The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Such excitement was caused by this bold exploit that the mob could no longer be kept back.

  Breaking through the barricade, and driving off the guard, after a short struggle, they took possession of the bridge — declaring their fixed determination not to allow it to be damaged. Compelled to beat a hasty retreat into Salford, the magistrates were glad to escape without injury.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  TOM SYDDALL.

  For some time the two oarsmen rowed on as swiftly as they could, fancying they should be pursued, but finding this was not the case, they began to relax their efforts, and liberated themselves from their disguises.

  When divested of the handkerchief tied round his head, and of some other coverings concealing the lower part of his visage, Tom Syddall was fully revealed.

  ’Twas a physiognomy not easily to be mistaken, owing to the size of the nose, which, besides being enormous, was singularly formed. Moreover, Tom’s face was hatchet-shaped.

  He had a great soul in a small body. Though a little fellow, he was extremely active, and full of spirit — capable, in his own opinion, of great things. A slight boaster, perhaps, but good-tempered, rarely taking offence if laughed at. Tom despised his vocation, and declared he was cut out for a soldier, but he also declared he would never serve King George — so a barber he remained.

  Though there was something ludicrous in his assumption, no one who knew him doubted that he would fight — and fight manfully, too — for the Stuarts, should the opportunity ever be offered him.

  Ordinarily, Tom Syddall’s manner was comic, but he put on a sombre and tragic expression, when alluding to his father, who was executed for taking part in the rebellion of 1715 — his head being fixed upon a spike in the market-place. Tom had vowed to avenge his father, and frequently referred to the oath. Such was Tom Syddall, whose personal appearance and peculiarities rendered him a noticeable character in Manchester at the time.

  His companion, it is scarcely necessary to say, was Atherton Legh.

  As they rested for a moment upon their oars they both laughed heartily.

  “We may be proud of the exploit we have performed,” cried Tom. “We have served the prince, and saved the bridge. Three minutes later and the arch would have been blown up. The scheme was well-designed, and well-executed.”

  “You deserve entire credit both for plan and execution, Tom,” rejoined Atherton.

  “Nay, sir,” said Syddall with affected modesty. “’Twas a bold and well-conceived scheme I admit, but I could not have carried it out without your aid. I trust we may always be successful in our joint undertakings. With you for a leader I would not shrink from any enterprise, however hazardous it might appear. I was struck with your coolness. ’Tis a good sign in a young man.”

  “Well, I think we are both taking it easily enough, Tom,” said Atherton. “We are loitering here as calmly as if nothing had happened. However, I don’t think any pursuit need be apprehended. The boroughreeve will have enough to do to look after the mob.”

  “Ay, that he will,” said Syddall. “He has but a very short tenure of office left. The prince will soon be here, and then all will be changed. Did you notice those ladies on the rock near the bridge? They seemed greatly excited, and cheered us.”

  “Yes, I saw them, and I am glad they saw us, Tom. One of them was Sir Richard Rawcliffe’s daughter. I felt my arm strengthened when I found she was watching us. I think I could have done twice as much as I did.”

  “You did quite enough, sir,” observed Syddall, smiling. “But shall we land, or drop quietly down the river for a mile or two, and then return by some roundabout road?”

  “Let us go on,” said Atherton. “I don’t think it will be safe to return just yet.”

  By this time, though they had not left the bridge much more than half-a-mile behind, they were completely in the country. On the right the banks were still high and rocky, narrowing the stream, and shutting out the view.

  But though the modern part of the town extended in this direction, two or three fields intervened between the houses and the river. On the left, the banks being low, the eye could range over pleasant meadows around which the Irwell meandered, forming a charming prospect from the heights overlooking the wide valley through which it pursued its winding course.

  So nearly complete was the circle described by the river, that the upper part of the stream was here not very far distant from the lower.

  But our object in depicting this locality is to show how wonderfully it is changed. The meadows just alluded to, intersected by hedgerows, and with only two or three farm-houses to be seen amidst them, are now covered with buildings of all kinds — warehouses, mills, and other vast structures. Bridges now span the river; innumerable houses are reared upon its banks; and scarce a foot of ground remains unoccupied.

  In a word, an immense and populous town has sprung up, covering the whole area encircled by the Irwell, and the pleasing country scene we have endeavoured to describe has for ever vanished. Few persons would imagine that the polluted river was once bright and clear, and its banks picturesque, and fringed with trees. Yet such was the case little more than a century ago.

  Salford at that time was comprised within very narrow limits, and only possessed a single street, which communicated with the old bridge. In Manchester, between the upper part of Deansgate and the river, there were fields entirely unbuilt upon, and a lane bordered by hedges ran down through these fields to the quay.

  The quay itself was very small, and consisted of a wharf with a house and warehouse attached to it.

  It seems astonishing that a town so important as was Manchester in 1745, should not have had a larger storehouse for goods, but apparently the merchants were content with it. Barges were then towed up the river as far as the quay, but not beyond.

  As Atherton and his companion rowed slowly down the river, they did not encounter a single boat till they came in sight of the wharf, where a barge and a few small craft were moored. They now debated with themselves whether to land here or go lower down: and at length decided upon halting, thinking there could be no danger. But they were mistaken. As they drew near the wharf, three men armed with muskets suddenly appeared on the deck of the barge, and commanded them to stop.

  “You are prisoners,” cried one of these persons. “We have just received information by a mounted messenger of the occurrence at Salford Bridge, and we know you to be the men who ran down the engineers. You are prisoners, I repeat. Attempt to move off and we will fire upon you.”

  As the muskets were levelled at their heads from so short a distance, Atherton and his companion felt that resistance would be useless, so they surrendered at discretion, and prepared to disembark. Some other men, who were standing by, took charge of them as they stepped ashore.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  HOW TOM SYDDALL WAS CARRIED HOME IN TRIUMPH.

  In another minute the person who had addressed them from the barge came up, and Tom Syddall, who now recognised him as Matthew Sharrocks, the wharf-master, inquired what he meant to do with them.

  “Detain you till I learn the magistrates’ intentions respecting you,” replied Sharrocks. “The boroughreeve will be forthwith acquainted with the capture. The messenger is waiting. Do you deny the offence?”

  “No, I glory in the deed,” rejoined Syddall.”’Tis an action of which we may be justly proud. We have saved the bridge from destruction at the risk of our own lives.”

  “You will be clapped into prison and punished for what you have done,” said Sharrocks.

  “If we should be imprisoned, Sharrocks, which I doubt,” rejoined Syddall, confidently, “the people will deliver us. Know you who I am?”

  “Well enough; you are Tom Syddall, the barber,” said the other.

  “I am the son of that Tom Syddall who approved his devotion to the royal House of Stuart with his blood.”

  “Ay, I recollect seeing your father’s head stuck up in the market-place,” said Sharrocks. “Take care
your own is not set up in the same spot.”

  He then marched off to despatch the messenger to the boroughreeve, and on his return caused the prisoners to be taken to the great storehouse, from an upper window of which was suspended a flag, emblazoned with the royal arms.

  “I tell you what, Sharrocks,” said Syddall, “before two days that flag will be hauled down.”

  “I rather think not,” rejoined the wharf-master dryly.

  Atherton Legh took no part in this discourse, but maintained a dignified silence.

  The prisoners were then shut up in a small room near the entrance of the storehouse, and a porter armed with a loaded musket was placed as a sentinel at the door.

  However, except for the restraint, they had no reason to complain of their treatment. A pint of wine was brought them, with which they regaled themselves, and after drinking a couple of glasses, Tom, who had become rather downcast, felt his spirits considerably revive.

  Knocking at the door, he called out to the porter, “I say, friend, if not against rules, I should very much like a pipe.”

  The porter being a good-natured fellow said he would see about it, and presently returned with a pipe and a paper of tobacco. His wants being thus supplied, Tom sat down and smoked away very comfortably.

  Atherton paid very little attention to him. Truth to say, he was thinking of Constance Rawcliffe.

  Rather more than an hour had elapsed, and Mr. Sharrocks was expecting an answer from the boroughreeve, when he heard a tumultuous sound in the lane, already described as leading from the top of Deansgate to the quay.

  Alarmed by this noise, he hurried to the great gate, which he had previously ordered to be closed, and looking out, perceived a mob, consisting of some three or four hundred persons, hurrying towards the spot.

  If he had any doubt as to their intentions it would have been dispelled by hearing that their cry was “Tom Syddall!” Evidently they were coming to liberate the brave barber.

  Hastily shutting and barring the gate, and ordering the porters to guard it, he flew to the room in which Tom and his companion were confined, and found the one tranquilly smoking his pipe, as we have related, and the other seated in a chair opposite him, and plunged in a reverie.

  “Well, Sharrocks,” said Tom, blowing a whiff from his mouth, and looking up quietly at him, “have you come to say that the boroughreeve has ordered us to be clapped in prison? ha!”

  “I have come to set you free, gentlemen,” said the wharf-master, blandly. “You are quite at liberty to depart.”

  “Ho! ho!” cried Tom. “You have altered your tone, methinks, Sharrocks.”

  “I am in no hurry,” said Atherton. “I am quite comfortable here.”

  “But you must, and shall go,” cried Sharrocks.

  “Must! and shall!” echoed Atherton. “Suppose we refuse to stir! — what then?”

  “Yes, what then, Sharrocks?” said Tom, replacing the pipe in his mouth.

  The wharf-master was about to make an angry rejoinder, when a loud noise outside convinced him that the porters had yielded to the mob, and thrown open the gates.

  “Zounds! they have got into the yard!” he exclaimed.

  “Who have got in?” cried Atherton, springing to his feet.

  “Your friends, the mob,” replied Sharrocks.

  “Hurrah!” exclaimed Syddall, jumping up likewise, and waving his pipe over his head. “I knew the people would come to release us. Hurrah! hurrah!”

  Almost frantic with delight, he ran out into the yard, followed by Atherton — Sharrocks bringing up the rear.

  Already the yard was half-full of people, most of whom were gathered thickly in front of the storehouse, and the moment they perceived Tom Syddall and Atherton, they set up a tremendous shout.

  But Tom was their especial favourite. Those nearest placed him on the top of an empty cask, so that he could be seen by the whole assemblage, and in reply to their prolonged cheers, he thanked them heartily for coming to deliver him and his companion, telling them they would soon see the prince in Manchester, and bidding them, in conclusion, shout for King James the Third and Charles, Prince Regent — setting them the example himself.

  While the yard was ringing with treasonable shouts and outcries, Tom quitted his post, but he soon reappeared. He had made his way to the upper room of the building, from the window of which the obnoxious flag was displayed. Hauling it down, he tore off the silken banner in sight of the crowd, and replacing it with a white handkerchief, brought down the rebel flag he had thus improvised, and gave it to one of the spectators, who carried it about in triumph.

  Hitherto the mob had behaved peaceably enough, but they now grew rather disorderly, and some of them declared they would not go away empty-handed.

  Fearing they might plunder the store-house, which was full of goods of various kinds, Sharrocks came up to Tom Syddall and besought him to use his influence with them to depart peaceably.

  “I’ll try what I can do, Sharrocks,” replied Tom. “Though you made some uncalled-for observations upon me just now, I don’t bear any malice.”

  “I’m very sorry for what I said, Mr. Syddall,” rejoined the wharf-master, apologetically— “very sorry, indeed.”

  “Enough. I can afford to be magnanimous, Sharrocks. I forgive the remarks. But you will find you were wrong, sir — you will find that I shall avenge my father.”

  “I have no doubt of it, Mr. Syddall,” rejoined Sharrocks. “But in the meantime, save the storehouse from plunder, and you shall have my good word with the boroughreeve.”

  “I don’t want your good word, Sharrocks,” said Tom, disdainfully.

  With Atherton’s assistance he then once more mounted the cask, and the crowd seeing he was about to address them became silent.

  “I have a few words to say to you, my friends,” he cried, in a voice that all could hear. “Don’t spoil the good work you have done by committing any excesses. Don’t let the Hanoverians and Presbyterians have the power of casting reproach upon us. Don’t disgrace the good cause. Our royal prince shoots every Highlander who pillages. He won’t shoot any of you, but he’ll think better of you if you abstain from plunder.”

  The commencement of this address was received with some murmurs, but these ceased as the speaker went on, and at the close he was loudly cheered, and it was evident from their altered demeanour that the crowd intended to follow his advice.

  “I am glad to find you mean to behave like good Jacobites and honest men. Now let us go home quietly, and unless we’re assaulted we won’t break the peace.”

  “We’ll carry you home safely,” shouted several of the bystanders. “A chair! a chair! Give us a chair!”

  These demands were promptly complied with by Sharrocks, who brought out a large arm-chair, in which Tom being installed, was immediately hoisted aloft by four sturdy individuals.

  Thus placed, he bowed right and left, in acknowledgement of the cheers of the assemblage.

  Not wishing to take a prominent part in these proceedings, Atherton had kept aloof, but he now came up to Syddall, and shaking hands with him, told him in a whisper that he might expect to see him at night.

  The brave little Jacobite barber was then borne off in triumph, surrounded by his friends — a tall man marching before him carrying the white flag.

  The procession took its way up the lane to Deansgate, along which thoroughfare it slowly moved, its numbers continually increasing as it went on, while the windows of the houses were thronged with spectators.

  Thus triumphantly was Tom conveyed to his dwelling. Throughout the whole route no molestation was offered him — the magistrates prudently abstaining from further interference.

  Before quitting him, the crowd promised to come to his succour should any attempt be made to arrest him.

  Atherton did not join the procession, but took a totally different route.

  Leaving the boat with the wharf-master, who volunteered to take care of it, he caused himself to be ferried acr
oss the river, and soon afterwards entered a path leading across the fields in the direction of Salford.

  He walked along very slowly, being anxious to hold a little self-communion; and stopped now and then to give free scope to his reflections.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  THE MEETING IN THE GARDEN.

  From these fields, the town, which was scarcely a mile distant, could be seen in its full extent. In saying “town,” we include Salford, for no break in the continuity of the houses was distinguishable. The buildings on either side of the Irwell seemed massed together; and the bridge was entirely hidden.

  It was not a very bright day — we must recollect it was November — but the lights chanced to be favourable, and brought out certain objects in a striking manner. For instance, the collegiate church, which formed almost the central part of the picture, stood out in bold relief, with its massive tower against a clear sky. A gleam of sunshine fell upon St. Ann’s Church and upon the modern buildings near it, and Trinity Church in Salford was equally favoured. Other charming effects were produced, which excited the young man’s admiration, and he remained gazing for some time at the prospect. He then accelerated his pace, and soon reached the outskirts of Salford.

  At the entrance of the main street stood Trinity Church, to which we have just alluded — a modern pile of no great beauty, but possessing a lofty tower ornamented with pinnacles, and surmounted by a short spire. The row of houses on the right side of the street formed pleasant residences, for they had extensive gardens running down to the banks of the river.

  Opposite the church, but withdrawn from the street, stood an old-fashioned mansion with a garden in front, surrounded by high walls. The place had a neglected air. Large gates of wrought iron, fashioned in various devices, opened upon the garden. Recollecting to have heard that this old mansion was occupied by Mrs. Butler — Monica’s mother and Constance’s aunt — Atherton stopped to look at it, and while peering through the iron gates, he beheld Miss Rawcliffe herself in the garden.