Chapter Nine.
Spots on Life’s Sun.
In educating myself a bit, it seems to me like getting up a high mountain; and after going on at it for years and years, I’ve come to the idea that there never is any getting up atop, for no sooner do I get up one place than there’s another; and so it is always the same, and you’ve never done. It’s being thick-headed, I suppose; but somehow or another I can’t get to understand lots of things, and I know I never shall. Now just look here: suppose I, as a working man, go into my neighbour Frank Brown’s garden, cuts his cabbages, digs up his potatoes, and takes ’em home—“annexes” ’em, you know; then larrups Frank till he’s obliged to cut and run; then I takes a werry loving fancy to all his furniture, clothes, and chaney, and moves ’em into my premises. “Don’t do that,” says his wife. “There, hold your tongue,” I says, “I’m ‘annexing’ ’em; and you may be off after your husband;” and then I turns her out and locks the door.
“That’s a rum game,” you’ll say. Very good; so it is; and when the thing’s showed up, where am I? stole the vegetables, assaulted Frank Brown, insulted and abused his wife, and plundered his house. What would Mr Payne, or Mr Bodkin, or Mr Knox say to me, eh? Why, of course, I must serve my time in gaol to make amends. But that’s what I can’t understand, and I want to know why I mayn’t do it retail, when my betters do it wholesale. Here we are: here’s the King of Prussia turned out the King of Hanover and his wife, and, I s’pose, some more of ’em; and I mean to say it’s precious hard; and then again he’s been thrashing the Austrians, as perhaps deserved it, and perhaps didn’t, while no end of homes have been made desolate, and thousands upon thousands of God’s creatures slaughtered, let alone the tens of thousands as have been mutilated and will bear the marks of the battles to their graves. Ah! I’ve sat aside a man as was on the battle-fields, and heard him describe the “glory” of the war, the anguish of the wounded, the fearful distortion of the dead, the smashed horses, and, above all, that horrible slaughterhouse stench of blood that fouled the air with its sickening, disease-bringing, cholera-sowing taint. And then the King says “Hurray,” and they sing the “Te Deum.”
There, I suppose I’m very ignorant, but I can’t understand it at all; and in my simple fancy it seems blasphemous. Say we had an invading army coming against us—same as in the days of good Queen Bess—and we drive ’em off. Those who fall do it in defence of their country, and die like heroes; well, then, let’s sing the “Te Deum,” and thank Him for letting us gain the victory. Say we go to help an oppressed country fairly and honestly. Good again—let’s return thanks; but when it’s for the sake of getting land, and for more conquest, why, then, if it must be done, the less that is said afterwards the better. And besides they must be having a grand festival, and bring fifty of the prettiest maidens in the city to meet the King and present him with laurel wreaths. Better have taken him crape bands for the hats of all his party, and to distribute amongst the fatherless! Some pictures there were in the ’lustrated papers, too, of the laurel-crowned damsels, and the grand religious festival with panoply and priests; but the artist gave one grim rub to the whole thing—one as tells, too—for here and there, in undress uniform, he sketched out wan-looking men with their arms in slings, or limping with sticks, crippled perhaps for life; and then no doubt they’ll give you some of their ideas of glorious war. Illuminations, too, under the Lindens at Berlin; grand enough, no doubt; but it seems as though the heavens wept to see it, for the rain’s streaming down at a fine rate.
But, there, I suppose I don’t understand these sort of things, and like a good many more get talking about what I should hold my tongue on; but somehow or another, whenever I hear the word war, I can’t see regiments of gay soldiers, and bands of music, and prancing horses, but trampled, muddy, and blood-stained fields, with shattered bodies lying about; or dim rooms turned into hospitals, with men lying groaning in their great agony—hopeless, perhaps, of ever rising from the rough pallet where they lie.
But, there, let’s get on to another kind of war—war with the knife—knife and fork, you know—the battle of life for a living; for there’s no mistake about it, there is a regular battle going on for the daily bread, and if a man hasn’t been well drilled to it in his apprenticeship, it’s rather a poor figure he’ll cut in amongst the rest. Ah, you come across some rum fellow soldiers, too, in the course of your life; here’s one chap is asked to do a little extra job, and, as he does it, goes on like our old sexton used down in the country when he put up the Christmas holly in the church. “Ah!” he says to me—“Ah! you see, I don’t get nothing for doing this—only my salary.” Men are so precious frightened of making work scarce. Why, I remember soon after I came up to London going into Saint Paul’s for a gape round, when they were going to fit up the seats for the Charity Children’s Festival; and do what I would I couldn’t help having a hearty laugh to see how the fellows were going it. Perhaps it was a scaffold pole wanted lifting; when about a score of chaps would go crawling up to it, and have a look; then one would touch it with his foot, and then another; then one would stoop down and take hold on it, and give a groan, and then let go again; next another would have his groan over it; then they’d look round, as if they thought being in a grand church a miracle war going to happen, and that the pole would get up of itself and go to its place.
It didn’t though: so at last, groaning and grunting, they managed to get it on their shoulders—the whole score of ’em trying to have a hand in it; but puzzled sometimes how to manage it, for the short ’uns couldn’t hitch their shoulders up high enough to reach, and had to be content with walking under it like honest British workmen as had made up their minds to earn every penny of their money; while the tall chaps carried the pole, and it didn’t seem to hurt them much as they took it to its place and groaned it down again; when they was all so faint that they had to knock off for some beer.
I have heard an old workman say how many bricks he’d lay in a day in his best times, and it was a precious many; and I’ve seen old Johnny Mawley lay ’em too, and he’d have been just the chap to suit some of our London men, who look sour at you if you lay into the work tight. Old Johnny used to build little walls and pigsties down in Lincolnshire, and had his boy, young Johnny, with him. There the old chap would be tapping and pottering about over his work, with no necessity for him to stand still till the mortar set at the bottom, for fear of the building giving way or growing top-heavy—there he’d be, with the work getting well set as he went on; for after getting one brick in its place and the mortar cleared off, he’d drawl out very slowly, as he stood looking at his job—“Johnny, lad, wilt thou bring me another brick?” And Johnny used to bring him another brick; and old Johnny would lay it; and work never got scarce through him.
Men are so precious frightened of interfering with one another. I s’pose it’s all right; but it seems so queer for the plasterer to knock off because a bit of beading wants nailing on or taking off, and the carpenter has to be fetched to do it, when half a dozen taps of the hammer would have set all right. Bricklayer’s setting a stove, and he can’t turn a screw, but must have the smith; whilst the carpenter knocks off because a bit of brick wants chipping out of the wall; and so they go on; and so I go on grumbling at it, and fault-finding. But the most I grumble at is this—the number of public-houses there is about London waiting with their easily-swinging doors to trap men. There’s no occasion to knock; just lean against the door, and open it comes; and there’s the grandly fitted-up place, and a smart barman or barmaid to wait on you, and all so nice, and attractive, and sticky, that there’s no getting away again; so that it seems like one of those catch-’em-alives as the fellows used to sell about the streets—and we poor people the flies.
Nice trade that must be, and paying; to see the glitter and gloss they puts on, and the showy places they build in the most miserable spots—gilt, and paint, and gas, and all in style. And then the boards and notices! “Double brown stout, 3 pence per pot in your own jugs; sparkling champagne ales; Devonshire cider; cordial gin, and compounds; Jamaica rum;” while at one place there was a chap had up in his window “Cwrw o’ Cymru,” which must be an uncommon nice drink, I should think; but I never had any of it, whatever it is. But how one fellow does tempt another into these places, and how the money does go there—money that ought to be taken home; and it isn’t like any other kind of business: say you want a coffee-shop, or a baker’s, you’ll have two or three streets, perhaps, to go down to find one; but there’s always a public at the corner all ready. And, you see, with some men it is like it was with a mate of mine—Fred Brown—easy-going, good-hearted chap.
“Come and have half a pint, Fred,” one’d say to him; and then Fred would shake his head, and be going on, till they began to banter him a bit, when he’d go in and have his half-pint same as lots of us do, and no great harm neither; but then this beer used to make him thirsty for more, and then more, and more, when the end of it used to be that what with treating, and one thing and another, Fred used to go home less seven or eight shillings in his pocket, and all of a stagger, to make his wife miserable, and the little things of children stare to see him look such a brute.
I lost sight of the poor chap for about five years; and then, when we met, I shouldn’t have known him if he hadn’t spoken in a rough, husky voice, while his face looked bloated and pasty.
“Can’t help it, mate,” he’d say. “Can’t eat now, and if it warn’t for the drop o’ drink I couldn’t live.”
Strange words them for a young man of five-and-thirty; but I believe they were true, and he almost lived upon beer and gin. But I thought it couldn’t last long, and living as I did close by him, and often dropping into his miserable room, I knew how matters went with him; and at last he was down and unable to go to work.
Fortunately for him, in spite of all trouble, his wife had kept the club money paid up, or they would have been in a queer fix, for they were proper badly off, as you could see at a glance when you went in: ragged scrap or two of carpet, half worn-out chairs, ricketty table, and very dirty-looking old bedstead in the same room, while where his poor wife and children managed to creep of nights I don’t know. Second floor back room it was, and when I got up there his wife made me a sign not to make a noise, for he was asleep; and she was doing all she could to hush the baby in her arms.
Poor woman! only a few years ago healthy, bright-eyed, and good-looking; but now only half-dressed, sunken-cheeked, and pale, as numbers of other poor neglected wives we see every day in the streets. Two more children were playing on the floor, while another lay with arms round its father’s neck, and there, just peeping at me above Fred’s rough black whiskers, were the two bright eyes.
I hadn’t been there long before he woke; and then in that half-hour that followed I saw sorrow, misery, and horrors enough to make any man thoughtful for the rest of his life. A strong, able workman, with his mind completely overthrown by drink, imagining all sorts of strange creatures were in the room and thronging about his bed, while every time he recognised those about him came the constant demand for drink—for the stuff that had brought him down to what he was. His poor wife was that beat out, that I promised to come back and sit up with him that night, so that she could go and lie down at a neighbour’s; and about half-past nine I went back, and soon after there I was alone with poor Fred, and him lying in a sort of dose.
It’s not a nice thing to do, sitting up, in any case, for you get creepy, and nervous, and fidgetty; but when it’s with a man who is off his mind, why, it’s ten times worse; and there I sat with my eyes fixed upon the bed, hour after hour, half afraid lest the poor fellow should get out, or be up to any mad tricks.
I suppose it was about two o’clock, and when all was about still in the streets—not even the rumble of a cab to be heard—when somehow or another things seemed to get misty and dim; the bed seemed to be rising and falling, while poor Fred’s head was as if it had swelled up, and kept coming closer to me, and then went back; and then I could see nothing at all.
I woke up with a start, and a horrible feeling on me that there was something wrong; then came the sound of trampling overhead, while at the same moment the light gave a flickering leap, and went out.
I knew the matches were on the table, and after knocking over something I found them lying open; but it was the barley-water jug I had upset, and the matches were dripping wet. Trembling and confused, I stood for a moment not knowing what to do, and then felt my way towards the bed, with the horrid dread upon me that poor Fred might spring at me and strangle me in the dark. Something seemed to tell me that he wasn’t in the bed, and therefore I expected he would be crouching down and waiting to spring at me; and in my fancy I thought I could see it all—the struggle for the mastery, and him getting me down, so that I could not cry for help.
The confusion must have had something to do with it; but at all events there was I quite unnerved and shaken, as I lightly touched the bed and found all the clothes in a heap; while further search showed me that there was no one there. Then I heard again the trampling noise overhead and hurried towards the door, with both hands stretched out; when, in the dark, one went on either side of the open door, and I struck my forehead a violent blow. There was no time, though, to mind that, for I knew something was wrong upstairs, and that Fred must be at the bottom of it; so, hurrying up, I was soon at the door of the back attic, where, though it was shut, I heard enough to make me shove it open with my shoulder and dash in; for a sound came out as of two savage beasts worrying each other, and then, by the dim light from the open window, I could see two men scuffling upon the floor, while a woman sat on the bed crouched up, and holding a baby to her breast—evidently too frightened to move.
As I dashed in, one of the men leaped up, and was through the window in a moment; and then, on going quickly up and leaning out, I could see it was Fred, standing right upon the parapet above the lead gutter, when my heart seemed to quite stand still, as I leaned there, expecting every moment to see the poor fellow fall on to the flags beneath—four stories; for he would have gone right into the basement yard at the back.
Just then some one touched me; and looking sharp round, there was the scared face of the lodger, and he whispered, “He was a-trying to get out, when I woke up and seized him. He’s a’most choked me.”
That was a strange, wild time, as I stood there wondering what was best to be done; and do what I would I could hardly summon up the courage to go after him, though I knew it was only through my neglect that he had escaped from his room, and therefore I was bound to do something.
I tried calling him at first; but the only effect that had was to make him begin muttering and walking backwards and forwards upon that giddy parapet, so that it quite chilled one’s blood; for, though used enough to scaffolds at proper time and place, there was something horrid in engaging in a struggle with one who was no better than a madman, on such a roof as this.
But I did not stop thinking, or I should never have done what I did, which was to get out into the gutter and walk cautiously up to the poor fellow.
There—it took only a moment or two—not more, and then he bounded on to me, and we too were struggling together and rocking backwards and forwards all those feet above the ground, with certain death on one side if I slipped, or he proved too strong for me. Now we swayed this way, now that, and wet with the sweat of terror, I could feel myself weaker every moment; and the very thought of what would come at last was too horrid to bear. Once I got him back against the sloping roof, and my spirits revived; but the next moment he leaped up, as though of watch-spring, and had me down on my back upon the stone parapet, and head and shoulders over the horrid pit beneath.
I could not cry out, but felt tongue and lips parched, while, with the strength of despair, I clutched his neck, and gazed with startled looks into his wild, glowering, half-shut eyes. He was muttering and talking the whole time, and every moment as I grew weaker, I could feel that I was being forced over the parapet. How many seconds it took I can’t say, but it seemed to me like an hour till the time when I felt that all hope was past, and I shut my eyes that I might not see myself fall. There seemed no hope—nothing but death before me, as I lay there, with my flesh seeming to creep, and me unable to give a cry for help.
All at once, though, the clutch upon me grew feeble; then it ceased altogether; and I saw poor Fred dragged away backwards; but it was some few moments before I dared try to move, when, shivering in every limb, I rolled myself off the stone parapet, and lay in a half swoon in the gutter.
But the danger was over now; for two of the lodgers had dragged the poor fellow back into the attic by his legs, and after a sharp struggle he was securely tied down to the bed; but it was some time before I could work on the top of a house again without getting nervous and upset.