They were not long in reaching the barracks, for the officer who
commanded the party was desirous to avoid rousing the people by the
display of military force in the streets, and was humanely anxious
to give as little opportunity as possible for any attempt at rescue;
knowing that it must lead to bloodshed and loss of life, and that if the
civil authorities by whom he was accompanied, empowered him to order his
men to fire, many innocent persons would probably fall, whom curiosity
or idleness had attracted to the spot. He therefore led the party
briskly on, avoiding with a merciful prudence the more public and
crowded thoroughfares, and pursuing those which he deemed least likely
to be infested by disorderly persons. This wise proceeding not only
enabled them to gain their quarters without any interruption, but
completely baffled a body of rioters who had assembled in one of the
main streets, through which it was considered certain they would pass,
and who remained gathered together for the purpose of releasing the
prisoner from their hands, long after they had deposited him in a place
of security, closed the barrack-gates, and set a double guard at every
entrance for its better protection.
Arrived at this place, poor Barnaby was marched into a stone-floored
room, where there was a very powerful smell of tobacco, a strong
thorough draught of air, and a great wooden bedstead, large enough for a
score of men. Several soldiers in undress were lounging about, or eating
from tin cans; military accoutrements dangled on rows of pegs along the
whitewashed wall; and some half-dozen men lay fast asleep upon their
backs, snoring in concert. After remaining here just long enough to
note these things, he was marched out again, and conveyed across the
parade-ground to another portion of the building.
Perhaps a man never sees so much at a glance as when he is in a
situation of extremity. The chances are a hundred to one, that if
Barnaby had lounged in at the gate to look about him, he would have
lounged out again with a very imperfect idea of the place, and would
have remembered very little about it. But as he was taken handcuffed
across the gravelled area, nothing escaped his notice. The dry, arid
look of the dusty square, and of the bare brick building; the clothes
hanging at some of the windows; and the men in their shirt-sleeves and
braces, lolling with half their bodies out of the others; the green
sun-blinds at the officers’ quarters, and the little scanty trees in
front; the drummer-boys practising in a distant courtyard; the men at
drill on the parade; the two soldiers carrying a basket between them,
who winked to each other as he went by, and slily pointed to their
throats; the spruce serjeant who hurried past with a cane in his hand,
and under his arm a clasped book with a vellum cover; the fellows in the
ground-floor rooms, furbishing and brushing up their different articles
of dress, who stopped to look at him, and whose voices as they
spoke together echoed loudly through the empty galleries and
passages;--everything, down to the stand of muskets before the
guard-house, and the drum with a pipe-clayed belt attached, in one
corner, impressed itself upon his observation, as though he had noticed
them in the same place a hundred times, or had been a whole day among
them, in place of one brief hurried minute.
He was taken into a small paved back yard, and there they opened a great
door, plated with iron, and pierced some five feet above the ground with
a few holes to let in air and light. Into this dungeon he was walked
straightway; and having locked him up there, and placed a sentry over
him, they left him to his meditations.
The cell, or black hole, for it had those words painted on the door, was
very dark, and having recently accommodated a drunken deserter, by no
means clean. Barnaby felt his way to some straw at the farther end, and
looking towards the door, tried to accustom himself to the gloom, which,
coming from the bright sunshine out of doors, was not an easy task.
There was a kind of portico or colonnade outside, and this obstructed
even the little light that at the best could have found its way through
the small apertures in the door. The footsteps of the sentinel echoed
monotonously as he paced its stone pavement to and fro (reminding
Barnaby of the watch he had so lately kept himself); and as he passed
and repassed the door, he made the cell for an instant so black by the
interposition of his body, that his going away again seemed like the
appearance of a new ray of light, and was quite a circumstance to look
for.
When the prisoner had sat sometime upon the ground, gazing at the
chinks, and listening to the advancing and receding footsteps of his
guard, the man stood still upon his post. Barnaby, quite unable to
think, or to speculate on what would be done with him, had been lulled
into a kind of doze by his regular pace; but his stopping roused him;
and then he became aware that two men were in conversation under the
colonnade, and very near the door of his cell.
How long they had been talking there, he could not tell, for he had
fallen into an unconsciousness of his real position, and when the
footsteps ceased, was answering aloud some question which seemed to have
been put to him by Hugh in the stable, though of the fancied purport,
either of question or reply, notwithstanding that he awoke with the
latter on his lips, he had no recollection whatever. The first words
that reached his ears, were these:
‘Why is he brought here then, if he has to be taken away again so soon?’
‘Why where would you have him go! Damme, he’s not as safe anywhere as
among the king’s troops, is he? What WOULD you do with him? Would you
hand him over to a pack of cowardly civilians, that shake in their
shoes till they wear the soles out, with trembling at the threats of the
ragamuffins he belongs to?’
‘That’s true enough.’
‘True enough!--I’ll tell you what. I wish, Tom Green, that I was a
commissioned instead of a non-commissioned officer, and that I had the
command of two companies--only two companies--of my own regiment.
Call me out to stop these riots--give me the needful authority, and
half-a-dozen rounds of ball cartridge--’
‘Ay!’ said the other voice. ‘That’s all very well, but they won’t give
the needful authority. If the magistrate won’t give the word, what’s the
officer to do?’
Not very well knowing, as it seemed, how to overcome this difficulty,
the other man contented himself with damning the magistrates.
‘With all my heart,’ said his friend.
‘Where’s the use of a magistrate?’ returned the other voice. ‘What’s
a magistrate in this case, but an impertinent, unnecessary,
unconstitutional sort of interference? Here’s a proclamation. Here’s a
man referred to in that proclamation. Here’s proof against him, and a
witness on the spot. Damme! Take him out and shoot him, sir. Who wants a
magistrate?’
‘When does he go before Sir John Fielding?’ asked the man who had spoken
first.
‘To-night at eight o’clock,’ returned the other. ‘Mark what follows. The
magistrate commits him to Newgate. Our people take him to Newgate. The
rioters pelt our people. Our people retire before the rioters. Stones
are thrown, insults are offered, not a shot’s fired. Why? Because of the
magistrates. Damn the magistrates!’
When he had in some degree relieved his mind by cursing the magistrates
in various other forms of speech, the man was silent, save for a low
growling, still having reference to those authorities, which from time
to time escaped him.
Barnaby, who had wit enough to know that this conversation concerned,
and very nearly concerned, himself, remained perfectly quiet until they
ceased to speak, when he groped his way to the door, and peeping through
the air-holes, tried to make out what kind of men they were, to whom he
had been listening.
The one who condemned the civil power in such strong terms, was a
serjeant--engaged just then, as the streaming ribands in his cap
announced, on the recruiting service. He stood leaning sideways against
a pillar nearly opposite the door, and as he growled to himself, drew
figures on the pavement with his cane. The other man had his back
towards the dungeon, and Barnaby could only see his form. To judge from
that, he was a gallant, manly, handsome fellow, but he had lost his left
arm. It had been taken off between the elbow and the shoulder, and his
empty coat-sleeve hung across his breast.
It was probably this circumstance which gave him an interest beyond any
that his companion could boast of, and attracted Barnaby’s attention.
There was something soldierly in his bearing, and he wore a jaunty cap
and jacket. Perhaps he had been in the service at one time or other.
If he had, it could not have been very long ago, for he was but a young
fellow now.
‘Well, well,’ he said thoughtfully; ‘let the fault be where it may, it
makes a man sorrowful to come back to old England, and see her in this
condition.’
‘I suppose the pigs will join ‘em next,’ said the serjeant, with
an imprecation on the rioters, ‘now that the birds have set ‘em the
example.’
‘The birds!’ repeated Tom Green.
‘Ah--birds,’ said the serjeant testily; ‘that’s English, an’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Go to the guard-house, and see. You’ll find a bird there, that’s got
their cry as pat as any of ‘em, and bawls “No Popery,” like a man--or
like a devil, as he says he is. I shouldn’t wonder. The devil’s loose
in London somewhere. Damme if I wouldn’t twist his neck round, on the
chance, if I had MY way.’
The young man had taken two or three steps away, as if to go and see
this creature, when he was arrested by the voice of Barnaby.
‘It’s mine,’ he called out, half laughing and half weeping--‘my pet,
my friend Grip. Ha ha ha! Don’t hurt him, he has done no harm. I taught
him; it’s my fault. Let me have him, if you please. He’s the only friend
I have left now. He’ll not dance, or talk, or whistle for you, I
know; but he will for me, because he knows me and loves me--though you
wouldn’t think it--very well. You wouldn’t hurt a bird, I’m sure. You’re
a brave soldier, sir, and wouldn’t harm a woman or a child--no, no, nor
a poor bird, I’m certain.’
This latter adjuration was addressed to the serjeant, whom Barnaby
judged from his red coat to be high in office, and able to seal Grip’s
destiny by a word. But that gentleman, in reply, surlily damned him for
a thief and rebel as he was, and with many disinterested imprecations on
his own eyes, liver, blood, and body, assured him that if it rested with
him to decide, he would put a final stopper on the bird, and his master
too.
‘You talk boldly to a caged man,’ said Barnaby, in anger. ‘If I was on
the other side of the door and there were none to part us, you’d change
your note--ay, you may toss your head--you would! Kill the bird--do.
Kill anything you can, and so revenge yourself on those who with their
bare hands untied could do as much to you!’
Having vented his defiance, he flung himself into the furthest corner
of his prison, and muttering, ‘Good bye, Grip--good bye, dear old Grip!’
shed tears for the first time since he had been taken captive; and hid
his face in the straw.
He had had some fancy at first, that the one-armed man would help him,
or would give him a kind word in answer. He hardly knew why, but he
hoped and thought so. The young fellow had stopped when he called out,
and checking himself in the very act of turning round, stood listening
to every word he said. Perhaps he built his feeble trust on this;
perhaps on his being young, and having a frank and honest manner.
However that might be, he built on sand. The other went away directly
he had finished speaking, and neither answered him, nor returned. No
matter. They were all against him here: he might have known as much.
Good bye, old Grip, good bye!
After some time, they came and unlocked the door, and called to him to
come out. He rose directly, and complied, for he would not have THEM
think he was subdued or frightened. He walked out like a man, and looked
from face to face.
None of them returned his gaze or seemed to notice it. They marched
him back to the parade by the way they had brought him, and there they
halted, among a body of soldiers, at least twice as numerous as that
which had taken him prisoner in the afternoon. The officer he had seen
before, bade him in a few brief words take notice that if he attempted
to escape, no matter how favourable a chance he might suppose he had,
certain of the men had orders to fire upon him, that moment. They then
closed round him as before, and marched him off again.
In the same unbroken order they arrived at Bow Street, followed and
beset on all sides by a crowd which was continually increasing. Here
he was placed before a blind gentleman, and asked if he wished to say
anything. Not he. What had he got to tell them? After a very little
talking, which he was careless of and quite indifferent to, they told
him he was to go to Newgate, and took him away.
He went out into the street, so surrounded and hemmed in on every side
by soldiers, that he could see nothing; but he knew there was a great
crowd of people, by the murmur; and that they were not friendly to the
soldiers, was soon rendered evident by their yells and hisses. How often
and how eagerly he listened for the voice of Hugh! There was not a voice
he knew among them all. Was Hugh a prisoner too? Was there no hope!
As they came nearer and nearer to the prison, the hootings of the people
grew more violent; stones were thrown; and every now and then, a rush
was made against the soldiers, which they staggered under. One of them,
close before him, smarting under a blow upon the temple, levelled his
musket, but the officer struck it upwards with his sword, and ordered
him on peril of his life to desist. This was the last thing he saw
with any distinctness, for directly afterwards he was tossed about,
and beaten to and fro, as though in a tempestuous sea. But go where
he would, there were the same guards about him. Twice or thrice he was
thrown down, and so were they; but even then, he could not elude their
vigilance for a moment. They were up again, and had closed about him,
before he, with his wrists so tightly bound, could scramble to his feet.
Fenced in, thus, he felt himself hoisted to the top of a low flight of
steps, and then for a moment he caught a glimpse of the fighting in
the crowd, and of a few red coats sprinkled together, here and there,
struggling to rejoin their fellows. Next moment, everything was dark and
gloomy, and he was standing in the prison lobby; the centre of a group
of men.
A smith was speedily in attendance, who riveted upon him a set of heavy
irons. Stumbling on as well as he could, beneath the unusual burden of
these fetters, he was conducted to a strong stone cell, where, fastening
the door with locks, and bolts, and chains, they left him, well secured;
having first, unseen by him, thrust in Grip, who, with his head drooping
and his deep black plumes rough and rumpled, appeared to comprehend and
to partake, his master’s fallen fortunes.