Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
instant from the slumbering figure, and glanced round the cell in search
of some ‘vantage-ground or weapon of defence. There was nothing moveable
within it, but a clumsy table which could not be displaced without
noise, and a heavy chair. Stealing on tiptoe towards this latter
piece of furniture, he retired with it into the remotest corner,
and intrenching himself behind it, watched the enemy with the utmost
vigilance and caution.
The sleeping man was Hugh; and perhaps it was not unnatural for Dennis
to feel in a state of very uncomfortable suspense, and to wish with
his whole soul that he might never wake again. Tired of standing, he
crouched down in his corner after some time, and rested on the cold
pavement; but although Hugh’s breathing still proclaimed that he
was sleeping soundly, he could not trust him out of his sight for an
instant. He was so afraid of him, and of some sudden onslaught, that he
was not content to see his closed eyes through the chair-back, but
every now and then, rose stealthily to his feet, and peered at him with
outstretched neck, to assure himself that he really was still asleep,
and was not about to spring upon him when he was off his guard.
He slept so long and so soundly, that Mr Dennis began to think he might
sleep on until the turnkey visited them. He was congratulating himself
upon these promising appearances, and blessing his stars with much
fervour, when one or two unpleasant symptoms manifested themselves: such
as another motion of the arm, another sigh, a restless tossing of the
head. Then, just as it seemed that he was about to fall heavily to the
ground from his narrow bed, Hugh’s eyes opened.
It happened that his face was turned directly towards his unexpected
visitor. He looked lazily at him for some half-dozen seconds without any
aspect of surprise or recognition; then suddenly jumped up, and with a
great oath pronounced his name.
‘Keep off, brother, keep off!’ cried Dennis, dodging behind the chair.
‘Don’t do me a mischief. I’m a prisoner like you. I haven’t the free use
of my limbs. I’m quite an old man. Don’t hurt me!’
He whined out the last three words in such piteous accents, that Hugh,
who had dragged away the chair, and aimed a blow at him with it, checked
himself, and bade him get up.
‘I’ll get up certainly, brother,’ cried Dennis, anxious to propitiate
him by any means in his power. ‘I’ll comply with any request of yours,
I’m sure. There--I’m up now. What can I do for you? Only say the word,
and I’ll do it.’
‘What can you do for me!’ cried Hugh, clutching him by the collar with
both hands, and shaking him as though he were bent on stopping his
breath by that means. ‘What have you done for me?’
‘The best. The best that could be done,’ returned the hangman.
Hugh made him no answer, but shaking him in his strong grip until his
teeth chattered in his head, cast him down upon the floor, and flung
himself on the bench again.
‘If it wasn’t for the comfort it is to me, to see you here,’ he
muttered, ‘I’d have crushed your head against it; I would.’
It was some time before Dennis had breath enough to speak, but as soon
as he could resume his propitiatory strain, he did so.
‘I did the best that could be done, brother,’ he whined; ‘I did indeed.
I was forced with two bayonets and I don’t know how many bullets on each
side of me, to point you out. If you hadn’t been taken, you’d have been
shot; and what a sight that would have been--a fine young man like you!’
‘Will it be a better sight now?’ asked Hugh, raising his head, with such
a fierce expression, that the other durst not answer him just then.
‘A deal better,’ said Dennis meekly, after a pause. ‘First, there’s all
the chances of the law, and they’re five hundred strong. We may get off
scot-free. Unlikelier things than that have come to pass. Even if we
shouldn’t, and the chances fail, we can but be worked off once: and when
it’s well done, it’s so neat, so skilful, so captiwating, if that don’t
seem too strong a word, that you’d hardly believe it could be brought
to sich perfection. Kill one’s fellow-creeturs off, with muskets!--Pah!’
and his nature so revolted at the bare idea, that he spat upon the
dungeon pavement.
His warming on this topic, which to one unacquainted with his pursuits
and tastes appeared like courage; together with his artful suppression
of his own secret hopes, and mention of himself as being in the same
condition with Hugh; did more to soothe that ruffian than the most
elaborate arguments could have done, or the most abject submission.
He rested his arms upon his knees, and stooping forward, looked from
beneath his shaggy hair at Dennis, with something of a smile upon his
face.
‘The fact is, brother,’ said the hangman, in a tone of greater
confidence, ‘that you got into bad company. The man that was with you
was looked after more than you, and it was him I wanted. As to me, what
have I got by it? Here we are, in one and the same plight.’
‘Lookee, rascal,’ said Hugh, contracting his brows, ‘I’m not altogether
such a shallow blade but I know you expected to get something by it, or
you wouldn’t have done it. But it’s done, and you’re here, and it will
soon be all over with you and me; and I’d as soon die as live, or live
as die. Why should I trouble myself to have revenge on you? To eat, and
drink, and go to sleep, as long as I stay here, is all I care for. If
there was but a little more sun to bask in, than can find its way into
this cursed place, I’d lie in it all day, and not trouble myself to sit
or stand up once. That’s all the care I have for myself. Why should I
care for YOU?’
Finishing this speech with a growl like the yawn of a wild beast, he
stretched himself upon the bench again, and closed his eyes once more.
After looking at him in silence for some moments, Dennis, who was
greatly relieved to find him in this mood, drew the chair towards his
rough couch and sat down near him--taking the precaution, however, to
keep out of the range of his brawny arm.
‘Well said, brother; nothing could be better said,’ he ventured to
observe. ‘We’ll eat and drink of the best, and sleep our best, and make
the best of it every way. Anything can be got for money. Let’s spend it
merrily.’
‘Ay,’ said Hugh, coiling himself into a new position.--‘Where is it?’
‘Why, they took mine from me at the lodge,’ said Mr Dennis; ‘but mine’s
a peculiar case.’
‘Is it? They took mine too.’
‘Why then, I tell you what, brother,’ Dennis began. ‘You must look up
your friends--’
‘My friends!’ cried Hugh, starting up and resting on his hands. ‘Where
are my friends?’
‘Your relations then,’ said Dennis.
‘Ha ha ha!’ laughed Hugh, waving one arm above his head. ‘He talks of
friends to me--talks of relations to a man whose mother died the death
in store for her son, and left him, a hungry brat, without a face he
knew in all the world! He talks of this to me!’
‘Brother,’ cried the hangman, whose features underwent a sudden change,
‘you don’t mean to say--’
‘I mean to say,’ Hugh interposed, ‘that they hung her up at Tyburn. What
was good enough for her, is good enough for me. Let them do the like by
me as soon as they please--the sooner the better. Say no more to me. I’m
going to sleep.’
‘But I want to speak to you; I want to hear more about that,’ said
Dennis, changing colour.
‘If you’re a wise man,’ growled Hugh, raising his head to look at him
with a frown, ‘you’ll hold your tongue. I tell you I’m going to sleep.’
Dennis venturing to say something more in spite of this caution, the
desperate fellow struck at him with all his force, and missing him, lay
down again with many muttered oaths and imprecations, and turned his
face towards the wall. After two or three ineffectual twitches at his
dress, which he was hardy enough to venture upon, notwithstanding his
dangerous humour, Mr Dennis, who burnt, for reasons of his own, to
pursue the conversation, had no alternative but to sit as patiently as
he could: waiting his further pleasure.
Chapter 75
A month has elapsed,--and we stand in the bedchamber of Sir John
Chester. Through the half-opened window, the Temple Garden looks green
and pleasant; the placid river, gay with boat and barge, and dimpled
with the plash of many an oar, sparkles in the distance; the sky is blue
and clear; and the summer air steals gently in, filling the room with
perfume. The very town, the smoky town, is radiant. High roofs and
steeple-tops, wont to look black and sullen, smile a cheerful grey;
every old gilded vane, and ball, and cross, glitters anew in the bright
morning sun; and, high among them all, St Paul’s towers up, showing its
lofty crest in burnished gold.
Sir John was breakfasting in bed. His chocolate and toast stood upon a
little table at his elbow; books and newspapers lay ready to his hand,
upon the coverlet; and, sometimes pausing to glance with an air of
tranquil satisfaction round the well-ordered room, and sometimes to
gaze indolently at the summer sky, he ate, and drank, and read the news
luxuriously.
The cheerful influence of the morning seemed to have some effect, even
upon his equable temper. His manner was unusually gay; his smile more
placid and agreeable than usual; his voice more clear and pleasant. He
laid down the newspaper he had been reading; leaned back upon his
pillow with the air of one who resigned himself to a train of charming
recollections; and after a pause, soliloquised as follows:
‘And my friend the centaur, goes the way of his mamma! I am not
surprised. And his mysterious friend Mr Dennis, likewise! I am not
surprised. And my old postman, the exceedingly free-and-easy young
madman of Chigwell! I am quite rejoiced. It’s the very best thing that
could possibly happen to him.’
After delivering himself of these remarks, he fell again into his
smiling train of reflection; from which he roused himself at length
to finish his chocolate, which was getting cold, and ring the bell for
more.
The new supply arriving, he took the cup from his servant’s hand;
and saying, with a charming affability, ‘I am obliged to you, Peak,’
dismissed him.
‘It is a remarkable circumstance,’ he mused, dallying lazily with the
teaspoon, ‘that my friend the madman should have been within an ace of
escaping, on his trial; and it was a good stroke of chance (or, as the
world would say, a providential occurrence) that the brother of my Lord
Mayor should have been in court, with other country justices, into whose
very dense heads curiosity had penetrated. For though the brother of my
Lord Mayor was decidedly wrong; and established his near relationship
to that amusing person beyond all doubt, in stating that my friend
was sane, and had, to his knowledge, wandered about the country with a
vagabond parent, avowing revolutionary and rebellious sentiments; I am
not the less obliged to him for volunteering that evidence. These insane
creatures make such very odd and embarrassing remarks, that they really
ought to be hanged for the comfort of society.’
The country justice had indeed turned the wavering scale against poor
Barnaby, and solved the doubt that trembled in his favour. Grip little
thought how much he had to answer for.
‘They will be a singular party,’ said Sir John, leaning his head upon
his hand, and sipping his chocolate; ‘a very curious party. The hangman
himself; the centaur; and the madman. The centaur would make a very
handsome preparation in Surgeons’ Hall, and would benefit science
extremely. I hope they have taken care to bespeak him.--Peak, I am not
at home, of course, to anybody but the hairdresser.’
This reminder to his servant was called forth by a knock at the door,
which the man hastened to open. After a prolonged murmur of question and