The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “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 his 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 Filippo, 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 spot 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.

  CHAPTER CVI.

  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 new-comer, 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 afternoon.

  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 be cast into the all-devouring furnace of the Bone-House.