Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
‘Is it not enough, my lord,’ Mr Haredale continued, ‘that I, as good a
gentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at
which the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not
teach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but
must we be denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to
head your No-Popery cry! For shame. For shame!’
The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester,
as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements
concerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a
shrug or look, ‘Oh dear me! no.’ He now said, in the same loud key, and
in the same strange manner as before:
‘I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and no desire to hear anything
more. I beg you won’t obtrude your conversation, or these personal
attacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my
country and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed
from emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!’
They had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the
Hall-door, through which they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any
leave-taking, turned away to the river stairs, which were close at hand,
and hailed the only boatman who remained there.
But the throng of people--the foremost of whom had heard every word
that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been
rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him
for his advocacy of the popular cause--came pouring out pell-mell, and,
forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before
them, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of
the stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there
stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.
They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct
mutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and
these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said,
‘Down with the Papists!’ and there was a pretty general cheer, but
nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, ‘Stone
him;’ another, ‘Duck him;’ another, in a stentorian voice, ‘No Popery!’
This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have
been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.
Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made
this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at
a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford,
as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great
stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the
head, and made him stagger like a drunken man.
The blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He
turned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion
which made them all fall back, demanded:
‘Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.’
Not a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping
to the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.
‘Who did that?’ he repeated. ‘Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it
you? It was your deed, if not your hand--I know you.’
He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the
ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon
him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.
‘My lord--Sir John,’--he cried, ‘draw, one of you--you are responsible
for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.’ With
that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon,
and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone,
before them all.
For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily
conceive, there was a change in Sir John’s smooth face, such as no man
ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand
on Mr Haredale’s arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the
crowd.
‘My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion--it’s
very natural, extremely natural--but you don’t know friends from foes.’
‘I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well--’ he retorted, almost mad
with rage. ‘Sir John, Lord George--do you hear me? Are you cowards?’
‘Never mind, sir,’ said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him
towards the stairs with friendly violence, ‘never mind asking that. For
God’s sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are
as many more in the next street, who’ll be round directly,’--indeed they
began to pour in as he said the words--‘you’d be giddy from that cut, in
the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it
you’ll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a
woman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste--as quick as
you can.’
Mr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible
this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend’s
assistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and
giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade
the waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly
as if he had just landed.
There was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent
this interference; but John looking particularly strong and cool, and
wearing besides Lord George’s livery, they thought better of it, and
contented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the
boat, which plashed harmlessly in the water; for she had by this time
cleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly down the centre of the
stream.
From this amusement, they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the
doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and assaulting some stray
constables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of Life Guards had
been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition, and left
the street quite clear.
Chapter 44
When the concourse separated, and, dividing into chance clusters, drew
off in various directions, there still remained upon the scene of the
late disturbance, one man. This man was Gashford, who, bruised by his
late fall, and hurt in a much greater degree by the indignity he had
undergone, and the exposure of which he had been the victim, limped up
and down, breathing curses and threats of vengeance.
It was not the secretary’s nature to waste his wrath in words. While he
vented the froth of his malevolence in those effusions, he kept a steady
eye on two men, who, having disappeared with the rest when the alarm was
spread, had since returned, and were now visible in the moonlight, at no
great distance, as they walked to and fro, and talked together.
He made no move towards them, but waited patiently on the dark side of
the street, until they were tired of strolling backwards and forwards
and walked away in company. Then he followed, but at some distance:
keeping them in view, without appearing to have that object, or being
seen by them.
They went up Parliament Street, past Saint Martin’s church, and away by
Saint Giles’s to Tottenham Court Road, at the back of which, upon
the western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes. This was a
retired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields. Great
heaps of ashes; stagnant pools, overgrown with rank grass and duckweed;
broken turnstiles; and the upright posts of palings long since carried
off for firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged
and rusty nails; were the leading features of the landscape: while here
and there a donkey, or a ragged horse, tethered to a stake, and cropping
off a wretched meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping
with the scene, and would have suggested (if the houses had not done so,
sufficiently, of themselves) how very poor the people were who lived in
the crazy huts adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who
carried money, or wore decent clothes, to walk that way alone, unless by
daylight.
Poverty has its whims and shows of taste, as wealth has. Some of these
cabins were turreted, some had false windows painted on their rotten
walls; one had a mimic clock, upon a crazy tower of four feet high,
which screened the chimney; each in its little patch of ground had a
rude seat or arbour. The population dealt in bones, in rags, in broken
glass, in old wheels, in birds, and dogs. These, in their several ways
of stowage, filled the gardens; and shedding a perfume, not of the most
delicious nature, in the air, filled it besides with yelps, and screams,
and howling.
Into this retreat, the secretary followed the two men whom he had held
in sight; and here he saw them safely lodged, in one of the meanest
houses, which was but a room, and that of small dimensions. He waited
without, until the sound of their voices, joined in a discordant song,
assured him they were making merry; and then approaching the door, by
means of a tottering plank which crossed the ditch in front, knocked at
it with his hand.
‘Muster Gashford!’ said the man who opened it, taking his pipe from
his mouth, in evident surprise. ‘Why, who’d have thought of this here
honour! Walk in, Muster Gashford--walk in, sir.’
Gashford required no second invitation, and entered with a gracious air.
There was a fire in the rusty grate (for though the spring was pretty
far advanced, the nights were cold), and on a stool beside it Hugh sat
smoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the secretary, in
front of the hearth; and took his seat again upon the stool he had left
when he rose to give the visitor admission.
‘What’s in the wind now, Muster Gashford?’ he said, as he resumed his
pipe, and looked at him askew. ‘Any orders from head-quarters? Are we
going to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to
Hugh. ‘We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day--eh,
Dennis?’
‘A very little one,’ growled the hangman. ‘Not half enough for me.’
‘Nor me neither!’ cried Hugh. ‘Give us something to do with life in
it--with life in it, master. Ha, ha!’
‘Why, you wouldn’t,’ said the secretary, with his worst expression of
face, and in his mildest tones, ‘have anything to do, with--with death
in it?’
‘I don’t know that,’ replied Hugh. ‘I’m open to orders. I don’t care;
not I.’
‘Nor I!’ vociferated Dennis.
‘Brave fellows!’ said the secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he
were commending them for some uncommon act of valour and generosity. ‘By
the bye’--and here he stopped and warmed his hands: then suddenly looked
up--‘who threw that stone to-day?’
Mr Dennis coughed and shook his head, as who should say, ‘A mystery
indeed!’ Hugh sat and smoked in silence.
‘It was well done!’ said the secretary, warming his hands again. ‘I
should like to know that man.’
‘Would you?’ said Dennis, after looking at his face to assure himself
that he was serious. ‘Would you like to know that man, Muster Gashford?’
‘I should indeed,’ replied the secretary.
‘Why then, Lord love you,’ said the hangman, in his hoarest chuckle,
as he pointed with his pipe to Hugh, ‘there he sits. That’s the man. My
stars and halters, Muster Gashford,’ he added in a whisper, as he
drew his stool close to him and jogged him with his elbow, ‘what a
interesting blade he is! He wants as much holding in as a thorough-bred
bulldog. If it hadn’t been for me to-day, he’d have had that ‘ere Roman
down, and made a riot of it, in another minute.’
‘And why not?’ cried Hugh in a surly voice, as he overheard this last