By this Friday night--for it was on Friday in the riot week, that Emma
and Dolly were rescued, by the timely aid of Joe and Edward Chester--the
disturbances were entirely quelled, and peace and order were restored
to the affrighted city. True, after what had happened, it was impossible
for any man to say how long this better state of things might last, or
how suddenly new outrages, exceeding even those so lately witnessed,
might burst forth and fill its streets with ruin and bloodshed; for
this reason, those who had fled from the recent tumults still kept at
a distance, and many families, hitherto unable to procure the means
of flight, now availed themselves of the calm, and withdrew into the
country. The shops, too, from Tyburn to Whitechapel, were still shut;
and very little business was transacted in any of the places of great
commercial resort. But, notwithstanding, and in spite of the melancholy
forebodings of that numerous class of society who see with the greatest
clearness into the darkest perspectives, the town remained profoundly
quiet. The strong military force disposed in every advantageous quarter,
and stationed at every commanding point, held the scattered fragments
of the mob in check; the search after rioters was prosecuted with
unrelenting vigour; and if there were any among them so desperate and
reckless as to be inclined, after the terrible scenes they had beheld,
to venture forth again, they were so daunted by these resolute measures,
that they quickly shrunk into their hiding-places, and had no thought
but for their safety.
In a word, the crowd was utterly routed. Upwards of two hundred had been
shot dead in the streets. Two hundred and fifty more were lying, badly
wounded, in the hospitals; of whom seventy or eighty died within a short
time afterwards. A hundred were already in custody, and more were taken
every hour. How many perished in the conflagrations, or by their own
excesses, is unknown; but that numbers found a terrible grave in the hot
ashes of the flames they had kindled, or crept into vaults and cellars
to drink in secret or to nurse their sores, and never saw the light
again, is certain. When the embers of the fires had been black and cold
for many weeks, the labourers’ spades proved this, beyond a doubt.
Seventy-two private houses and four strong jails were destroyed in the
four great days of these riots. The total loss of property, as estimated
by the sufferers, was one hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds; at the
lowest and least partial estimate of disinterested persons, it exceeded
one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. For this immense loss,
compensation was soon afterwards made out of the public purse, in
pursuance of a vote of the House of Commons; the sum being levied on the
various wards in the city, on the county, and the borough of Southwark.
Both Lord Mansfield and Lord Saville, however, who had been great
sufferers, refused to accept of any compensation whatever.
The House of Commons, sitting on Tuesday with locked and guarded doors,
had passed a resolution to the effect that, as soon as the tumults
subsided, it would immediately proceed to consider the petitions
presented from many of his Majesty’s Protestant subjects, and would take
the same into its serious consideration. While this question was under
debate, Mr Herbert, one of the members present, indignantly rose and
called upon the House to observe that Lord George Gordon was then
sitting under the gallery with the blue cockade, the signal of
rebellion, in his hat. He was not only obliged, by those who sat near,
to take it out; but offering to go into the street to pacify the mob
with the somewhat indefinite assurance that the House was prepared to
give them ‘the satisfaction they sought,’ was actually held down in his
seat by the combined force of several members. In short, the disorder
and violence which reigned triumphant out of doors, penetrated into
the senate, and there, as elsewhere, terror and alarm prevailed, and
ordinary forms were for the time forgotten.
On the Thursday, both Houses had adjourned until the following Monday
se’nnight, declaring it impossible to pursue their deliberations with
the necessary gravity and freedom, while they were surrounded by armed
troops. And now that the rioters were dispersed, the citizens were beset
with a new fear; for, finding the public thoroughfares and all their
usual places of resort filled with soldiers entrusted with the free use
of fire and sword, they began to lend a greedy ear to the rumours which
were afloat of martial law being declared, and to dismal stories of
prisoners having been seen hanging on lamp-posts in Cheapside and
Fleet Street. These terrors being promptly dispelled by a Proclamation
declaring that all the rioters in custody would be tried by a special
commission in due course of law, a fresh alarm was engendered by its
being whispered abroad that French money had been found on some of the
rioters, and that the disturbances had been fomented by foreign powers
who sought to compass the overthrow and ruin of England. This report,
which was strengthened by the diffusion of anonymous handbills, but
which, if it had any foundation at all, probably owed its origin to the
circumstance of some few coins which were not English money having been
swept into the pockets of the insurgents with other miscellaneous booty,
and afterwards discovered on the prisoners or the dead bodies,--caused
a great sensation; and men’s minds being in that excited state when they
are most apt to catch at any shadow of apprehension, was bruited about
with much industry.
All remaining quiet, however, during the whole of this Friday, and on
this Friday night, and no new discoveries being made, confidence began
to be restored, and the most timid and desponding breathed again.
In Southwark, no fewer than three thousand of the inhabitants formed
themselves into a watch, and patrolled the streets every hour. Nor were
the citizens slow to follow so good an example: and it being the manner
of peaceful men to be very bold when the danger is over, they were
abundantly fierce and daring; not scrupling to question the stoutest
passenger with great severity, and carrying it with a very high hand
over all errand-boys, servant-girls, and ‘prentices.
As day deepened into evening, and darkness crept into the nooks and
corners of the town as if it were mustering in secret and gathering
strength to venture into the open ways, Barnaby sat in his dungeon,
wondering at the silence, and listening in vain for the noise and outcry
which had ushered in the night of late. Beside him, with his hand in
hers, sat one in whose companionship he felt at peace. She was worn, and
altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted; but the same to him.
‘Mother,’ he said, after a long silence: ‘how long,--how many days and
nights,--shall I be kept here?’
‘Not many, dear. I hope not many.’
‘You hope! Ay, but your hoping will not undo these chains. I hope, but
they don’t mind that. Grip hopes, but who cares for Grip?’
The raven gave a short, dull, melancholy croak. It said ‘Nobody,’ as
plainly as a croak could speak.
‘Who cares for Grip, except you and me?’ said Barnaby, smoothing the
bird’s rumpled feathers with his hand. ‘He never speaks in this place;
he never says a word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in his dark
corner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps
in through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if a spark from
those great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet. But who
cares for Grip?’
The raven croaked again--Nobody.
‘And by the way,’ said Barnaby, withdrawing his hand from the bird, and
laying it upon his mother’s arm, as he looked eagerly in her face; ‘if
they kill me--they may: I heard it said they would--what will become of
Grip when I am dead?’
The sound of the word, or the current of his own thoughts, suggested to
Grip his old phrase ‘Never say die!’ But he stopped short in the middle
of it, drew a dismal cork, and subsided into a faint croak, as if he
lacked the heart to get through the shortest sentence.
‘Will they take HIS life as well as mine?’ said Barnaby. ‘I wish they
would. If you and I and he could die together, there would be none to
feel sorry, or to grieve for us. But do what they will, I don’t fear
them, mother!’
‘They will not harm you,’ she said, her tears choking her utterance.
‘They never will harm you, when they know all. I am sure they never
will.’
‘Oh! Don’t be too sure of that,’ cried Barnaby, with a strange pleasure
in the belief that she was self-deceived, and in his own sagacity. ‘They
have marked me from the first. I heard them say so to each other when
they brought me to this place last night; and I believe them. Don’t you
cry for me. They said that I was bold, and so I am, and so I will be.
You may think that I am silly, but I can die as well as another.--I have
done no harm, have I?’ he added quickly.
‘None before Heaven,’ she answered.
‘Why then,’ said Barnaby, ‘let them do their worst. You told me
once--you--when I asked you what death meant, that it was nothing to
be feared, if we did no harm--Aha! mother, you thought I had forgotten
that!’
His merry laugh and playful manner smote her to the heart. She drew him
closer to her, and besought him to talk to her in whispers and to be
very quiet, for it was getting dark, and their time was short, and she
would soon have to leave him for the night.
‘You will come to-morrow?’ said Barnaby.
Yes. And every day. And they would never part again.
He joyfully replied that this was well, and what he wished, and what he
had felt quite certain she would tell him; and then he asked her where
she had been so long, and why she had not come to see him when he had
been a great soldier, and ran through the wild schemes he had had for
their being rich and living prosperously, and with some faint notion in
his mind that she was sad and he had made her so, tried to console and
comfort her, and talked of their former life and his old sports and
freedom: little dreaming that every word he uttered only increased her
sorrow, and that her tears fell faster at the freshened recollection of
their lost tranquillity.
‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, as they heard the man approaching to close the
cells for the night, ‘when I spoke to you just now about my father you
cried “Hush!” and turned away your head. Why did you do so? Tell me why,
in a word. You thought HE was dead. You are not sorry that he is alive
and has come back to us. Where is he? Here?’
‘Do not ask any one where he is, or speak about him,’ she made answer.
‘Why not?’ said Barnaby. ‘Because he is a stern man, and talks roughly?
Well! I don’t like him, or want to be with him by myself; but why not
speak about him?’
‘Because I am sorry that he is alive; sorry that he has come back;
and sorry that he and you have ever met. Because, dear Barnaby, the
endeavour of my life has been to keep you two asunder.’
‘Father and son asunder! Why?’
‘He has,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘he has shed blood. The time has
come when you must know it. He has shed the blood of one who loved him
well, and trusted him, and never did him wrong in word or deed.’
Barnaby recoiled in horror, and glancing at his stained wrist for an
instant, wrapped it, shuddering, in his dress.
‘But,’ she added hastily as the key turned in the lock, ‘although we
shun him, he is your father, dearest, and I am his wretched wife. They
seek his life, and he will lose it. It must not be by our means; nay, if
we could win him back to penitence, we should be bound to love him yet.
Do not seem to know him, except as one who fled with you from the jail,
and if they question you about him, do not answer them. God be with you
through the night, dear boy! God be with you!’
She tore herself away, and in a few seconds Barnaby was alone. He stood
for a long time rooted to the spot, with his face hidden in his hands;
then flung himself, sobbing, on his miserable bed.
But the moon came slowly up in all her gentle glory, and the stars
looked out, and through the small compass of the grated window, as
through the narrow crevice of one good deed in a murky life of guilt,
the face of Heaven shone bright and merciful. He raised his head;
gazed upward at the quiet sky, which seemed to smile upon the earth in
sadness, as if the night, more thoughtful than the day, looked down in
sorrow on the sufferings and evil deeds of men; and felt its peace sink
deep into his heart. He, a poor idiot, caged in his narrow cell, was as
much lifted up to God, while gazing on the mild light, as the freest and
most favoured man in all the spacious city; and in his ill-remembered
prayer, and in the fragment of the childish hymn, with which he sung and
crooned himself asleep, there breathed as true a spirit as ever studied
homily expressed, or old cathedral arches echoed.
As his mother crossed a yard on her way out, she saw, through a grated
door which separated it from another court, her husband, walking round
and round, with his hands folded on his breast, and his head hung down.
She asked the man who conducted her, if she might speak a word with
this prisoner. Yes, but she must be quick for he was locking up for
the night, and there was but a minute or so to spare. Saying this, he
unlocked the door, and bade her go in.
It grated harshly as it turned upon its hinges, but he was deaf to
the noise, and still walked round and round the little court, without
raising his head or changing his attitude in the least. She spoke to
him, but her voice was weak, and failed her. At length she put herself
in his track, and when he came near, stretched out her hand and touched
him.
He started backward, trembling from head to foot; but seeing who it was,
demanded why she came there. Before she could reply, he spoke again.
‘Am I to live or die? Do you murder too, or spare?’
‘My son--our son,’ she answered, ‘is in this prison.’
‘What is that to me?’ he cried, stamping impatiently on the stone
pavement. ‘I know it. He can no more aid me than I can aid him. If you
are come to talk of him, begone!’
As he spoke he resumed his walk, and hurried round the court as before.
When he came again to where she stood, he stopped, and said,
‘Am I to live or die? Do you repent?’
‘Oh!--do YOU?’ she answered. ‘Will you, while time remains? Do not
believe that I could save you, if I dared.’
‘Say if you would,’ he answered with an oath, as he tried to disengage
himself and pass on. ‘Say if you would.’
‘Listen to me for one moment,’ she returned; ‘for but a moment. I am but
newly risen from a sick-bed, from which I never hoped to rise again. The
best among us think, at such a time, of good intentions half-performed
and duties left undone. If I have ever, since that fatal night, omitted
to pray for your repentance before death--if I omitted, even then,
anything which might tend to urge it on you when the horror of your
crime was fresh--if, in our later meeting, I yielded to the dread that
was upon me, and forgot to fall upon my knees and solemnly adjure you,
in the name of him you sent to his account with Heaven, to prepare for
the retribution which must come, and which is stealing on you now--I
humbly before you, and in the agony of supplication in which you see me,
beseech that you will let me make atonement.’
‘What is the meaning of your canting words?’ he answered roughly. ‘Speak
so that I may understand you.’
‘I will,’ she answered, ‘I desire to. Bear with me for a moment more.
The hand of Him who set His curse on murder, is heavy on us now. You
cannot doubt it. Our son, our innocent boy, on whom His anger fell
before his birth, is in this place in peril of his life--brought here
by your guilt; yes, by that alone, as Heaven sees and knows, for he
has been led astray in the darkness of his intellect, and that is the
terrible consequence of your crime.’
‘If you come, woman-like, to load me with reproaches--’ he muttered,
again endeavouring to break away.
‘I do not. I have a different purpose. You must hear it. If not
to-night, to-morrow; if not to-morrow, at another time. You MUST hear
it. Husband, escape is hopeless--impossible.’
‘You tell me so, do you?’ he said, raising his manacled hand, and
shaking it. ‘You!’
‘Yes,’ she said, with indescribable earnestness. ‘But why?’
‘To make me easy in this jail. To make the time ‘twixt this and death,
pass pleasantly. For my good--yes, for my good, of course,’ he said,
grinding his teeth, and smiling at her with a livid face.
‘Not to load you with reproaches,’ she replied; ‘not to aggravate the
tortures and miseries of your condition, not to give you one hard word,
but to restore you to peace and hope. Husband, dear husband, if you will
but confess this dreadful crime; if you will but implore forgiveness of
Heaven and of those whom you have wronged on earth; if you will dismiss
these vain uneasy thoughts, which never can be realised, and will rely
on Penitence and on the Truth, I promise you, in the great name of the
Creator, whose image you have defaced, that He will comfort and console
you. And for myself,’ she cried, clasping her hands, and looking upward,
‘I swear before Him, as He knows my heart and reads it now, that from
that hour I will love and cherish you as I did of old, and watch you
night and day in the short interval that will remain to us, and
soothe you with my truest love and duty, and pray with you, that one
threatening judgment may be arrested, and that our boy may be spared to
bless God, in his poor way, in the free air and light!’
He fell back and gazed at her while she poured out these words, as
though he were for a moment awed by her manner, and knew not what to do.
But anger and fear soon got the mastery of him, and he spurned her from
him.
‘Begone!’ he cried. ‘Leave me! You plot, do you! You plot to get speech
with me, and let them know I am the man they say I am. A curse on you
and on your boy.’
‘On him the curse has already fallen,’ she replied, wringing her hands.
‘Let it fall heavier. Let it fall on one and all. I hate you both. The
worst has come to me. The only comfort that I seek or I can have, will
be the knowledge that it comes to you. Now go!’
She would have urged him gently, even then, but he menaced her with his
chain.
‘I say go--I say it for the last time. The gallows has me in its grasp,
and it is a black phantom that may urge me on to something more. Begone!
I curse the hour that I was born, the man I slew, and all the living
world!’
In a paroxysm of wrath, and terror, and the fear of death, he broke from
her, and rushed into the darkness of his cell, where he cast himself
jangling down upon the stone floor, and smote it with his ironed hands.
The man returned to lock the dungeon door, and having done so, carried
her away.
On that warm, balmy night in June, there were glad faces and light
hearts in all quarters of the town, and sleep, banished by the late
horrors, was doubly welcomed. On that night, families made merry in
their houses, and greeted each other on the common danger they had
escaped; and those who had been denounced, ventured into the streets;
and they who had been plundered, got good shelter. Even the timorous
Lord Mayor, who was summoned that night before the Privy Council to
answer for his conduct, came back contented; observing to all his
friends that he had got off very well with a reprimand, and repeating
with huge satisfaction his memorable defence before the Council, ‘that
such was his temerity, he thought death would have been his portion.’
On that night, too, more of the scattered remnants of the mob were
traced to their lurking-places, and taken; and in the hospitals, and
deep among the ruins they had made, and in the ditches, and fields, many
unshrouded wretches lay dead: envied by those who had been active in
the disturbances, and who pillowed their doomed heads in the temporary
jails.
And in the Tower, in a dreary room whose thick stone walls shut out
the hum of life, and made a stillness which the records left by former
prisoners with those silent witnesses seemed to deepen and intensify;
remorseful for every act that had been done by every man among the cruel
crowd; feeling for the time their guilt his own, and their lives put in
peril by himself; and finding, amidst such reflections, little comfort
in fanaticism, or in his fancied call; sat the unhappy author of
all--Lord George Gordon.
He had been made prisoner that evening. ‘If you are sure it’s me you
want,’ he said to the officers, who waited outside with the warrant for
his arrest on a charge of High Treason, ‘I am ready to accompany you--’
which he did without resistance. He was conducted first before the Privy
Council, and afterwards to the Horse Guards, and then was taken by way
of Westminster Bridge, and back over London Bridge (for the purpose of
avoiding the main streets), to the Tower, under the strongest guard ever
known to enter its gates with a single prisoner.
Of all his forty thousand men, not one remained to bear him company.
Friends, dependents, followers,--none were there. His fawning secretary
had played the traitor; and he whose weakness had been goaded and urged
on by so many for their own purposes, was desolate and alone.