Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
taking no effect, and the concourse coming on like an army of devils,
they only thought of consulting their own safety, and retreated, echoing
their assailants’ cries, and hoping in the confusion to be taken
for rioters themselves; in which stratagem they succeeded, with the
exception of one old man who was never heard of again, and was said
to have had his brains beaten out with an iron bar (one of his fellows
reported that he had seen the old man fall), and to have been afterwards
burnt in the flames.
The besiegers being now in complete possession of the house, spread
themselves over it from garret to cellar, and plied their demon labours
fiercely. While some small parties kindled bonfires underneath the
windows, others broke up the furniture and cast the fragments down
to feed the flames below; where the apertures in the wall (windows no
longer) were large enough, they threw out tables, chests of drawers,
beds, mirrors, pictures, and flung them whole into the fire; while
every fresh addition to the blazing masses was received with shouts,
and howls, and yells, which added new and dismal terrors to the
conflagration. Those who had axes and had spent their fury on the
movables, chopped and tore down the doors and window frames, broke up
the flooring, hewed away the rafters, and buried men who lingered in the
upper rooms, in heaps of ruins. Some searched the drawers, the chests,
the boxes, writing-desks, and closets, for jewels, plate, and money;
while others, less mindful of gain and more mad for destruction, cast
their whole contents into the courtyard without examination, and called
to those below, to heap them on the blaze. Men who had been into the
cellars, and had staved the casks, rushed to and fro stark mad, setting
fire to all they saw--often to the dresses of their own friends--and
kindling the building in so many parts that some had no time for
escape, and were seen, with drooping hands and blackened faces, hanging
senseless on the window-sills to which they had crawled, until they were
sucked and drawn into the burning gulf. The more the fire crackled and
raged, the wilder and more cruel the men grew; as though moving in that
element they became fiends, and changed their earthly nature for the
qualities that give delight in hell.
The burning pile, revealing rooms and passages red hot, through gaps
made in the crumbling walls; the tributary fires that licked the outer
bricks and stones, with their long forked tongues, and ran up to meet
the glowing mass within; the shining of the flames upon the villains who
looked on and fed them; the roaring of the angry blaze, so bright and
high that it seemed in its rapacity to have swallowed up the very smoke;
the living flakes the wind bore rapidly away and hurried on with, like
a storm of fiery snow; the noiseless breaking of great beams of wood,
which fell like feathers on the heap of ashes, and crumbled in the very
act to sparks and powder; the lurid tinge that overspread the sky,
and the darkness, very deep by contrast, which prevailed around; the
exposure to the coarse, common gaze, of every little nook which usages
of home had made a sacred place, and the destruction by rude hands of
every little household favourite which old associations made a dear
and precious thing: all this taking place--not among pitying looks and
friendly murmurs of compassion, but brutal shouts and exultations,
which seemed to make the very rats who stood by the old house too long,
creatures with some claim upon the pity and regard of those its roof had
sheltered:--combined to form a scene never to be forgotten by those who
saw it and were not actors in the work, so long as life endured.
And who were they? The alarm-bell rang--and it was pulled by no faint or
hesitating hands--for a long time; but not a soul was seen. Some of the
insurgents said that when it ceased, they heard the shrieks of women,
and saw some garments fluttering in the air, as a party of men bore away
no unresisting burdens. No one could say that this was true or false, in
such an uproar; but where was Hugh? Who among them had seen him, since
the forcing of the doors? The cry spread through the body. Where was
Hugh!
‘Here!’ he hoarsely cried, appearing from the darkness; out of breath,
and blackened with the smoke. ‘We have done all we can; the fire is
burning itself out; and even the corners where it hasn’t spread, are
nothing but heaps of ruins. Disperse, my lads, while the coast’s
clear; get back by different ways; and meet as usual!’ With that, he
disappeared again,--contrary to his wont, for he was always first to
advance, and last to go away,--leaving them to follow homewards as they
would.
It was not an easy task to draw off such a throng. If Bedlam gates had
been flung wide open, there would not have issued forth such maniacs as
the frenzy of that night had made. There were men there, who danced and
trampled on the beds of flowers as though they trod down human enemies,
and wrenched them from the stalks, like savages who twisted human necks.
There were men who cast their lighted torches in the air, and suffered
them to fall upon their heads and faces, blistering the skin with deep
unseemly burns. There were men who rushed up to the fire, and paddled
in it with their hands as if in water; and others who were restrained by
force from plunging in, to gratify their deadly longing. On the skull of
one drunken lad--not twenty, by his looks--who lay upon the ground with
a bottle to his mouth, the lead from the roof came streaming down in a
shower of liquid fire, white hot; melting his head like wax. When the
scattered parties were collected, men--living yet, but singed as with
hot irons--were plucked out of the cellars, and carried off upon the
shoulders of others, who strove to wake them as they went along, with
ribald jokes, and left them, dead, in the passages of hospitals. But of
all the howling throng not one learnt mercy from, or sickened at, these
sights; nor was the fierce, besotted, senseless rage of one man glutted.
Slowly, and in small clusters, with hoarse hurrahs and repetitions
of their usual cry, the assembly dropped away. The last few red-eyed
stragglers reeled after those who had gone before; the distant noise of
men calling to each other, and whistling for others whom they missed,
grew fainter and fainter; at length even these sounds died away, and
silence reigned alone.
Silence indeed! The glare of the flames had sunk into a fitful, flashing
light; and the gentle stars, invisible till now, looked down upon the
blackening heap. A dull smoke hung upon the ruin, as though to hide it
from those eyes of Heaven; and the wind forbore to move it. Bare walls,
roof open to the sky--chambers, where the beloved dead had, many and
many a fair day, risen to new life and energy; where so many dear ones
had been sad and merry; which were connected with so many thoughts and
hopes, regrets and changes--all gone. Nothing left but a dull and dreary
blank--a smouldering heap of dust and ashes--the silence and solitude of
utter desolation.
Chapter 56
The Maypole cronies, little dreaming of the change so soon to come upon
their favourite haunt, struck through the Forest path upon their way to
London; and avoiding the main road, which was hot and dusty, kept to the
by-paths and the fields. As they drew nearer to their destination, they
began to make inquiries of the people whom they passed, concerning the
riots, and the truth or falsehood of the stories they had heard. The
answers went far beyond any intelligence that had spread to quiet
Chigwell. One man told them that that afternoon the Guards, conveying to
Newgate some rioters who had been re-examined, had been set upon by the
mob and compelled to retreat; another, that the houses of two witnesses
near Clare Market were about to be pulled down when he came away;
another, that Sir George Saville’s house in Leicester Fields was to be
burned that night, and that it would go hard with Sir George if he fell
into the people’s hands, as it was he who had brought in the Catholic
bill. All accounts agreed that the mob were out, in stronger numbers
and more numerous parties than had yet appeared; that the streets were
unsafe; that no man’s house or life was worth an hour’s purchase; that
the public consternation was increasing every moment; and that many
families had already fled the city. One fellow who wore the popular
colour, damned them for not having cockades in their hats, and bade them
set a good watch to-morrow night upon their prison doors, for the locks
would have a straining; another asked if they were fire-proof, that
they walked abroad without the distinguishing mark of all good and true
men;--and a third who rode on horseback, and was quite alone, ordered
them to throw each man a shilling, in his hat, towards the support of
the rioters. Although they were afraid to refuse compliance with this
demand, and were much alarmed by these reports, they agreed, having come
so far, to go forward, and see the real state of things with their own
eyes. So they pushed on quicker, as men do who are excited by portentous
news; and ruminating on what they had heard, spoke little to each other.
It was now night, and as they came nearer to the city they had dismal
confirmation of this intelligence in three great fires, all close
together, which burnt fiercely and were gloomily reflected in the sky.
Arriving in the immediate suburbs, they found that almost every house
had chalked upon its door in large characters ‘No Popery,’ that the
shops were shut, and that alarm and anxiety were depicted in every face
they passed.
Noting these things with a degree of apprehension which neither of the
three cared to impart, in its full extent, to his companions, they
came to a turnpike-gate, which was shut. They were passing through the
turnstile on the path, when a horseman rode up from London at a hard
gallop, and called to the toll-keeper in a voice of great agitation, to
open quickly in the name of God.
The adjuration was so earnest and vehement, that the man, with a lantern
in his hand, came running out--toll-keeper though he was--and was about
to throw the gate open, when happening to look behind him, he exclaimed,
‘Good Heaven, what’s that! Another fire!’
At this, the three turned their heads, and saw in the distance--straight
in the direction whence they had come--a broad sheet of flame, casting
a threatening light upon the clouds, which glimmered as though the
conflagration were behind them, and showed like a wrathful sunset.
‘My mind misgives me,’ said the horseman, ‘or I know from what far
building those flames come. Don’t stand aghast, my good fellow. Open the
gate!’
‘Sir,’ cried the man, laying his hand upon his horse’s bridle as he let
him through: ‘I know you now, sir; be advised by me; do not go on. I saw
them pass, and know what kind of men they are. You will be murdered.’
‘So be it!’ said the horseman, looking intently towards the fire, and
not at him who spoke.
‘But sir--sir,’ cried the man, grasping at his rein more tightly yet,
‘if you do go on, wear the blue riband. Here, sir,’ he added, taking one
from his own hat, ‘it’s necessity, not choice, that makes me wear it;
it’s love of life and home, sir. Wear it for this one night, sir; only
for this one night.’
‘Do!’ cried the three friends, pressing round his horse. ‘Mr
Haredale--worthy sir--good gentleman--pray be persuaded.’
‘Who’s that?’ cried Mr Haredale, stooping down to look. ‘Did I hear
Daisy’s voice?’
‘You did, sir,’ cried the little man. ‘Do be persuaded, sir. This
gentleman says very true. Your life may hang upon it.’
‘Are you,’ said Mr Haredale abruptly, ‘afraid to come with me?’
‘I, sir?--N-n-no.’