? Where is my Simmons? Have mercy, good gentleman, on my sexist weaknesses! With other doleful lamentations of that nature which she delivered with great propriety and decorum. Miss, miss! whispered Dennis, beckoning to her with his forefinger. Come here, I won't hurt you. Come here, my lamb, will you? On hearing this tender epithet, this Miggs, who had left off screaming when he opened his lips, and had listened to him attentively, began again, crying, Oh, I miss lamb! He says, I'm his lamb! Oh, gracious! Why wasn't I born old and ugly? Why was I ever made to be the youngest of six, and all of them dead and in their blessed graves, except in one married sister, which he settled in Golden Lion Court, number 27, second bell handle on the— Don't I say I ain't a going to hurt you? said Dennis, pointing to a chair. Why, miss, what's the matter? I don't know. What made me the matter? cried Miss Miggs, clasping her hands distractedly. Anything might be the matter. But nothing easy, I'll tell you, said the hangman. First, stop that noise, and come and sit down here, will you, Jackie? The coaxing tone in which he said these latter words might have failed in its object, if he had not accompanied them with sundry sharp jerks of his thumb over one shoulder, and with diverse winks and thrustings of his tongue into his cheek, from which signals the damsel gathered that he sought to speak to her apart, concerning Miss Hairdale and Dolly. Her curiosity, being very powerful, and her jealousy by no means inactive, she arose, and with a great deal of shivering and starting back, and much muscular action among all the small bones in her throat, gradually approached him. Sit down, said the hangman. Suiting the action to the word, he thrust her rather suddenly and prematurely into a chair, and, designing to reassure her by a little harmless jocularity, such as is adapted to please and fascinate the sex, converted his right forefinger into an ideal braddle or gimlet, and made as though he would screw the same into her side, where at Miss Miggs shrieked again and evinced symptoms of faintness. Lovey, my dear! whispered Dennis, drawing his chair close to hers. When was your young man here last day? My young man, good gentleman! answered Miggs in a tone of exquisite distress. Ah, Simmons, you know, him! said Dennis. Mine, indeed! cried Miggs for the burst of bitterness, and as she said it, she glanced toward Dolly. Mine, good gentleman! This was just what Mr. Dennis wanted and expected. Ah, he said, looking so soothingly, not to say amourously, on Miggs, that she sat, as she afterwards remarked, on pins and needles of the sharpest whitechapel kind, not knowing what intentions might be suggesting that expression to his features. I was afraid of that. I saw as much myself. It is her fault. She will entice him. I wouldn't! cried Miggs, folding her hands and looking upwards with a kind of devout blankness. I wouldn't lie myself out, as she does. I wouldn't be as bowled as her. I wouldn't seem to say to all my creatures, come and kiss me. And here a shudder quite convulsed her frame. For any earthly crowns as might be of offered. Worlds! Miggs added solemnly. Should not reduce me, now, not if I was weenus. Well, but you are weenus, you know, said Mr. Dennis confidentially. Now I'm not, good gentleman! answered Miggs, shaking her head with an air of self-denial, which seemed to imply that she might be if she chose, but she hoped she knew better. No! I'm not, good gentleman! Don't charge me with it! Up to this time she had turned round every now and then, to where Dolly and Miss Haredale had retired, and uttered a scream, or groan, or lay her hand upon her heart, and trembled excessively, with a view of keeping up appearances, and giving them to understand that she conversed with the visitor under protest and on compulsion, and had a great personal sacrifice for their common good. But at this point Mr. Dennis looked so very full of meaning, and gave such a singily expressive twitch to his face, as a request to her to come still nearer to him, that she abandoned these little arts, and gave him her whole and undivided attention. When was Simmons here, I say? Quilth Dennis in her ear. Not since yesterday morning, and then only for a few minutes, not all day, the day before. You know, he meant all along to carry all for that one, said Dennis, indicating Dolly by the slightest possible jerk of his head, and to hand you over to somebody else. Miss Miggs, who had fallen into a terrible state of grief when the first part of his sentence was spoken, recovered a little at the second, and seemed by the sudden check she put upon her tears to intimate that possibly this arrangement might meet her views, and that it might perhaps remain an open question. But, unfortunately, pursued Dennis, who observed this, somebody else was fond of her too, you see, and even if he wasn't, somebody else's took for a ride there, and it's all over with him. Miss Miggs relapsed. Now I want, said Dennis, to clear this house, and I see you ride it. What if I was to get her off, out of the way, eh? Miss Miggs, brightening again, rejoined with many breaks and pauses from excessive feeling, that temptations had been Simmons's bane, that it was not his faults but hers, meaning Dolly's, that men did not see through these dreadful arts as women did, and therefore was caged and trapped as Simmons had been, that she had no personal motives to serve far from it, on the contrary, her intentions was good towards all parties. But for as much as she knowed that Simmons, if united to any designing and artful minksers, she would name no names, for that was not her dispositions, to any designing and artful minksers must be made miserable and unhappy for life, she did incline towards preventions. Such, she added, was her free confessions. But as this was private feelings, and might perhaps be looked upon as vengeance, she begged the gentleman would say no more. Whatever he said, wishing to do her duty by all mankind, even by them, as had ever been her bitterest enemies, she would not listen to him. With that she stopped her ears, and shook her head from side to side, to intimate to Mr. Dennis, that though he talked until he had no breath left, she was as deaf as any adder. Looky ear, my sugar-stick, said Mr. Dennis. If your views the same as mine, and you'll only be quiet and slip away at the right time, I can have the house clear tomorrow, and be out of this trouble. Stop, though. There's the other. Which other, sir? asked Megs, still with her fingers and her ears, and her head shaking obstinately. Why, the tallest one, Yonder, said Dennis, as he stroked his chin, and added, in an undertone to himself, something about not crossing Mr. Gashford. Ms. Megs replied, still being profoundly deaf, that if Ms. Haerdale stood in the way at all, he might make himself quite easy on that score, as she had gathered from what passed between Hugh and Mr. Tappetit when they were last there, that she was to be removed alone, not by them, but by somebody else, to-morrow night. Mr. Dennis opened his eyes very wide at this piece of information, whistled once, considered once, and finally slapped his head once, and nodded once, as if he had got the clue to this mysterious removal, and so dismissed it. Then he imparted his design concerning Dolly to Ms. Megs, who was taken more deaf than before, when he began, and so remained all through. The notable scheme was this. Mr. Dennis was immediately to seek out from among the rioters some daring young fellow, and he had one in his eye, he said, who, terrified by the threats he could hold out to him, and alarmed by the capture of so many, who were no better and no worse than he, would gladly avail himself of any help to get abroad, and out of harm's way, with his plunder, even though his journey were encumbered by an unwilling companion. Indeed, the unwilling companion being a beautiful girl would probably be an additional inducement and temptation. Such a person found, he proposed to bring him there on the ensuing night, when the tall one was taken off, and Ms. Megs had purposely retired, and then that Dolly should be gagged, muffled in a cloak, and carried in any handy conveyance down to the river's side, where there were abundant means of getting her smuggled snugly off in any small craft of doubtful character, and no questions asked. With regard to the expense of this removal, he would say, at a rough calculation, that two or three silver tea or coffee pots, with something additional for drink, such as a muffinier or toastsrack, would more than cover it. Articles of plate of every kind, having been buried by the rioters in several lonely parts of London, and particularly, as he knew in St. James's Square, which, though easy of access, was little frequented after dark, and had a convenient piece of water in the midst, the needful funds were close at hand, and could be had upon the shortest notice. With regard to Dolly, the gentleman would exercise his own discretion. He would be bound to do nothing but to take her away, and keep her away. All other arrangements and dispositions would rest entirely with himself. If Ms. Megs had had her hearing, no doubt she would have been greatly shocked by the indelicacy of young females going away with the stranger by night, for her moral feelings, as we have said, were of the tenderest kind. But directly Mr. Dennis ceased to speak, she reminded him that he had only wasted breath. She went on to say, still with her fingers in her ears, that nothing less than a severe practical lesson would save the locksmith's daughter from utter ruin, and that she felt it, as it were, a moral obligation at a sacred duty to the family, to wish that someone would devise one for her reformation. Ms. Megs remarked, and very justly, as an abstract sentiment which happened to occur to her at the moment, that she dared to say the locksmith and his wife would murmur and repine if they were ever by forcible abduction or otherwise to lose their child, but that we seldom knew in this world what was best for us, such being our sinful and imperfect natures, that very few arrived at that clear understanding. Having brought their conversation to this satisfactory end, they parted. Dennis, to pursue his design, and take another walk about his farm. Ms. Megs, to launch when he left her into such a burst of mental anguish, which he gave them to understand was occasioned by certain tender things he had had the presumption and audacity to say, that little Dolly's heart was quite melted. Indeed, she said, and did so much to soothe the outraged feelings of Ms. Megs, and looked so beautiful while doing so, that if that young maid had not had ample vent for her surpassing spite in a knowledge of the mischief that was brewing, she must have scratched her features on the spot. End of Chapter 70. Chapter 71 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens. Chapter 71 All next day Emma Haerdale, Dolly, and Megs remained cooped up together in what had now been their prison for so many days, without seeing any person or hearing any sound but the murmured conversation in an outer room of the men who kept watch over them. There appeared to be more of these fellows than there had been hither, too, and they could no longer hear the voices of women which they had before plainly distinguished. Some new excitement, too, seemed to prevail among them, for there was much stealthy going in and out, and a constant questioning of those who were newly arrived. They had previously been quite reckless in their behaviour, often making a great uproar, quarrelling among themselves, fighting, dancing, and singing. They were now very subdued and silent, conversing almost and whispers, and stealing in and out with a soft and stealthy tread, very different from the boisterous trembling in which their arrivals and departures had hitherto been announced to the trembling captives. Whether this change was occasioned by the presence among them of some person of authority in their ranks, or by any other cause they were unable to decide, sometimes they thought it was in part attributable to their being a sick man in the chamber, for last night there had been a shuffling of feet as though a burden were brought in, and afterwards a moaning noise. But they had no means of ascertaining the truth, for any question or entreaty on their parts only provoked a storm of execrations or something worse, and they were too happy to be left alone unassailed by threats or admiration to risk even that comfort by any voluntary communication with those who held them in durance. It was sufficiently evident, both to Emma and to the locksmith's poor little daughter herself, that she, Dolly, was the great object of attraction, and that so soon as they should have leisure to indulge in the softer passion, Hugh and Mr. Tapetit would certainly fall to blows for her sake, in which latter case it was not very difficult to see whose prize she would become. With all her old horror of that man revived, and deepened into a degree of aversion and abhorrence which no language can describe, with a thousand old recollections and regrets and causes of distress, anxiety and fear besetting her on all sides, poor Dolly Varden, sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly, began to hang her head and fade and droop like a beautiful flower. The colour fled from her cheeks, her courage for succour, her gentle heart failed. Unmindful of all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests and inconstancy, with all her winning little vanities quite gone, she nestled all the live-long day in Emma Haerdale's bosom, and sometimes calling on her dear old grey-haired father, sometimes on her mother, and sometimes even on her old home, pined slowly away like a poor bird in its cage. Light hearts, light hearts, that float so gaily on a smooth stream, that are so sparkling and buoyant in the sunshine, down upon fruit, bloom upon flowers, blush in summer air, life of the winged insect, whose whole existence is a day, how soon you sink in troubled water. Poor Dolly's heart, a little, gentle, idle, fickle thing, giddy, restless, fluttering, constant to nothing but bright looks and smiles and laughter, Dolly's heart was breaking. Emma had known grief, and could bear it better. She had little comfort to impart, but she could soothe and tend her, and she did so, and Dolly clung to her like a child to its nurse. In endeavouring to inspire her with some fortitude, she increased her own, and though the nights were long and the days dismal, and she felt the wasting influence of watching and fatigue, and had perhaps a more defined and clear perception of their destitute condition, and its worst dangers, she uttered no complaint. Before the Ruffians, and whose power they were, she bore herself so calmly, and with such an appearance in the midst of all her terror, of her secret conviction that they dared not harm her, that there was not a man among them, but held her in some degree of dread, and more than one believed she had a weapon hidden in her dress, and was prepared to use it. Such was their condition when they were joined by Miss Miggs, who gave them to understand that she too had been taken prisoner because of her charms, and detailed such feats of resistance she had performed, her virtue having given her supernatural strength, that they felt it quite a happiness to have her for a champion. Nor was this the only comfort they derived at first from Miggs' presence and society. For that young lady displayed such resignation and long suffering, and so much meek endurance under her trials, and breathed in all her chaste discourse a spirit of such holy confidence and resignation, and devout belief that all would happen for the best, that Emma felt her courage strengthened by the bright example, never doubting but that everything she said was true, and that she, like them, was torn from all she loved, and agonised by doubt and apprehension. As to poor Dolly, she was roused at first by seeing one who came from home, but when she heard under what circumstances she had left it, and into whose hands her father had fallen, she wept more bitterly than ever, and refused all comfort. Miss Miggs was at some trouble to reprove her for this state of mind, and to entreat her to take example by herself, who, she said, was now receiving back with interest, tenfold the amount of her subscriptions to the red-brick dwelling-house, in the articles of peace of mind and a quiet conscience. And, while on serious topics, Miss Miggs considered it her duty to try her hand at the conversion of Miss Haerdale, for whose improvement she launched into a polemical address of some length, in the course whereof she likened herself unto a chosen missionary, and that young lady to a cannibal in darkness. Indeed, she returned so often to these subjects, and so frequently called upon them to take a lesson from her, at the same time venting, and, as it were, rioting in her huge unworthiness and abundant excessive sin, that in the course of a short time she became in that small chamber, rather in nuisance, than a comfort, and rendered them, if possible, even more unhappy than they had been before. The night had now come, and for the first time, for their jailers had been regular in bringing food and candles, they were left in darkness. Any change in their condition in such a place inspired new fears, and when some hours had passed, and the gloom was still unbroken, Emma could no longer repress her alarm. They listened attentively. There was the same murmuring in the outer room, and now and then a moan, which seemed to be rung from a person in great pain, who made an effort to subdue it, but could not. Even these men seemed to be in darkness, too, for no light shone through the chinks in the door, nor were they moving as their custom was, but quite still, the silence being unbroken by so much as the creaking of a board. At first Miss Miggs wondered greatly in her own mind who this sick person might be, but arriving on second thoughts, at the conclusion that he was a part of the schemes on foot, and an artful device soon to be employed with great success, she opined, for Miss Haerdale's comfort, that it must be some misguided papist who had been wounded, and this happy supposition encouraged her to say under her breath, Alleluia, several times. Is it possible, said Emma, with some indignation, that you, who have seen these men committing the outrages you have told us of, and who have fallen into their hands, like us, can exult in their cruelties? Personal considerations, Miss, rejoined Miggs, sinks it in nothing, a formidable cause. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Good gentleman! It seemed, from the shrill pertinacity with which Miss Miggs repeated this form of acclamation, that she was calling the same through the keyhole of the door, but in the profound darkness she could not be seen. If the time has come, heaven knows it may come at any moment, when they are bent on prosecuting the designs, whatever they may be, of which they have brought us here, can you still encourage and take part with them? Demanded Emma. I thank my goodness gracious blessed stars, I can miss. Returned Miggs with increased energy. Alleluia! Good gentleman! Even Dolly, cast down and disappointed as she was, revived at this, and bade Miggs hold her tongue directly. Which? Would you please observe, Miss Fardon? Said Miggs, with a strong emphasis on the irrelative pronoun. Dolly repeated her request. How gracious me! cried Miggs, with hysterical derision. How gracious me! Yes, to be sure, I will. How yes! I am abject slave, and a tallen, moiling, constant working, always being found fault with, never giving satisfactions, nor having no time to clean myself but as a vessel. Aren't I, Miss? How yes! My situation is lowly, and my capacity is limited, and my duties is to humble myself before the base to generate in daughters of their blessed mothers, as is, fit to keep companies with holy saints, but is born to persecutions from wicked relations, and to demean myself before them is in no better than infidels, and it miss. How yes! My only becoming occupations is to help young floating pagans to brush and comb, and titty-wake themselves into whitening and sabbocas, and leave the young men to think that they're and a bit of padding in it, nor now pinching in's, nor fillings out, nor pomatums, nor deceits, nor earthly whenities, and it miss. Yes, to be sure it is. How yes! Having delivered these ironical passages with the most wonderful volubility, and with a shrillness perfectly deafening, especially when she jerked out the interjections, Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not because weeping was at all appropriate to the occasion, which was one of triumph, concluded by bursting into a flood of tears, and calling in an impassioned manner on the name of Simmons. What Emma Haredale and Dolly would have done, or how long Miss Miggs, now that she had hoisted her true colours, would have gone on waving them before their astonished senses, it is impossible to tell. Nor is it necessary to speculate on these matters for a startling interruption occurred at that moment, which took their whole attention by storm. This was a violent knocking at the door of the house, and then its sudden bursting open, which was immediately succeeded by a scuffle in the room without, and the clash of weapons. Transported with the hope that rescue had at length arrived, Emma and Dolly shrieked aloud for help, nor were their shrieks unanswered, for after a hurried interval, a man bearing in one hand a drawn sword, and in the other a taper, rushed into the chamber where they were confined. It was some check upon their transport to find in this person an entire stranger, but they appealed to him nevertheless, and besought him in impassioned language to restore them to their friends. For what other purpose am I here? he answered, closing the door, and standing with his back against it. With what object have I made my way to this place through difficulty and danger, but to preserve you? With the joy for which it was impossible to find adequate expression, they embraced each other and thanked heaven for this most timely aid. They deliver a step forward for a moment to put the light upon the table, and immediately returning to his formal position against the door, bared his head, and looked on smilingly. You have news of my uncle, sir? said Emma, turning hastily towards him. And of my father and mother? added Dolly. Yes, he said. Good news! They are alive and unhurt, they both cried at once, yes, and unhurt, he rejoined. And close at hand? I did not say close at hand, he answered smoothly. They are at no great distance. Your friends, sweet one, he added, addressing Dolly, are within a few hours' journey. You will be restored to them, I hope, tonight. My uncle, sir, folded Emma. Your uncle, dear Miss Herdale, happily, I say happily, because he has succeeded, where many of our creed have failed, and is safe, has crossed the sea, and is out of Britain. I thank God for it, said Emma faintly. You say well. You have reason to be thankful, greater reason than it is possible for you, who have seen but one night of these cruel outrages to imagine. Does he desire, said Emma, that I should follow him? Do you ask if he desires it? cried the stranger in surprise, if he desires it. But you do not know the danger of remaining in England—a difficulty of escape, or the price hundreds would pay to secure the means, when you make that inquiry. Pardon me, I had forgotten that you could not be in prisoner here. I gather, sir, said Emma, after a moment's pause, from what you hint at, but fear to tell me, that I have witnessed but the beginning, and the least of the violence to which we are exposed, and that it has not yet slackened in its fury. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, lifted up his hands, and with the same smooth smile, which was not a pleasant one to see, cast his eyes upon the ground, and remained silent. You may venture, sir, to speak plain, said Emma, and to tell me the worst. We have undergone some preparation for it. But here Dolly interposed, and treated her not to hear the worst, but the best, and besought the gentleman to tell them the best, and to keep the remainder of his news until they were safe among their friends again. It is told in three words, he said, glancing at the locksmith's daughter with a look of some displeasure. The people have risen to a man against us. The streets are filled with soldiers who support them, and do their bidding. We have no protection but from above, and no safety but in flight, and that is a poor resource. We are watched on every hand, and detained here, both by force and fraud. Miss Haedale, I cannot bear, believe me, that I cannot bear, by speaking of myself, or what I have done, or am prepared to do, to seem to want my services before you, and that having powerful Protestant connections, and having my whole wealth embarked with theirs in shipping and commerce, I happily possessed the means of saving your uncle. I have the means of saving you, and in redemption of my sacred promise made to him, I am here, pledged not to leave you until I placed you in his arms. The treachery or penitence of one of the men about you led to the discovery of your place of confinement, and that I have forced my way here, sword in hand, you see. You bring, said Emma, faltering, some note or token for my uncle? No, he doesn't, cried Dolly, pointing at him earnestly. Now I am sure he doesn't. Don't go with him for the world. Hush, pretty fool, be silent! He replied, frowning angrily upon her. No, Miss Haedale, I have no letter nor any token of any kind, for while I sympathise with you, and such as you, on whom misfortune so heavy and so undeserved has fallen, I value my life. I carry, therefore, no writing which found upon me would lead to its certain loss. I never thought of bringing any other token, nor did Mr. Haedale think of entrusting me with one, possibly because he had a good experience of my faith and honesty, and owed his life to me. There was a reproof conveyed in these words, which to a nature like Emma Haedale's was well addressed. But Dolly, who was differently constituted, was by no means touched by it, and still conjured her in all the terms of affection and attachment she could think of, not to be lured away. Time presses, said the visitor, who, although he sought to express the deepest interest, had something cold and even in his speech that grated on the ear. And danger surrounds us. If I have exposed myself to it in vain, let it be so. But if you and he should ever meet again, do me justice. If you decide to remain, as I think you do, remember, Miss Haedale, that I left you the solemn caution, and acquitting myself of all the consequences to which you expose yourself. Stay, sir," cried Emma. One moment. I beg you. Can't we—and she drew Dolly closer to her—can't we go together? The task of conveying one female and safety through such scenes as we must encounter, to say nothing of attracting the attention of those who crowd the streets, he answered, is enough. I have said that she will be restored to her friends to-night. If you accept the service I tender, Miss Haedale, she shall be instantly placed in safe conduct and that promise redeemed. Do you decide to remain? People of all ranks and creeds are flying from the town, which is set from end to end. Let me be of use in some quarter. Do you stay or go? Dolly, said Emma, in a hurried manner, my dear girl, this is our last hope. If we part now, it is only that we may meet again in happiness and honour. I will trust to this gentleman. No, no, no! cried Dolly, clinging to her. Pray, pray do not! You here, said Emma, that to-night, only to-night, within a few hours, think of that! You will be among those who would die of grief to lose you, and who are now plunged in the deepest misery for your sake. Pray for me, dear girl, as I will for you, and never forget the many quiet hours we have passed together. Say one, God bless you. Say that at parting. But Dolly could say nothing. No, not when Emma kissed her cheek a hundred times, and covered it with tears. Could she do more than hang upon her neck, and sob, and clasp, and hold her tight? We have time for no more of this! cried the man, unclenching her hands, and pushing her roughly off, as he drew Emma Hedale towards the door. Now, quick, outside there, are you ready? Aye! cried a loud voice, which made him start. Quite ready! Stand back here for your lives! And in an instant he was felled like an ox in the butcher's shambles, struck down as though a block of marble had fallen from the roof and crushed him, and cheerful light and beaming faces came pouring in, and Emma was clasping her uncle's embrace, and Dolly with a shriek that pierced the air fell into the arms of her father and mother. What fainting there was, what laughing, what crying, what sobbing, what smiling, how much questioning, no answering, all talking together, all beside themselves with joy, what kissing, congratulating, embracing, shaking of hands, and falling into all these raptures over and over and over again. No language can describe. At length, and after a long time, the old locksmith went up and fairly hugged two strangers, who had stood apart and left them to themselves. And then they saw whom? Yes, Edward Chester, and Joseph Willet. See here, cried the locksmith, see here, where would any of us have been without these two? Without these two? Oh, Mr Edward, Mr Edward, oh Joe, Joe, how light and yet how full you have made my old heart tonight. It was Mr Edward that knocked him down, sir, said Joe. I like to do it, but I gave it up to him. Come, you brave and honest gentleman, get your senses together, for you haven't longed to lie here. He had his foot upon the breast of their sham deliverer, in the absence of a spare arm, and gave him a gentle roll as he spoke. Gashford, for it was no other, crouching yet malignant, raised his scowling face, like sin subdued, and pleaded to be gently used. I have access to all my lord's papers, Mr Hairdale, he said in a submissive voice. Mr Hairdale, keeping us back towards him, not once looking round. There are very important documents among them. There are a great many in secret draws, and distributed in various places, known only to my lord and me. I can give some very valuable information, and render important assistance to any inquiry. You will have to answer it, if I receive ill usage. Cried Joe, in deep disgust. Get up, man, you're waited for outside. Get up, do you hear? Gashford slowly rose, and picking up his hat, and looking with a baffled malevolence, yet with an air of despicable humility all round the room, crawled out. And now, gentlemen, said Joe, who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, for all the rest were silent. The sooner we get back to the black line, the better, perhaps. Mr Hairdale nodded ascent, and drawing his niece's arm through his, and taking one of her hands between his own, passed out straight away. Followed by the locksmith, Mrs Varden, and Dolly, who would scarcely have presented a sufficient surface for all the hugs and caresses they bestowed upon her, though she had been a dozen dollies. Edward Chester and Joe followed. And did Dolly never once look behind? Not once? Was there not one little fleeting glimpse of the dark eyelash, almost resting on her flushed cheek, and of the downcast, sparkling eye it shaded? Joe thought there was, and he is not likely to have been mistaken. For there were not many eyes like Dolly's. That's the truth. The outer room through which they had to pass was full of men. Among them, Mr Dennis, in safe keeping. And there had been since yesterday lying and hiding behind a wooden screen, which was now thrown down, Simon Tappetit, the recreational apprentice, burnt and bruised, and with a gunshot wound in his body, and his legs, his perfect legs, the pride and glory of his life, the comfort of his existence, crushed into shapeless ugliness. Wondering no longer at the moans they had heard, Dolly kept closer to her father, and shattered at the sight. But neither bruises, burns, nor gunshot wound, nor all the torture of his shattered limbs, sent half so keen a pang to Simon's breast, as Dolly passing out was Joe for her preserver. A coach was ready at the door, and Dolly found herself safe and whole inside between her father and mother, with Emma Haerdale and her uncle quite real sitting opposite. But there was no Joe, no Edward, and they had said nothing. They had only bowed once, and kept at a distance. Dear heart, what a long way it was to the Black Lion!