Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
CHAPTER CV.
THE COMBAT.
IN spite of the suspicions entertained by Mr. Monroe and Ellen
concerning the genuineness of the appointment for which Markham was engaged,
the young man was too devotedly attached to the memory of his brother not to
indulge in the most wild and sanguine hopes.
Thus, as he proceeded to the place of meeting near Twig
Folly, he communed with himself in the following manner:-
"If my brother be involved in pecuniary difficulties, -
or if he have committed any imprudence, from the results of which money may
release him, - how gladly will I dispose of the remainder of my small income -
how joyfully will I devote all I possess to aid him! And then, when I have no
other resources, I will open the mysterious document which Thomas Armstrong
placed in my hands ere he breathed his last and I feel convinced that I shall
at least receive therefrom good advice - if not pecuniary succour - to guide me
in future. O Eugene! is it possible that I am now about to meet you once more?
On the 10th of July, 1831, did we part on the summit of the hill which
overlooks the mansion of our ancestors. This is the 2nd of January, 1840. Eight
years arid a half have now elapsed since the day of our separation. Ah! I know
the proud - the haughty - the independent disposition of my brother! Were he
prosperous - were he successful in his pursuits, (be those pursuits what they
may,) he would not seek me now. He would wait until the accomplishment of the
twelve years: he would not seek me until the 10th of July, 1843. Then should we
compare notes, and ascertain who was the more prosperous! Yes - this would be
my brother's mode of conduct. And therefore he is unhappy - he is unfortunate,
that he seeks me ere the time be elapsed: he is perhaps poor - in want - who
knows? Oh! how sincerely I hope that this is no delusion; that my unfortunate
star will not pursue me even unto the point of so terrible a disappointment! No
- I feel that this is no deception - that Eugene indeed awaits me. Who could
wish to injure
me?
who would desire to take my life?
who could hope to obtain a treasure by laying a plot to rob
me?
The idea is preposterous! Yes
- the appointment
is a genuine one: I am about to
meet my brother Eugene!"
Such were the meditations of Richard Markham as he proceeded
towards the place of appointment.
He was considerably before his time; for hope cannot brook
delay.
When he reached the banks of the canal, he was struck by the
lonely and deserted nature of the spot. The award was damp and marshy with the
late heavy rains: the canal was swollen, and rolled, muddy and dark, between
its banks, the pale and sickly moon vainly wooing its bosom to respond to the
caresses of its beams by a reflective kiss.
The bank on which Markham now walked back-wards and
forwards, and which constituted the verge of the region of Globe Town, was
higher than the opposite one; and the canal, swollen by the rains, had deluged
many parts of that latter shore.
In the place where Markham now found himself, several
ditches and sluices had been cut; and these, added to the uneven and swampy
nature of the soil, rendered his ramble in that quarter not only unpleasant,
but even dangerous.
Nevertheless, Markham continued to pace back-wards and forwards
on the bank where he expected to meet one who was so dear to him.
He had been at his post about half an hour when footsteps
suddenly fell upon his ears.
He stopped, and listened.
The steps approached; and in a few moments he beheld,
through the obscurity of the night, a person advancing towards him.
"True to your appointment, sir," said the
individual, when he came up to the spot where Richard was standing.
"I told you that I should not fail," answered
Markham, who had immediately recognised the voice of the man that had borne him
the message making the present appointment. "But what of my brother? will
he come? is he near? Speak!"
"He will be here in a few moments," said the man,
who, as our readers well know, was none other than the Buffer.
"Are you sure?" demanded Markham. "Why has he
sent you first? could he suspect treachery from his own brother?"
"Not a bit of it," replied the Buffer. "Only
- but here he comes, sure enow."
Approaching footsteps were heard; and in a minute or two
another form emerged from the gloom of night.
Markham's heart palpitated violently. "Here is your
brother, sir," said the Buffer.
"Eugene - dear Eugene!" cried Richard, springing
forward to catch his brother in his arms.
"Brother indeed!" muttered the ominous voice of
the Resurrection Man; and at the same moment Richard was pinioned from behind
by the Buffer, who skilfully wove a cord around his arms, and fastened his
elbows together.
"Villains!" ejaculated Richard, struggling with
all his might - but vainly, for the Resurrection Man, whose voice he had
immediately recognised but too well, threw him violently upon the damp sod.
"Now, my lad," cried the Resurrection Man,
"your fate is decided. In a few minutes you'll be at the bottom of
the canal, and then —"
He said no more-for at that moment another person
appeared upon the scene; and, quick as thought, the Resurrection Man was felled
by the butt end of a pistol.
But the instant the miscreant touched the ground, he caught
a desperate hold of the person who had so suddenly and unexpectedly appeared
upon the spot; and Filippo - for it was he - also rolled on the damp sward.
The Resurrection Man leapt upon him, and caught hold of his
throat with such savage violence, that the Italian would have been suffocated
in a few moments, had not the flash of a pistol close by the head of the
Resurrection Man turned the fortune of the combat.
The pistol so aimed only flashed in the pan; but the sudden
glare singed the Resurrection Man's hair, and caused him to abandon his victim
and spring upon his feet with an alacrity that resembled a galvanic effect.
The Buffer, alarmed by the first attack on the part of
Filippo, had relinquished ha hold of the rope that confined Richard's arms; and
Markham, encouraged by this sudden and unexpected assistance, disengaged
himself from the coil with the rapidity of lightning. He then. sprang upon the
Buffer, hurled him to the ground, and, placing his knee upon the ruffian's
chest, kept him fast in that prostrate condition on the very verge of the
canal.
The Resurrection Man, with eagle glance, beheld the
situation of affairs. He saw his confederate powerless, and desperate odds
leagued against himself - for, in the darkness of the night, he could not
observe that one of his opponents was a female in disguise.
The moment that he sprang from the ground, in consequence of
the flash of the pistol close by his ear, he cast this comprehensive look over
the field of action.
There was no time for hesitation.
Pushing Ellen violently aside, and dashing Filippo furiously
back again upon the ground from which he was rising, the Resurrection Man
darted upon Richard Markham.
In another moment there was a splash of water a cry of horror
issued from the lips of Ellen; the Resurrection Man shouted "Run!
run!" - but neither the young lady nor Filippo thought of interrupting the
flight of the miscreants.
"The villains! - they have drowned him!" exclaimed
Filippo; and, without an instant's hesitation, he plunged into the canal.
"Brave man!" cried Ellen. "Save him - oh!
save him!"
As she uttered these words, she stumbled over the coil of
rope which had been used to confine Markham's hands, and which the miscreants
had left behind them.
Instantly twining one end round her delicate wrist, she cast
the other into the canal; and creeping so far down the bank as nearly to touch
the water, she exclaimed, "Here is a rope, Filippo! Richard, try and catch
the rope. Speak, Filippo - can you save him? If not, I will myself plunge into
the stream - and —"
"He is lost - he is gone!" said Fillippo, who was
swimming about on the surface of the water as skilfully as if it were his
native element.
"Oh, God! do not say that! do not —"
"I see him - I see him, Miss - yonder - down the stream
- struggling desperately —"
At that moment a faint cry for help echoed over the bosom of
the canal.
Ellen scrambled up the bank, and darted along the margin
with the speed of the fawn, dragging the long coil of rope after her.
In a few moments she beheld a black object appear on the
surface of the water - then disappear again in an instant.
But Filippo had already gained
that part of the stream; and Ellen directed him with her voice to the spot
where the object had sunk.
The brave Italian, though well-nigh exhausted, dived
fearlessly; and to the infinite joy of Ellen, re-appeared upon the surface,
exclaiming, " He is saved - he is saved!"
Supporting Markham's head above the water, Filippo swam to
the bank; and, aided by Ellen and the rope, succeeded in landing his burden as
well as himself.
Markham was insensible ; but Filippo placed his hand upon
the young man's breast, and said, "He lives!"
"Heaven be thanked!" ejaculated Ellen, solemnly.
She then chafed his temples; while the Italian rubbed the
palms of his hands.
In a few minutes Richard moaned.
The attentions of those who hung over him were redoubled;
and Filippo was about to propose to convey him to the nearest dwelling, when he
gasped violently, and murmured, "Where am I?"
"Saved!" answered Ellen. "None but friends
are near you."
A quarter of an hour had not elapsed from the moment that he
was rescued from the water when he was so far recovered as to sit up on the
bank, and all fears on the part of Ellen relative to his complete resuscitation
had vanished.
"Ellen - is that you? can this be you? was it your
voice that I heard?" he said, in a faint tone "or is it a
vision?"
"It is no vision, Richard - it is indeed Ellen, who
owes you so much, and who has been the humble instrument - aided by this brave
man - of saving your life."
"And who is this brave man?" asked Markham
"Tell me his name, that I may pour forth my gratitude to him, as well as
to you, kind Ellen - my sister!"
"His sister!" murmured Ellen; while an emotion,
like an electric shock, agitated her to the very heart's core.
But those words - "his sister!" - were not heard
by either Markham or Filippo.
"Do not fatigue yourself by speaking now," said
Ellen, after a moment's pause. " Suffice it for the present to tell you
that I was afraid of treachery towards you - I had my misgivings - a
presentiment of evil haunted me! I owed you so much, that I was determined to watch
over your safety - weak and powerless as I am. Hence this strange attire.
Fortunately I met this brave man - a total stranger to me - near the spot; and,
when I communicated my object to him, he generously offered to bear me
company."
"Excellent girl! - generous stranger!" cried
Richard; "I owe you my life. Oh! how can I ever express my
gratitude?"
"We must not speak on that subject now, sir," said
Filippo. "The chief point to be considered is how to get you home."
"And he lives so far from here, too," hastily
exclaimed Ellen, laying her hand at the same time but unseen by Markham, on
Filippo's arm.
The Italian took the hint, which was to remind him that he
must not seem to know the place of residence, or indeed any other particular
concerning the affairs, of Richard Markham.
"Oh! this bitter disappointment - this vile
treachery!" cried the young man, whose thoughts were now reflected back to
the cause of the perils from which he had just escaped.
"Compose yourself," said Ellen, with peculiar and
touching kindness of manner: "compose yourself. Richard; and do not excite
yourself by unpleasant reflections. Let us rather think how we are to convey
you home. There is no vehicle to be obtained in this neighbourhood."
"I feel myself able to walk," said Markham,-
"at least as far as the nearest place where we can procure
conveyance."
"Wrap yourself up in my cloak," cried Filippo.
"It is close at hand - I took it off and concealed it under yonder tree,
before the conflict began."
Filippo hastened to fetch the cloak, in which Markham
enveloped himself. Then, leaning on the arms of those to whom he was indebted
for his rescue from the murderous designs of his enemies, he walked slowly away
from the spat where he had hoped to meet a brother, but where he had
encountered fiends in human shape.
In this manner they traversed Globe Town, and reached
Bethnal Green New Church. In that neighbourhood they procured a cab, into which
Markham and Ellen stepped.
"I shall now take leave of you, sir," said
Filippo, "and I most sincerely hope that you will soon recover from the
effects of this night's maltreatment."
"Generous man!" cried Markham, "tell me your
name that I may —"
But Filippo had already disappeared.
"How strange!" said Markham. "That noble
hearted foreigner makes light of his own good deeds. He has left me no
opportunity of expressing my gratitude more fully than by mere words."
"He is evidently a man of lofty feelings and generous
disposition," observed Ellen calmly. "It was fortunate that I
happened to encounter him in that lonely spot."
She then informed the driver whither he was to proceed; and
the vehicle rolled quickly away.
THE GRAVE-DIGGER
THREE days after the events related in the preceding chapter,- and
at that hour in the cold wintry morning when the dawn breaks in fitful gleams
through a dense atmosphere of a dark neutral dye, - a labouring-man, with a
shovel and pickaxe upon his shoulder, entered one of the cemeteries in the immediate
vicinity of Globe Lane.
This cemetery was only partly enclosed by houses; on the
remaining sides there was a low wall.
The soil was damp; and a nauseous odour, emanating from it,
impregnated the air. When the sun lay for several days upon the place, even in
the depth of winter,- and invariably throughout the summer,- the stench was so
intolerable that not a dwelling in the neighbourhood was seen with a window
open. Nevertheless, that sickly, fetid odour penetrated into every house, and
every room, and every inhabited nook or corner, in that vicinity; and the
clothes of the poor inmates smelt, and their food tasted, of the damp grave!
The cemetery was crowded with the remains of mortality. The
proprietors of the ground had only one aim in view - namely, to crowd the
greatest possible quantity of corpses into the smallest space. But even this
economy of room did not prevent the place from being so filled with the dead,
that in a given quantity of the soil it was difficult to say whether earth or
decayed human remains predominated. Still the cemetery was kept open for
interments; and when there was no room for a newcomer, some recently-buried
tenant of a grave was exhumed to afford the required space.
In one part of the ground was a rude brick-building,
denominated a Bone-House. This hovel was provided with a large fire-place; and
seldom did a day pass without smoke being seen to issue from the chimney. On
those occasions, - when the furnace was lighted, - the stench from the cemetery
was always more powerful than at other times.
Some of the poor inhabitants of the adjoining houses had
remonstrated with the parochial authorities on the subject of this nuisance
being tolerated; but the only reply the applicants could obtain was,
"Well, prefer an indictment at the session., if you don't like it!"
The idea of men in the receipt of eight or ten shillings a
week preferring an indictment! Such a process is only accessible to those
possessed of ample means; for the legislature has purposely rendered law, -
that is, the power of obtaining justice, enforcing rights, or suppressing
nuisances, - a luxury attainable only by money. The poor, indeed! who ever
thought of legislating for the poor? Legislate
against
them, and it is all well and
good: heap statute upon statute - pile act upon act - accumulate measure upon
measure - encumber the most simple forms with the most intricate technicalities
- diversify readings and expand in verbiage until the sense becomes
unintelligible - convert the whole legal scheme into a cunning web, so that the
poor man cannot walk three steps without entangling his foot in one of those
meshes of whose very existence he was previously unaware, and whose nature he
cannot comprehend even when involved therein ;- do all this, and you are a wise
and sound statesman; for this is legislating
against
the poor - and who, we repeat,
would ever think of legislating
for
them?
But to continue.
The grave-digger entered the cemetery, and cast a glance
around him.
That glance well expressed the man's thoughts; for he
mentally asked himself, "Whose grave must I disturb now to make room for
the new one?"
At length he advanced towards a particular spot, considered
it for a moment, and then struck his spade into the soil, as much as to say,
"This will do."
The place where he had now halted was only a few yards from
the Bone-House. Taking a key from his pocket, he proceeded to unlock the door
of that building.
Entering the Bone-House he took from amongst a quantity of
implements in one corner, a long flexible iron rod similar to those which we
have already described as being used by the body-snatchers.
Returning to the grave, he thrust the rod into the ground.
It met with a little resistance from some substance a little harder than the
soil; but the man pushed it downwards with a strong arm; and it sank at least
twelve feet into the ground.
Satisfied with this essay of the nature of the spot, the
grave-digger drew back the rod; and from the deep but narrow aperture thus
formed, issued a stench more pestiferous than that which ever came from the
lowest knacker's yard.
The man retreated rapidly to the Bone-House; that odour was
too powerful even for one who had passed the greater portion of his life in
that very grave-yard.
He now proceeded to light a fire in the Bone- House; and
when he saw the huge logs which he heaped on the grate, blazing brightly, he
covered them with coke. The current of air from the open door fanned the
flames, which roared up the chimney; and the grave-digger felt invigorated and
cheered by the genial warmth that issued from the ample grate.
After lingering for a few minutes in the Bone House, the
grave-digger returned to the spot which he had previously marked for
excavation.
Baring his brawny arms to the very shoulders, he now set
himself vigorously to work to dig the grave which was to receive a new-comer
that after-noon.
Throwing the earth up on either side, he had digged to a
depth of about two feet, when his spade encountered a coffin. He immediately
took his pickaxe, broke the coffin to pieces, and then separated with his
shovel the pieces of wood and the human bones from the damp earth. The coffin
was already so soft with decay that the iron rod had penetrated through it
without much difficulty; and it therefore required but little exertion to break
it up altogether.
But the odour which came from the grave was now of the most
nauseating kind - fetid, sickly, pestiferous - making the atmosphere heavy, and
the human breath thick and clammy, as it were - and causing even that
experienced grave-digger to retch as if he were about to vomit.
Leaping from the grave, he began to busy himself in
conveying the pieces of the broken coffin and the putrid remains of mortality
into the Bone-House where he heaped them pell-mell upon the fire.
The flesh had not completely decayed all away from the
bones; a thick, black, fatty-looking substance still covered those human
relics; and the fire was thus fed with a material which made the flames roar
and play half up the chimney.
And from the summit of that chimney came a smoke-thick,
dense, and dark, like the smoke of a gasometer or a manufactory, but bearing on
its sable wing the odour of a pestilence.
The man returned to the grave, and was about to resume his
labour, when his eyes caught sight of a black object, almost embedded in the
damp clay heaped up by the side. He turned it over with his spade: it was the
upper part of the skull, with the long, dark hair of a woman still remaining
attached to it. The grave-digger coolly took up the relic by that long hair
which perhaps had once been a valued ornament; and, carrying it in this manner
into the Bone-House, threw it upon the fire. The hair hissed for a moment as it
burnt, for it was damp and clogged with clay; then the voracious flames licked
up the thin coat of blackened flesh which had still remained on the skull; and
lastly devoured the bone itself.
The grave-digger returned to his toils; and at a depth of
scarcely one foot below the coffin thus exhumed and burnt, his shovel was again
impeded for a moment - and by another coffin!
Once more was the pickaxe put into requisition a second
coffin was broken up; another decomposing, but not entirely decomposed, corpse was
hacked, and hewed, and rent to pieces by the merciless implement which was
wielded by a merciless arm;- and in a few moments, the fire in the Bone-House
burnt cheerfully once more, the mouth of the chimney vomiting forth its dense
and pest-bearing breath, the volume of which was from time to time lighted with
sparks and flakes of fire.
Thus was it that this grave-digger disposed of the old
tenants of the cemetery in order to make room for new ones.
And then fond, surviving
relations and friends speak of the
last home
and the
quiet resting-place
of the deceased: they talk with
affectionate reverence of those who
sleep in the grave,
and they grow pathetic in their
eulogies of the
tranquil slumber of the tomb
!
Poor deluded creatures! While they are thus engaged in
innocent discourse, - a discourse that affords them solace when they ponder
upon the loss which they have sustained, - the
last home
is invaded - the
quiet resting-place
is rudely awakened with sacrilegious echoes - the
sleep of the grave
is disturbed by the thunder of a pickaxe - and the corpse is
snatched from the
tranquil slumber of the tomb
to he cast into the all-devouring
furnace of the Bone-House.
The grave-digger proceeded in his task; and a third coffin
was speedily encountered. Each successive one was more decayed than that which
had preceded it; and thus the labour of breaking them up diminished in
severity.
But the destination of one and all was the same - the fire
of the Bone-House.
No wonder that the cemetery continued to receive so many
fresh tenants, although the neighbours knew that it must be full :- no wonder
that the stench was always more pestiferous when the furnace of the Bone-House
was lighted!
And that man - that grave-digger performed his task - his
odious task - without compunction, and without remorse: he was fulfilling the
commands of his employers - his employers were his superiors - and "surely
his superiors must know what was right and what was wrong!"
And so the grave-digger worked and toiled - and the fire in
the Bone-House burnt cheerfully - and the dark, thick smoke was borne over the
whole neighbourhood, like a plague-cloud.
Two hours had passed away since the man had commenced his
work; and he now felt hungry.
Retiring to the Bone-House, he took a coffee-pot from the
shelf, and proceeded to make some coffee, the material for which was in a
cupboard in a corner of the building. Water he took from a large pitcher, also
kept in that foul place; and bread he had brought with him in his pockets.
He drew a stool close to the fire; and, when the coffee
boiled, commenced his meal.
The liquid cheered and refreshed him ; but he never once
recollected that it had been heated by flames fed with human flesh and bones!
While he was thus occupied, he heard footsteps approaching
the Bone-House; and in a few moments Mr. Banks, the undertaker, appeared upon
the threshold.
"Mornin', sir," said the grave-digger. " Come
to have a look at the size of the grave, s'pose? You've no call to be afeard;
I'll be bound to make it big enow."
"I hope it won't be a very deep one, Jones,"
returned the undertaker. "Somehow or another the friends of the blessed
defunct are awerse to a deep grave."
"My orders is to dig down sixteen feet and shore up the
sides as I deepens," said Jones. " Don't you see that I shall throw
the earth on wery light, so that it won't take scarcely no trouble to shovel it
out agin; 'cos the next seven as comes to this ground must all go into that
there grave."
"Sixteen feet!" ejaculated the undertaker, in
dismay. "It will never do, Jones. The friends of the dear deceased
wouldn't sleep quiet in their beds if they thought he had to sleep so deep in
his'n. It won't do, Jones - it won't do."
"My orders is sich from the proprietors, sir,"
answered the grave-digger, munching and drinking at intervals with considerable
calmness.
"Now I tell you what it is, Jones," continued the
undertaker, after a moment's pause, "not another grave will I ever order
in this ground, and not another carkiss that I undertake shall come here,
unless you choose to comply with my wishes concerning this blessed old
defunct."
"Well, Mr. Banks, there isn't a gen'leman wot
undertakes in all Globe Town, or from Bonner's Fields down to Mile End Gate,
that I'd sooner obleege than yourself," said Jones, the
grave-digger; "but if so be I transgresses my orders —"
"Who will know it?" interrupted Banks. "You
have whole and sole charge of the ground; and it can't be often that the
proprietors come to trouble you."
"Well, sir, there is summut in that —"
"And then, instead of five shillings for yourself, I
should not hesitate to make it ten —"
"That's business, Mr. Banks. How deep must the grave
be?"
"How deep is it already?"
"A matter of nine feet, sir," said Jones.
"Then not another hinch must you move," cried the
undertaker, emphatically; "and here's the ten bob as an earnest."
Mr. Banks accordingly counted ten shillings Into the hands
of the grave-digger.
"When's the funeral a-coming, sir?" asked Jones,
after a pause.
"At two precisely," replied Mr. Banks.
"Rale parson, or von of your men as usual?"
continued the grave-digger, inquiringly.
"Oh, a friend of mine - a wery pious, savoury,
soul-loving wessel, Jones - a man that it'll do your heart good to hear. But, I
say, Jones," added the undertaker, "you're getting uncommon full
here."
"Yes, full enow, sir; but I makes room."
"I see you do," said Banks, glancing towards
the fire: "what an offensive smell it makes."
"And would you believe that I can scarcely support it
myself sometimes, Mr. Banks?" returned Jones. " But, arter all, our
ground isn't so bad as some others in London."
"I know it isn't," observed the undertaker.
"Now ain't it a odd thing, sir," continued the
grave-digger, "that persons which dwells up in decent neighbourhoods like,
and seems exceedin' proud of their fine houses and handsome shops, shouldn't
notice the foul air that comes from places only hid by a low wall or a thin
paling?"
"It is indeed odd enough," said Mr. Banks.
"Well, I knows the diggers in some o' the yard. more
west," continued Jones, " and I've heard from them over and over agin
that they pursues just the wery same course as we does here - has a Bone House
or some such conwenient place, and burns the coffins and bones that is turned
up."
"I suppose it is necessary, Jones?" observed Mr.
Banks.
"Necessary, sir? in course it be," exclaimed the
grave-digger. "On'y fancy wot a lot of burials takes place every year in
London; and room must be made for 'em somehow or other."
"Ah! I know something about that," said the
undertaker. "Calkilations have been made which proves that the average
life of us poor weak humans