The Chequers.—Britton’s Corner.—An Alarm.—The Mysterious Stranger.—A
Quarrel.—A Fight and a Little Anatomy.
While all these important circumstances are taking place, intoxication
was doing its fell work upon even the iron frame of Andrew Britton, and
each day saw him more coarse, bloated, and wayward in his various
fancies. He was but as an infant in the interval between his fits of
drunkenness, and it was never until he had taken enough ardent spirits
to kill any ordinary person that he felt his energies increase and his
blood course through his veins with its accustomed activity. The
fearful excitement of drink was deluding him with its present support,
at the same time it was sapping the very springs of his life, and
weakening the foundations of his strength.
He had already expended a small fortune at the Chequers, and yet his
gold, to the surprise of the landlord and the frequenters of the house,
appeared to be inexhaustible. Endless were the conjectures of who and
what he was; and one person had actually called upon Sir Francis
Hartleton to mention his strong suspicions that all was not right as
regarded Britton; but we know that the magistrate had ample and
judicious reasons for not alarming Learmont by a useless interference
with Andrew Britton; and although he received the communication with
politeness, he replied that he saw no reason at present to take any
steps as regarded the drunken smith, who held his nightly orgies at the
Chequers; so that the party left his office rather discouraged than
otherwise, and Britton pursued his career unchecked.
On the very night which had witnessed the denunciation of Jacob Gray by
Ada at Whitehall, and the various harrowing incidents, directly and,
indirectly arising therefrom, Britton had been holding high revel in
the parlour of the Chequers.
He had that morning visited Learmont, and was now freely lavishing
around him the gold pieces, which appeared to have no limit, but to be
produced by him as freely as if he had discovered the much coveted
secret of the transmutation of metals.
There was one man who lately Britton had taken much to, and that was on
account principally of his wonderful capacity for drink, in which he
vied with the smith himself. This man was a butcher, residing in the
immediate vicinity, and in every respect he was indeed a fit companion
for Britton. Brutal, coarse, strong, and big, he combined in himself
all that Britton admired; and as he had no money, and Britton had
plenty, which he was, moreover, willing to spend freely, they became
quite great cronies and friends.
On this occasion Britton and the butcher, whose name was Bond, occupied
two seats near the fire-place, and were indulging in a bowl of hot
arrack punch, which steamed before them, and from which they dipped
large quantities with pewter measures.
The rest of the room presented its usual mostly appearance. There were
persons of all kinds and conditions below, the respectable, and a steam
of hot breaths, vapour of mixed liquors, and all sorts of villanous
compounds, to which was added copious volumes of tobacco smoke, which
ascended to the roof.
All was boisterous, rough mirth and roaring jollity, the only
distinguishing feature of which was that Britton took care his voice
should be heard above all the surrounding din, and if any one presumed
to laugh as loud as he, or raise his voice to as stentorian a pitch, he
either commissioned the butcher, or went himself, to nob the said
person on the head with the pewter measure. Britton was in one of his
treating humours, and he had just ordered jugs of strong ale all round
when the landlord came in and said,—
“Gentlemen all, there’s some rare news—most rare news!”
“What is it?” cried a dozen voices in chorus.
“Hilloa!” roared Britton. “Peace, I say, peace! Am I king or not?
Damme, if I was a cockchafer instead of a king, you couldn’t behave
worse; curse you all!”
“Ha, ha, ha! A cockchafer,” laughed a man whose back was towards
Britton, but who was just within his reach, and he accordingly received
from Britton such a stunning blow with the pewter measure that he had
not a laugh in him for an hour.
“Now, silence all,” cried Britton, and when comparative stillness was
procured, he turned with drunken gravity to the landlord, and said.—
“Now, idiot, you come into my presence, and say,—‘There’s news!’”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“If you interrupt me, I’ll brain you. No, not brain you. You can’t be
brained, having none; but I’ll do something else that I’ll think of.
Now, what’s the news?”
“May it please your majesty,” said the landlord, “there’s news of a
fire and a murder.”
The smith half rose from his chair and his face assumed a tinge of deep
red as he shouted,—
“Who dare say so much? Think you I am crippled and cannot use my fore
hammer still—the—the fire was accidental.”
A murmur of astonishment passed among those present, and the landlord
added,—
“I—I—was only told of it, your majesty, and thought you’d like to hear,
that’s all. No offence, your majesty, only they say that there’s been a
murder, and the old place where it was done burnt down to destroy the
dead body.”
“Liar!” cried Britton, making a rush at the landlord. “Who—who dare say
half as much? Show me the man, and I’ll take his life! Show his face,
and then I shall find his throat!”
Everybody rose, and the landlord made good his retreat to the door,
where he stood looking at Britton aghast, for he had never seen him in
so genuine a rage before.
“What do you mean,” growled the butcher, “by coming here and vexing
him? Slaughter me if you deserve such a customer. Hands off there,
leave him alone, will you?”
“It’s a lie,” cried Britton; “there is nobody there to burn, none—none.
That woman, that hag, Maud, has trumped up the tale. She is mad, but
full of malice—quite full of malice at me, for what I don’t know. Who
talks of the body? Who beards and flouts me, I should like to know?
Beware, I am Britton, the smith—Beware, I say!”
The veins upon his forehead were swollen almost to bursting, and rage
imparted to his voice a vehemence which soon destroyed it, for his last
words were hoarse and broken, and still muttering only—“Beware!” he
suffered the butcher to lead him back to his seat and fill for him a
measure of the hot punch, which Britton drank as if it had been so much
water. Then he drew a long breath and exclaimed,—
“The—villain—to—to—come to me with such a tale. His life—curses on him!
His life should be worth more to him than to risk it.”
“Be calm!” said the butcher, in a voice that almost shook the rafters
of the house. “Be calm; give care the go by, and drown all sorts of
disagreeables in drink. There is nothing like it, you may depend,
whether you’re a butcher or a king. Take another glass, by boy, and
swear away. That’s one o’ the comforts of life too, gentlemen. Now I’m
a butcher, and as humane a individual as is in all Westminster; and if
anybody says I isn’t, I’ll put my slaughtering knife in his inside.”
Britton was quiet for a few moments, partly from exhaustion and partly
because he was nearly choked with another measure of punch which he
threw into his throat rather heedlessly, and the landlord, when the
butcher had done speaking, took the opportunity of throwing in a word
of personal justification, for he was quite alarmed at the riot he had
created, as he supposed, with such very slender materials.
“Your majesty,” he said, “will humbly excuse me, but there is a fire at
Battersea, and they do say there’s been a murder.”
“At—at—where?” cried Britton.
“At Battersea. From the back window of the room up stairs, adjoining
your gracious majesty’s, you may see the sky as red as—as—anything.”
“Oh—at Battersea—to-night?”
“Yes—even now. It was one of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men who said there
had been a murder.”
“Indeed!—Oh, indeed,” said Britton, breathing more freely. “I—I—What’s
it to me? What have I to do with it? Here’s a toast, gentlemen, all. A
toast, I say.”
People are always ready to drink toasts at another’s expense, and it is
really very extraordinary what very out-of-the-way and singular
sentiments many well-meaning and harmless people will solemnly pledge
themselves when they come before them in the shape of toasts; and every
glass and tankard was filled to do honour to the proposition of
Britton, when the landlord, whose back was against the door, was nearly
pushed down by the sudden entrance of a man, who, after one glance
round the room, cried,—
“Now’s your time.”
At the words, there arose two men from among the guests, and nodded to
him who had just arrived. What the three were about to do seemed
involved in mystery, and likely to form an endless theme for
conjecture, for before they could make any movement indicative of their
intentions, another man appeared at the door, and nearly breathless
from the haste he had made, he cried in a loud voice,—
“No!”
The two men who had risen looked at each other in amazement, and then
at the stranger, who cried, “No!” in a tone of such authority. For the
space of about a minute no one spoke, and a general feeling of alarm
seemed to be produced by this strange proceedings, a clue to which no
one could possibly imagine.
Then he who had last made his appearance said, in a lower tone,—
“You know me?”
“Yes, sir,” replied both the men in a breath.
“Enough—follow!”
He then turned on his heels and walked away. The two men as well as he
who had just come in so mysteriously made a bustle to leave the room,
but by this time all the indignation of King Britton was thoroughly
aroused, and he roared out,—
“This is pretty; I’ll let you know who is king here. You follow him if
you dare, ye hounds. What’s the meaning of all this?”
He rose from his seat and sprung to the door as he spoke, but he had no
sooner got there that he found himself face to face with the man who
had cried “No” so lustily, and who hearing some objections made to his
orders, had come back. There was an unflinching boldness about the man,
that for a moment staggered Britton, and they stood face to face for a
few moments in silence.
“Well, bully,” cried the man, “what now?”
The only reply of the smith was a straightforward blow, which was,
however, so skillfully parried by the stranger, that it was not only
quite innoxious to him, but gave Britton a severe wrench of the elbow.
“What now?” again cried the man.
“Let me get at him,” roared the butcher.
“No,” screamed Britton. “D—e, let him have fair play. It’s my quarrel,
and I’ll smash anybody that interferes.”
All now rose, and a more strange collection of excited faces could
scarcely have been seen, than was presented just then at the Chequers
in expectation of a serious battle between the smith and his
antagonist, who, although not near so stout a man, was fully as tall,
and a great deal younger looking than he.
“What do you want here?” said Britton.
“I shall not tell you,” replied the man.
“You can fight?”
“A little.”
“Where I came from,” added Britton, “we wrestle a little.”
“So do we where I came from,” replied the other, calmly.
“Do you,” cried Britton, and then confident in his own strength and
skill, even half intoxicated as he was, he sprung upon the man, and
seizing him fairly by the shoulder and waist, he made a tremendous
effort to throw him, but he produced no more impression upon the
stranger than as if he had laid hold of the corner of a house.
After a few moments’ exertion, he ceased, panting, from his endeavours,
and at that moment the stranger put out his arms, and threw Britton so
heavily upon his back that the room shook again.
“Foul play! Foul play!” cried the butcher, half rising.
“You lie, sir,” cried the stranger, in a tone that made the butcher
fall back into his seat again with surprise.
“Follow,” cried the stranger then, addressing the men who had waited
patiently until the result of the combat. He then strode from the
house, being immediately followed by those who appeared to know him,
and under so implicit an obedience to his commands. Britton was picked
up by the butcher, and laid with a thwack as if he had been some huge
joint of meat, upon one of the oaken tables.
“I hope there’s no bones broke,” said the landlord.
“Bones broke, be bothered,” replied the butcher; “I think I ought to
know something about bones and meat too.”
“So you ought. Master Bond,” cried a man; “so you ought. Only I should
say you knew most about bones.”
“Should you, spooney—and why?”
“Because you never send me a joint that isn’t at least the best part
bones.”
There was a general laugh against the butcher at this sally, who,
glaring ferociously at the speaker, exclaimed,—
“When you come to my shop again, look after your own carcass that’s
all, and now for what I calls judgmatical atomy.”
“What?” cried several voices.
“Judgmatical atomy,” roared the butcher. “It means knowing whether
bones is broke or not.”
“Oh, very good, Master Bond,” said the landlord. “Pray attend to his
majesty, bless him. I hope he ain’t hurt—a d—d fool.”
This last sentence was uttered very low by the landlord, and Bond, the
butcher, at once commenced a ludicrous examination of the various limbs
of Britton.
“He ain’t hurt in the fore-leg,” he remarked. “He ain’t damaged nowhere
from neck to loins. He’d cut up as nice as possible, and nobody be no
wiser. Pour a glass of brandy into his mouth, and hold his nose.”
This operation was duly performed, and as recovery or strangulation
were the only alternatives nature had, in the case of Andrew Britton,
she embraced the former and he opened his eyes.