Death and Mr. Pickwick (56 page)

All types of horseflesh had pulled him. He had been hitched to teams of diseased beasts that were used only at night, when their imperfections would not be as noticeable; and hitched also to the finest steeds, with the moon shining proudly on their necks, arousing his profound suspicion they were stolen. He had also ridden in coaches loaded with so much luggage that once an abrupt halt was the result of an overworked horse dropping dead in the harness. The horse hung there, held in position by the traces and straps.

He wrote his reports in the carriage, by the light of a lantern, balancing the paper on his escritoire knee, every jolt a mistake. Once, in a coach by himself, the light died and the driver said he wasn't sure if there was more oil, but after rummaging in the boot he produced a large bottle with a little sperm oil at the bottom, which had turned dark brown. ‘Ah,' said the wise old coachman, ‘if a bottle of oil could speak about its life, this one could tell some tales, I'll bet, and you're the latest chapter.' When lit, although there was the usual hint of cooked bacon, the rank smell of fish and hot tin entered the carriage: and that smell, and the uneven road, produced nausea, and he lurched forward, but controlled himself. The words had to be written.

But oh the inns he stayed in, and oh the glorious meals they gave! The meals tasted even better on cold days than on hot, when they were usually preceded by a warm-you-up-sir whisky. Pies whose crust crumbled under the fork – the aroma of kidney alone made the journey worthwhile! Steaming steaks! Eggs, poached or fried! Butter on toasted crumpets! Wine, porter, brandy-and-water! Exceptionally strong tea! Oh the eating of such fare in front of a glowing fire, warming one inside and out, chasing away the cold that got under the coat, and the hunger that possessed a man's soul along the journey.

Though also the appalling inns, where the air was three-quarters beef dripping, made worse by a man with an inflamed face explaining, from his armchair, how the world might be improved – the only comfortable armchair, mind you, placed directly in front of the hearth. Or inns so full of smoke that the food was effectively cured in tobacco, which unlike the burning woodchips applied to a herring or a haddock, extracted rather than added taste. Or inns where the food could accurately be described as a piece of beige upon a plate. Or inns where breakfast was dry toast and you made it yourself. Or inns where the cellar of salt was so old it might have been young pepper.

One assignment stationed him in Chelmsford at the Black Boy Inn on a grey, loury Sunday afternoon in January. When the rain poured outside the bow window, he could hear the click-click of pattens as two old men approached, negotiating the wet pavement. In his room, he bobbed up and down in frustration. There was a single book placed on the sofa beside the bed for the entertainment of the occupant:
Field Exercise and Evolutions of the Army
, by Sir Henry Torrens.

He picked up his notebook, and in a desultory fashion, lying upon the bed, he set down some ideas for a descriptive piece he might write, of a day entirely different from the current one, of an afternoon spent in a tea garden in scorching hot weather, when a customer, who headed a family party, remarked that it was ‘Rayther warm, as the child said when it fell in the fire.' But little more would come.

Impelled to his feet by boredom, he sought the proprietor at the bar, a man with closely set eyes and uncooked ears, and enquired whether there was a newspaper he might read before dinner.

‘We don't go in for papers,' said the proprietor.

‘Is there a shop I can buy one?'

‘Not near.'

So he went back to his room, cast off his shoes, lay back on the bed, opened the single book, drilled the army, and from an exasperated look he threw around might well have wished that heavy artillery could bombard the Black Boy and reduce it to rubble. The only thing to look forward to was dinner.

At the next table at dinner was a bald man with black hairs growing out of his nasal pores, and an annoying habit of eating too close to his plate. ‘If it's amusement you're wanting,' said the man in response to the remark that there was little to do, while his nose was near a boiled potato, as though the hairs were reaching out to grab it, ‘take yourself off to Braintree. There's inns, there's shops, there's a good many things, all told.'

This led to enquiries about the Black Boy's gig, when the landlord next happened to pass close to the table.

‘Have you driven one before?' said he, standing over the newspaper reporter, ears raw, eyes small and suspicious.

‘Oh, Lord, of course.'

‘Are you
sure
you have driven a gig before?'

It may be assumed he answered in the affirmative, for at eight o'clock the next morning he sat where he had never in his life sat, in the driving seat of a gig.

Suddenly he was off, at an uncomfortable speed. The placing of the horse's hindquarters was so close to the driver that any stray movement was instantly communicated to the vehicle and only mildly abated by pulling on the reins. Had there not been a political campaign in progress it would have been easier – but the supporters of one party or the other filled every green he passed, hollering from wagons and handing out papers, while using every noisy horse-frightening means to promote a man's merits. Thus, the beating of a Tory candidate's surname to the rhythm of a drum sent the horse towards the hedge on the left side of the road, while the fluttering of the banners of the Whigs sent it to the hedge on the right. By frequent use of the whip he managed to keep the gig approximately in the middle, and by the end of the day he was proud to have covered twenty-four miles, from Chelmsford to Braintree and back.

There was another stay, at another inn, on the other side of the country, which may be worth a little mention.

In November 1835, he packed his portmanteau until it was stuffed – he sat upon it; stood upon it, and eventually, secured it with a belt. He was first off to Bristol, and then would go to Bath, reporting on grand political dinners in both cities.

So there came a night when Moses Pickwick went to the desk in the hall of the White Hart in Bath, where he spoke to the wrinkled night porter who stood in front of the pigeonholes for keys. ‘Anyone interesting in?' asked Moses.

‘Two newspaper reporters, Mr Pickwick, from the
Morning Chronicle
, if you call that sort of person interesting.'

‘Do we know why they are here?'

‘There was a dinner for the local Members of Parliament, Mr Pickwick. They came back late. They have asked for strong coffee, so I imagine they are writing their reports through the night. Don't remember their names. Do you want to know?'

‘No, it doesn't matter.'

 

*

‘SO WE HAVE HIM TRAVELLING
all over the country by coach, eating and drinking at numerous inns,' said Mr Inbelicate.

‘A good preparation,' I replied.

‘But the politics is muted. He needs to see political activity at its very worst. For that, we require the death of the sitting Member of Parliament for Kettering, and the by-election that took place one December.'

 

*

A PANDEMONIUM OF HANDBELLS ON THE
street; marching bands drowning each other out; drums beaten loud enough to burst the skins, and listeners' eardrums as well; persuadable voters bribed with all they could eat and all they could drink, and a ride to the poll too; waving flags like madmen at opponents – silken blue for the Tories, buff silk for the Whigs; men oiled by guzzled-down hogsheads of beer, ripping and tearing the colossal letters that spelt candidates' names; wives joining in, screaming abuse; fights breaking out spontaneously; the constables trying and failing to keep order; leaflets stuffed in a man's bloodied mouth as he lay upon the road; discharges of blunderbusses in the air.

The hearing of the
Morning Chronicle
's reporter was so afflicted by the constant noise that his ears seemed filled with cotton. The Tories, in particular, he regarded as herds of swine, belching blotchy-faced to the ballot, and if a pig could disguise itself with mud, he wouldn't put it past the Tories to gain a second vote from the animal, too. Certainly, the most drunken voters were of the blue persuasion, some pledging their support as they stood bent double, vomiting in an innyard.

He spoke to the carpenters constructing the hustings on Market Hill.

‘If people don't get the result they want,' said the foreman, looking stoically towards the open ground in front – as though he could already see the throng that would gather in the morning – ‘don't be surprised if they take this away for firewood.'

By nine o'clock the next morning, a crowd had gathered on that open ground. In contrast to the experience of the previous few days, there was a palpable good humour abroad, as if all were ready for a pantomime or comic drama to be played out upon the stage of the hustings. Those gathered to watch were, by and large, the supporters of the buff candidate, as identified by their banners, and all on foot.

Then a few horsemen, in the blue interest, rode up and positioned themselves on the edge of the ground. There was not a hint of humour on
their
faces. The numbers of horsemen soon swelled, until a ring had formed around the crowd. The
Morning Chronicle
's reporter, and everyone else present, could sense the change in atmosphere. There were anxious looks from the eyes in the crowd towards the men on horseback.

A chain of nods went from one mounted blue supporter to another.

Hands wielding riding whips and bludgeons were raised.

There were shrieks and screams from the crowd.

Suddenly, the horsemen descended upon the defenceless, and lashed their way onwards. At the vanguard of the blue attack was a clergyman, inflamed about the face with red ire. He had unbuckled a stirrup-leather, and turned it into an avenging flail – whirling it around, striking the buff men about the face, aiming for their eyes, moving his hips in rhythm to the horse to retain his balance. Then, riding beyond the clergyman, a man deployed a thick ash-stick as a truncheon, which he cracked against any buff head that was near. No howl of pain, no sight of blood, was pitied – if there was a human being in the buff cause in the way, he should not be, and would be ridden through.

It was then that the man with the ash-stick reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pistol. There were howls of terror as he pointed the weapon at a person in the crowd. Even for his own side, this was going too far, and his hand was arrested with a cry of: ‘No, John!'

There were shouts from the crowd of: ‘Constables! Constables!' ‘Seize him!' ‘He'll murder!'

The horsemen formed a living barricade around this would-be assassin named John, but opposing truncheons in the hands of constables, and buff banners serving as pikes, impelled by just rage, fought their way through – and in the melee, the bridle of the pistolman's horse was seized, and a stick bearing a buff flag hurled at his face, striking his nose. Fury, regardless of the consequences, was the result: smearing the blood away from his nostrils, the man drew the pistol again, and aimed at the thrower of the stick.

Murder was prevented by two horsemen of his own side, who restrained his arms. He struggled all the while as they attempted to reason – ‘You will hang,' said the man at the right arm. ‘It is not worth your life for such scum!' said the man at the left. Only the arrival of the sheriff, the candidates and the officials on the hustings quietened him down.

The crowd shouted for the blue candidate to condemn his supporters. He drew himself up in his stout dignity, and like a schoolboy caught in a fight, embarked upon the excuse of he-started-it: ‘The buff party were in the field first,' he said. Whatever else he uttered next could not be heard above the outraged cries of the buffs.

The sheriff came to the front. ‘I must request the horsemen to retire more into the rear.'

A horseman shouted ‘Buff supporter!' There were cheers from his side, and cries of ‘Shame!' from the other.

On the hustings, the violence of the day soon transformed into absurdity, as a drunkard climbed on to the platform and began singing ‘The Death of Nelson'.

At last the fatal wound,

Which spread dismay around,

The Hero's breast received.

The drunkard stopped, overcome by emotion, and started a speech of his own. He had been wounded, he said, a tear coming to his eye, just like the hero of Trafalgar – wounded by a man he believed was his friend. This supposed friend had stolen his wife. The effect was to encourage the crowd to disperse, though a few shouted ‘Hear, hear!' as though this maudlin sot had spoken the most sense they had heard in the entire campaign.

On Boxing Day, an article, written in disgust for the
Morning Chronicle
, announced that the blue party were victors at Kettering by a substantial majority.

 

*

‘MR SEYMOUR, YOU ARE A
mole
in the politicians' gardens,' said Gilbert à Beckett, in the office of
Figaro in London.
‘You burrow under their smooth lawns, and right into the foundations of their rickety buildings.'

À Beckett said this as he raked the fire with a poker. ‘Other journalists and writers may work in cold garrets, but not us this January. That is because of
you
.' He turned to point with the poker. ‘No, do not be modest,' he said, raising a hand to the artist, whom he saw was about to speak.

‘Gilbert is correct, Mr Seymour,' said Henry Mayhew. He approached the fire and warmed his hands. ‘We are now hitting a circulation of some seventy thousand copies! Think of that – s
eventy thousand
!
The Examiner
has to survive on less than four.
Bell's Life
is considered a great success on sixteen and a half. And here we are with
seventy
! I join with Gilbert – you are the reason for our success, Mr Seymour.'