On that same night--events so crowd upon each other in convulsed and
distracted times, that more than the stirring incidents of a whole life
often become compressed into the compass of four-and-twenty hours--on
that same night, Mr Haredale, having strongly bound his prisoner,
with the assistance of the sexton, and forced him to mount his horse,
conducted him to Chigwell; bent upon procuring a conveyance to London
from that place, and carrying him at once before a justice. The
disturbed state of the town would be, he knew, a sufficient reason for
demanding the murderer’s committal to prison before daybreak, as no man
could answer for the security of any of the watch-houses or ordinary
places of detention; and to convey a prisoner through the streets when
the mob were again abroad, would not only be a task of great danger and
hazard, but would be to challenge an attempt at rescue. Directing the
sexton to lead the horse, he walked close by the murderer’s side, and in
this order they reached the village about the middle of the night.
The people were all awake and up, for they were fearful of being burnt
in their beds, and sought to comfort and assure each other by watching
in company. A few of the stoutest-hearted were armed and gathered in a
body on the green. To these, who knew him well, Mr Haredale addressed
himself, briefly narrating what had happened, and beseeching them to aid
in conveying the criminal to London before the dawn of day.
But not a man among them dared to help him by so much as the motion of
a finger. The rioters, in their passage through the village, had
menaced with their fiercest vengeance, any person who should aid in
extinguishing the fire, or render the least assistance to him, or any
Catholic whomsoever. Their threats extended to their lives and all they
possessed. They were assembled for their own protection, and could not
endanger themselves by lending any aid to him. This they told him, not
without hesitation and regret, as they kept aloof in the moonlight and
glanced fearfully at the ghostly rider, who, with his head drooping on
his breast and his hat slouched down upon his brow, neither moved nor
spoke.
Finding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed hardly knowing how
to do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd, Mr Haredale
besought them that at least they would leave him free to act for
himself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise and pair of
horses that the place afforded. This was not acceded to without some
difficulty, but in the end they told him to do what he would, and go
away from them in heaven’s name.
Leaving the sexton at the horse’s bridle, he drew out the chaise
with his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but that the
post-boy of the village--a soft-hearted, good-for-nothing, vagabond kind
of fellow--was moved by his earnestness and passion, and, throwing down
a pitchfork with which he was armed, swore that the rioters might cut
him into mincemeat if they liked, but he would not stand by and see
an honest gentleman who had done no wrong, reduced to such extremity,
without doing what he could to help him. Mr Haredale shook him warmly
by the hand, and thanked him from his heart. In five minutes’ time the
chaise was ready, and this good scapegrace in his saddle. The murderer
was put inside, the blinds were drawn up, the sexton took his seat upon
the bar, Mr Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the door;
and so they started in the dead of night, and in profound silence, for
London.
The consternation was so extreme that even the horses which had escaped
the flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelter them. They
passed them on the road, browsing on the stunted grass; and the driver
told them, that the poor beasts had wandered to the village first, but
had been driven away, lest they should bring the vengeance of the crowd
on any of the inhabitants.
Nor was this feeling confined to such small places, where the people
were timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came near London they
met, in the grey light of morning, more than one poor Catholic family
who, terrified by the threats and warnings of their neighbours, were
quitting the city on foot, and who told them they could hire no cart or
horse for the removal of their goods, and had been compelled to leave
them behind, at the mercy of the crowd. Near Mile End they passed a
house, the master of which, a Catholic gentleman of small means, having
hired a waggon to remove his furniture by midnight, had had it all
brought down into the street, to wait the vehicle’s arrival, and save
time in the packing. But the man with whom he made the bargain, alarmed
by the fires that night, and by the sight of the rioters passing his
door, had refused to keep it: and the poor gentleman, with his wife and
servant and their little children, were sitting trembling among their
goods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and not knowing
where to turn or what to do.
It was the same, they heard, with the public conveyances. The panic
was so great that the mails and stage-coaches were afraid to carry
passengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If the drivers knew
them, or they admitted that they held that creed, they would not take
them, no, though they offered large sums; and yesterday, people had
been afraid to recognise Catholic acquaintance in the streets, lest
they should be marked by spies, and burnt out, as it was called, in
consequence. One mild old man--a priest, whose chapel was destroyed;
a very feeble, patient, inoffensive creature--who was trudging away,
alone, designing to walk some distance from town, and then try his
fortune with the coaches, told Mr Haredale that he feared he might not
find a magistrate who would have the hardihood to commit a prisoner to
jail, on his complaint. But notwithstanding these discouraging accounts
they went on, and reached the Mansion House soon after sunrise.
Mr Haredale threw himself from his horse, but he had no need to knock
at the door, for it was already open, and there stood upon the step
a portly old man, with a very red, or rather purple face, who with an
anxious expression of countenance, was remonstrating with some unseen
personage upstairs, while the porter essayed to close the door by
degrees and get rid of him. With the intense impatience and excitement
natural to one in his condition, Mr Haredale thrust himself forward and
was about to speak, when the fat old gentleman interposed:
‘My good sir,’ said he, ‘pray let me get an answer. This is the sixth
time I have been here. I was here five times yesterday. My house is
threatened with destruction. It is to be burned down to-night, and was
to have been last night, but they had other business on their hands.
Pray let me get an answer.’
‘My good sir,’ returned Mr Haredale, shaking his head, ‘my house is
burned to the ground. But heaven forbid that yours should be. Get your
answer. Be brief, in mercy to me.’
‘Now, you hear this, my lord?’--said the old gentleman, calling up
the stairs, to where the skirt of a dressing-gown fluttered on the
landing-place. ‘Here is a gentleman here, whose house was actually burnt
down last night.’
‘Dear me, dear me,’ replied a testy voice, ‘I am very sorry for it, but
what am I to do? I can’t build it up again. The chief magistrate of the
city can’t go and be a rebuilding of people’s houses, my good sir. Stuff
and nonsense!’
‘But the chief magistrate of the city can prevent people’s houses from
having any need to be rebuilt, if the chief magistrate’s a man, and
not a dummy--can’t he, my lord?’ cried the old gentleman in a choleric
manner.
‘You are disrespectable, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor--‘leastways,
disrespectful I mean.’
‘Disrespectful, my lord!’ returned the old gentleman. ‘I was respectful
five times yesterday. I can’t be respectful for ever. Men can’t stand
on being respectful when their houses are going to be burnt over their
heads, with them in ‘em. What am I to do, my lord? AM I to have any
protection!’
‘I told you yesterday, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor, ‘that you might have
an alderman in your house, if you could get one to come.’
‘What the devil’s the good of an alderman?’ returned the choleric old
gentleman.
‘--To awe the crowd, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor.
‘Oh Lord ha’ mercy!’ whimpered the old gentleman, as he wiped his
forehead in a state of ludicrous distress, ‘to think of sending an
alderman to awe a crowd! Why, my lord, if they were even so many babies,
fed on mother’s milk, what do you think they’d care for an alderman!
Will YOU come?’
‘I!’ said the Lord Mayor, most emphatically: ‘Certainly not.’
‘Then what,’ returned the old gentleman, ‘what am I to do? Am I a
citizen of England? Am I to have the benefit of the laws? Am I to have
any return for the King’s taxes?’
‘I don’t know, I am sure,’ said the Lord Mayor; ‘what a pity it is
you’re a Catholic! Why couldn’t you be a Protestant, and then you
wouldn’t have got yourself into such a mess? I’m sure I don’t know
what’s to be done.--There are great people at the bottom of these
riots.--Oh dear me, what a thing it is to be a public character!--You
must look in again in the course of the day.--Would a javelin-man
do?--Or there’s Philips the constable,--HE’S disengaged,--he’s not very
old for a man at his time of life, except in his legs, and if you put
him up at a window he’d look quite young by candle-light, and might
frighten ‘em very much.--Oh dear!--well!--we’ll see about it.’
‘Stop!’ cried Mr Haredale, pressing the door open as the porter strove
to shut it, and speaking rapidly, ‘My Lord Mayor, I beg you not to go
away. I have a man here, who committed a murder eight-and-twenty years
ago. Half-a-dozen words from me, on oath, will justify you in committing
him to prison for re-examination. I only seek, just now, to have him
consigned to a place of safety. The least delay may involve his being
rescued by the rioters.’
‘Oh dear me!’ cried the Lord Mayor. ‘God bless my soul--and body--oh
Lor!--well I!--there are great people at the bottom of these riots, you
know.--You really mustn’t.’
‘My lord,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘the murdered gentleman was my brother; I
succeeded to his inheritance; there were not wanting slanderous tongues
at that time, to whisper that the guilt of this most foul and cruel deed
was mine--mine, who loved him, as he knows, in Heaven, dearly. The time
has come, after all these years of gloom and misery, for avenging him,
and bringing to light a crime so artful and so devilish that it has no
parallel. Every second’s delay on your part loosens this man’s bloody
hands again, and leads to his escape. My lord, I charge you hear me, and
despatch this matter on the instant.’
‘Oh dear me!’ cried the chief magistrate; ‘these an’t business
hours, you know--I wonder at you--how ungentlemanly it is of you--you
mustn’t--you really mustn’t.--And I suppose you are a Catholic too?’
‘I am,’ said Mr Haredale.
‘God bless my soul, I believe people turn Catholics a’purpose to vex
and worrit me,’ cried the Lord Mayor. ‘I wish you wouldn’t come here;
they’ll be setting the Mansion House afire next, and we shall have you
to thank for it. You must lock your prisoner up, sir--give him to a
watchman--and--call again at a proper time. Then we’ll see about it!’
Before Mr Haredale could answer, the sharp closing of a door and drawing
of its bolts, gave notice that the Lord Mayor had retreated to his
bedroom, and that further remonstrance would be unavailing. The two
clients retreated likewise, and the porter shut them out into the
street.
‘That’s the way he puts me off,’ said the old gentleman, ‘I can get no
redress and no help. What are you going to do, sir?’
‘To try elsewhere,’ answered Mr Haredale, who was by this time on
horseback.
‘I feel for you, I assure you--and well I may, for we are in a common
cause,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I may not have a house to offer you
to-night; let me tender it while I can. On second thoughts though,’ he
added, putting up a pocket-book he had produced while speaking, ‘I’ll
not give you a card, for if it was found upon you, it might get you
into trouble. Langdale--that’s my name--vintner and distiller--Holborn
Hill--you’re heartily welcome, if you’ll come.’
Mr Haredale bowed, and rode off, close beside the chaise as before;
determining to repair to the house of Sir John Fielding, who had the
reputation of being a bold and active magistrate, and fully resolved, in
case the rioters should come upon them, to do execution on the murderer
with his own hands, rather than suffer him to be released.
They arrived at the magistrate’s dwelling, however, without molestation
(for the mob, as we have seen, were then intent on deeper schemes), and
knocked at the door. As it had been pretty generally rumoured that Sir
John was proscribed by the rioters, a body of thief-takers had been
keeping watch in the house all night. To one of them Mr Haredale stated
his business, which appearing to the man of sufficient moment to warrant
his arousing the justice, procured him an immediate audience.
No time was lost in committing the murderer to Newgate; then a new
building, recently completed at a vast expense, and considered to be of
enormous strength. The warrant being made out, three of the thief-takers
bound him afresh (he had been struggling, it seemed, in the chaise, and
had loosened his manacles); gagged him lest they should meet with any
of the mob, and he should call to them for help; and seated themselves,
along with him, in the carriage. These men being all well armed, made
a formidable escort; but they drew up the blinds again, as though the
carriage were empty, and directed Mr Haredale to ride forward, that he
might not attract attention by seeming to belong to it.
The wisdom of this proceeding was sufficiently obvious, for as they
hurried through the city they passed among several groups of men, who,
if they had not supposed the chaise to be quite empty, would certainly
have stopped it. But those within keeping quite close, and the driver
tarrying to be asked no questions, they reached the prison without
interruption, and, once there, had him out, and safe within its gloomy
walls, in a twinkling.
With eager eyes and strained attention, Mr Haredale saw him chained, and
locked and barred up in his cell. Nay, when he had left the jail, and
stood in the free street, without, he felt the iron plates upon the
doors, with his hands, and drew them over the stone wall, to assure
himself that it was real; and to exult in its being so strong, and
rough, and cold. It was not until he turned his back upon the jail, and
glanced along the empty streets, so lifeless and quiet in the bright
morning, that he felt the weight upon his heart; that he knew he was
tortured by anxiety for those he had left at home; and that home itself
was but another bead in the long rosary of his regrets.