CHAPTER V.
Even more than knowledge, pain is power.
--_Illingworth._
And on his brest a bloudie crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead as living ever Him ador'd.
--_Spenser._
It was on a close breathless day in September that Meg first sawNewgate.
Nearly fifty years have wrought many changes for the better (as well assome few for the worse) in London.
The Holborn Tom and Meg Thorpe walked down was more unsavoury, noisier,and far less regulated as to traffic than the Holborn of to-day.
The immense flow of people, the street cries, the jostling and bustling,were new to Meg; for, though she had lived in London half her life, shehad never seen this side of it before.
All at once she understood how it had impressed Barnabas.
"He thinks London so terrible, and overpowering!" she said. "And I neverknew what he meant! Now, I see----"
"Mind where ye are walkin'," said Tom. "Good Lord! If either o' ye hadhad one quarter o' a grain o' common-sense, ye'd ha' kept clear of aplace where there's a many too many without ye, an' not room to hearone's own voice in! There! that's where he is!"
And Meg looked up at the gateway of the great prison, "the worst managedprison in England,"[1] where the scum and refuse of that human tideflowed constantly, and where, evil being most rampant, that cross thatwas originally raised between outragers of the public safety, was beingraised again now by the hand of the Quaker lady, whom many yet unbornshould call "blessed".
[Footnote 1: See Report of 1850, made three years later, and just beforethe erection of the new prison at Holloway.]
They passed under the fortress-like entrance, which Meg was to knowwell, in rain and snow, as well as in the autumn sunshine, which firstsoftened its gloom to her, and stood among the crowd of prisoners'friends, who, on the whole, were a much more cheerful, not to say jovialset, than might have been expected.
The gatekeeper was exchanging jokes and winks with a noisy band ofunbonneted girls, who were linked together arm in arm, and had "pals"inside.
Meg's soft heart warmed to one of them, who looked little more than achild, and who demanded permission to see her husband, Bill Jenkins,convicted of shop-lifting, and under sentence of death.
"I hope he will be reprieved," Meg said aloud. "She looks so very youngto have a husband," she added apologetically to Tom, who was notover-pleased at her speaking to the girl.
There was a shout of laughter when some one who had overheard itrepeated the remark.
"Bless your innocence, we've _all_ got 'usbands, my dear," said one ofthe band. But it was not till later that the preacher's wife understoodthe meaning of their merriment.
The convicted were supposed to see only their wives, and that but once aweek. "So I've never known a single man among 'em," the gatekeeperremarked with a grin. "Even the boys is all married,--every one on 'em!"
Meg could hardly have told what she had expected to encounter;--longstone passages, and a miserable cell, and Barnabas in heavy irons, anddarkness, perhaps! She had been prepared to cheer and encourage him; butthis noisy crew she was not prepared for, and her heart sank when shefound that she was not admitted into the interior of the building; butcould only take her place with the others on one side of a double row ofiron railings, which interposed grimly between the prisoners and theirfriends.
Her strongest earliest impressions of a place she was to become familiarwith during three long months were beer and bad language. The smell ofthe former assailed her nostrils; the sound of the latter, her ears; theplace seemed reeking with both combined. She looked rather wistfully atthe vendor of beer, who, coming straight from the public-house,fortunate enough to have secured Newgate's patronage, was greeted withacclamations, and allowed instant entrance to the wards.
"Eh, my lass, how are ye?" said the well-known voice, whose veryfamiliarity sounded strange behind those bars. Margaret pressed her faceagainst the iron, she was not able to reach him--the space between wastoo wide for that.
Prison uniform had not been instituted then, and the preacher was stillin his blue jersey, which, however, showed a good many rents,--a factwhich struck Meg at once; for Barnabas kept his clothes carefully mendedas a rule. He looked ill, too, and his hair and beard were untrimmed;but his hands were unshackled, which was something of a relief to her.
He devoured her with his eyes hungrily, and asked question afterquestion as to how she was, and how she had been, with an eagerness andinsistence that left her little time to question _him_.
"I wish I could see ye better!" he cried impatiently. "Turn your head tothe light, Margaret. I can't half see you in that thing!"
The straight side of her straw bonnet threw her face into shade, and sheuntied the strings, meaning to take it off to please him, remembering,with a slight tightening of the throat, how her father had proffered thesame request; but Barnabas stopped her hastily.
"No, no. Not here!" he said. "Ye can't uncover your head for all thosefellows to see. Ye hadn't ought to be here at all, wi' me not free totake care of ye. Where's Tom?"
"He is waiting for me, in the outer yard," said Meg. "Oh, Barnabas, I_ought_ to have been here before; but I never heard till last night;indeed, if I had known, I would have come."
"I wasn't blamin' ye," he answered. "But look 'ee here, my lass; time'snearly up, and I've a deal to say that'll hardly get said now. I'mthinking this must be my last sight of ye till I'm free, or till----"
"There is no 'or,'" said Meg cheerfully. "Of course, they must set youfree."
But she clung tighter to the rails; her knees felt weak with the longwalk.
The preacher, looking at her, checked the reply that had almost risen tohis lips.
"Till I am free then," he said. "But it's no place for you. Will 'ee gohome wi' Tom? they'll be glad enough to have ye; or, if ye'd rayther,ye can stay wi' your sister. It's as ye like."
Then, with a sudden burst of longing, that seemed to cut through theheavy atmosphere, making Meg's heart give a bound; "To think that _I_can't give ye a roof!" he cried. "It warn't i' the bond that ye shouldfollow me to Newgate! Ye must forgi'e me this, Margaret!"
Meg lifted her head and looked straight at him.
"I'm not going back to Laura," she said. "What should I do there? Nor tothe farm; what business has your wife in L----shire, when you are here?Father has left me some money; it will be just enough to keep ustogether. I will take a room close to the prison, and come as often asthey will let me. There is a great deal to talk of; there is yourdefence to be considered; there is a great deal to be done; and you havetold me nothing yet. I will live on very little--as little as possible;we shall want every penny, but----"
He shook his head, and her voice changed from would-be cheerfulassurance to entreaty.
"But let me stay!" she cried. "You will find it worth while. No one willwork so hard for you as I will. If _I_ were in prison should you gocomfortably away with Tom to the farm? It is absurd to ask! You don'tneed to answer; for, of course, you wouldn't. Don't you want to see me?I could come three times a week; on all the visiting days--don't youthink that would be something?"
"Something!" said the preacher. He put his hand before his eyes to hidethe sight of her, who, he knew, was only too precious to him.
"The look of ye is more nor meat or drink to me," he said. "An' ye knowit! An' it's just because o' that that there's no reason in comparingwhat I'd do wi' what I'd have ye do. Go back wi' Tom, lass. Ay, I knewye'd be willin' to bide; I knew ye'd offer to; but I couldn't bear tosee ye standin' here day after day, nor to think o' ye alone in thishell of a city. I'll do well enough, an' I won't forget ye begged tostop. Just say 'good-bye' to me, my dear, an' go. Go, my lass!"
Her hands dropped from the bars and she turned away. She was in thehabit of obeying him, and his stronger will nearly always overpoweredhers; but, as she turned she looked back, and
, though she did notunderstand how or why, something in his weary attitude made her returnquickly, with a little low cry that brought him close to the bars again.
"I want to stay," she said. "Barnabas, don't you see that I want to? Youthink I am saying this because I ought--for your sake. It is for my own.Ah, don't send me away; I _want_ to stay."
He stood a moment silent; then: "Stay then," he said; "and God keep yesafe. Happen, after all, He knows how to as well as I do."
There was no time for more; she had to go, but the preacher drew a deepbreath, as one amazed; the bolts and bars that divided them had alsobrought Margaret nearer to him. He had had need of some consolation.
The Gaol Acts laid down many most excellent rules, which the governorsof Newgate seemed to consider were, like dreams, "to be read bycontraries". Barnabas had found himself flung into an assembly wheretried and untried--the boy accused of stealing a loaf, and the hardenedold vagabond in for the tenth time--were all mixed up together, making afine forcing bed for crime.
In the pursuit of his calling the preacher had been oftenest and mostdeeply attracted to places where evil was most prevalent; but it was onething to attack the foul fiend of his own free will (and it must beowned Barnabas was seldom backward at assault), and another to beallowed no escape from the unclean presence by day or by night; nobreathing space alone, even for a moment.
The unbearable sense of eyes always on him, the longing for fresh air,and, still more, for solitude, if only for five minutes, grew with aforce that took all his strength to keep in bounds.
There had always been something gipsy-like in his restless impatience ofwalls and roofs. As a boy he had many a time crept out in order to sleepby preference with nothing between him and the sky. He held his verythoughts in check now, and durst not let them dwell on downs or sea,lest a mad passion for these should seize on him; but he ate withdifficulty, forcing himself to swallow, loathing food, like some wildanimal held in captivity; and sleep forsook him.
It was not till he had been in the gaol for a week that he began todiscover a method in the madness of the prison arrangements; and themethod roused him to protest so vigorous and unpopular as nearly to costhim his life.
To run atilt against established privileges, to refuse to let sleepingdogs lie, had always been main characteristics of the preacher; theynever came out more strongly than in Newgate.
There are disadvantages in preaching righteousness while underaccusation of attempted murder, and in attempting to right otherpeople's grievances while a prisoner oneself; but such considerationsnever weighed with Barnabas. Where he saw his enemy, there he would "go"for him, whatever the situation might be.
On the women's side of the prison, Elizabeth Fry was already bringingorder into disorder, light into the midst of darkness; but, on themen's side, misrule still ruled supreme.
The old prisoners levied a kind of blackmail on the others; they soldfood, they winked at evil practices, they passed in tobacco and snuff,and, as wardsmen, their power was despotic.
In their hands was the placing of new arrivals, in their hands thedrawing of briefs; they, practically, could feed or starve, bind orunbind; and one of the first things Barnabas did was to protest againstthe orders of a wardsman!
To do him justice, the preacher, though he had lamentably small sense ofthe expedient, was not naturally quarrelsome, and had rubbed shouldersagainst too many strange bedfellows to be over fastidious.
The crowded room in which the men slept together anyhow, under filthymats on the floor, shocked him much less than it would shock anyrespectable member of society now-a-days. He relinquished his share ofthe rug, a third share; and stretched himself on the floor, as near tothe window as he could get.
Everything was dirty; the men, the floor, and, not least, theconversation! Barnabas was glad that there was no glass in the windows,though not much fresh air seemed to make its way in anyhow. He had agreat capability for abstracting himself from what was going on aroundhim, and had been in bad places before,--though none, he was constrainedto allow to himself, quite so bad as this. But when the key turned inthe lock, shutting in for the night all these offscourings of the Londonstreets; then, indeed, began a scene of mad drunken riot, of iniquityand cruelty, that pierced through his abstraction and forced him toattend.
He sat up in his corner, looking on with eyes that grew eager withdesire to lift his testimony against the gambling and drinking andblasphemy that seemed to challenge him; but even he hesitated.
He was disheartened and sickened; he felt his faith low, his power tospeak wanting. A sense of the certainty of failure, for once, deterredhim; the strong impulse that carried other hearts was not present(possibly because he was physically tired, though this was a reasonwhich would never have occurred to him), and he held his peace.
Of fear, in the sense of dread of personal harm to himself, he hadlittle by nature and less by practice; but a deep moral depression andhumility that underlay his boldness, and was less paradoxical than it atfirst seemed, sometimes closed his lips.
When the "spirit moved him," he would speak, nothing doubting; but, attimes, he would sit in mental sackcloth, with no consciousness of Divineinspiration.
In the daytime, want of employment further depressed him; he had beenaccustomed all his life to hard exercise; and the comparativeconfinement of his London life had begun to tell on his health andspirits, even before his imprisonment. He would have been thankful forany form of labour,--a desire which certainly was not common among hiscompanions. Not that the wards were devoid of amusement; papers and evenbooks circulated freely, the last of a kind that increased thepreacher's bigoted distaste for "book larning," and that he was,perhaps, justified in stigmatising as inventions of the devil! Tobaccoand cards were also plentiful; gaming went on without intermission frommorning till night, and of feasting and fighting there was plenty.
Barnabas would probably have come in for rough usage, even without anyaggressive act on his part, had it not been for his size and strength,that made him so obviously an awkward subject to bully.
The bronzed, fair-bearded man, standing in his corner, "glowering" at ascene that, certainly, was brutal enough, had an expression in his blueeyes that looked as if he might be dangerous.
Possibly he was going mad! There was a large proportion of real lunaticsin Newgate, and there were some sham ones, who feigned madness as thetime of their trial approached; and their presence added to the insanelyreckless character of the revels.
During the whole of the first week in prison, Barnabas had stood apart,silent and grave.
He was anxious about his wife; he was cast down by spiritual depression;and the sense that he was "forsaken of the Lord" was strong on him.Moreover,--and this was a thing that had rarely occurred to him,--he wastormented by uncertainty. It was against his instinct and principle tobetray a confession; he would rather be hanged himself, as he had saidto Margaret, than do that;--but yet, to leave the murderer free tocommit any fresh crime that might be suggested to his depraved naturemight lead to consequences from which even Barnabas, who seldom lookedat consequences, shrank. All these causes, combined with the closeatmosphere and want of sleep, weighed on him; he felt as if unable topray, or to command his thoughts; he was "delivered over to Satan".
It was Margaret's visit that broke the spell. The sight of her, stirringhis heart with most human love, roused him, and chased away thespiritual melancholy which was overpowering him. He became ashamed ofhis downheartedness.
He should stand at her side free again, and the sound of her last wordsnurtured a hope that he had often found it best not to dwell onovermuch,--would grim Newgate give him his wife's heart?
Shame on him for his cowardly depression! He deserved no favours,heavenly or earthly; but he would be depressed no longer. He went backto the yard after Margaret's visit with fresh spirit. Some of theprisoners had made a circle round a new-comer, a fair-haired lad offifteen, who had the too girlish and refined "prettiness" that somefair-skinned boys r
etain so long, and who looked younger than he was.
The chaff and rough horse-play they were indulging in hardly amounted toactual ill-usage; but the boy looked frightened to death. He was singingin a high sweet treble, forced thereto by divers threats.
He evidently did not know the words of the song, for one of hisself-constituted teachers kept prompting him, amid roars of laughter. Itwas a villainous song, and Barnabas hoped the lad didn't understand it.He had been brought in the day before, protesting his innocence in eagerchildish fashion,--as if it mattered to any one there whether he wasinnocent or not! At any rate, if he was when he entered, he hadn't muchchance of being so when he should leave. Barnabas looked on in disgustfor a few minutes, and then turned to a wardsman.
"Surely," he said, "that lad hadn't ought to be here?"
The middle yard in which they stood was supposed to be occupied by themost abandoned and worst class of criminals, men charged with the mostrevolting crimes; but the wardsmen of Newgate were apparently apt toconsider the incorrigible offence, the offence of poverty (indeed, it ishard of cure) and an inability to pay ward dues, ranked the offenderwith the most depraved.
"Oh! you're the Lord Chief Justice in disguise, perhaps!" said the man."Or his grace the Archbishop!"
"If I was the judge," said the preacher, "I'd far sooner ha' had thatboy strung up to the nearest lamp post, guilty or no', than ha'pitchforked him in here, to ruin his body an' soul both! It 'ud ha' beena deal more merciful."
"Such a 'ighly moral cove as you 'ad better interfere," said the man."The parson don't come in 'ere at present; he give up comin' afterHopping Jack took to assistin' him in 'is duties."
The speaker laughed silently over some hidden joke.
"He comes in just afore the 'angman now to the men as is fixed for'anging, a sort of last grace before meat," he said. "They ain't solarky then."
Barnabas had not attended to the last remark; something he had heard orseen made his hand clench; and he turned on the wardsman hotly.
"Can ye do nothing, man?" he said. "_You_ put that child here, becausehe couldn't pay th' ward dues (which be unlawful extortion anyway); he'sonly up for a matter o' stealin'; it 'ull lay at your door if thosebrutes make him----"
The rest of the sentence remained unfinished. Before he had got to theend of it, Barnabas had felt the appeal useless: the wardsman wasmomentarily staggered by the unprecedented and unbounded impudence ofthis new-comer; but, before he had even fully fathomed the whole extentof it, the preacher sprang into the middle of the ring, and stood by theboy's side.
There was a moment's absolute silence. Then Barnabas Thorpe's ringingvoice pealed through the yard in a vigorous denunciation; he took thethrong of reprobates so by surprise that he got through a whole sentenceunmolested.
The motley crowd all stood and gaped; the boy clung to his arm.
Some men who were playing at leapfrog stopped, and stared; the dice fellfrom Hopping Jack's hand. If a thunder-clap, louder than usual, hadbroken out just over their heads, it would have produced just thateffect, stunning and startling them. Then, with a howl of mingledlaughter and anger, they all fell on the preacher at once; and thewardsman laughed silently again.
Barnabas fought desperately, first for the boy's sake, then in sheerself-defence; for his blows had enraged and roused the wild beast inthese men. It was no joke now; they meant to punish him.
He set his teeth hard, and held his own for a short minute; but one tosixty is too heavy odds, and the righteous cause that triumphs in theend has a way of triumphing only through the blood of its upholders. Hewas down first on his knees, then on his face, then they all closed overhim; he had not even taken the precaution to put his back against theyard wall, and his assailants were on all sides. He was down, and tokick a man on the ground was excellent sport, and this man had certainlybrought it on himself. The wardsman usually interfered before thingscame to quite such a pass; but, on this occasion, he discreetly retired;the preacher had needed a lesson, and no one was in the least inclinedto forbear.
* * * * *
The surgeon's report mentioned that one of the prisoners had had hisribs broken, but no further official notice was taken of this littleepisode; and the prisoner himself was rather surprised when he woke toconsciousness (a highly disagreeable experience!), and found himselfstill alive, and lying in a corner of the ward, albeit without a squareinch free from bruises, and with an odd sensation of having been kickedinside as well as out, making breathing a matter of pain.
He tried to sit upright, but the effort hurt him, turning him dizzy andsick; and he desisted.
"He's been shamefully mauled," some one was saying. "His own motherwouldn't know him. Done in a drunken brawl, I suppose? That's the secondcase from the middle yard within a fortnight. I should think you'veabout had your fill of fighting, eh? How do you feel?"
"Oncommon sore," said Barnabas; "but what became of th' lad?"
"He'll fare the worse for your interference," said the surgeon. "Keepstill, or I can't fasten this bandage. Well, you've tried football fromthe ball's point of view. There's no accounting for tastes! Bless me,there's more bruise than whole skin about you; one might as well patch astocking that's all holes!"
His fingers were not gentler than his words, but it was the latter thathad made Barnabas wince. "What are they doin' wi' that boy? He's not alad o' much spirit--I could see that; he'll be like wax in their hands,if some one don't interfere."
"They'll make it a point of honour to corrupt him as fast as possiblenow; you've gained that by interfering," said the surgeon. "But then thesame result would have been reached in any case, sooner or later. If hewasn't a young blackguard when he came in, which I doubt, he'll takehis degree in iniquity before the Assizes. It's no good struggling toget up, you can't! And what the devil are you in such a hurry for? You'dbetter digest the lesson they've given you."
The surgeon had no sympathy for Methodist preachers; the cantingcriminal, to which class he supposed Barnabas belonged, was the kind heliked least.
He had a cold tolerance for black sheep in general; "they were born bad,as was clearly proved by the shape of their skulls," he would remark;and, while he was a great advocate for hanging them for the sake ofsociety, he neither regarded them with moral indignation, norsympathised with the illogical efforts of philanthropists.
"You'll find it enough to occupy you," he added drily. He was struck, inspite of himself, at the way this man stood pain. "You'll feel thatkicking worse in an hour. I must say it seems to have taken a goodamount of beating to beat you!"
"I'd not say--I was beat--while I was alive," said Barnabas in gasps,for speaking was painful. "Ay, it's a lesson to me--I've been a bit toobackward--ta'en up wi' my own affairs!--I desarved to fail--but I'll tryagain--so soon as I can stand. Beaten! I'm _not_ beaten!"
* * * * *
Barnabas lay in his corner for three days and nights. He ought to havebeen put into the infirmary, but the infirmary was just then given up tocertain political prisoners,--gentlemen who were decidedly out of placein Newgate, but who were made as comfortable as circumstances and theeasy politeness of the governor allowed.
No one paid much heed to the preacher. It was a toss up whether helived or died; but his hardy constitution, and, perhaps, his innateobstinacy, pulled him through. On the fourth day after the surgeon'svisit he sat upright, on the fifth he struggled to his feet. The fifthday happened to be a Sunday, which, by a time-honoured custom, was a dayset apart and sacred to free fights in the middle yard. Barnabassteadied himself, with one hand against the wall, and looked around him.He did not remember ever before to have felt physically weak. Thesensation struck him as very curious.
"You'll not be trying that game again," remarked his enemy, thewardsman.
Barnabas Thorpe was a gaunt and ghastly sight, standing on his strawwith the blood-stained bandage across his forehead. His face waswhitened by confinement, and lined and hollowed by pain;
but the sneerbrought the light of battle into his blue eyes.
"Will I not?" he said grimly. "Wait an' see, man! This time we play towin."
"We? Who's fool enough to be on your side?" asked the man.
"I am on His," said Barnabas. "He leads!" He made his way along the wardwhile he spoke, stumbling more than once, panting from sheer weakness;and the wardsman followed, grinning.
All the men were out in the yard. Two of them were fighting, the restwere applauding. The preacher walked through the ring, and put his handson the combatants' shoulders.
"Ye'll do that no more," he said. "It is my Master's day, an' He is hereamong us; an' to Him shall be the power an' th' glory."
He was so exhausted by the walk that he involuntarily leaned heavily onthe man whose arm he had touched, and who stood and gaped, withawe-struck face.
In his full strength and vigour the preacher had failed--in his weaknesshe conquered.
So long as man is man, he must perforce bow down before the spark ofDivinity that makes him human--when he sees it.
These gaol birds and outcasts "saw it" that day; saw it in the couragethat had nothing to do with the animal and physical side of our nature;"saw it" in the command given by one whom they had trampled on, andwell-nigh killed, who, knowing what he risked, yet risked it again,counting death no defeat.
"Let 'im be. You can't hurt such as 'im," one of the men whispered."He's got them standin' by him."
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