CHAPTER LXIV.
The Chequers.—Britton’s Corner.—An Alarm.—The Mysterious Stranger.—A Quarrel.—A Fight and a Little Anatomy.
While all these important circumstances are taking place, intoxication was doing its fell work upon even the iron frame of Andrew Britton, and each day saw him more coarse, bloated, and wayward in his various fancies. He was but as an infant in the interval between his fits of drunkenness, and it was never until he had taken enough ardent spirits to kill any ordinary person that he felt his energies increase and his blood course through his veins with its accustomed activity. The fearful excitement of drink was deluding him with its present support, at the same time it was sapping the very springs of his life, and weakening the foundations of his strength.
He had already expended a small fortune at the Chequers, and yet his gold, to the surprise of the landlord and the frequenters of the house, appeared to be inexhaustible. Endless were the conjectures of who and what he was; and one person had actually called upon Sir Francis Hartleton to mention his strong suspicions that all was not right as regarded Britton; but we know that the magistrate had ample and judicious reasons for not alarming Learmont by a useless interference with Andrew Britton; and although he received the communication with politeness, he replied that he saw no reason at present to take any steps as regarded the drunken smith, who held his nightly orgies at the Chequers; so that the party left his office rather discouraged than otherwise, and Britton pursued his career unchecked.
On the very night which had witnessed the denunciation of Jacob Gray by Ada at Whitehall, and the various harrowing incidents, directly and, indirectly arising therefrom, Britton had been holding high revel in the parlour of the Chequers.
He had that morning visited Learmont, and was now freely lavishing around him the gold pieces, which appeared to have no limit, but to be produced by him as freely as if he had discovered the much coveted secret of the transmutation of metals.
There was one man who lately Britton had taken much to, and that was on account principally of his wonderful capacity for drink, in which he vied with the smith himself. This man was a butcher, residing in the immediate vicinity, and in every respect he was indeed a fit companion for Britton. Brutal, coarse, strong, and big, he combined in himself all that Britton admired; and as he had no money, and Britton had plenty, which he was, moreover, willing to spend freely, they became quite great cronies and friends.
On this occasion Britton and the butcher, whose name was Bond, occupied two seats near the fire-place, and were indulging in a bowl of hot arrack punch, which steamed before them, and from which they dipped large quantities with pewter measures.
The rest of the room presented its usual mostly appearance. There were persons of all kinds and conditions below, the respectable, and a steam of hot breaths, vapour of mixed liquors, and all sorts of villanous compounds, to which was added copious volumes of tobacco smoke, which ascended to the roof.
All was boisterous, rough mirth and roaring jollity, the only distinguishing feature of which was that Britton took care his voice should be heard above all the surrounding din, and if any one presumed to laugh as loud as he, or raise his voice to as stentorian a pitch, he either commissioned the butcher, or went himself, to nob the said person on the head with the pewter measure. Britton was in one of his treating humours, and he had just ordered jugs of strong ale all round when the landlord came in and said,—
“Gentlemen all, there’s some rare news—most rare news!”
“What is it?” cried a dozen voices in chorus.
“Hilloa!” roared Britton. “Peace, I say, peace! Am I king or not? Damme, if I was a cockchafer instead of a king, you couldn’t behave worse; curse you all!”
“Ha, ha, ha! A cockchafer,” laughed a man whose back was towards Britton, but who was just within his reach, and he accordingly received from Britton such a stunning blow with the pewter measure that he had not a laugh in him for an hour.
“Now, silence all,” cried Britton, and when comparative stillness was procured, he turned with drunken gravity to the landlord, and said.—
“Now, idiot, you come into my presence, and say,—‘There’s news!’”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“If you interrupt me, I’ll brain you. No, not brain you. You can’t be brained, having none; but I’ll do something else that I’ll think of. Now, what’s the news?”
“May it please your majesty,” said the landlord, “there’s news of a fire and a murder.”
The smith half rose from his chair and his face assumed a tinge of deep red as he shouted,—
“Who dare say so much? Think you I am crippled and cannot use my fore hammer still—the—the fire was accidental.”
A murmur of astonishment passed among those present, and the landlord added,—
“I—I—was only told of it, your majesty, and thought you’d like to hear, that’s all. No offence, your majesty, only they say that there’s been a murder, and the old place where it was done burnt down to destroy the dead body.”
“Liar!” cried Britton, making a rush at the landlord. “Who—who dare say half as much? Show me the man, and I’ll take his life! Show his face, and then I shall find his throat!”
Everybody rose, and the landlord made good his retreat to the door, where he stood looking at Britton aghast, for he had never seen him in so genuine a rage before.
“What do you mean,” growled the butcher, “by coming here and vexing him? Slaughter me if you deserve such a customer. Hands off there, leave him alone, will you?”
“It’s a lie,” cried Britton; “there is nobody there to burn, none—none. That woman, that hag, Maud, has trumped up the tale. She is mad, but full of malice—quite full of malice at me, for what I don’t know. Who talks of the body? Who beards and flouts me, I should like to know? Beware, I am Britton, the smith—Beware, I say!”
The veins upon his forehead were swollen almost to bursting, and rage imparted to his voice a vehemence which soon destroyed it, for his last words were hoarse and broken, and still muttering only—“Beware!” he suffered the butcher to lead him back to his seat and fill for him a measure of the hot punch, which Britton drank as if it had been so much water. Then he drew a long breath and exclaimed,—
“The—villain—to—to—come to me with such a tale. His life—curses on him! His life should be worth more to him than to risk it.”
“Be calm!” said the butcher, in a voice that almost shook the rafters of the house. “Be calm; give care the go by, and drown all sorts of disagreeables in drink. There is nothing like it, you may depend, whether you’re a butcher or a king. Take another glass, by boy, and swear away. That’s one o’ the comforts of life too, gentlemen. Now I’m a butcher, and as humane a individual as is in all Westminster; and if anybody says I isn’t, I’ll put my slaughtering knife in his inside.”
Britton was quiet for a few moments, partly from exhaustion and partly because he was nearly choked with another measure of punch which he threw into his throat rather heedlessly, and the landlord, when the butcher had done speaking, took the opportunity of throwing in a word of personal justification, for he was quite alarmed at the riot he had created, as he supposed, with such very slender materials.
“Your majesty,” he said, “will humbly excuse me, but there is a fire at Battersea, and they do say there’s been a murder.”
“At—at—where?” cried Britton.
“At Battersea. From the back window of the room up stairs, adjoining your gracious majesty’s, you may see the sky as red as—as—anything.”
“Oh—at Battersea—to-night?”
“Yes—even now. It was one of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men who said there had been a murder.”
“Indeed!—Oh, indeed,” said Britton, breathing more freely. “I—I—What’s it to me? What have I to do with it? Here’s a toast, gentlemen, all. A toast, I say.”
People are always ready to drink toasts at another’s expense, and it is really very extraordinary what very out-of-the-way and singular sentiments many well-meaning and harmless people will solemnly pledge themselves when they come before them in the shape of toasts; and every glass and tankard was filled to do honour to the proposition of Britton, when the landlord, whose back was against the door, was nearly pushed down by the sudden entrance of a man, who, after one glance round the room, cried,—
“Now’s your time.”
At the words, there arose two men from among the guests, and nodded to him who had just arrived. What the three were about to do seemed involved in mystery, and likely to form an endless theme for conjecture, for before they could make any movement indicative of their intentions, another man appeared at the door, and nearly breathless from the haste he had made, he cried in a loud voice,—
“No!”
The two men who had risen looked at each other in amazement, and then at the stranger, who cried, “No!” in a tone of such authority. For the space of about a minute no one spoke, and a general feeling of alarm seemed to be produced by this strange proceedings, a clue to which no one could possibly imagine.
Then he who had last made his appearance said, in a lower tone,—
“You know me?”
“Yes, sir,” replied both the men in a breath.
“Enough—follow!”
He then turned on his heels and walked away. The two men as well as he who had just come in so mysteriously made a bustle to leave the room, but by this time all the indignation of King Britton was thoroughly aroused, and he roared out,—
“This is pretty; I’ll let you know who is king here. You follow him if you dare, ye hounds. What’s the meaning of all this?”
He rose from his seat and sprung to the door as he spoke, but he had no sooner got there that he found himself face to face with the man who had cried “No” so lustily, and who hearing some objections made to his orders, had come back. There was an unflinching boldness about the man, that for a moment staggered Britton, and they stood face to face for a few moments in silence.
“Well, bully,” cried the man, “what now?”
The only reply of the smith was a straightforward blow, which was, however, so skillfully parried by the stranger, that it was not only quite innoxious to him, but gave Britton a severe wrench of the elbow.
“What now?” again cried the man.
“Let me get at him,” roared the butcher.
“No,” screamed Britton. “D—e, let him have fair play. It’s my quarrel, and I’ll smash anybody that interferes.”
All now rose, and a more strange collection of excited faces could scarcely have been seen, than was presented just then at the Chequers in expectation of a serious battle between the smith and his antagonist, who, although not near so stout a man, was fully as tall, and a great deal younger looking than he.
“What do you want here?” said Britton.
“I shall not tell you,” replied the man.
“You can fight?”
“A little.”
“Where I came from,” added Britton, “we wrestle a little.”
“So do we where I came from,” replied the other, calmly.
“Do you,” cried Britton, and then confident in his own strength and skill, even half intoxicated as he was, he sprung upon the man, and seizing him fairly by the shoulder and waist, he made a tremendous effort to throw him, but he produced no more impression upon the stranger than as if he had laid hold of the corner of a house.
After a few moments’ exertion, he ceased, panting, from his endeavours, and at that moment the stranger put out his arms, and threw Britton so heavily upon his back that the room shook again.
“Foul play! Foul play!” cried the butcher, half rising.
“You lie, sir,” cried the stranger, in a tone that made the butcher fall back into his seat again with surprise.
“Follow,” cried the stranger then, addressing the men who had waited patiently until the result of the combat. He then strode from the house, being immediately followed by those who appeared to know him, and under so implicit an obedience to his commands. Britton was picked up by the butcher, and laid with a thwack as if he had been some huge joint of meat, upon one of the oaken tables.
“I hope there’s no bones broke,” said the landlord.
“Bones broke, be bothered,” replied the butcher; “I think I ought to know something about bones and meat too.”
“So you ought. Master Bond,” cried a man; “so you ought. Only I should say you knew most about bones.”
“Should you, spooney—and why?”
“Because you never send me a joint that isn’t at least the best part bones.”
There was a general laugh against the butcher at this sally, who, glaring ferociously at the speaker, exclaimed,—
“When you come to my shop again, look after your own carcass that’s all, and now for what I calls judgmatical atomy.”
“What?” cried several voices.
“Judgmatical atomy,” roared the butcher. “It means knowing whether bones is broke or not.”
“Oh, very good, Master Bond,” said the landlord. “Pray attend to his majesty, bless him. I hope he ain’t hurt—a d—d fool.”
This last sentence was uttered very low by the landlord, and Bond, the butcher, at once commenced a ludicrous examination of the various limbs of Britton.
“He ain’t hurt in the fore-leg,” he remarked. “He ain’t damaged nowhere from neck to loins. He’d cut up as nice as possible, and nobody be no wiser. Pour a glass of brandy into his mouth, and hold his nose.”
This operation was duly performed, and as recovery or strangulation were the only alternatives nature had, in the case of Andrew Britton, she embraced the former and he opened his eyes.