While Newgate was burning on the previous night, Barnaby and his
father, having been passed among the crowd from hand to hand, stood in
Smithfield, on the outskirts of the mob, gazing at the flames like men
who had been suddenly roused from sleep. Some moments elapsed before
they could distinctly remember where they were, or how they got
there; or recollected that while they were standing idle and listless
spectators of the fire, they had tools in their hands which had been
hurriedly given them that they might free themselves from their fetters.
Barnaby, heavily ironed as he was, if he had obeyed his first impulse,
or if he had been alone, would have made his way back to the side of
Hugh, who to his clouded intellect now shone forth with the new lustre
of being his preserver and truest friend. But his father’s terror
of remaining in the streets, communicated itself to him when he
comprehended the full extent of his fears, and impressed him with the
same eagerness to fly to a place of safety.
In a corner of the market among the pens for cattle, Barnaby knelt down,
and pausing every now and then to pass his hand over his father’s face,
or look up to him with a smile, knocked off his irons. When he had seen
him spring, a free man, to his feet, and had given vent to the transport
of delight which the sight awakened, he went to work upon his own, which
soon fell rattling down upon the ground, and left his limbs unfettered.
Gliding away together when this task was accomplished, and passing
several groups of men, each gathered round a stooping figure to hide
him from those who passed, but unable to repress the clanking sound of
hammers, which told that they too were busy at the same work,--the two
fugitives made towards Clerkenwell, and passing thence to Islington, as
the nearest point of egress, were quickly in the fields. After wandering
about for a long time, they found in a pasture near Finchley a poor
shed, with walls of mud, and roof of grass and brambles, built for
some cowherd, but now deserted. Here, they lay down for the rest of the
night.
They wandered to and fro when it was day, and once Barnaby went off
alone to a cluster of little cottages two or three miles away, to
purchase some bread and milk. But finding no better shelter, they
returned to the same place, and lay down again to wait for night.
Heaven alone can tell, with what vague hopes of duty, and affection;
with what strange promptings of nature, intelligible to him as to a man
of radiant mind and most enlarged capacity; with what dim memories of
children he had played with when a child himself, who had prattled
of their fathers, and of loving them, and being loved; with how many
half-remembered, dreamy associations of his mother’s grief and tears and
widowhood; he watched and tended this man. But that a vague and shadowy
crowd of such ideas came slowly on him; that they taught him to be sorry
when he looked upon his haggard face, that they overflowed his eyes when
he stooped to kiss him, that they kept him waking in a tearful gladness,
shading him from the sun, fanning him with leaves, soothing him when he
started in his sleep--ah! what a troubled sleep it was--and wondering
when SHE would come to join them and be happy, is the truth. He sat
beside him all that day; listening for her footsteps in every breath
of air, looking for her shadow on the gently-waving grass, twining the
hedge flowers for her pleasure when she came, and his when he awoke; and
stooping down from time to time to listen to his mutterings, and wonder
why he was so restless in that quiet place. The sun went down, and night
came on, and he was still quite tranquil; busied with these thoughts, as
if there were no other people in the world, and the dull cloud of smoke
hanging on the immense city in the distance, hid no vices, no crimes, no
life or death, or cause of disquiet--nothing but clear air.
But the hour had now come when he must go alone to find out the blind
man (a task that filled him with delight) and bring him to that place;
taking especial care that he was not watched or followed on his way
back. He listened to the directions he must observe, repeated them again
and again, and after twice or thrice returning to surprise his father
with a light-hearted laugh, went forth, at last, upon his errand:
leaving Grip, whom he had carried from the jail in his arms, to his
care.
Fleet of foot, and anxious to return, he sped swiftly on towards the
city, but could not reach it before the fires began, and made the night
angry with their dismal lustre. When he entered the town--it might be
that he was changed by going there without his late companions, and on
no violent errand; or by the beautiful solitude in which he had passed
the day, or by the thoughts that had come upon him,--but it seemed
peopled by a legion of devils. This flight and pursuit, this cruel
burning and destroying, these dreadful cries and stunning noises, were
THEY the good lord’s noble cause!
Though almost stupefied by the bewildering scene, still he found the
blind man’s house. It was shut up and tenantless.
He waited for a long while, but no one came. At last he withdrew; and as
he knew by this time that the soldiers were firing, and many people must
have been killed, he went down into Holborn, where he heard the great
crowd was, to try if he could find Hugh, and persuade him to avoid the
danger, and return with him.
If he had been stunned and shocked before, his horror was increased a
thousandfold when he got into this vortex of the riot, and not being an
actor in the terrible spectacle, had it all before his eyes. But there,
in the midst, towering above them all, close before the house they were
attacking now, was Hugh on horseback, calling to the rest!
Sickened by the sights surrounding him on every side, and by the heat
and roar, and crash, he forced his way among the crowd (where many
recognised him, and with shouts pressed back to let him pass), and in
time was nearly up with Hugh, who was savagely threatening some one, but
whom or what he said, he could not, in the great confusion, understand.
At that moment the crowd forced their way into the house, and Hugh--it
was impossible to see by what means, in such a concourse--fell headlong
down.
Barnaby was beside him when he staggered to his feet. It was well he
made him hear his voice, or Hugh, with his uplifted axe, would have
cleft his skull in twain.
‘Barnaby--you! Whose hand was that, that struck me down?’
‘Not mine.’
‘Whose!--I say, whose!’ he cried, reeling back, and looking wildly
round. ‘What are you doing? Where is he? Show me!’
‘You are hurt,’ said Barnaby--as indeed he was, in the head, both by the
blow he had received, and by his horse’s hoof. ‘Come away with me.’
As he spoke, he took the horse’s bridle in his hand, turned him, and
dragged Hugh several paces. This brought them out of the crowd, which
was pouring from the street into the vintner’s cellars.
‘Where’s--where’s Dennis?’ said Hugh, coming to a stop, and checking
Barnaby with his strong arm. ‘Where has he been all day? What did
he mean by leaving me as he did, in the jail, last night? Tell me,
you--d’ye hear!’
With a flourish of his dangerous weapon, he fell down upon the ground
like a log. After a minute, though already frantic with drinking and
with the wound in his head, he crawled to a stream of burning spirit
which was pouring down the kennel, and began to drink at it as if it
were a brook of water.
Barnaby drew him away, and forced him to rise. Though he could neither
stand nor walk, he involuntarily staggered to his horse, climbed upon
his back, and clung there. After vainly attempting to divest the animal
of his clanking trappings, Barnaby sprung up behind him, snatched the
bridle, turned into Leather Lane, which was close at hand, and urged the
frightened horse into a heavy trot.
He looked back, once, before he left the street; and looked upon a sight
not easily to be erased, even from his remembrance, so long as he had
life.
The vintner’s house with a half-a-dozen others near at hand, was one
great, glowing blaze. All night, no one had essayed to quench the
flames, or stop their progress; but now a body of soldiers were actively
engaged in pulling down two old wooden houses, which were every moment
in danger of taking fire, and which could scarcely fail, if they were
left to burn, to extend the conflagration immensely. The tumbling
down of nodding walls and heavy blocks of wood, the hooting and
the execrations of the crowd, the distant firing of other military
detachments, the distracted looks and cries of those whose habitations
were in danger, the hurrying to and fro of frightened people with
their goods; the reflections in every quarter of the sky, of deep, red,
soaring flames, as though the last day had come and the whole universe
were burning; the dust, and smoke, and drift of fiery particles,
scorching and kindling all it fell upon; the hot unwholesome vapour,
the blight on everything; the stars, and moon, and very sky,
obliterated;--made up such a sum of dreariness and ruin, that it seemed
as if the face of Heaven were blotted out, and night, in its rest and
quiet, and softened light, never could look upon the earth again.
But there was a worse spectacle than this--worse by far than fire and
smoke, or even the rabble’s unappeasable and maniac rage. The gutters
of the street, and every crack and fissure in the stones, ran with
scorching spirit, which being dammed up by busy hands, overflowed
the road and pavement, and formed a great pool, into which the people
dropped down dead by dozens. They lay in heaps all round this fearful
pond, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, women
with children in their arms and babies at their breasts, and drank until
they died. While some stooped with their lips to the brink and never
raised their heads again, others sprang up from their fiery draught,
and danced, half in a mad triumph, and half in the agony of suffocation,
until they fell, and steeped their corpses in the liquor that had killed
them. Nor was even this the worst or most appalling kind of death that
happened on this fatal night. From the burning cellars, where they
drank out of hats, pails, buckets, tubs, and shoes, some men were drawn,
alive, but all alight from head to foot; who, in their unendurable
anguish and suffering, making for anything that had the look of water,
rolled, hissing, in this hideous lake, and splashed up liquid fire
which lapped in all it met with as it ran along the surface, and
neither spared the living nor the dead. On this last night of the great
riots--for the last night it was--the wretched victims of a senseless
outcry, became themselves the dust and ashes of the flames they had
kindled, and strewed the public streets of London.
With all he saw in this last glance fixed indelibly upon his mind,
Barnaby hurried from the city which enclosed such horrors; and holding
down his head that he might not even see the glare of the fires upon the
quiet landscape, was soon in the still country roads.
He stopped at about half-a-mile from the shed where his father lay, and
with some difficulty making Hugh sensible that he must dismount, sunk
the horse’s furniture in a pool of stagnant water, and turned the animal
loose. That done, he supported his companion as well as he could, and
led him slowly forward.