The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  She then replaced the letter she had dropped with the others, and had just locked up the packet in a small valise, when her cousin came in quest of her.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  ST. ANN’S SQUARE.

  “The crowd in the market-place has dispersed, and all seems quiet,” said Monica. “Shall we take an airing in St. Ann’s Square? Jemmy will escort us. ’Tis a fine day — as fine a day, at least, as one can expect in November.”

  Constance assented, and they forthwith prepared for a walk — each arraying herself in a black hood and scarf, and each taking a large fan with her, though the necessity for such an article at that late season of the year did not seem very obvious. But at the period of which we treat, a woman, with any pretension to mode, had always a fan dangling from her wrist.

  Attended by Jemmy Dawson, who was looked upon as one of the beaux of the town, they sallied forth, and passing the Exchange, where a couple of porters standing in the doorway were the only persons to be seen, they took their way through a narrow alley, called Acres Court, filled with small shops, and leading from the back of the Exchange to the square.

  Usually, Acres Court was crowded, but no one was to be seen there now, and the shops were shut.

  Not many years previous to the date of our history, St. Ann’s Square was an open field — Acres Field being its designation.

  The area was tolerably spacious — the houses surrounding it being some three or four stories high, plain and formal in appearance, with small windows, large doorways, and heavy wooden balustrades, meant to be ornamental, at the top. Most of them were private residences.

  On either side of the square was a row of young plane trees. At the further end stood the church, of the architectural beauty of which we cannot say much; but it had its admirers in those days, and perhaps may have admirers in our own, for it still stands where it did. In fact, the square retains a good deal of its original appearance.

  Here the beau monde of the town was wont to congregate in the middle of the last century — the ladies in their hoop petticoats, balloon-like sacques, and high-heeled shoes, with powder in their locks, and patches on their cheeks; and the gentlemen in laced coats of divers colours, cocked hats, and periwigs, ruffles at the wrist, and solitaires round the throat, sword by the side, and clouded cane in hand. Here they met to criticise each other and talk scandal, in imitation of the fine folks to be seen on the Mall at St. James’s.

  But none of these triflers appeared in St. Ann’s Square when Miss Rawcliffe and her companions entered it. Only one young lady, attended by a couple of clergymen, could be descried pacing to and fro on the broad pavement.

  In this damsel Monica at once recognised Beppy Byrom, but she made no remark on the subject to Constance, and stopped Jemmy, who was about to blab.

  Presently, Beppy turned and advanced towards them, and then Constance could not fail to be struck by her good looks, and inquired who she was?

  “Can’t you guess?” cried Monica.

  “Is it Beppy Byrom?” said Constance, colouring.

  Monica nodded. “What do you think of her?”

  Before a reply could be made, Beppy came up, and an introduction took place. Beppy and Constance scrutinised each other with a rapid glance. But no fault could be detected on either side.

  “Allow me to congratulate you on Sir Richard’s escape, Miss Rawcliffe,” said Beppy. “Papa sent a warning letter to him, as no doubt you know, but Sir Richard did not receive it in time to avoid the arrest. How courageously Mr. Atherton Legh seems to have behaved on the occasion.”

  “Yes, papa owes his deliverance entirely to Mr. Legh,” rejoined Constance. “We have good reason to feel grateful to him.”

  “’Tis perhaps a superfluous offer,” said Beppy. “But since Sir Richard has been compelled to fly, can we be of any service to you? Our house is roomy, and we can accommodate you without the slightest inconvenience.”

  “You are extremely kind,” said Constance. “I shall probably remain at the inn; but if I do move, it will be to my Aunt Butler’s.”

  “Yes, mamma would be hurt if my Cousin Constance did not come to her,” interposed Monica. “We are going to her presently. She is out of the way of these disturbances, and has probably never heard of them.”

  “Your mamma, I believe, is a great invalid, Miss Butler?” remarked Beppy. “I have heard Dr. Deacon speak of her.”

  “Yes, she rarely leaves the house. But she has a most capital nurse — so that I can leave her without the slightest apprehension.”

  “That is fortunate,” said Beppy. “I hope you will soon have good tidings of Sir Richard, Miss Rawcliffe?”

  “I don’t expect to hear anything of him till he re-appears with the prince,” replied Constance, in a low tone. “I am under no alarm about him.”

  “Well, perhaps, the person in greatest jeopardy is Atherton Legh,” said Beppy. “I should like to feel quite sure he is safe.”

  “Then take the assurance from me, Miss Byrom,” observed Jemmy.

  “Do tell me where he is?” she asked.

  “He has taken refuge with Tom Syddall,” was the reply, in an undertone.

  “She takes a deep interest in him,” thought Constance.

  The two clergymen, who were no other than Mr. Nichols and Mr. Lewthwaite, and who had stood aside during this discourse, now came forward, and were presented to Miss Rawcliffe.

  The conversation then became general, and was proceeding pleasantly enough, when a very alarming sound put a sudden stop to it.

  It was a fire-bell. And the clangour evidently came from the tower of the collegiate church.

  The conversation instantly ceased, as we have said, and those who had been engaged in it glanced at each other uneasily.

  “Heaven preserve us!” ejaculated Mr. Lewthwaite. “With how many plagues is this unfortunate town to be visited? Are we to have a conflagration in addition to the other calamities by which we are menaced?”

  Meantime, the clangour increased in violence, and shouts of “Fire! fire!” resounded in all directions.

  But the alarm of the party was considerably heightened when another fire-bell began to ring — this time close to them.

  From the tower of St. Ann’s Church the warning sounds now came — stunning and terrifying those who listened to them; and bringing forth many of the occupants of the houses in the square.

  “It must be a great fire! — perhaps the work of an incendiary!” cried Mr. Nichols. “I will not attribute the mischief to Jacobite plotters, but I fear it will turn out that they are the instigators of it.”

  “It looks suspicious, I must own,” remarked Mr. Lewthwaite.

  “You have no warrant for these observations, gentlemen,” said Jemmy, indignantly.

  Still the fire-bells rang on with undiminished fury, and numbers of people were seen running across the square — shouting loudly as they hurried along.

  “Where is the fire?” cried Beppy.

  “It must be in the neighbourhood of the collegiate church,” replied Mr. Lewthwaite. “All the houses are old in that quarter, and built of timber. Half the town will be consumed. That will be lamentable, but it will not be surprising, since the inhabitants have assuredly called down a judgment upon their heads from their propensity to rebellion.”

  Jemmy Dawson, who had great difficulty in controlling his anger, was about to make a sharp rejoinder to this speech, when a look from Monica checked him.

  Just then several men ran past, and he hailed one of them, who stopped.

  “Can you tell me where the fire is?” he asked.

  “There be no fire, sir,” replied the man, with a grin.

  “No fire!” exclaimed Jemmy, astounded. “Why, then, are the fire-bells being rung thus loudly?”

  “To collect a mob, if yo mun know,” rejoined the man.

  “For what purpose?” demanded Jemmy.

  “Rebellion! rebellion! Can you doubt it?” said Mr. Lewthwaite.

  “Ay, yo may ca’
it rebellion an yo like, but this be the plain truth,” said the man. “T’ magistrates ha’ just gi’en orders that Salford Bridge shan be blowed up to hinder t’ Pretender, as yo ca’ him, or t’ prince, as we ca’ him, fro’ comin’ into t’ town, wi’ his army. Now we Jacobites won’t let the bridge be meddled with, so we han had the fire-bells rung to rouse the townsfolk.”

  “And you mean to resist the authorities?” cried Mr. Lewthwaite.

  “Ay, that we do,” rejoined the man, defiantly. “They shan’t move a stone of the bridge.”

  “Beware what you do! You are rebelling against your lawful sovereign as represented by the magistrates. Forget not that rebellion provokes the Lord’s anger, and will bring down his vengeance upon you.”

  “I canna bide to listen to a sarmon just now,” rejoined the man, hurrying off.

  “Can’t we obtain a sight of what is going on at the bridge from the banks of the river?” said Constance.

  “Yes, I will take you to a spot that commands a complete view of the bridge,” rejoined Jemmy; “where you can see all that is to be seen, and yet not run the slightest risk.”

  “Shall we go, Monica?” said Constance.

  “By all means,” cried the other.

  “I should like to make one of the party,” said Beppy, who had just recollected that Tom Syddall’s shop, where she knew Atherton had taken refuge, adjoined the bridge, and she thought it almost certain the young man would take part in this new disturbance.

  “I advise you not to go, Miss Byrom,” said Mr. Lewthwaite. “Neither Mr. Nichols nor myself can sanction such a lawless proceeding by our presence.”

  “As you please,” said Beppy.

  “Pray come with us, Miss Byrom,” cried Jemmy. “I will engage that no harm shall befall you.”

  So they set off, leaving the two curates behind, both looking very much disconcerted.

  CHAPTER XV.

  HOW SALFORD HOUSE WAS SAVED FROM DESTRUCTION.

  By this time the fire-bells had ceased to ring, but the effect had been produced, and a great crowd, much more excited than that which had previously assembled in the market-place, was collected in the immediate neighbourhood of the bridge.

  Salford Bridge, which must have been a couple of centuries old at the least, was strongly built of stone, and had several narrow-pointed arches, strengthened by enormous piers. These arches almost choked up the course of the river. Only a single carriage could cross the bridge at a time, but there were deep angular recesses in which foot-passengers could take refuge. It will be seen at once that such a structure could be stoutly defended against a force approaching from Salford, though it was commanded by the precipitous banks on the Manchester side. Moreover, the Irwell was here of considerable depth.

  Before commencing operations, the magistrates, who were not without apprehension of a tumult, stopped all traffic across the bridge, and placed a strong guard at either extremity, to protect the workmen and engineers from any hindrance on the part of the populace.

  A couple of large caissons, containing, it was supposed, a sufficient quantity of powder to overthrow the solid pier, had been sunk under the central arch of the bridge. Above the spot, in a boat, sat two engineers ready to fire the powder-chests when the signal should be given.

  But the preparations had been watched by two daring individuals, who were determined to prevent them. One of these persons, who was no other than Tom Syddall, the Jacobite barber — a very active, resolute little fellow — ran up to the collegiate church, which was at no great distance from his shop, and soon found the man of whom he was in search — Isaac Clegg, the beadle.

  Now Isaac being a Jacobite, like himself, was easily persuaded to ring the fire-bell; and the alarm being thus given, a mob was quickly raised. But no effectual opposition could be offered — the approach to the bridge from Smithy Bank being strongly barricaded. Behind the barricades stood the constables, who laughed at the mob, and set them at defiance.

  “The boroughreeve will blow up the bridge in spite of you,” they cried.

  “If he does, he’ll repent it,” answered several angry voices from the crowd, which rapidly increased in number, and presented a very formidable appearance.

  Already it had been joined by the desperadoes armed with bludgeons, who had figured in the previous disturbance in the market-place, and were quite ready for more mischief.

  The usual Jacobite cries were heard, but these were now varied by “Down with the boroughreeve!” “Down with the constables!”

  Mr. Fielden himself was on the bridge, with his brother magistrates, superintending the operations, and irritated by the insolent shouts of the mob, he came forward to address them.

  For a few minutes they would not listen to him, but at last he obtained a hearing.

  “Go home quietly,” he cried, in a loud voice. “Go home like loyal and peaceful subjects of the king. We mean to destroy the bridge to prevent the entrance of the rebels.”

  On this there was a terrific shout, accompanied by groans, yells, and hootings.

  “Down with Fielden! — down with Fielden!” cried a hundred voices. “He shan’t do it!”

  “Mark my words,” vociferated the boroughreeve, who remained perfectly unmoved amid the storm, “in five minutes from this time the central arch will be blown up.”

  “We will prevent it,” roared the mob, shaking their hands at him.

  “You can’t prevent it,” rejoined the boroughreeve, contemptuously. “Two large boxes filled with gunpowder are sunk beneath the arch, and on a signal from me will be fired.”

  Surprise kept the mob quiet for a moment, and before another outburst could take place, the boroughreeve had turned on his heel, and marched off.

  Meantime, the three young damsels, under the careful guidance of Jemmy Dawson, had made their way, without experiencing any annoyance, to the precipitous rock on which Atherton Legh had stood, while contemplating the same scene on the previous night.

  From this lofty position, as the reader is aware, the bridge was completely commanded. Another person was on the rock when they reached it. This was Isaac Clegg, the beadle, who was well known to Beppy. He instantly made way for her and her friends, and proved useful in giving them some necessary information.

  He told them exactly what was going on on the bridge — explained how the angry mob was kept back by the barricade — pointed out the boroughreeve — and finally drew their attention to the engineers in the boat beneath the arch ready to fire the caissons.

  As will readily be supposed, it was this part of the singular scene that excited the greatest interest among the spectators assembled on the rock. But, shortly afterwards, their interest was intensified to the highest degree.

  A boat was suddenly seen on the river, about a bow-shot above the bridge. It must have been concealed somewhere, for its appearance took all the beholders by surprise. The boat was rowed by two men, who seemed to have disguised themselves, for they were strangely muffled up. Plying their oars vigorously, they came down the stream with great swiftness.

  From the course taken it would almost seem as if they were making for the central arch, beneath which the engineers were posted. Evidently the engineers thought so, for they stood up in their boat and shouted lustily to the others to keep off. But the two oarsmen held on their course, and even increased their speed.

  Though the two men had disguised themselves, they did not altogether escape detection, for as they dashed past the rock on which Constance and the others were stationed, the foremost oarsman momentarily turned his head in that direction, and disclosed the features of Atherton Legh; while Isaac Clegg declared his conviction that the second oarsman was no other than Tom Syddall.

  “’Tis Tom, I be sartin,” said Isaac. “He has put on a different sort of wig from that he usually wears, and has tied a handkerchief over his keven-huller, but I’d swear to his nose. What can have induced him to make this mad attempt?”

  It was a moment of breathless suspense, for
the purpose of the daring oarsmen could no longer be doubted. Not only were they anxiously watched by the spectators on the rock, but the gaze of hundreds was fixed upon them.

  Mingled and contradictory shouts were raised— “Keep off!” “Go on!” But the latter predominated.

  The engineers prepared to receive the shock they could not avert. In another instant, the boat propelled by all the force the rowers could exert, dashed into them, and staved in the side of their bark.

  No longer any question of blowing up the arch. The engineers were both precipitated into the river by the collision, and had to swim ashore.

  Leaving them, however, to shift for themselves, the two daring oarsmen continued their rapid course down the stream, amid the deafening shouts of the crowd on Smithy Bank.