During the whole course of the terrible scene which was now at its
height, one man in the jail suffered a degree of fear and mental torment
which had no parallel in the endurance, even of those who lay under
sentence of death.
When the rioters first assembled before the building, the murderer
was roused from sleep--if such slumbers as his may have that blessed
name--by the roar of voices, and the struggling of a great crowd. He
started up as these sounds met his ear, and, sitting on his bedstead,
listened.
After a short interval of silence the noise burst out again. Still
listening attentively, he made out, in course of time, that the jail was
besieged by a furious multitude. His guilty conscience instantly arrayed
these men against himself, and brought the fear upon him that he would
be singled out, and torn to pieces.
Once impressed with the terror of this conceit, everything tended to
confirm and strengthen it. His double crime, the circumstances under
which it had been committed, the length of time that had elapsed, and
its discovery in spite of all, made him, as it were, the visible object
of the Almighty’s wrath. In all the crime and vice and moral gloom of
the great pest-house of the capital, he stood alone, marked and singled
out by his great guilt, a Lucifer among the devils. The other prisoners
were a host, hiding and sheltering each other--a crowd like that without
the walls. He was one man against the whole united concourse; a single,
solitary, lonely man, from whom the very captives in the jail fell off
and shrunk appalled.
It might be that the intelligence of his capture having been bruited
abroad, they had come there purposely to drag him out and kill him in
the street; or it might be that they were the rioters, and, in pursuance
of an old design, had come to sack the prison. But in either case he had
no belief or hope that they would spare him. Every shout they raised,
and every sound they made, was a blow upon his heart. As the attack went
on, he grew more wild and frantic in his terror: tried to pull away the
bars that guarded the chimney and prevented him from climbing up: called
loudly on the turnkeys to cluster round the cell and save him from the
fury of the rabble; or put him in some dungeon underground, no matter
of what depth, how dark it was, or loathsome, or beset with rats and
creeping things, so that it hid him and was hard to find.
But no one came, or answered him. Fearful, even while he cried to them,
of attracting attention, he was silent. By and bye, he saw, as he looked
from his grated window, a strange glimmering on the stone walls and
pavement of the yard. It was feeble at first, and came and went, as
though some officers with torches were passing to and fro upon the roof
of the prison. Soon it reddened, and lighted brands came whirling down,
spattering the ground with fire, and burning sullenly in corners. One
rolled beneath a wooden bench, and set it in a blaze; another caught a
water-spout, and so went climbing up the wall, leaving a long straight
track of fire behind it. After a time, a slow thick shower of burning
fragments, from some upper portion of the prison which was blazing nigh,
began to fall before his door. Remembering that it opened outwards, he
knew that every spark which fell upon the heap, and in the act lost
its bright life, and died an ugly speck of dust and rubbish, helped
to entomb him in a living grave. Still, though the jail resounded with
shrieks and cries for help,--though the fire bounded up as if each
separate flame had had a tiger’s life, and roared as though, in every
one, there were a hungry voice--though the heat began to grow intense,
and the air suffocating, and the clamour without increased, and the
danger of his situation even from one merciless element was every moment
more extreme,--still he was afraid to raise his voice again, lest
the crowd should break in, and should, of their own ears or from the
information given them by the other prisoners, get the clue to his place
of confinement. Thus fearful alike, of those within the prison and
of those without; of noise and silence; light and darkness; of being
released, and being left there to die; he was so tortured and tormented,
that nothing man has ever done to man in the horrible caprice of power
and cruelty, exceeds his self-inflicted punishment.
Now, now, the door was down. Now they came rushing through the jail,
calling to each other in the vaulted passages; clashing the iron gates
dividing yard from yard; beating at the doors of cells and wards;
wrenching off bolts and locks and bars; tearing down the door-posts to
get men out; endeavouring to drag them by main force through gaps and
windows where a child could scarcely pass; whooping and yelling without
a moment’s rest; and running through the heat and flames as if they were
cased in metal. By their legs, their arms, the hair upon their heads,
they dragged the prisoners out. Some threw themselves upon the captives
as they got towards the door, and tried to file away their irons; some
danced about them with a frenzied joy, and rent their clothes, and were
ready, as it seemed, to tear them limb from limb. Now a party of a dozen
men came darting through the yard into which the murderer cast fearful
glances from his darkened window; dragging a prisoner along the ground
whose dress they had nearly torn from his body in their mad eagerness to
set him free, and who was bleeding and senseless in their hands. Now
a score of prisoners ran to and fro, who had lost themselves in the
intricacies of the prison, and were so bewildered with the noise and
glare that they knew not where to turn or what to do, and still cried
out for help, as loudly as before. Anon some famished wretch whose theft
had been a loaf of bread, or scrap of butcher’s meat, came skulking
past, barefooted--going slowly away because that jail, his house, was
burning; not because he had any other, or had friends to meet, or old
haunts to revisit, or any liberty to gain, but liberty to starve and
die. And then a knot of highwaymen went trooping by, conducted by the
friends they had among the crowd, who muffled their fetters as they went
along, with handkerchiefs and bands of hay, and wrapped them in coats
and cloaks, and gave them drink from bottles, and held it to their lips,
because of their handcuffs which there was no time to remove. All this,
and Heaven knows how much more, was done amidst a noise, a hurry, and
distraction, like nothing that we know of, even in our dreams; which
seemed for ever on the rise, and never to decrease for the space of a
single instant.
He was still looking down from his window upon these things, when a band
of men with torches, ladders, axes, and many kinds of weapons, poured
into the yard, and hammering at his door, inquired if there were any
prisoner within. He left the window when he saw them coming, and drew
back into the remotest corner of the cell; but although he returned them
no answer, they had a fancy that some one was inside, for they presently
set ladders against it, and began to tear away the bars at the casement;
not only that, indeed, but with pickaxes to hew down the very stones in
the wall.
As soon as they had made a breach at the window, large enough for the
admission of a man’s head, one of them thrust in a torch and looked all
round the room. He followed this man’s gaze until it rested on himself,
and heard him demand why he had not answered, but made him no reply.
In the general surprise and wonder, they were used to this; without
saying anything more, they enlarged the breach until it was large enough
to admit the body of a man, and then came dropping down upon the floor,
one after another, until the cell was full. They caught him up among
them, handed him to the window, and those who stood upon the ladders
passed him down upon the pavement of the yard. Then the rest came out,
one after another, and, bidding him fly, and lose no time, or the way
would be choked up, hurried away to rescue others.
It seemed not a minute’s work from first to last. He staggered to his
feet, incredulous of what had happened, when the yard was filled
again, and a crowd rushed on, hurrying Barnaby among them. In another
minute--not so much: another minute! the same instant, with no lapse or
interval between!--he and his son were being passed from hand to hand,
through the dense crowd in the street, and were glancing backward at a
burning pile which some one said was Newgate.
From the moment of their first entrance into the prison, the crowd
dispersed themselves about it, and swarmed into every chink and crevice,
as if they had a perfect acquaintance with its innermost parts, and bore
in their minds an exact plan of the whole. For this immediate knowledge
of the place, they were, no doubt, in a great degree, indebted to the
hangman, who stood in the lobby, directing some to go this way, some
that, and some the other; and who materially assisted in bringing about
the wonderful rapidity with which the release of the prisoners was
effected.
But this functionary of the law reserved one important piece of
intelligence, and kept it snugly to himself. When he had issued his
instructions relative to every other part of the building, and the mob
were dispersed from end to end, and busy at their work, he took a bundle
of keys from a kind of cupboard in the wall, and going by a kind of
passage near the chapel (it joined the governors house, and was then
on fire), betook himself to the condemned cells, which were a series of
small, strong, dismal rooms, opening on a low gallery, guarded, at the
end at which he entered, by a strong iron wicket, and at its opposite
extremity by two doors and a thick grate. Having double locked the
wicket, and assured himself that the other entrances were well secured,
he sat down on a bench in the gallery, and sucked the head of his stick
with the utmost complacency, tranquillity, and contentment.
It would have been strange enough, a man’s enjoying himself in this
quiet manner, while the prison was burning, and such a tumult was
cleaving the air, though he had been outside the walls. But here, in the
very heart of the building, and moreover with the prayers and cries
of the four men under sentence sounding in his ears, and their hands,
stretched out through the gratings in their cell-doors, clasped in
frantic entreaty before his very eyes, it was particularly remarkable.
Indeed, Mr Dennis appeared to think it an uncommon circumstance, and to
banter himself upon it; for he thrust his hat on one side as some men do
when they are in a waggish humour, sucked the head of his stick with a
higher relish, and smiled as though he would say, ‘Dennis, you’re a rum
dog; you’re a queer fellow; you’re capital company, Dennis, and quite a
character!’
He sat in this way for some minutes, while the four men in the cells,
who were certain that somebody had entered the gallery, but could not
see who, gave vent to such piteous entreaties as wretches in their
miserable condition may be supposed to have been inspired with: urging,
whoever it was, to set them at liberty, for the love of Heaven; and
protesting, with great fervour, and truly enough, perhaps, for the time,
that if they escaped, they would amend their ways, and would never,
never, never again do wrong before God or man, but would lead penitent
and sober lives, and sorrowfully repent the crimes they had committed.
The terrible energy with which they spoke, would have moved any person,
no matter how good or just (if any good or just person could have
strayed into that sad place that night), to have set them at liberty:
and, while he would have left any other punishment to its free course,
to have saved them from this last dreadful and repulsive penalty; which
never turned a man inclined to evil, and has hardened thousands who were
half inclined to good.
Mr Dennis, who had been bred and nurtured in the good old school, and
had administered the good old laws on the good old plan, always once
and sometimes twice every six weeks, for a long time, bore these appeals
with a deal of philosophy. Being at last, however, rather disturbed in
his pleasant reflection by their repetition, he rapped at one of the
doors with his stick, and cried:
‘Hold your noise there, will you?’
At this they all cried together that they were to be hanged on the next
day but one; and again implored his aid.
‘Aid! For what!’ said Mr Dennis, playfully rapping the knuckles of the
hand nearest him.
‘To save us!’ they cried.
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mr Dennis, winking at the wall in the absence
of any friend with whom he could humour the joke. ‘And so you’re to be
worked off, are you, brothers?’
‘Unless we are released to-night,’ one of them cried, ‘we are dead men!’
‘I tell you what it is,’ said the hangman, gravely; ‘I’m afraid, my
friend, that you’re not in that ‘ere state of mind that’s suitable to
your condition, then; you’re not a-going to be released: don’t think
it--Will you leave off that ‘ere indecent row? I wonder you an’t ashamed
of yourselves, I do.’
He followed up this reproof by rapping every set of knuckles one after
the other, and having done so, resumed his seat again with a cheerful
countenance.
‘You’ve had law,’ he said, crossing his legs and elevating his eyebrows:
‘laws have been made a’ purpose for you; a wery handsome prison’s
been made a’ purpose for you; a parson’s kept a purpose for you;
a constitootional officer’s appointed a’ purpose for you; carts is
maintained a’ purpose for you--and yet you’re not contented!--WILL you
hold that noise, you sir in the furthest?’
A groan was the only answer.
‘So well as I can make out,’ said Mr Dennis, in a tone of mingled
badinage and remonstrance, ‘there’s not a man among you. I begin to
think I’m on the opposite side, and among the ladies; though for the
matter of that, I’ve seen a many ladies face it out, in a manner that
did honour to the sex.--You in number two, don’t grind them teeth of
yours. Worse manners,’ said the hangman, rapping at the door with his
stick, ‘I never see in this place afore. I’m ashamed of you. You’re a
disgrace to the Bailey.’
After pausing for a moment to hear if anything could be pleaded in
justification, Mr Dennis resumed in a sort of coaxing tone:
‘Now look’ee here, you four. I’m come here to take care of you, and see
that you an’t burnt, instead of the other thing. It’s no use your making
any noise, for you won’t be found out by them as has broken in, and
you’ll only be hoarse when you come to the speeches,--which is a pity.
What I say in respect to the speeches always is, “Give it mouth.” That’s
my maxim. Give it mouth. I’ve heerd,’ said the hangman, pulling off his
hat to take his handkerchief from the crown and wipe his face, and then
putting it on again a little more on one side than before, ‘I’ve heerd a
eloquence on them boards--you know what boards I mean--and have heerd
a degree of mouth given to them speeches, that they was as clear as a
bell, and as good as a play. There’s a pattern! And always, when a thing
of this natur’s to come off, what I stand up for, is, a proper frame of
mind. Let’s have a proper frame of mind, and we can go through with it,
creditable--pleasant--sociable. Whatever you do (and I address myself in
particular, to you in the furthest), never snivel. I’d sooner by half,
though I lose by it, see a man tear his clothes a’ purpose to spile
‘em before they come to me, than find him snivelling. It’s ten to one a
better frame of mind, every way!’
While the hangman addressed them to this effect, in the tone and with
the air of a pastor in familiar conversation with his flock, the noise
had been in some degree subdued; for the rioters were busy in conveying
the prisoners to the Sessions House, which was beyond the main walls of
the prison, though connected with it, and the crowd were busy too, in
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.