Chapter 69
It was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with hisstumbling comrade, approached the place where he had left his father;but he could see him stealing away into the gloom, distrustful even ofhim, and rapidly retreating. After calling to him twice or thrice thatthere was nothing to fear, but without effect, he suffered Hugh to sinkupon the ground, and followed to bring him back.
He continued to creep away, until Barnaby was close upon him; thenturned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice:
'Let me go. Do not lay hands upon me. You have told her; and you and shetogether have betrayed me!'
Barnaby looked at him, in silence.
'You have seen your mother!'
'No,' cried Barnaby, eagerly. 'Not for a long time--longer than I cantell. A whole year, I think. Is she here?'
His father looked upon him steadfastly for a few moments, and thensaid--drawing nearer to him as he spoke, for, seeing his face, andhearing his words, it was impossible to doubt his truth:
'What man is that?'
'Hugh--Hugh. Only Hugh. You know him. HE will not harm you. Why, you'reafraid of Hugh! Ha ha ha! Afraid of gruff, old, noisy Hugh!'
'What man is he, I ask you,' he rejoined so fiercely, that Barnabystopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed him with a look ofterrified amazement.
'Why, how stern you are! You make me fear you, though you are my father.Why do you speak to me so?'
--'I want,' he answered, putting away the hand which his son, witha timid desire to propitiate him, laid upon his sleeve,--'I want ananswer, and you give me only jeers and questions. Who have you broughtwith you to this hiding-place, poor fool; and where is the blind man?'
'I don't know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but no personcame; that was no fault of mine. This is Hugh--brave Hugh, who brokeinto that ugly jail, and set us free. Aha! You like him now, do you? Youlike him now!'
'Why does he lie upon the ground?'
'He has had a fall, and has been drinking. The fields and trees goround, and round, and round with him, and the ground heaves under hisfeet. You know him? You remember? See!'
They had by this time returned to where he lay, and both stooped overhim to look into his face.
'I recollect the man,' his father murmured. 'Why did you bring himhere?'
'Because he would have been killed if I had left him over yonder. Theywere firing guns and shedding blood. Does the sight of blood turn yousick, father? I see it does, by your face. That's like me--What are youlooking at?'
'At nothing!' said the murderer softly, as he started back a pace ortwo, and gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son's head.'At nothing!'
He remained in the same attitude and with the same expression on hisface for a minute or more; then glanced slowly round as if he had lostsomething; and went shivering back, towards the shed.
'Shall I bring him in, father?' asked Barnaby, who had looked on,wondering.
He only answered with a suppressed groan, and lying down upon theground, wrapped his cloak about his head, and shrunk into the darkestcorner.
Finding that nothing would rouse Hugh now, or make him sensible for amoment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid him on a littleheap of refuse hay and straw which had been his own bed; first havingbrought some water from a running stream hard by, and washed his wound,and laved his hands and face. Then he lay down himself, between the two,to pass the night; and looking at the stars, fell fast asleep.
Awakened early in the morning, by the sunshine and the songs of birds,and hum of insects, he left them sleeping in the hut, and walked intothe sweet and pleasant air. But he felt that on his jaded senses,oppressed and burdened with the dreadful scenes of last night, and manynights before, all the beauties of opening day, which he had so oftentasted, and in which he had had such deep delight, fell heavily. Hethought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding ontogether through the woods and fields; and the recollection filled hiseyes with tears. He had no consciousness, God help him, of having donewrong, nor had he any new perception of the merits of the cause in whichhe had been engaged, or those of the men who advocated it; but he wasfull of cares now, and regrets, and dismal recollections, and wishes(quite unknown to him before) that this or that event had neverhappened, and that the sorrow and suffering of so many people had beenspared. And now he began to think how happy they would be--his father,mother, he, and Hugh--if they rambled away together, and lived in somelonely place, where there were none of these troubles; and that perhapsthe blind man, who had talked so wisely about gold, and told him ofthe great secrets he knew, could teach them how to live without beingpinched by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry that hehad not seen him last night; and he was still brooding over this regret,when his father came, and touched him on the shoulder.
'Ah!' cried Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. 'Is itonly you?'
'Who should it be?'
'I almost thought,' he answered, 'it was the blind man. I must have sometalk with him, father.'
'And so must I, for without seeing him, I don't know where to fly orwhat to do, and lingering here, is death. You must go to him again, andbring him here.'
'Must I!' cried Barnaby, delighted; 'that's brave, father. That's what Iwant to do.'
'But you must bring only him, and none other. And though you wait athis door a whole day and night, still you must wait, and not come backwithout him.'
'Don't you fear that,' he cried gaily. 'He shall come, he shall come.'
'Trim off these gewgaws,' said his father, plucking the scraps of ribbonand the feathers from his hat, 'and over your own dress wear my cloak.Take heed how you go, and they will be too busy in the streets to noticeyou. Of your coming back you need take no account, for he'll managethat, safely.'
'To be sure!' said Barnaby. 'To be sure he will! A wise man, father, andone who can teach us to be rich. Oh! I know him, I know him.'
He was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he could be. With alighter heart he then set off upon his second journey, leaving Hugh,who was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon the ground within theshed, and his father walking to and fro before it.
The murderer, full of anxious thoughts, looked after him, and paced upand down, disquieted by every breath of air that whispered among theboughs, and by every light shadow thrown by the passing clouds upon thedaisied ground. He was anxious for his safe return, and yet, though hisown life and safety hung upon it, felt a relief while he was gone. Inthe intense selfishness which the constant presence before him of hisgreat crimes, and their consequences here and hereafter, engendered,every thought of Barnaby, as his son, was swallowed up and lost. Still,his presence was a torture and reproach; in his wild eyes, there wereterrible images of that guilty night; with his unearthly aspect, and hishalf-formed mind, he seemed to the murderer a creature who had sprunginto existence from his victim's blood. He could not bear his look, hisvoice, his touch; and yet he was forced, by his own desperate conditionand his only hope of cheating the gibbet, to have him by his side, andto know that he was inseparable from his single chance of escape.
He walked to and fro, with little rest, all day, revolving these thingsin his mind; and still Hugh lay, unconscious, in the shed. At length,when the sun was setting, Barnaby returned, leading the blind man, andtalking earnestly to him as they came along together.
The murderer advanced to meet them, and bidding his son go on and speakto Hugh, who had just then staggered to his feet, took his place at theblind man's elbow, and slowly followed, towards the shed.
'Why did you send HIM?' said Stagg. 'Don't you know it was the way tohave him lost, as soon as found?'
'Would you have had me come myself?' returned the other.
'Humph! Perhaps not. I was before the jail on Tuesday night, but missedyou in the crowd. I was out last night, too. There was good work lastnight--gay work--profitable work'--he added, rattling the money in hispockets.
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'Have you--'
--'Seen your good lady? Yes.'
'Do you mean to tell me more, or not?'
'I'll tell you all,' returned the blind man, with a laugh. 'Excuseme--but I love to see you so impatient. There's energy in it.'
'Does she consent to say the word that may save me?'
'No,' returned the blind man emphatically, as he turned his face towardshim. 'No. Thus it is. She has been at death's door since she lost herdarling--has been insensible, and I know not what. I tracked her to ahospital, and presented myself (with your leave) at her bedside. Ourtalk was not a long one, for she was weak, and there being people nearI was not quite easy. But I told her all that you and I agreed upon, andpointed out the young gentleman's position, in strong terms. She triedto soften me, but that, of course (as I told her), was lost time. Shecried and moaned, you may be sure; all women do. Then, of a sudden, shefound her voice and strength, and said that Heaven would help her andher innocent son; and that to Heaven she appealed against us--which shedid; in really very pretty language, I assure you. I advised her, asa friend, not to count too much on assistance from any such distantquarter--recommended her to think of it--told her where I lived--said Iknew she would send to me before noon, next day--and left her, either ina faint or shamming.'
When he had concluded this narration, during which he had made severalpauses, for the convenience of cracking and eating nuts, of whichhe seemed to have a pocketful, the blind man pulled a flask from hispocket, took a draught himself, and offered it to his companion.
'You won't, won't you?' he said, feeling that he pushed it from him.'Well! Then the gallant gentleman who's lodging with you, will. Hallo,bully!'
'Death!' said the other, holding him back. 'Will you tell me what I amto do!'
'Do! Nothing easier. Make a moonlight flitting in two hours' time withthe young gentleman (he's quite ready to go; I have been giving him goodadvice as we came along), and get as far from London as you can. Let meknow where you are, and leave the rest to me. She MUST come round; shecan't hold out long; and as to the chances of your being retaken inthe meanwhile, why it wasn't one man who got out of Newgate, but threehundred. Think of that, for your comfort.'
'We must support life. How?'
'How!' repeated the blind man. 'By eating and drinking. And how get meatand drink, but by paying for it! Money!' he cried, slapping his pocket.'Is money the word? Why, the streets have been running money. Devil sendthat the sport's not over yet, for these are jolly times; golden, rare,roaring, scrambling times. Hallo, bully! Hallo! Hallo! Drink, bully,drink. Where are ye there! Hallo!'
With such vociferations, and with a boisterous manner which bespoke hisperfect abandonment to the general licence and disorder, he groped hisway towards the shed, where Hugh and Barnaby were sitting on the ground.
'Put it about!' he cried, handing his flask to Hugh. 'The kennels runwith wine and gold. Guineas and strong water flow from the very pumps.About with it, don't spare it!'
Exhausted, unwashed, unshorn, begrimed with smoke and dust, his hairclotted with blood, his voice quite gone, so that he spoke in whispers;his skin parched up by fever, his whole body bruised and cut, and beatenabout, Hugh still took the flask, and raised it to his lips. He was inthe act of drinking, when the front of the shed was suddenly darkened,and Dennis stood before them.
'No offence, no offence,' said that personage in a conciliatory tone, asHugh stopped in his draught, and eyed him, with no pleasant look, fromhead to foot. 'No offence, brother. Barnaby here too, eh? How are you,Barnaby? And two other gentlemen! Your humble servant, gentlemen. Nooffence to YOU either, I hope. Eh, brothers?'
Notwithstanding that he spoke in this very friendly and confidentmanner, he seemed to have considerable hesitation about entering, andremained outside the roof. He was rather better dressed than usual:wearing the same suit of threadbare black, it is true, but having roundhis neck an unwholesome-looking cravat of a yellowish white; and, on hishands, great leather gloves, such as a gardener might wear in followinghis trade. His shoes were newly greased, and ornamented with a pair ofrusty iron buckles; the packthread at his knees had been renewed; andwhere he wanted buttons, he wore pins. Altogether, he had something thelook of a tipstaff, or a bailiff's follower, desperately faded, but whohad a notion of keeping up the appearance of a professional character,and making the best of the worst means.
'You're very snug here,' said Mr Dennis, pulling out a mouldypocket-handkerchief, which looked like a decomposed halter, and wipinghis forehead in a nervous manner.
'Not snug enough to prevent your finding us, it seems,' Hugh answered,sulkily.
'Why I'll tell you what, brother,' said Dennis, with a friendly smile,'when you don't want me to know which way you're riding, you must wearanother sort of bells on your horse. Ah! I know the sound of them youwore last night, and have got quick ears for 'em; that's the truth.Well, but how are you, brother?'
He had by this time approached, and now ventured to sit down by him.
'How am I?' answered Hugh. 'Where were you yesterday? Where did you gowhen you left me in the jail? Why did you leave me? And what did youmean by rolling your eyes and shaking your fist at me, eh?'
'I shake my fist!--at you, brother!' said Dennis, gently checking Hugh'suplifted hand, which looked threatening.
'Your stick, then; it's all one.'
'Lord love you, brother, I meant nothing. You don't understand me byhalf. I shouldn't wonder now,' he added, in the tone of a desponding andan injured man, 'but you thought, because I wanted them chaps left inthe prison, that I was a going to desert the banners?'
Hugh told him, with an oath, that he had thought so.
'Well!' said Mr Dennis, mournfully, 'if you an't enough to make a manmistrust his feller-creeturs, I don't know what is. Desert the banners!Me! Ned Dennis, as was so christened by his own father!--Is this axeyour'n, brother?'
'Yes, it's mine,' said Hugh, in the same sullen manner as before; 'itmight have hurt you, if you had come in its way once or twice lastnight. Put it down.'
'Might have hurt me!' said Mr Dennis, still keeping it in his hand, andfeeling the edge with an air of abstraction. 'Might have hurt me! and meexerting myself all the time to the wery best advantage. Here's a world!And you're not a-going to ask me to take a sup out of that 'ere bottle,eh?'
Hugh passed it towards him. As he raised it to his lips, Barnaby jumpedup, and motioning them to be silent, looked eagerly out.
'What's the matter, Barnaby?' said Dennis, glancing at Hugh and droppingthe flask, but still holding the axe in his hand.
'Hush!' he answered softly. 'What do I see glittering behind the hedge?'
'What!' cried the hangman, raising his voice to its highest pitch, andlaying hold of him and Hugh. 'Not SOLDIERS, surely!'
That moment, the shed was filled with armed men; and a body of horse,galloping into the field, drew up before it.
'There!' said Dennis, who remained untouched among them when they hadseized their prisoners; 'it's them two young ones, gentlemen, that theproclamation puts a price on. This other's an escaped felon.--I'm sorryfor it, brother,' he added, in a tone of resignation, addressing himselfto Hugh; 'but you've brought it on yourself; you forced me to do it; youwouldn't respect the soundest constitootional principles, you know; youwent and wiolated the wery framework of society. I had sooner havegiven away a trifle in charity than done this, I would upon my soul.--Ifyou'll keep fast hold on 'em, gentlemen, I think I can make a shift totie 'em better than you can.'
But this operation was postponed for a few moments by a new occurrence.The blind man, whose ears were quicker than most people's sight, hadbeen alarmed, before Barnaby, by a rustling in the bushes, under coverof which the soldiers had advanced. He retreated instantly--had hiddensomewhere for a minute--and probably in his confusion mistaking thepoint at which he had emerged, was now seen running across the openmeadow.
An officer cried directly that he had helped to plunder a house lastnight. He was loudly called
on, to surrender. He ran the harder, and ina few seconds would have been out of gunshot. The word was given, andthe men fired.
There was a breathless pause and a profound silence, during which alleyes were fixed upon him. He had been seen to start at the discharge, asif the report had frightened him. But he neither stopped nor slackenedhis pace in the least, and ran on full forty yards further. Then,without one reel or stagger, or sign of faintness, or quivering of anylimb, he dropped.
Some of them hurried up to where he lay;--the hangman with them.Everything had passed so quickly, that the smoke had not yet scattered,but curled slowly off in a little cloud, which seemed like the deadman's spirit moving solemnly away. There were a few drops of blood uponthe grass--more, when they turned him over--that was all.
'Look here! Look here!' said the hangman, stooping one knee beside thebody, and gazing up with a disconsolate face at the officer and men.'Here's a pretty sight!'
'Stand out of the way,' replied the officer. 'Serjeant! see what he hadabout him.'
The man turned his pockets out upon the grass, and counted, besides someforeign coins and two rings, five-and-forty guineas in gold. These werebundled up in a handkerchief and carried away; the body remained therefor the present, but six men and the serjeant were left to take it tothe nearest public-house.
'Now then, if you're going,' said the serjeant, clapping Dennis on theback, and pointing after the officer who was walking towards the shed.
To which Mr Dennis only replied, 'Don't talk to me!' and then repeatedwhat he had said before, namely, 'Here's a pretty sight!'
'It's not one that you care for much, I should think,' observed theserjeant coolly.
'Why, who,' said Mr Dennis rising, 'should care for it, if I don't?'
'Oh! I didn't know you was so tender-hearted,' said the serjeant.'That's all!'
'Tender-hearted!' echoed Dennis. 'Tender-hearted! Look at this man. Doyou call THIS constitootional? Do you see him shot through and throughinstead of being worked off like a Briton? Damme, if I know whichparty to side with. You're as bad as the other. What's to become of thecountry if the military power's to go a superseding the ciwilians inthis way? Where's this poor feller-creetur's rights as a citizen, thathe didn't have ME in his last moments! I was here. I was willing. Iwas ready. These are nice times, brother, to have the dead crying outagainst us in this way, and sleep comfortably in our beds arterwards;wery nice!'
Whether he derived any material consolation from binding the prisoners,is uncertain; most probably he did. At all events his being summoned tothat work, diverted him, for the time, from these painful reflections,and gave his thoughts a more congenial occupation.
They were not all three carried off together, but in two parties;Barnaby and his father, going by one road in the centre of a body offoot; and Hugh, fast bound upon a horse, and strongly guarded by a troopof cavalry, being taken by another.
They had no opportunity for the least communication, in the shortinterval which preceded their departure; being kept strictly apart. Hughonly observed that Barnaby walked with a drooping head among his guard,and, without raising his eyes, that he tried to wave his fettered handwhen he passed. For himself, he buoyed up his courage as he rode along,with the assurance that the mob would force his jail wherever it mightbe, and set him at liberty. But when they got into London, and moreespecially into Fleet Market, lately the stronghold of the rioters,where the military were rooting out the last remnant of the crowd, hesaw that this hope was gone, and felt that he was riding to his death.