These preparations made, Mr. Bloundel lowered the basket, into which Hodges got, and grasping the rope, not without some misgiving on his part, he was drawn up. Leonard witnessed his ascent with a beating heart, and could scarcely repress a feeling of envy when he saw him pass through the window, and knew that he would soon be in the presence of Amabel. But this feeling quickly changed into one of deep anxiety concerning her. Her father’s account of her had increased the uneasiness he previously felt, and he was as anxious to know the doctor’s opinion of her, as if his own fate had depended upon it. He was kept in this painful state of suspense for nearly an hour, when voices were heard at the window, and presently afterwards Hodges was carefully let down. Bidding the grocer farewell, he desired Leonard to follow him, and led the way towards Cheapside. They proceeded a short distance in silence, when the latter ventured to remark, “You say nothing about Amabel, sir? I fear you found her seriously indisposed.”
“Do not question me about her just now,” rejoined the doctor, in a subdued emotion. “I would rather not discuss the subject.”
Nothing more was said; for though the apprentice would willingly have continued the conversation, his companion’s evident disinclination to pursue it compelled him to desist. In this way, they reached the doctor’s residence, where Leonard was immediately shown to a comfortable bed.
It was late when he awoke next day, and as the doctor was gone forth, he partook of a plentiful breakfast which was placed before him, and repaired to Wood-street, but his master having no commissions for him to execute, he went back again. By this time, Doctor Hodges had returned, and calling him into his library told him he wished to speak with him.
“You were right last night,” he said, “in construing my silence into alarm for Amabel. In truth, I fear she is rapidly sinking into a decline, and nothing will arrest the progress of the insidious disease but instant removal to the country. To this she will not consent, neither do I know how it could be accomplished. It is pitiable to see so lovely a creature dying, as I fear she is, of a broken heart.”
Leonard covered his face with his hands, and wept aloud.
“We have not yet spoken of Nizza Macascree,” said Hodges, after a pause, tapping him kindly on the shoulder. “I think I have discovered a trace of her.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Leonard, rousing himself. “She is another victim of these profligates. But I will be revenged upon them all.”
“I have before enjoined you to restrain your indignation, just though it be,” returned Hodges. “I have not yet found out whither she has been taken. But I have a clue which, unless I am mistaken, will lead me to it. But I must now dismiss you, I have other affairs to attend to, and must give a dangerous and difficult case, on which I have been consulted, undisturbed consideration. Make my house your home as long as you think proper.”
Warmly thanking the doctor, Leonard then withdrew. Shortly after this, he walked forth, and ascertaining that he was not required by his master, determined to satisfy himself by actual observation of the extent of the ravages of the plague.
With this view, he shaped his course along Lad-lane, and traversing Cateaton-street, entered Lothbury. The number of houses which he here found closed, with red crosses on the doors, and the fatal inscription above them, convinced him that the deplorable accounts he had heard were not exaggerated. In passing some of these habitations, he saw such ghastly faces at the windows, and heard such lamentable cries, that he was glad to hurry on and get out of sight and hearing. In Throgmorton-street, nearly opposite Drapers’ Hall, a poor wretch suddenly opened a casement, and before his attendants could force him back, threw himself from a great height to the ground, and broke his neck. Another incident, of an equally distressing nature, occurred. A young and richly-dressed young man issued from a tavern in Broad-street, and with a wild and inflamed countenance, staggered along. He addressed some insulting language to Leonard, but the latter, who desired no quarrel, disregarded his remarks, and let him pass. The next person encountered by the drunken man was a young female. Suddenly catching her in his arms, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips: and then, with a frightful laugh, shouted, “I have given you the plague! Look here!” and tearing aside the collar of his shirt, he exhibited a large tumour. The young woman uttered a shriek of terror and fainted, while her ruthless assailant took to his heels, and running as long as his strength lasted, fell down, and was taken to the pest-house, where he was joined that same night by his victim. And this was by no means an uncommon occurrence. The distemper acted differently on different temperaments. Some it inflamed to an ungovernable pitch of madness, others it reduced to the depths of despair, while in many cases it brought out and aggravated the worst parts of the character. Wives conveyed the infection intentionally to their husbands, husbands to their wives, parents to their children, lovers to the objects of their affection, while, as in the case above mentioned, many persons ran about like rabid hounds, striving to communicate it to all they met. Greatly shocked at what had occurred, and yet not altogether surprised at it, for his mind had become familiarized with horrors, Leonard struck down Finch-lane, and proceeded towards Cornhill. On the way, he noticed two dead bodies lying at the mouth of a small alley, and hastening past, was stopped at the entrance to Cornhill by a butcher’s apprentice, who was wheeling away the body of an old man, who had just died while purchasing meat at a stall at Stock’s Market. Filled with unutterable loathing at this miserable spectacle, Leonard was fain to procure a glass of canary to recruit his spirits.
Accordingly he proceeded to the Globe Tavern at the corner of Birchin-lane. As he entered the house, a lively strain of music caught his ear, and glancing in the direction of the sound, he found it proceeded from the blind piper, Mike Macascree, who was playing to some half-dozen roystering youths. Bell lay at her master’s feet; and as Leonard approached the party, she pricked up her ears, and being called by name, instantly sprang towards him, and manifested the strongest delight. The piper stopped playing to listen to what was going forward but the young men urged him to proceed, and again filled his glass.
“Don’t drink any more, Mike,” said Leonard, “but step aside with me.
I’ve something to say to you — something about your daughter.”
“My daughter!” exclaimed the piper, in a half-angry, half-sorrowful voice, while a slight moisture forced itself through his orbless lids. “I don’t want to hear anything about her, except that she is dead. She has deserted me, and disgraced herself.”
“You are mistaken,” rejoined Leonard; “and if you will come with me, I will explain the truth to you.”
“I will listen to no explanation,” rejoined the piper, furiously, “she has given me pain enough already. I’m engaged with this jovial company. Fill my glass, my masters — there, fill it again,” he added, draining it eagerly, and with the evident wish to drown all thought. “There, now you shall have such a tune, as was never listened to by mortal ears.”
A loud laugh from the young men followed this proposition, and the piper played away so furiously, that it added to their merriment. Touched with compassion, Leonard walked aside, hoping, when the party broke up, to be able to have a word with the poor man. But the piper’s excitement increased. He played faster and drank harder, until it was evident he was no longer in a condition to speak rationally. Leonard, therefore, addressed himself to the drawer, and desired him to look after the piper, engaging to return before midnight to see how he went on. The drawer promising compliance, Leonard departed; and not feeling disposed to continue his walk, returned to Wood-street.
Nothing particular occurred during the evening. Leonard did not see Doctor Hodges, who was engaged in his professional duties; and after keeping watch before the grocer’s till nearly midnight, he again retraced his steps to the Globe. The drawer was at the door, and about to close the house.
“You will be sorry to learn the fate of the poor piper,” he said.
“Why, what has happened to
him?” cried Leonard.
“He is dead of the plague,” was the reply.
“What, so suddenly!” exclaimed the apprentice. “You are jesting with me.”
“Alas! it is no jest,” rejoined the drawer, in a tone that convinced the apprentice of his sincerity. “His entertainers quitted him about two hours ago, and in spite of my efforts to detain him, he left the house, and sat down on those steps. Concluding he would fall asleep, I did not disturb him, and his dog kept careful watch over him. I forgot all about him till a short time ago, when hearing the pest-cart pass, I went forth, and learnt that the drivers having found him dead, as they supposed, of the pestilence, had placed their forks under his belt, and thrown him upon the other dead bodies.”
“And where is the dog?” cried Leonard.
“She would not quit her master,” replied the drawer, “so the men threw her into the cart with him, saying, they would bury her in the plague-pit, as all dogs were ordered to be destroyed.”
“This must be prevented,” cried Leonard. “Which way did the dead-cart go?”
“Towards Moorgate,” replied the drawer.
Leonard heard no more; but dashing through a narrow passage opposite the Conduit, passed Bartholomew-lane, and traversing Lothbury, soon reached Coleman-street and the old city gate, to which he had been directed. Here he learnt that the dead-cart had passed through it about five minutes before, and he hurried on towards Finsbury Fields. He had not proceeded far when he heard a sound as of a pipe at a distance, furiously played, and accompanied by the barking of a dog. These sounds were followed by cries of alarm, and he presently perceived two persons running towards him, with a swiftness which only could be occasioned by terror. One of them carried a lantern, and grasping his arm, the apprentice detained him.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
“The devil’s the matter,” replied the man— “the piper’s ghost has appeared in that cart, and is playing his old tunes again.”
“Ay, it’s either his spirit, or he is come to life again,” observed the other man, stopping likewise. “I tossed him into the cart myself, and will swear he was dead enough then.”
“You have committed a dreadful mistake,” cried Leonard. “You have tossed a living man into the cart instead of a dead one. Do you not hear those sounds?” And as he spoke, the notes of the pipe swelled to a louder strain than ever.
“I tell you it is the devil — or a ghost,” replied the driver; “I will stay here no longer.”
“Lend me your lantern, and I will go to the cart,” rejoined Leonard.
“Take it,” replied the man; “but I caution you to stay where you are.
You may receive a shock you will never survive.”
Paying no attention to what was said, Leonard ran towards the cart, and found the piper seated upon a pile of dead bodies, most of them stripped of their covering, with Bell by his side, and playing away at a prodigious rate.
III.
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
The condition of the prisons at this season was really frightful. In Newgate, in particular, where the distemper broke out at the beginning of June, it raged with such violence that in less than a week, more than half the prisoners were swept off, and it appeared probable, that, unless its fury abated, not a soul would be left alive within it. At all times, this crowded and ill-kept prison was infested by the gaol-fever and other pestilential disorders, but these were mild in comparison with the present terrible visitation. The atmosphere was noisome and malignant; the wards were never cleansed; and many poor wretches, who died in their cells, were left there till the attendants on the dead-cart chose to drag them forth. No restraint being placed upon the sick, and the rules of the prison allowing them the free use of any strong liquors they could purchase, the scenes that occurred were too dreadful and revolting for description, and could only be paralleled by the orgies of a pandemonium. Many reckless beings, conscious that they were attacked by a fatal disorder, drank as long as they could raise the’ cup to their lips, and after committing the wildest and most shocking extravagances, died in a state of frenzy.
Newgate became thus, as it were, the very focus of infection, where the plague assumed its worst aspect, and where its victims perished far more expeditiously than elsewhere. Two of the turnkeys had already died of the distemper, and such was the alarm entertained, that no persons could be found to supply their places. To penetrate the recesses of the prison, was almost to insure destruction, and none but the attendants of the dead-cart and the nurses attempted it. Among the latter was Judith. Employed as a nurse on the first outburst of the plague, she willingly and fearlessly undertook the office. The worse the disease became the better pleased she appeared; and she was so utterly without apprehension, that when no one would approach the cell where some wretched sufferer lay expiring, she unhesitatingly entered it. But it was not to render aid, but to plunder, that she thus exercised her functions. She administered no medicine, dressed no tumours, and did not contribute in the slightest degree to the comfort of the miserable wretches committed to her charge. All she desired was to obtain whatever valuables they possessed, or to wring from them any secret that might afterwards be turned to account. Foreseeing that Newgate must ere long be depopulated, and having no fears for herself, she knew that she must then be liberated, and be able once more to renew her mischievous practices upon mankind. Her marvellous preservation throughout all the dangers to which she was exposed seemed almost to warrant the supposition that she had entered into a compact with the pestilence, to extend its ravages by every means in her power, on the condition of being spared herself.
Soon after the outbreak of the plague in Newgate, all the debtors were liberated, and if the keepers had had their own way, the common felons would have been likewise released. But this could not be, and they were kept to perish as before described. Matters, however, grew so serious, that it became a question whether the few miserable wretches left alive ought to be longer detained, and at last the turnkeys refusing to act any longer, and delivering their keys to the governor, the whole of the prisoners were set free.
On the night of their liberation, Chowles and Judith proceeded to the vaults of Saint Faith’s, to deposit within them the plunder they had obtained in the prison. They found them entirely deserted. Neither verger, sexton, nor any other person, was to be seen, and they took up their quarters in the crypt. Having brought a basket of provisions and a few bottles of wine with them, they determined to pass the night in revelry; and, accordingly, having lighted a fire with the fragments of old coffins brought from the charnel, they sat down to their meal. Having done full justice to it, and disposed of the first flask, they were about to abandon themselves to unrestrained enjoyment, when their glee was all at once interrupted by a strange and unaccountable noise in the adjoining church. Chowles, who had just commenced chanting one of his wild melodies, suddenly stopped, and Judith set down the glass she had raised to her lips untested. What could it mean? Neither of them could tell. It seemed like strains of unearthly music, mixed with shrieks and groans as of tortured spirits, accompanied by peals of such laughter as might be supposed to proceed, from demons.
“The dead are burst forth from their tombs,” cried Chowles, in a quavering voice, “and are attended by a legion of evil spirits.”
“It would seem so,” replied Judith, rising. “I should like to behold the sight. Come with me.”
“Not for the world!” rejoined Chowles, shuddering, “and I would recommend you to stay where you are. You may behold your dead husband among them.”
“Do you think so?” rejoined Judith, halting.
“I am sure of it,” cried Chowles, eagerly. “Stay where you are — stay where you are.”
As he spoke, there was another peal of infernal laughter, and the strains of music grew louder each moment.
“Come what may, I will see what it is,” said Judith, emptying her glass, as if seeking courage from the draught. “Surely,” she added, in a
taunting tone, “you will come with me.”
“I am afraid of nothing earthly,” rejoined Chowles— “but I do not like to face beings of another world.”
“Then I will go alone,” rejoined Judith.
“Nay, that shall never be,” replied Chowles, tottering after her.
As they opened the door and crossed the charnel, such an extraordinary combination of sounds burst upon their ears that they again paused, and looked anxiously at each other. Chowles laid his hand on his companion’s arm, and strove to detain her, but she would not be stayed, and he was forced to proceed. Setting down the lamp on the stone floor, Judith passed into the subterranean church, where she beheld a sight that almost petrified her. In the midst of the nave, which was illumined by a blue glimmering light, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, stood a number of grotesque figures, apparelled in fantastic garbs, and each attended by a skeleton. Some of the latter grisly shapes were playing on tambours, others on psalteries, others on rebecs — every instrument producing the strangest sound imaginable. Viewed through the massive pillars, beneath that dark and ponderous roof, and by the mystic light before described, this strange company had a supernatural appearance, and neither Chowles nor Judith doubted for a moment that they beheld before them a congregation of phantoms. An irresistible feeling of curiosity prompted them to advance. On drawing nearer, they found the assemblage comprehended all ranks of society. There was a pope in his tiara and pontifical dress; a cardinal in his cap and robes; a monarch with a sceptre in his hand, and arrayed in the habiliments of royalty; a crowned queen; a bishop wearing his mitre, and carrying his crosier; an abbot, likewise in his mitre, and bearing a crosier; a duke in his robes of state; a grave canon of the church; a knight sheathed in armour; a judge, an advocate, and a magistrate, all in their robes; a mendicant friar and a nun; and the list was completed by a physician, an astrologer, a miser, a merchant, a duchess, a pedler, a soldier, a gamester, an idiot, a robber, a blind man, and a beggar — each distinguishable by his apparel.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 251