Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
Lion, who had been his familiar for some years, quite to surpass and
go beyond himself, and outrun the expectations of his most admiring
friends.
The subject that worked in Mr Willet’s mind, and occasioned these
demonstrations, was no other than his son’s bodily disfigurement, which
he had never yet got himself thoroughly to believe, or comprehend.
Shortly after their first meeting, he had been observed to wander, in
a state of great perplexity, to the kitchen, and to direct his gaze
towards the fire, as if in search of his usual adviser in all matters of
doubt and difficulty. But there being no boiler at the Black Lion, and
the rioters having so beaten and battered his own that it was quite
unfit for further service, he wandered out again, in a perfect bog of
uncertainty and mental confusion, and in that state took the strangest
means of resolving his doubts: such as feeling the sleeve of his son’s
greatcoat as deeming it possible that his arm might be there; looking at
his own arms and those of everybody else, as if to assure himself that
two and not one was the usual allowance; sitting by the hour together in
a brown study, as if he were endeavouring to recall Joe’s image in his
younger days, and to remember whether he really had in those times one
arm or a pair; and employing himself in many other speculations of the
same kind.
Finding himself at this supper, surrounded by faces with which he had
been so well acquainted in old times, Mr Willet recurred to the subject
with uncommon vigour; apparently resolved to understand it now or never.
Sometimes, after every two or three mouthfuls, he laid down his knife
and fork, and stared at his son with all his might--particularly at his
maimed side; then, he looked slowly round the table until he caught some
person’s eye, when he shook his head with great solemnity, patted his
shoulder, winked, or as one may say--for winking was a very slow process
with him--went to sleep with one eye for a minute or two; and so, with
another solemn shaking of his head, took up his knife and fork
again, and went on eating. Sometimes, he put his food into his mouth
abstractedly, and, with all his faculties concentrated on Joe, gazed at
him in a fit of stupefaction as he cut his meat with one hand, until he
was recalled to himself by symptoms of choking on his own part, and was
by that means restored to consciousness. At other times he resorted to
such small devices as asking him for the salt, the pepper, the vinegar,
the mustard--anything that was on his maimed side--and watching him as
he handed it. By dint of these experiments, he did at last so satisfy
and convince himself, that, after a longer silence than he had yet
maintained, he laid down his knife and fork on either side his plate,
drank a long draught from a tankard beside him (still keeping his eyes
on Joe), and leaning backward in his chair and fetching a long breath,
said, as he looked all round the board:
‘It’s been took off!’
‘By George!’ said the Black Lion, striking the table with his hand,
‘he’s got it!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Willet, with the look of a man who felt that he had
earned a compliment, and deserved it. ‘That’s where it is. It’s been
took off.’
‘Tell him where it was done,’ said the Black Lion to Joe.
‘At the defence of the Savannah, father.’
‘At the defence of the Salwanners,’ repeated Mr Willet, softly; again
looking round the table.
‘In America, where the war is,’ said Joe.
‘In America, where the war is,’ repeated Mr Willet. ‘It was took off in
the defence of the Salwanners in America where the war is.’ Continuing
to repeat these words to himself in a low tone of voice (the same
information had been conveyed to him in the same terms, at least fifty
times before), Mr Willet arose from table, walked round to Joe, felt his
empty sleeve all the way up, from the cuff, to where the stump of his
arm remained; shook his hand; lighted his pipe at the fire, took a long
whiff, walked to the door, turned round once when he had reached it,
wiped his left eye with the back of his forefinger, and said, in
a faltering voice: ‘My son’s arm--was took off--at the defence of
the--Salwanners--in America--where the war is’--with which words he
withdrew, and returned no more that night.
Indeed, on various pretences, they all withdrew one after another, save
Dolly, who was left sitting there alone. It was a great relief to be
alone, and she was crying to her heart’s content, when she heard Joe’s
voice at the end of the passage, bidding somebody good night.
Good night! Then he was going elsewhere--to some distance, perhaps. To
what kind of home COULD he be going, now that it was so late!
She heard him walk along the passage, and pass the door. But there was a
hesitation in his footsteps. He turned back--Dolly’s heart beat high--he
looked in.
‘Good night!’--he didn’t say Dolly, but there was comfort in his not
saying Miss Varden.
‘Good night!’ sobbed Dolly.
‘I am sorry you take on so much, for what is past and gone,’ said Joe
kindly. ‘Don’t. I can’t bear to see you do it. Think of it no longer.
You are safe and happy now.’
Dolly cried the more.
‘You must have suffered very much within these few days--and yet you’re
not changed, unless it’s for the better. They said you were, but I don’t
see it. You were--you were always very beautiful,’ said Joe, ‘but you
are more beautiful than ever, now. You are indeed. There can be no harm
in my saying so, for you must know it. You are told so very often, I am
sure.’
As a general principle, Dolly DID know it, and WAS told so, very often.
But the coachmaker had turned out, years ago, to be a special donkey;
and whether she had been afraid of making similar discoveries in others,
or had grown by dint of long custom to be careless of compliments
generally, certain it is that although she cried so much, she was better
pleased to be told so now, than ever she had been in all her life.
‘I shall bless your name,’ sobbed the locksmith’s little daughter, ‘as
long as I live. I shall never hear it spoken without feeling as if my
heart would burst. I shall remember it in my prayers, every night and
morning till I die!’
‘Will you?’ said Joe, eagerly. ‘Will you indeed? It makes me--well, it
makes me very glad and proud to hear you say so.’
Dolly still sobbed, and held her handkerchief to her eyes. Joe still
stood, looking at her.
‘Your voice,’ said Joe, ‘brings up old times so pleasantly, that, for
the moment, I feel as if that night--there can be no harm in talking
of that night now--had come back, and nothing had happened in the mean
time. I feel as if I hadn’t suffered any hardships, but had knocked down
poor Tom Cobb only yesterday, and had come to see you with my bundle on
my shoulder before running away.--You remember?’
Remember! But she said nothing. She raised her eyes for an instant. It
was but a glance; a little, tearful, timid glance. It kept Joe silent
though, for a long time.
‘Well!’ he said stoutly, ‘it was to be otherwise, and was. I have been
abroad, fighting all the summer and frozen up all the winter, ever
since. I have come back as poor in purse as I went, and crippled for
life besides. But, Dolly, I would rather have lost this other arm--ay, I
would rather have lost my head--than have come back to find you dead,
or anything but what I always pictured you to myself, and what I always
hoped and wished to find you. Thank God for all!’
Oh how much, and how keenly, the little coquette of five years ago, felt
now! She had found her heart at last. Never having known its worth till
now, she had never known the worth of his. How priceless it appeared!
‘I did hope once,’ said Joe, in his homely way, ‘that I might come back
a rich man, and marry you. But I was a boy then, and have long known
better than that. I am a poor, maimed, discharged soldier, and must
be content to rub through life as I can. I can’t say, even now, that I
shall be glad to see you married, Dolly; but I AM glad--yes, I am, and
glad to think I can say so--to know that you are admired and courted,
and can pick and choose for a happy life. It’s a comfort to me to know
that you’ll talk to your husband about me; and I hope the time will come
when I may be able to like him, and to shake hands with him, and to
come and see you as a poor friend who knew you when you were a girl. God
bless you!’
His hand DID tremble; but for all that, he took it away again, and left
her.
Chapter 73
By this Friday night--for it was on Friday in the riot week, that Emma
and Dolly were rescued, by the timely aid of Joe and Edward Chester--the
disturbances were entirely quelled, and peace and order were restored
to the affrighted city. True, after what had happened, it was impossible
for any man to say how long this better state of things might last, or
how suddenly new outrages, exceeding even those so lately witnessed,
might burst forth and fill its streets with ruin and bloodshed; for
this reason, those who had fled from the recent tumults still kept at
a distance, and many families, hitherto unable to procure the means
of flight, now availed themselves of the calm, and withdrew into the
country. The shops, too, from Tyburn to Whitechapel, were still shut;
and very little business was transacted in any of the places of great
commercial resort. But, notwithstanding, and in spite of the melancholy
forebodings of that numerous class of society who see with the greatest
clearness into the darkest perspectives, the town remained profoundly
quiet. The strong military force disposed in every advantageous quarter,
and stationed at every commanding point, held the scattered fragments
of the mob in check; the search after rioters was prosecuted with
unrelenting vigour; and if there were any among them so desperate and
reckless as to be inclined, after the terrible scenes they had beheld,
to venture forth again, they were so daunted by these resolute measures,
that they quickly shrunk into their hiding-places, and had no thought
but for their safety.
In a word, the crowd was utterly routed. Upwards of two hundred had been
shot dead in the streets. Two hundred and fifty more were lying, badly
wounded, in the hospitals; of whom seventy or eighty died within a short
time afterwards. A hundred were already in custody, and more were taken
every hour. How many perished in the conflagrations, or by their own
excesses, is unknown; but that numbers found a terrible grave in the hot
ashes of the flames they had kindled, or crept into vaults and cellars
to drink in secret or to nurse their sores, and never saw the light
again, is certain. When the embers of the fires had been black and cold
for many weeks, the labourers’ spades proved this, beyond a doubt.
Seventy-two private houses and four strong jails were destroyed in the
four great days of these riots. The total loss of property, as estimated
by the sufferers, was one hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds; at the
lowest and least partial estimate of disinterested persons, it exceeded
one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. For this immense loss,
compensation was soon afterwards made out of the public purse, in
pursuance of a vote of the House of Commons; the sum being levied on the
various wards in the city, on the county, and the borough of Southwark.
Both Lord Mansfield and Lord Saville, however, who had been great
sufferers, refused to accept of any compensation whatever.
The House of Commons, sitting on Tuesday with locked and guarded doors,
had passed a resolution to the effect that, as soon as the tumults
subsided, it would immediately proceed to consider the petitions
presented from many of his Majesty’s Protestant subjects, and would take
the same into its serious consideration. While this question was under