Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
passing them from thence along the street. But when he had got thus far
in his discourse, the sound of voices in the yard showed plainly that
the mob had returned and were coming that way; and directly afterwards a
violent crashing at the grate below, gave note of their attack upon the
cells (as they were called) at last.
It was in vain the hangman ran from door to door, and covered the
grates, one after another, with his hat, in futile efforts to stifle
the cries of the four men within; it was in vain he dogged their
outstretched hands, and beat them with his stick, or menaced them
with new and lingering pains in the execution of his office; the place
resounded with their cries. These, together with the feeling that they
were now the last men in the jail, so worked upon and stimulated the
besiegers, that in an incredibly short space of time they forced the
strong grate down below, which was formed of iron rods two inches
square, drove in the two other doors, as if they had been but deal
partitions, and stood at the end of the gallery with only a bar or two
between them and the cells.
‘Halloa!’ cried Hugh, who was the first to look into the dusky passage:
‘Dennis before us! Well done, old boy. Be quick, and open here, for we
shall be suffocated in the smoke, going out.’
‘Go out at once, then,’ said Dennis. ‘What do you want here?’
‘Want!’ echoed Hugh. ‘The four men.’
‘Four devils!’ cried the hangman. ‘Don’t you know they’re left for death
on Thursday? Don’t you respect the law--the constitootion--nothing? Let
the four men be.’
‘Is this a time for joking?’ cried Hugh. ‘Do you hear ‘em? Pull away
these bars that have got fixed between the door and the ground; and let
us in.’
‘Brother,’ said the hangman, in a low voice, as he stooped under
pretence of doing what Hugh desired, but only looked up in his face,
‘can’t you leave these here four men to me, if I’ve the whim! You
do what you like, and have what you like of everything for your
share,--give me my share. I want these four men left alone, I tell you!’
‘Pull the bars down, or stand out of the way,’ was Hugh’s reply.
‘You can turn the crowd if you like, you know that well enough,
brother,’ said the hangman, slowly. ‘What! You WILL come in, will you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t let these men alone, and leave ‘em to me? You’ve no respect
for nothing--haven’t you?’ said the hangman, retreating to the door by
which he had entered, and regarding his companion with a scowl. ‘You
WILL come in, will you, brother!’
‘I tell you, yes. What the devil ails you? Where are you going?’
‘No matter where I’m going,’ rejoined the hangman, looking in again at
the iron wicket, which he had nearly shut upon himself, and held ajar.
‘Remember where you’re coming. That’s all!’
With that, he shook his likeness at Hugh, and giving him a grin,
compared with which his usual smile was amiable, disappeared, and shut
the door.
Hugh paused no longer, but goaded alike by the cries of the convicts,
and by the impatience of the crowd, warned the man immediately behind
him--the way was only wide enough for one abreast--to stand back, and
wielded a sledge-hammer with such strength, that after a few blows the
iron bent and broke, and gave them free admittance.
If the two sons of one of these men, of whom mention has been made,
were furious in their zeal before, they had now the wrath and vigour of
lions. Calling to the man within each cell, to keep as far back as he
could, lest the axes crashing through the door should wound him, a party
went to work upon each one, to beat it in by sheer strength, and force
the bolts and staples from their hold. But although these two lads had
the weakest party, and the worst armed, and did not begin until after
the others, having stopped to whisper to him through the grate, that
door was the first open, and that man was the first out. As they dragged
him into the gallery to knock off his irons, he fell down among them,
a mere heap of chains, and was carried out in that state on men’s
shoulders, with no sign of life.
The release of these four wretched creatures, and conveying them,
astounded and bewildered, into the streets so full of life--a spectacle
they had never thought to see again, until they emerged from solitude
and silence upon that last journey, when the air should be heavy with
the pent-up breath of thousands, and the streets and houses should
be built and roofed with human faces, not with bricks and tiles and
stones--was the crowning horror of the scene. Their pale and haggard
looks and hollow eyes; their staggering feet, and hands stretched out as
if to save themselves from falling; their wandering and uncertain air;
the way they heaved and gasped for breath, as though in water, when they
were first plunged into the crowd; all marked them for the men. No need
to say ‘this one was doomed to die;’ for there were the words broadly
stamped and branded on his face. The crowd fell off, as if they had been
laid out for burial, and had risen in their shrouds; and many were seen
to shudder, as though they had been actually dead men, when they chanced
to touch or brush against their garments.
At the bidding of the mob, the houses were all illuminated that
night--lighted up from top to bottom as at a time of public gaiety and
joy. Many years afterwards, old people who lived in their youth near
this part of the city, remembered being in a great glare of light,
within doors and without, and as they looked, timid and frightened
children, from the windows, seeing a FACE go by. Though the whole great
crowd and all its other terrors had faded from their recollection, this
one object remained; alone, distinct, and well remembered. Even in the
unpractised minds of infants, one of these doomed men darting past,
and but an instant seen, was an image of force enough to dim the whole
concourse; to find itself an all-absorbing place, and hold it ever
after.
When this last task had been achieved, the shouts and cries grew
fainter; the clank of fetters, which had resounded on all sides as
the prisoners escaped, was heard no more; all the noises of the crowd
subsided into a hoarse and sullen murmur as it passed into the distance;
and when the human tide had rolled away, a melancholy heap of smoking
ruins marked the spot where it had lately chafed and roared.
Chapter 66
Although he had had no rest upon the previous night, and had watched
with little intermission for some weeks past, sleeping only in the day
by starts and snatches, Mr Haredale, from the dawn of morning until
sunset, sought his niece in every place where he deemed it possible she
could have taken refuge. All day long, nothing, save a draught of water,
passed his lips; though he prosecuted his inquiries far and wide, and
never so much as sat down, once.
In every quarter he could think of; at Chigwell and in London; at the
houses of the tradespeople with whom he dealt, and of the friends he
knew; he pursued his search. A prey to the most harrowing anxieties and
apprehensions, he went from magistrate to magistrate, and finally to the
Secretary of State. The only comfort he received was from this minister,
who assured him that the Government, being now driven to the exercise
of the extreme prerogatives of the Crown, were determined to exert them;
that a proclamation would probably be out upon the morrow, giving to the
military, discretionary and unlimited power in the suppression of the
riots; that the sympathies of the King, the Administration, and both
Houses of Parliament, and indeed of all good men of every religious
persuasion, were strongly with the injured Catholics; and that justice
should be done them at any cost or hazard. He told him, moreover, that
other persons whose houses had been burnt, had for a time lost sight of
their children or their relatives, but had, in every case, within his
knowledge, succeeded in discovering them; that his complaint should be
remembered, and fully stated in the instructions given to the officers
in command, and to all the inferior myrmidons of justice; and that
everything that could be done to help him, should be done, with a
goodwill and in good faith.
Grateful for this consolation, feeble as it was in its reference to the
past, and little hope as it afforded him in connection with the subject
of distress which lay nearest to his heart; and really thankful for the
interest the minister expressed, and seemed to feel, in his condition;
Mr Haredale withdrew. He found himself, with the night coming on, alone
in the streets; and destitute of any place in which to lay his head.
He entered an hotel near Charing Cross, and ordered some refreshment and
a bed. He saw that his faint and worn appearance attracted the attention
of the landlord and his waiters; and thinking that they might suppose
him to be penniless, took out his purse, and laid it on the table. It
was not that, the landlord said, in a faltering voice. If he were one
of those who had suffered by the rioters, he durst not give him
entertainment. He had a family of children, and had been twice warned to
be careful in receiving guests. He heartily prayed his forgiveness, but
what could he do?
Nothing. No man felt that more sincerely than Mr Haredale. He told the
man as much, and left the house.
Feeling that he might have anticipated this occurrence, after what
he had seen at Chigwell in the morning, where no man dared to touch a
spade, though he offered a large reward to all who would come and dig
among the ruins of his house, he walked along the Strand; too proud
to expose himself to another refusal, and of too generous a spirit
to involve in distress or ruin any honest tradesman who might be weak
enough to give him shelter. He wandered into one of the streets by the
side of the river, and was pacing in a thoughtful manner up and
down, thinking of things that had happened long ago, when he heard a
servant-man at an upper window call to another on the opposite side of
the street, that the mob were setting fire to Newgate.
To Newgate! where that man was! His failing strength returned, his
energies came back with tenfold vigour, on the instant. If it were
possible--if they should set the murderer free--was he, after all he had
undergone, to die with the suspicion of having slain his own brother,
dimly gathering about him--
He had no consciousness of going to the jail; but there he stood, before
it. There was the crowd wedged and pressed together in a dense, dark,
moving mass; and there were the flames soaring up into the air. His head
turned round and round, lights flashed before his eyes, and he struggled
hard with two men.
‘Nay, nay,’ said one. ‘Be more yourself, my good sir. We attract
attention here. Come away. What can you do among so many men?’
‘The gentleman’s always for doing something,’ said the other, forcing
him along as he spoke. ‘I like him for that. I do like him for that.’
They had by this time got him into a court, hard by the prison. He
looked from one to the other, and as he tried to release himself, felt
that he tottered on his feet. He who had spoken first, was the old
gentleman whom he had seen at the Lord Mayor’s. The other was John
Grueby, who had stood by him so manfully at Westminster.
‘What does this mean?’ he asked them faintly. ‘How came we together?’
‘On the skirts of the crowd,’ returned the distiller; ‘but come with us.
Pray come with us. You seem to know my friend here?’
‘Surely,’ said Mr Haredale, looking in a kind of stupor at John.
‘He’ll tell you then,’ returned the old gentleman, ‘that I am a man
to be trusted. He’s my servant. He was lately (as you know, I have no
doubt) in Lord George Gordon’s service; but he left it, and brought,
in pure goodwill to me and others, who are marked by the rioters, such