SECRETS OF A RIVER.
IT had been a stormy night in the London streets. In the Strand the
shopkeepers' assistants were hurriedly fastening the shutters upon the
windows of their masters' shops, eager to escape the hurricane of rain
which swept over the London housetops, and tore through the lanes of
brick and mortar like an enraged fiend. Thirsty souls who were draining
huge mugs of malt liquor in the many publics along Thames street,
looked out with scared faces on the river which was beating its sides
angrily against the shipping and lesser craft.
The waters of the Thames ran high and wild, and down in the Pool and by
Limehouse Reach, huge ships bearing the colors of many nations at their
peaks, swung and rocked in the seething tides, while black night and
the angry shades of the coming storm gathered around their twinkling
red and blue signal lamps, which lazily danced from their yards over
the surface of the river, leaving faint streaks of light that were
ever and anon swallowed by the angry waters. Boatmen were anxiously
securing wherries and fastening them under bridges and by water-stairs,
and all the while the clouds above lowered, and the sweeping gusts of
rain stung the faces of those who were unfortunate enough to be in the
streets without shelter. Shutters slapped and banged in and out, and
chimney pots were whirled about by the fierce and howling winds.
I had been on a tour of inspection, with a friend and a police
sergeant, through London during the night, and had left the Alhambra
at midnight for Evan's Supper Rooms, in Covent Garden, where we passed
an hour listening to the music of the glee and madrigal boys, and on
leaving Evan's at one o'clock in the morning, my friend had parted with
me to go to bed, and I left him at the corner of Wellington street and
the Strand, he going westward to his residence in Westminster, while
the police Sergeant and myself called a cab, as I had a desire to see
London in the small hours, and Sergeant Scott had insinuated that a
stormy night was the best for seeing strange sights. He little thought
at the time how truly he spoke.
After some discussion between this veteran of the Old Jewry office and
myself, it was decided that we should visit some of the thieves' haunts
in the Borough of Southwark, as it was about the hour when these night
birds came home to roost, and of a consequence the best time to see
their places of residence.
The first place chosen for a visit was a den in the New Kent Road, and
to get there it was necessary for us to cross Waterloo Bridge.
[Sidenote: THE STRANGER AT WATERLOO BRIDGE.]
To cross some of the bridges in London it is necessary to pay a
trifling toll, which goes toward the repairs of the bridge. The charge
for each pedestrian on Westminster and Waterloo Bridges is half a penny
each--for a horse one penny. As the cab dashed up to the turnstile at
Waterloo Bridge, the toll keeper came out to take his dues, a gruff
looking fellow wrapped up in a big hairy coat. He took the two pence
grumblingly, and just at that moment I noticed a woman coming up to the
toll-house in a gaudy looking silk dress, and having a soiled velvet
wrapper about her shivering shoulders. The light from the toll-house
shone on her face, which was very pale, the eyes burning with a strange
light, and the garments which hung to her figure were dripping with the
rain.
"Please let me pass," said she to the gruff toll keeper, with an
imploring glance, "I have not a penny in the world--please let me cross
the bridge?"
"Please let yer cross the bridge--yer 'aint got a penny? Well wot
d'ye want ter cross the bridge for then? If yer 'aint got a h'apenny I
thinks yer as well on the one side of the bridge as the other? Well go
on with ye, I don't mind a h'apenny, and go to bed as soon as ye can,"
the toll keeper shouted through the storm after the wretched woman as
she dashed through the turnstile on the bridge, and was lost in the
storm and darkness of the night.
As she fled into the night, my companion caught sight of her face, and
a hasty exclamation escaped his lips.
"My God, that's Mag S----, that we saw to-night at the Alhambra! D'ye
remember that pale faced girl who asked you to give her some liquor in
the Canteen?"
"The woman who seemed out of her senses or crazed, and who danced and
swore?" I asked.
"Yes sir, the same--well that's her, and what she can be doing here on
this bridge at this time I don't know. She used to be a highflyer once,
did Mag, but her fancy man has left her, and I'm afraid she's dead
broke now, at times. My eye, wot a temper she has to be sure, when she
blazes hup."
By this time we had reached the end of the bridge at the Southwark
side, and the cab dashed madly by a female figure cowering in an alcove
of the structure, the cabby swearing an oath as the horse shied at it
going by.
As the night advanced, it blew harder and harder, and the storm raged
with great violence. The waters under the bridge rebounded against
the base of the stone arches, but the rain had ceased. We were now on
our route back to the city, having inspected the dens of thievery to
my great satisfaction. While going and coming, until we reached the
bridge again, the mind of my companion, Sergeant Scott, seemed ill at
ease in regard to the woman whom we had met upon the bridge before
we had crossed. He was anxious and uneasy, and talked of the meeting
incessantly, to my surprise.
"Some'ow or anuther I don't like meeting that gal on the bridge, Sir,"
said he. "She looked a little desperate, and when they looks that way I
don't like to see 'em near water. Its touch and go with 'em then."
"Do you fear that the girl will attempt to commit suicide?" said I to
him.
"I do, Sir. You see there's twelve hundred suicides in London every
year, and half of 'em or more drowns themselves. The gals are more
fonder of the water than the men. A man will blow his brains out or
take pison, but a gal allers takes to the water. Why, bless you,
Sir, we have as many as a hundred and twenty suicides hoff this here
Waterloo Bridge every year. And this is their favorite bridge, this
Waterloo Bridge. When they haven't got a penny in the world, and no
friends, then they leap hoff the battelmints."
By this time we had reached the toll gate again, and the cab horse was
walking slowly over the stone floor of the bridge, making echoes with
his feet. The bridge was quite dark, yet I could see the buildings and
spires on the London side piercing the skies, and the railway depot
at Charing Cross Bridge, the towers of the Parliament Houses, and the
square roofs of the St. Thomas' Hospitals rising vaguely and in shadows
above the river.
There are stone alcoves on all the London bridges, which bulge out in
a semi-circular form over the water on either side, and they will each
accommodate a dozen persons, should such a number wish to sit down and
look at the river. There are eight of these alcoves on Waterloo Bridge,
and a raised sidewalk runs along on each side of the road, of solid and
smooth flagging. The middle of the bridge is taken up by a causeway
fifty or sixty feet wide, and this causeway is paved with a sort of
Russ, or rather large Belgian pavement.
The cabby had stopped his horse to give me an opportunity to take a
look at the river.
[Sidenote: THREE O'CLOCK.]
One boom--two booms--three booms! The bell in the Clock Tower at
Westminster rolled out over the river. Three o'clock of a stormy
morning, and all London asleep. It was a grand and impressive sight,
the dark river, with bridge after bridge girdling it, and nothing to
be heard but the champing of the horse in the awful stillness of that
lone hour. Hark! There are voices on the bridge, voices passionate and
imploring, that seem to shudder over the water and to creep through
the arches of the bridge.
"Let us get out of the cab and see what it is, Sir, if you please.
There's some cadgers a bunking in this vicinity, I imagines," said the
police officer.
We walked along the bridge for a hundred feet or so, but could see
nothing, although we heard the voices still.
"There's something wrong a-goin' on, but I don't know wot it is," said
he again.
We advanced still further, and could see a woman's figure half hidden
by the alcove which was across on the other side of the bridge from us.
The woman was in earnest conversation with a man, who spoke in a clear,
manly voice to her.
"This is the woman that begged the toll-gate man to let her cross
to-night cos she hadn't a tanner," said the officer to me. "Let's watch
'em," said he; and feeling that it was an adventure of some sort, I
silently acquiesced. We concealed ourselves in an alcove or embrasure.
"Keep quiet, now, and we'll see something, sure," said the Sergeant.
And we kept very quiet for a few minutes. The man was talking earnestly
with the woman, who seemed half crazy with drink or excitement,
we could not tell which, as we could only hear snatches of the
conversation now and then.
It was the man's voice which we now heard.
"Come home, for God's sake, Margaret, and all will be well. You will be
forgiven, and nothing will ever be cast up to you. I'll pledge you my
word to that. Your mother is in the city, and your father is dead. She
has come up from Glastonbury to see you, and I've spent eight nights
walking for you, and hoping to get a sight of a face that was once
dearer to me than life, and is now even still dear to me, if it only
was to see you reformed, poor, unfortunate girl. Come home, for God's
sake. Make the attempt, and it will be all well once more."
[Sidenote: WEARY OF LIFE.]
The girl was sobbing now very hard. The man seemed to implore her by
all that had ever been sacred or dear to the lost girl, and she was
evidently moved by his tone and earnestness, and the recollections that
he had called forth.
"He's doin' of his best, and we can't do any think more--hany of us,"
said the Sergeant, who seemed a little touched.
"You talk to me of my mother, Harry? Why, I have not heard that name
in three years. I thought I'd never hear it again. I have thought of
her, too. But it's too late, Harry. The girl that my mother expects to
see is the bright little Maggie, the school-girl who never had a hard
word or an unkind look from her. I had an innocent face then, and was
not afraid to meet her kind old eyes. But now, to meet her in this
garb"--and she shook her flaunting silks--"I dare not--I dare not.
Harry, I tell you it is too late. Too late. Too late."
"It's never too late, poor girl," said the stranger, "come home at
once, or if you'll wait here a moment I'll go and call a cab and take
you home to your mother at once. Wait here a moment and I will get a
cab. Wait a moment, Maggie, only a moment:" and the stranger ran across
the bridge, up King William street, and in the direction of the Bank,
where he expected to find a cab.
The lost girl was left alone. Alone with night and solitude. Alone
with naught but her past life, which arose from the waters like a
shadow to keep her company. Alone and miserable, with the cruel sky
darkling above her as if to shut out all hope, while the river yawned
and gaped beneath, seeking an offering. God unheeded, her bosom cold as
a stone; no prayer to conquer her anguish; with memories of promises
broken and tender words unsaid; the passionate love of a fond mother
given in vain; and at last an atonement is to be made. The old, old
story--betrayal, dishonor, and the grave.
We crept nearer by some unknown impulse, to where she stood, and could
hear her talking to herself, though we could not see her features, or
anything definite, but a weird figure looming up like a shadow against
the balustrade of the bridge. Her voice, which had fallen to a murmur
almost, was like some forgotten music, the strains of which are heard
in a dream. Who was this lone, wretched girl, and why came she here at
this hour?
"My God, why should I go back to shame my poor old mother? I never
will. I cannot do it. The sight of her would blast me. And Charley, for
whom I lost all, where is he? In India, and no one here to-night, and
I alone with my black thoughts on this spot. Why am I here? What do I
live for? My life has been wretched enough. Why prolong it any longer?
I will settle the matter now and forever. Good-by, Mother," said the
wretched girl, looking up at the sky, and before she could be stopped
in her fearful purpose, she had mounted the parapet by the embrasure,
and leaped with a shriek into the devouring river beneath.
"By Heavens," said the Sergeant, darting forward and making an effort
to catch at her clothes as her figure disappeared, "she has made a hole
in the water with herself." At this moment a patrolman, hearing the
girl scream and the shouts of the policeman, appeared upon the parapet.
All three of us dashed down the stairs of the old bridge, and it was
the work of a moment only to get a boat out, which, fortunately, had
the oars inside. In a minute we were all out on the river, and the tide
running very fast in the direction of the Pool--after pulling towards
the middle arch the Sergeant cried out:
"Steady your rudder, there; what's that bobbing up and down on the
water? That's a woman's head, sure; she's got hoops, too; that's lucky.
Pull away, for your lives!"
In a few moments we were alongside of the dark, floating object, and
the patrolman, drawing his lantern out, threw its reflection over the
waters, while the head of the boat was kept well up to the dismal
object.
The policeman leaned over the gunwale of the skiff and caught at the
dress, and dragged in what he supposed to be a woman's body, but was
only a bundle of rags and straw, the refuse of some lodging-house bed.
This was a severe disappointment to all in the boat, and we looked at
each other without speaking, for a minute. The Sergeant had a scared
look, and said aloud:
[Sidenote: SADLY IMPORTUNATE.]
"I'm afraid poor Mag's gone. She must have struck the bottom of the
arches when she went down, and if she did, all's over and settled. The
tide's running fast, too, and we will have hard work to find her."
For half an hour the most diligent search was made for her body, but no
traces could be found of it but a bonnet and shawl, which were caught
in some floating wood below the bridge.
We left the bridge, and the cab was driven home slowly, after the
nearest police station had been notified of the poor girl's death or
disappearance. The Sergeant of the Police District said that he would
have another search in the morning, and I remained at the station to
accompany the police in their visit.
A little after daybreak we were on Waterloo bridge again, and even at
that hour a small assemblage had gathered around some object at the
Southwark end of the bridge, where we could see the tall helmets of two
policemen in the midst of the crowd of carters and market gardeners,
who were en route to Covent Garden Market, and had stopped to look upon
the body of a woman who had been fished up from the river.
Yes, there lay the body of the girl whose toll to eternity had been
paid by her own rash act--stretched out on the cold stones, her
garments dripping, her fingers clinched, and her eyes stark wide open.
A young woman she was, but oh, how worn! The face was pinched, and the
long, silken lashes sunk into the eyebrows.
The day was breaking in the East, but the policemen held their
lanterns, which they had not yet extinguished, over the poor, pale
features, and the grimy garments, revealing the long, matted, and
tangled hair, and the stark, cold body, which had once held an Immortal
Soul, but was now all that remained of the gay, merry-hearted,
lost girl, who had fully reaped the harvest of vice--the Wages of
Sin--called by the Evangelist, Death.
Last year, the number of suicides in London amounted to 1,160, and of
this number 415 committed self-destruction by drowning. The Thames
Watermen fish many a ghastly body from the River, and for each
carcass--the result of their terrible trolling, they receive three
pounds from the City authorities.
[Illustration]