Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty Page 35

  “Ah! Dennis!” cried the secretary. “Sit down.”

  “I see my lord down yonder—” cried the man, with a jerk of his thumb towards the quarter that he spoke of, “and he says to me, says my lord, “If you've nothing to do, Dennis, go up to my house and talk with Muster Gashford.” Of course I'd nothing to do, you know. These an't my working hours. Ha ha! I was a-taking the air when I see my lord, that's what I was doing. I takes the air by night, as the howls does, Muster Gashford.”

  And sometimes in the day-time, eh?” said the secretary—'when you go out in state, you know.”

  “Ha ha!” roared the fellow, smiting his leg; “for a gentleman as “ull say a pleasant thing in a pleasant way, give me Muster Gashford agin” all London and Westminster ! My lord an't a bad “un at that, but he's a fool to you. Ah to be sure,—when I go out in state.”

  “And have your carriage,” said the secretary; “and your chaplain, eh? and all the rest of it?”

  “You'll be the death of me,” cried Dennis, with another roar, “you will. But what's in the wind now, Muster Gashford,” he asked hoarsely, “Eh? Are we to be under orders to pull down one of them Popish chapels—or what?”

  “Hush!” said the secretary, suffering the faintest smile to play upon his face. “Hush! God bless me, Dennis! We associate, you know, for strictly peaceable and lawful purposes.”

  “I know, bless you,” returned the man, thrusting his tongue into his cheek; “I entered a” purpose, didn't I!”

  “No doubt,” said Gashford, smiling as before. And when he said so, Dennis roared again, and smote his leg still harder, and falling into fits of laughter, wiped his eyes with the corner of his neckerchief, and cried, “Muster Gashford agin” all England hollow!”

  “Lord George and I were talking of you last night,” said Gashford, after a pause. “He says you are a very earnest fellow.”

  “So I am,” returned the hangman.

  “And that you truly hate the Papists.”

  “So I do,” and he confirmed it with a good round oath. “Lookye here, Muster Gashford,” said the fellow, laying his hat and stick upon the floor, and slowly beating the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other; “Ob-serve. I'm a constitutional officer that works for my living, and does my work creditable. Do I, or do I not?”

  “Unquestionably.”

  “Very good. Stop a minute. My work, is sound, Protestant, constitutional, English work. Is it, or is it not?”

  “No man alive can doubt it.”

  “Nor dead neither. Parliament says this here—says Parliament, “If any man, woman, or child, does anything which goes again a certain number of our acts”—how many hanging laws may there be at this present time, Muster Gashford? Fifty?”

  “I don't exactly know how many,” replied Gashford, leaning back in his chair and yawning; “a great number though.”

  “Well, say fifty. Parliament says, “If any man, woman, or child, does anything again any one of them fifty acts, that man, woman, or child, shall be worked off by Dennis.” George the Third steps in when they number very strong at the end of a sessions, and says, “These are too many for Dennis. I'll have half for myself and Dennis shall have half for himself;” and sometimes he throws me in one over that I don't expect, as he did three year ago, when I got Mary Jones, a young woman of nineteen who come up to Tyburn with a infant at her breast, and was worked off for taking a piece of cloth off the counter of a shop in Ludgate Hill, and putting it down again when the shopman see her; and who had never done any harm before, and only tried to do that, in consequence of her husband having been pressed three weeks previous, and she being left to beg, with two young children—as was proved upon the trial. Ha ha!—Well! That being the law and the practice of England , is the glory of England , an't it, Muster Gashford?”

  “Certainly,” said the secretary.

  “And in times to come,” pursued the hangman, “if our grandsons should think of their grandfathers” times, and find these things altered, they'll say, “Those were days indeed, and we've been going down hill ever since.” Won't they, Muster Gashford?”

  “I have no doubt they will,” said the secretary.

  “Well then, look here,” said the hangman. “If these Papists gets into power, and begins to boil and roast instead of hang, what becomes of my work! If they touch my work that's a part of so many laws, what becomes of the laws in general, what becomes of the religion, what becomes of the country!—Did you ever go to church, Muster Gashford?”

  “Ever!” repeated the secretary with some indignation; “of course.”

  “Well,” said the ruffian, “I've been once—twice, counting the time I was christened—and when I heard the Parliament prayed for, and thought how many new hanging laws they made every sessions, I considered that I was prayed for. Now mind, Muster Gashford,” said the fellow, taking up his stick and shaking it with a ferocious air, “I mustn't have my Protestant work touched, nor this here Protestant state of things altered in no degree, if I can help it; I mustn't have no Papists interfering with me, unless they come to be worked off in course of law; I mustn't have no biling, no roasting, no frying—nothing but hanging. My lord may well call me an earnest fellow. In support of the great Protestant principle of having plenty of that, I'll,” and here he beat his club upon the ground, “burn, fight, kill—do anything you bid me, so that it's bold and devilish—though the end of it was, that I got hung myself. —There, Muster Gashford!”

  He appropriately followed up this frequent prostitution of a noble word to the vilest purposes, by pouring out in a kind of ecstasy at least a score of most tremendous oaths; then wiped his heated face upon his neckerchief, and cried, “No Popery! I'm a religious man, by G—!”

  Gashford had leant back in his chair, regarding him with eyes so sunken, and so shadowed by his heavy brows, that for aught the hangman saw of them, he might have been stone blind. He remained smiling in silence for a short time longer, and then said, slowly and distinctly:

  “You are indeed an earnest fellow, Dennis—a most valuable fellow— the staunchest man I know of in our ranks. But you must calm yourself; you must be peaceful, lawful, mild as any lamb. I am sure you will be though.”

  “Ay, ay, we shall see, Muster Gashford, we shall see. You won't have to complain of me,” returned the other, shaking his head.

  “I am sure I shall not,” said the secretary in the same mild tone, and with the same emphasis. “We shall have, we think, about next month, or May, when this Papist relief bill comes before the house, to convene our whole body for the first time. My lord has thoughts of our walking in procession through the streets—just as an innocent display of strength—and accompanying our petition down to the door of the House of Commons.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Dennis, with another oath.

  “We shall have to draw up in divisions, our numbers being so large; and, I believe I may venture to say,” resumed Gashford, affecting not to hear the interruption, “though I have no direct instructions to that effect—that Lord George has thought of you as an excellent leader for one of these parties. I have no doubt you would be an admirable one.”

  “Try me,” said the fellow, with an ugly wink.

  “You would be cool, I know,” pursued the secretary, still smiling, and still managing his eyes so that he could watch him closely, and really not be seen in turn, “obedient to orders, and perfectly temperate. You would lead your party into no danger, I am certain.”

  “I'd lead them, Muster Gashford,'—the hangman was beginning in a reckless way, when Gashford started forward, laid his finger on his lips, and feigned to write, just as the door was opened by John Grueby.

  “Oh!” said John, looking in; “here's another Protestant.”

  “Some other room, John,” cried Gashford in his blandest voice. “I am engaged just now.”

  But John had brought this new visitor to the door, and he walked in unbidden, as the words were uttered; giving to view the form and f
eatures, rough attire, and reckless air, of Hugh.

  Chapter 38

  The secretary put his hand before his eyes to shade them from the glare of the lamp, and for some moments looked at Hugh with a frowning brow, as if he remembered to have seen him lately, but could not call to mind where, or on what occasion. His uncertainty was very brief, for before Hugh had spoken a word, he said, as his countenance cleared up:

  “Ay, ay, I recollect. It's quite right, John, you needn't wait. Don't go, Dennis.”

  “Your servant, master,” said Hugh, as Grueby disappeared.

  “Yours, friend,” returned the secretary in his smoothest manner. “What brings YOU here? We left nothing behind us, I hope?”

  Hugh gave a short laugh, and thrusting his hand into his breast, produced one of the handbills, soiled and dirty from lying out of doors all night, which he laid upon the secretary's desk after flattening it upon his knee, and smoothing out the wrinkles with his heavy palm.

  “Nothing but that, master. It fell into good hands, you see.”

  “What is this!” said Gashford, turning it over with an air of perfectly natural surprise. “Where did you get it from, my good fellow; what does it mean? I don't understand this at all.”

  A little disconcerted by this reception, Hugh looked from the secretary to Dennis, who had risen and was standing at the table too, observing the stranger by stealth, and seeming to derive the utmost satisfaction from his manners and appearance. Considering himself silently appealed to by this action, Mr Dennis shook his head thrice, as if to say of Gashford, “No. He don't know anything at all about it. I know he don't. I'll take my oath he don't;” and hiding his profile from Hugh with one long end of his frowzy neckerchief, nodded and chuckled behind this screen in extreme approval of the secretary's proceedings.

  “It tells the man that finds it, to come here, don't it?” asked Hugh. “I'm no scholar, myself, but I showed it to a friend, and he said it did.”

  “It certainly does,” said Gashford, opening his eyes to their utmost width; “really this is the most remarkable circumstance I have ever known. How did you come by this piece of paper, my good friend?”

  “Muster Gashford,” wheezed the hangman under his breath, “agin” all Newgate!”

  Whether Hugh heard him, or saw by his manner that he was being played upon, or perceived the secretary's drift of himself, he came in his blunt way to the point at once.

  “Here!” he said, stretching out his hand and taking it back; “never mind the bill, or what it says, or what it don't say. You don't know anything about it, master,—no more do I,—no more does he,” glancing at Dennis. “None of us know what it means, or where it comes from: there's an end of that. Now I want to make one against the Catholics, I'm a No-Popery man, and ready to be sworn in. That's what I've come here for.”

  “Put him down on the roll, Muster Gashford,” said Dennis approvingly. “That's the way to go to work—right to the end at once, and no palaver.”

  “What's the use of shooting wide of the mark, eh, old boy!” cried Hugh.

  “My sentiments all over!” rejoined the hangman. “This is the sort of chap for my division, Muster Gashford. Down with him, sir. Put him on the roll. I'd stand godfather to him, if he was to be christened in a bonfire, made of the ruins of the Bank of England.”

  With these and other expressions of confidence of the like flattering kind, Mr Dennis gave him a hearty slap on the back, which Hugh was not slow to return.

  “No Popery, brother!” cried the hangman.

  “No Property, brother!” responded Hugh.

  “Popery, Popery,” said the secretary with his usual mildness.

  “It's all the same!” cried Dennis. “It's all right. Down with him, Muster Gashford. Down with everybody, down with everything! Hurrah for the Protestant religion! That's the time of day, Muster Gashford!”

  The secretary regarded them both with a very favourable expression of countenance, while they gave loose to these and other demonstrations of their patriotic purpose; and was about to make some remark aloud, when Dennis, stepping up to him, and shading his mouth with his hand, said, in a hoarse whisper, as he nudged him with his elbow:

  “Don't split upon a constitutional officer's profession, Muster Gashford. There are popular prejudices, you know, and he mightn't like it. Wait till he comes to be more intimate with me. He's a fine-built chap, an't he?”

  “A powerful fellow indeed!”

  “Did you ever, Muster Gashford,” whispered Dennis, with a horrible kind of admiration, such as that with which a cannibal might regard his intimate friend, when hungry,—'did you ever—and here he drew still closer to his ear, and fenced his mouth with both his open bands—'see such a throat as his? Do but cast your eye upon it. There's a neck for stretching, Muster Gashford!”

  The secretary assented to this proposition with the best grace he could assume—it is difficult to feign a true professional relish: which is eccentric sometimes—and after asking the candidate a few unimportant questions, proceeded to enrol him a member of the Great Protestant Association of England. If anything could have exceeded Mr Dennis's joy on the happy conclusion of this ceremony, it would have been the rapture with which he received the announcement that the new member could neither read nor write: those two arts being (as Mr Dennis swore) the greatest possible curse a civilised community could know, and militating more against the professional emoluments and usefulness of the great constitutional office he had the honour to hold, than any adverse circumstances that could present themselves to his imagination.

  The enrolment being completed, and Hugh having been informed by Gashford, in his peculiar manner, of the peaceful and strictly lawful objects contemplated by the body to which he now belonged— during which recital Mr Dennis nudged him very much with his elbow, and made divers remarkable faces—the secretary gave them both to understand that he desired to be alone. Therefore they took their leaves without delay, and came out of the house together.

  “Are you walking, brother?” said Dennis.

  “Ay!” returned Hugh. “Where you will.”

  “That's social,” said his new friend. “Which way shall we take? Shall we go and have a look at doors that we shall make a pretty good clattering at, before long—eh, brother?”

  Hugh answering in the affirmative, they went slowly down to Westminster , where both houses of Parliament were then sitting. Mingling in the crowd of carriages, horses, servants, chairmen, link-boys, porters, and idlers of all kinds, they lounged about; while Hugh's new friend pointed out to him significantly the weak parts of the building, how easy it was to get into the lobby, and so to the very door of the House of Commons; and how plainly, when they marched down there in grand array, their roars and shouts would be heard by the members inside; with a great deal more to the same purpose, all of which Hugh received with manifest delight.

  He told him, too, who some of the Lords and Commons were, by name, as they came in and out; whether they were friendly to the Papists or otherwise; and bade him take notice of their liveries and equipages, that he might be sure of them, in case of need. Sometimes he drew him close to the windows of a passing carriage, that he might see its master's face by the light of the lamps; and, both in respect of people and localities, he showed so much acquaintance with everything around, that it was plain he had often studied there before; as indeed, when they grew a little more confidential, he confessed he had.

  Perhaps the most striking part of all this was, the number of people—never in groups of more than two or three together—who seemed to be skulking about the crowd for the same purpose. To the greater part of these, a slight nod or a look from Hugh's companion was sufficient greeting; but, now and then, some man would come and stand beside him in the throng, and, without turning his head or appearing to communicate with him, would say a word or two in a low voice, which he would answer in the same cautious manner. Then they would part, like strangers. Some of these men often reappeared again unexpect
edly in the crowd close to Hugh, and, as they passed by, pressed his hand, or looked him sternly in the face; but they never spoke to him, nor he to them; no, not a word.

  It was remarkable, too, that whenever they happened to stand where there was any press of people, and Hugh chanced to be looking downward, he was sure to see an arm stretched out—under his own perhaps, or perhaps across him—which thrust some paper into the hand or pocket of a bystander, and was so suddenly withdrawn that it was impossible to tell from whom it came; nor could he see in any face, on glancing quickly round, the least confusion or surprise. They often trod upon a paper like the one he carried in his breast, but his companion whispered him not to touch it or to take it up,—not even to look towards it,—so there they let them lie, and passed on.

  When they had paraded the street and all the avenues of the building in this manner for near two hours, they turned away, and his friend asked him what he thought of what he had seen, and whether he was prepared for a good hot piece of work if it should come to that. The hotter the better,” said Hugh, “I'm prepared for anything. “—'So am I,” said his friend, “and so are many of us; and they shook hands upon it with a great oath, and with many terrible imprecations on the Papists.

  As they were thirsty by this time, Dennis proposed that they should repair together to The Boot, where there was good company and strong liquor. Hugh yielding a ready assent, they bent their steps that way with no loss of time.

  This Boot was a lone house of public entertainment, situated in the fields at the back of the Foundling Hospital ; a very solitary spot at that period, and quite deserted after dark. The tavern stood at some distance from any high road, and was approachable only by a dark and narrow lane; so that Hugh was much surprised to find several people drinking there, and great merriment going on. He was still more surprised to find among them almost every face that had caught his attention in the crowd; but his companion having whispered him outside the door, that it was not considered good manners at The Boot to appear at all curious about the company, he kept his own counsel, and made no show of recognition.