The Revolution in Tanner's Lane Part 8

"Ah! I suppose you've had a stormy discussion. I hope your moderate counsels prevailed."

Mr. Secretary winked and gave his head a twist on one side, as if he meant thereby to say: "You don't catch me."

"It's a pity," continued Mr. Hardy, taking no notice, "that some men are always for rushing into extremities. Why don't they try and redress their grievances, if they have any, in the legitimate way which you yourself propose--by pet.i.tion?"

It so happened that a couple of hours before, Mr. Secretary having been somewhat noisy and insubordinate, the Major had been obliged to rule him out of order and request his silence. The insult--for so he considered it--was rankling in him.

"Because," he replied, "we have amongst us two or three d---d conceited, stuck-up fools, who think they are going to ride over us.

By G.o.d, they are mistaken though! They are the chaps who do all the mischief. Not that I'd say anything against them--no, notwithstanding I stand up against them."

"Do all the mischief--yes, you've just hit it. I do believe that if it were not for these fellows the others would be quiet enough."

The Secretary took a little more brandy and water. The sense of wrong within him was like an open wound, and the brandy inflamed it.

He also began to think that it would not be a bad thing for him if he could seclude the Major, Caillaud, and Zachariah for a season.

Zachariah in particular he mortally hated.

"What some of these fine folks would like to do, you see, Mr. Hardy, is to persuade us poor devils to get up the row, while they DIRECT it. DIRECT it, that's their word; but we're not going to be humbugged."

"Too wide awake, I should say."

"I should say so too. We are to be told off for the Bank of England, and they are to show it to us at the other end of Cheapside."

"Bank of England," said Mr. Hardy, laughing; "that's a joke. You might run your heads a long while against that before you get in.

You don't drink your brandy and water."

The Secretary took another gulp. "And he's a military man--a military man--a military man." He was getting rather stupid now, and repeated the phrase each of the three times with increasing unsteadiness, but also with increasing contempt.

Mr. Hardy took our his watch. It was getting on towards midnight.

"Good-bye; glad to see you all right," and he turned to leave. There was a jingling of coin again, and when he had left Mr. Secretary took up the five sovereigns which had found their way to the table and put them in his pocket. His visitor picked his way downstairs. The constable was still pacing up and down Carter's Rents, but again did not seem to observe him, and he walked meditatively to Jermyn Street.

He was at his office by half-past nine, and his chief was only half- an-hour later.

The Major had thought it prudent to change his address; and, furthermore, it was the object of the Government to make his arrest, with that of his colleagues, at the place of meeting, not only to save trouble, but because it would look better. Mr. Hardy had found out, therefore, all he wanted to know, and was enabled to confirm his opinion that the Major was the head of the conspiracy.

But underneath Mr. Secretary's mine was a deeper mine; for as the Major sat at breakfast the next morning a note came for him, the messenger leaving directly he delivered it to the servant. It was very brief:- "No meeting to-night. Warn all except the Secretary, who has already been acquainted." There was no signature, and he did not know the handwriting. He reflected for a little while, and then determined to consult Caillaud and Coleman, who were his informal Cabinet. He had no difficulty in finding Coleman, but the Caillauds were not at home, and it was agreed that postponement could do no harm. A message was therefore left at Caillaud's house, and one was sent to every one of the members, but two or three could not be discovered.

Meanwhile Mr. Secretary, who, strange to say, had NOT been acquainted, had been a little overcome by Mr. Hardy's brandy on the top of the beer he had taken beforehand, and woke in the morning very miserable. Finding the five guineas in his pocket, he was tempted to a public-house hard by, in order that he might cool his stomach and raise his spirits with a draught or two of ale. He remained there a little too long, and on reaching home was obliged to go to bed again.

He awoke about six, and then it came into his still somewhat confused brain that he had to attend the meeting. At half-past seven he accordingly took his departure. Meanwhile the Major and Zachariah had determined to post themselves in Red Lion Street, to intercept those of their comrades with whom they had not been able to communicate, and also to see what was going to happen. At a quarter to eight the Secretary turned out of Holborn, and when he came a little nearer, Zachariah saw that at a distance of fifty yards there was a constable following him. He came on slowly until he was abreast of a narrow court, when suddenly there was a pistol-shot, and he was dead on the pavement. Zachariah's first impulse was to rush forward, but he saw the constable running, followed by others, and he discerned in an instant that to attempt to a.s.sist would lead to his own arrest and do no good. He managed, however, to reach the Major, and for two or three moments they stood stock-still on the edge of the pavement struck with amazement. Presently a woman pa.s.sed them with a thick veil over her face.

"Home," she said; "don't stay here like fools. Pack up your things and be off. You'll be in prison to-morrow morning."

"Be off!" gasped Zachariah; "be off!--where?"

"Anywhere!" and she had gone.

The constables, after putting the corpse in a hackney coach, proceeded to the room; but it was dark and empty. They had no directions to do anything more that night, and returned to Bow Street. The next morning, however, as soon as it was light, a Secretary of State's warrant, backed by sufficient force, was presented at the lodgings of Caillaud and Zachariah. The birds had flown, and not a soul could tell what had become of them. In Zachariah's street, which was rather a Radical quarter, the official inquiries were not answered politely, and one of the constables received on the top of his head an old pail with slops in it. The minutest investigation failed to discover to whom the pail belonged.

CHAPTER IX--A STRAIN ON THE CABLE

Bow Street was completely at fault, and never discovered the secret of that a.s.sa.s.sination. It was clear that neither the Major nor Coleman were the murderers, as they had been noticed at some distance from the spot where the Secretary fell by several persons who described them accurately. Nor was Caillaud suspected, as the constable testified that he pa.s.sed him on the opposite side of the street, as he followed the Secretary. The only conclusion, according to Bow Street, which was free from all doubt was, that whoever did the deed was a committee consisting of a single member. A reward of 500 pounds did not bring forward anybody who knew anything about the business. As for Caillaud, his daughter and the Major, the next morning saw them far on the way to Dover, and eventually they arrived at Paris in safety. Zachariah, when he reached home, found his wife gone. A note lay for him there, probably from the same hand which warned the Major, telling him not to lose an instant, but to join in Islington one of the mails to Manchester. His wife would start that night from St. Martin's le Grand by a coach which went by another road. He was always prompt, and in five minutes he was out of the house. The fare was carefully folded by his unknown friend in the letter. He just managed as directed, to secure a place, not by the regular Manchester mail, but by one which went through Barnet and stopped to take up pa.s.sengers at the "Angel." He climbed upon the roof, and presently was travelling rapidly through Holloway and Highgate. He found, to his relief, that n.o.body had heard of the murder, and he was left pretty much to his own reflections. His first thoughts were an attempt to unravel the mystery. Why was it so sudden? Why had no word not hint of what was intended reached him?

He could not guess. In those days the clubs were so beset with spies that frequently the most important resolutions were taken by one man, who confided in n.o.body. It was winter, but fortunately Zachariah was well wrapped up. He journeyed on, hour after hour, in a state of mazed bewilderment, one thought tumbling over another, and when morning broke over the flats he had not advanced a single step in the determination of his future path. Nothing is more painful to a man of any energy than the inability to put things in order in himself-- to place before himself what he has to do, and arrange the means for doing it. To be the pa.s.sive victim of a rushing stream of disconnected impressions is torture, especially if the emergency be urgent. So when the sun came up Zachariah began to be ashamed of himself that the night had pa.s.sed in these idiotic moonings, which had left him just where he was, and he tried to settle what he was to do when he reached Manchester. He did not know a soul; but he could conjecture why he was advised to go thither. It was a disaffected town, and Friends of the People were very strong there. His first duty was to get a lodging, his second to get work, and his third to find out a minister of G.o.d under whom he could worship. He put this last, not because it was the least important, but because he had the most time to decide upon it. At about ten o'clock at night he came to his journey's end, and to his joy saw his wife waiting for him.

They went at once to a small inn hard by, and Mrs. Coleman began to overwhelm him with interrogation; but he quietly suggested that not a syllable should be spoken till they had had some rest, and that they should swallow their supper and go to bed. In the morning Zachariah rose and looked out of the window. He saw nothing but a small backyard in which some miserable, scraggy fowls were crouching under a cart to protect themselves from the rain, which was falling heavily through the dim, smoky air. His spirits sank. He had no fear of apprehension or prosecution, but the prospect before him was depressing. Although he was a poor man, he had not been accustomed to oscillations of fortune, and he was in an utterly strange place, with five pounds in his pocket, and nothing to do.

He was, however, resolved not to yield, and thought it best to begin with his wife before she could begin with him.

"Now, my dear, tell me what has happened, who sent you here, and what kind of a journey you have had?"

"Mr. Bradshaw came about seven o'clock, and told me the Government was about to suppress the Friends of the People; that you did not know it; that I must go to Manchester; that you would come after me; and that a message would be left for you. He took me to the coach, and paid for me."

"Mr. Bradshaw! Did he tell you anything more?"

"No; except that he did not think we should be pursued, and that he would send our things after us when he knew where we were."

"You have not heard anything more, then?"

"No."

"You haven't heard that the Secretary was shot?"

"Shot! Oh dear! Zachariah, what will become of us?"

Her husband then told her what he knew, she listening with great eagerness and in silence.

"Oh, Zachariah, what will become of us?" she broke out again.

"There is no reason to worry yourself, Jane; it is perfectly easy for me to prove my innocence. It is better for us, however, to stay here for a time. The Government won't go any further with us; they will search for the murderer--that's all."

"Why, then, are we sent here and the others are let alone? I suppose the Major is not here?"

"I cannot say."

"To think I should ever come to this! I haven't got a rag with me beyond what I have on. I haven't got any clean things; a nice sort of creature I am to go out of doors. And it all had nothing to do with us."

"Nothing to do with us! My dear Jane, do you mean that we are not to help other people, but sit at home and enjoy ourselves? Besides, if you thought it wrong, why did you not say so before?"

"How was I to know what you were doing? You never told me anything; you never do. One thing I do know is that we shall starve and I suppose I shall have to go about and beg. I haven't even another pair of shoes or stockings to my feet."

Zachariah pondered for a moment. His first impulse was something very different; but at last he rose, went up to his wife, kissed her softly on the forehead, and said:

"Never mind, my dear; courage, you will have your clothes next week.

Come with me and look out for a lodging."

Mrs. Zachariah, however, shook herself free--not violently, but still decidedly--from his caresses.

"Most likely seized by the Government. Look for a lodging! That's just like you! How can I go out in this pouring rain?"