It was late in the evening as the Knight of Gwynne entered Dublin, and
took up his abode for the night in an obscure inn at the north side
of the city. However occupied his thoughts up to that time by the
approaching event in his own fortune, he could not help feeling a sudden
pang as he saw once more the well-known landmarks that reminded him of
former days of happiness and triumph. Strange as it may now sound, there
was a time when Irish gentlemen were proud of their native city; when
they regarded its University with feelings of affectionate memory,
as the scene of early efforts and ambitions, and could look on its
Parliament House as the proud evidence of their national independence!
Socially, too, they considered Dublin--and with reason--second to no
city of Europe; for there was a period, brief but glorious, when the
highest breeding of the courtier mingled with the most polished wit and
refined conversation, and when the splendor of wealth, freely displayed
as it was, was only inferior to the more brilliant lustre of a society
richer in genius and in beauty than any capital of the world.
None had been a more favored participator in these scenes than Darcy
himself: his personal gifts, added to the claims of his family and
fortune, secured him early acceptance in the highest circles; and if his
abilities had not won the very highest distinctions, it seemed rather
from his own indifference than from their deficiency.
In those days his arrival in town was the signal for a throng of
visitors to call, all eagerly asking on what day they might secure
him to dine or sup, to meet this one or that. The thousand flatteries
society stores up for her favorites, all awaited him. Parties whose
fulfilment hung listlessly in doubt were now hastily determined on, as
“Darcy has come” got whispered abroad; and many a scheme of pleasure but
half planned found a ready advocacy when the prospect of obtaining him
as a guest presented itself.
The consciousness of social success is a great element in the victory.
Darcy had this, but without the slightest taint of vain boastfulness
or egotism; his sense of his own distinction was merely sufficient to
heighten his enjoyment of the world, without detracting ever so little
from the manly and unassuming features of his character. It is true he
endeavored, and even gave himself pains, to be an agreeable companion;
but he belonged to a school and a time when conversation was cultivated
as an art, and when men preferred making the dinner-table and the
drawing-room the arena of their powers, to indicting verses for an
“Annual,” or composing tales for a fashionable “Miscellany.”
We have said enough, perhaps, to show what Dublin was to him once. How
very different it seemed to his eyes now! The season was late summer,
and the city dusty and deserted,--few persons in the streets, scarcely
a carriage to be seen; an air of listlessness and apathy was over
everything, for it was the period when the country was just
awakening after the intoxicating excitement of the Parliamentary
straggle,--awakening to discover that it had been betrayed and deserted!
As soon as Darcy had taken some slight refreshment, he set out in search
of Daly. His first visit was to Henrietta Street, to his own house,
or rather what had been his, for it was already let, and a flaring
brass-plate on the door proclaimed it the office of a fashionable
solicitor. He knocked, and inquired if any one “knew where Mr. Bagenal
Daly now resided;” but the name seemed perfectly unknown. He next tried
Bicknell's; but that gentleman had not returned since the circuit:
he was repairing the fatigues of his profession by a week or two's
relaxation at a watering-place.
He did not like himself to call at the club, but he despatched a
messenger from the inn, who brought word back that Mr. Daly had not
been there for several weeks, and that his present address was unknown.
Worried and annoyed, Darcy tried in turn each place where Daly had been
wont to frequent, but all in vain. Some had seen him, but not lately;
others suggested that he did not appear much in public on account of his
moneyed difficulties; and one or two limited themselves to a cautious
declaration of ignorance, with a certain assumed shrewdness, as though
to say that they could tell more if they would.
It was near midnight when Darcy returned to the inn, tired and worn
out by his unsuccessful search. The packet in which he was to sail for
England was to leave the port early in the morning, and he sat down in
the travellers' room, exhausted and fatigued, till his chamber should be
got ready for him.
The inn stood in one of the narrow streets leading out of Smithfield,
and was generally resorted to by small farmers and cattle-dealers
repairing to the weekly market. Of these, three or four still lingered
in the public room, conning over their accounts and discussing the
prices of “short-horns and black faces” with much interest, and
anticipating all the possible changes the new political condition of the
country might be likely to induce.
Darcy could scarcely avoid smiling as he overheard some of these
speculations, wherein the prospect of a greater export trade was deemed
the most certain indication of national misfortune. His attention was,
however, suddenly withdrawn from the conversation by a confused murmur
of voices, and the tramp of many feet in the street without The noise
gradually increased, and attracted the notice of the others, and
suddenly the words “Fire! fire!” repeated from mouth to mouth, explained
the tumult.
As the tide of men was borne onward, the din grew louder, and at length
the narrow street in front of the inn became densely crowded by a mob
hurrying eagerly forward, and talking in loud, excited voices.
“They say that Newgate is on fire, sir,” said the landlord, as, hastily
entering, he addressed Darcy; “but if you 'll come with me to the top of
the house, we 'll soon see for ourselves.”
Darcy followed the man to the upper story, whence, by a small ladder,
they obtained an exit on the roof. The night was calm and starlight,
and the air was still. What a contrast--that spangled heaven in all its
tranquil beauty--to the dark streets below, where, in tumultuous uproar,
the commingled mass was seen by the uncertain glimmer of the lamps, few
and dim as they were. Darcy could mark that the crowd consisted of
the very lowest and most miserable-looking class of the capital, the
dwellers in the dark alleys and purlieus of the ill-favored region. By
their excited gestures and wild accents, it was clear to see how much
more of pleasure than of sorrow they felt at the occasion that now
roused them from their dreary garrets and damp cellars. Shouts of mad
triumph and cries of menace burst from them as they went. The Knight was
roused from a moody contemplation of the throng by the landlord saying
aloud,--
“True enough, the jail is on fire: see, yonder, where the dark smoke is
rolling up, that is Newgate.”
“But the building is of stone, almost entirely of stone, with little or
no wood in its construction,” said Darcy; “I cannot imagine how it could
take fire.”
“The floors, the window-frames, the rafters are of wood, sir,” said the
other; “and then,” added he, with a cunning leer, “remember what the
inhabitants are!”
The Knight little minded the remark, for his whole gaze was fixed on the
cloud of smoke, dense and black as night, that rolled forth, as if
from the ground, and soon enveloped the jail and all the surrounding
buildings in darkness.
“What can that mean?” said he, in amazement.
“It means that this is no accident, sir,” said the man, shrewdly; “it's
only damp straw and soot can produce the effect you see yonder; it
is done by the prisoners--see, it is increasing! and here come the
fire-engines!”
As he spoke, a heavy, cavernous sound was heard rising from the street,
where now a body of horse-police were seen escorting the fire-engines.
The service was not without difficulty, for the mob offered every
obstacle short of open resistance; and once it was discovered that the
traces were cut, and considerable delay thereby occasioned.
“The smoke is spreading; see, sir, how it rolls this way, blacker and
heavier than before!”
“It is but smoke, after all,” said Darcy; but although the words were
uttered half contemptuously, his heart beat anxiously as the dense
volume hung suspended in the air, growing each moment blacker as fresh
masses arose. The cries and yells of the excited mob were now wilder and
more frantic, and seemed to issue from the black, ill-omened mass that
filled the atmosphere.
“That's not smoke, sir; look yonder!” said the man, seizing Darcy's arm,
and pointing to a reddish glare that seemed trying to force a passage
through the smoke, and came not from the jail, but from some building at
the side or in front of it.
“There again!” cried he, “that is fire!”
The words were scarcely uttered, when a cheer burst from the mob
beneath. A yell more dissonant and appalling could not have broken from
demons than was that shout of exultation, as the red flame leaped up and
flashed towards the sky. As the strong host of a battle will rout and
scatter the weaker enemy, so did the fierce element dispel the less
powerful; and now the lurid glow of a great fire lit up the air, and
marked out with terrible distinctness the waving crowd that jammed up
the streets,--the windows filled with terrified faces, and the very
house-tops crowded by terror-stricken and distracted groups.
The scene was truly an awful one; the fire raged in some houses exactly
in front of the jail, pouring with unceasing violence its flood of flame
through every door and window, and now sending bright jets through
the roofs, which, rent with a report like thunder, soon became one
undistinguish-able mass of flame. The cries for succor, the shouts
of the firemen, the screams of those not yet rescued, and the still
increasing excitement of the mob, mingling their hellish yells of
triumph through all the dread disaster, made up a discord the most
horrible; while, ever and anon, the police and the crowd were in
collision, vain efforts being made to keep the mob back from the front
of the jail, whither they had fled as a refuge from the heat of the
burning houses.
The fire seemed to spread, defying all the efforts of the engines. From
house to house the lazy smoke was seen to issue for a moment, and then,
almost immediately after, a new cry would announce that another building
was in flames. Meanwhile the smoke, which in the commencement had spread
from the courtyard and windows of the jail, was again perceived to
thicken in the same quarter, and suddenly, as if from a preconcerted
signal, it rolled out from every barred casement and loopholed
aperture,--from every narrow and deep cell within the lofty walls; and
the agonized yell of the prisoners burst forth at the same moment, and
the air seemed to vibrate with shrieks and cries.
“Break open the jail!” resounded on every side. “Don't let the prisoners
be burned alive!” was uttered in accents whose humanity was far inferior
to their menace; and, as if with one accord, a rush was made at the
strongly barred gates of the dark building. The movement, although made
with the full force of a mighty multitude, was in vain. In vain the
stones resounded upon the thickly studded door, in vain the strength of
hundreds pressed down upon the oaken barrier. They might as well have
tried to force the strong masonry at either side of it!
“Climb the walls!” was now the cry; and the prisoners re-echoed the
call in tones of shrieking entreaty. The mob, savage from their recent
repulse at the gate, now seized the ladders employed by the firemen, and
planted them against the great enclosure-wall of the jail. The police
endeavored to charge, but, jammed up by the crowd, their bridles in many
instances cut, their weapons wrested from them, they were almost at the
mercy of the mob. Orders had been despatched for troops; but as yet they
had not appeared, and the narrow streets, being actually choked up
with people, would necessarily delay their progress. If there were any
persons in that vast mass disposed to repel the violence of the mob,
they did not dare to avow it, the odds were so fearfully on the side of
the multitude.
The sentry who guarded the gate was trampled down. Some averred he was
killed in the first rush upon the gate; certain it was his cap and coat
were paraded on a pole, as a warning of what awaited his comrades within
the jail, should they dare to fire on the people. This horrible banner
was waved to and fro above the stormy multitude. Darcy had but time to
mark it, when he saw the crowd open, as if cleft asunder by some giant
band, and at the same instant a man rode through the open space, and,
tearing down the pole, felled him who carried it to the earth by a
stroke of his whip. The red glare of the burning houses made the scene
distinct as daylight; but the next moment a rolling cloud of black smoke
hid all from view, and left him to doubt the evidence of his eyesight.
“Did you see the horseman?” asked Darcy, in eager curiosity, for he did
not dare to trust his uncorroborated sense.
“There he is!” cried the other. “I know him by a white band on his arm.
See, he mounts one of the ladders!--there!--he is near the top!”
A cheer that seemed to shake the very atmosphere now rent the air, as,
pressing on like soldiers to a breach, the mob approached the walls.
Some shots were fired by the guard, and their effect might be noted
by the more savage yells of the mob, whose exasperation was now like
madness.
“The shots have told,--see!” cried the man. “Now the people are
gathering in close groups, here and there.”
But Darcy's eyes were fixed on the walls, which were already crowded
with the mob, the dark figures looking like spectres as they passed and
repassed through the dense canopy of smoke.
“The soldiers! the soldiers!” screamed the populace from below; and at
the instant a heavy lumbering sound crept on, and the head of a cavalry
squadron wheeled into the square before the jail. The remainder of the
troop soon defiled; but instead of advancing, as was expected, they
opened their ranks, and displayed the formidable appearance of two
eight-pounders, from which the limbers were removed with lightning
speed, and their mouths turned full upon the crowd. Meanwhile an
infantry force was seen entering the opposite side of the square, thus
showing the mob that they were taken in front and rear, no escape being
open save by the small alleys which led off from the street before the
prison. The military preparations took scarcely more time to effect than
we have employed to relate; and now began a scene of tumult and terror
the most dreadful to witness. The order to prime and load, followed
by the clanking crash of four hundred muskets; the close ranks of the
cavalry, as if with difficulty restrained from charging down upon them;
and the lighted fuses of the artillery,--all combined to augment the
momentary dread, and the shouts of vengeance so lately heard were at
once changed into piercing cries for mercy. The blazing houses,
from which the red fire shot up unrestrained, no longer attracted
notice,--the jail itself had no interest for those whose danger was
become so imminent.
An indiscriminate rush was made towards the narrow lanes for escape,
and from these arose the most piercing and agonizing cries,--for while
pressed down and trampled, many were trodden under foot never again
to rise; others were wounded or burned by the falling timbers of the
blazing buildings; and the fearful cry of “The soldiers! the soldiers!”
still goaded them on by those behind.
“Look yonder,” cried Darcy's companion, seizing him by the arm,--“look
there,--near the corner of the market! See, the troops have not
perceived that ladder, and there are two fellows now descending it.”
True enough. At a remote angle of the jail, not concealed from view by
the smoke, stood the ladder in question.
“How slowly they move!” cried Darcy, his eyes fixed upon the figures
with that strange anxiety so inseparable from the fate of all who are
engaged in hazardous enterprise. “They will certainly be taken.”
“They must be wounded,” cried the other; “they seem to creep rather than
step--I know the reason, they are in fetters.”
Scarcely was the explanation uttered when the ladder was seen to be
violently moved as if from above, and the next moment was hurled back
from the wall, on which several soldiers were now perceived firing on
those below.
“They are lost!” said the Knight; “they are either captured or cut down
by this time.”
“The square is cleared already,” said the other; “how quietly the troops
have done their work! And the fire begins to yield to the engines.”
The square was indeed cleared; save the groups beside the fire-engines,
and here and there a knot gathered around some wounded man, the space
was empty, the troops having drawn off to the sides, around which they
stood in double file. A dark cloud rested over the jail itself, but no
longer did any smoke issue from the windows; and already the fire, its
rage in part expended, in part subdued, showed signs of decline.
“If the wind was from the west,” said the landlord, “there 's no saying
where that might have stopped this night!”
“It is a strange occurrence altogether,” said the Knight, musingly.
“Not a bit strange, sir,” replied the other, whose neighborhood made him
acquainted with classes and varieties of men of whom Darcy knew nothing;
“it was an attempt by the prisoners.”
“Do you think so?” asked Darcy.
“Ay, to be sure, sir; there's scarcely a year goes over without one
contrivance or another for escape. Last autumn two fellows got away by
following the course of the sewers and gaining the Liffey; they must
have passed two days underground, and up to their necks in water a great
part of the time.”
“Ay, and besides that,” observed another,-for already some ten or
twelve persons were assembled on the roof as well as Darcy and the
landlord,--“they had to wade the river at the ebb-tide, when the mud is
at least eight or ten feet deep.”
“How that was done, I cannot guess,” said Darcy.
“A man will do many a thing for liberty, sir,” remarked another, who
was buttoned up in a frieze coat, although the night was hot and sultry;
“these poor devils there were willing to risk being roasted alive for
the chance of it.”
“Quite true,” said Darcy; “fellows that have a taste for breaking the
law need not be supposed desirous of observing it as to their mode of
death; and yet they must have been daring rascals to have made such an
attempt as this.”
“Maybe you know the old song, sir,” said the other, laughing,--
“There s many a man no bolts can keep,
No chains be made to bind them,
And tho' the fetters be heavy, and cells be deep,
He 'll fling them far behind them.”
“I have heard the ditty,” answered the Knight; “and if my memory serves
me, the last lines run thus,--
“Though iron bolts may rust and rot,
And stone and mortar crumble,
Freney, beware! for well I wot
Your pride may have a tumble.”
“Devil a lie in that, anyhow, sir,” said the other, laughing heartily;
“and an uglier tumble a man needn't have than to slip through Tom
Galvin's fingers. But I see the fire is out now; so I 'll be jogging
homeward. Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night,” said Darcy; and then, as the other moved away, turning to
the landlord, he asked if he knew the stranger.
“No, sir,” was the reply; “he came up with some others to have a look at
the fire.”
“Well, I 'll to my bed,” said Darcy; “let me be awakened at four
o'clock. I see I shall have but a short sleep; the day is breaking
already.”