Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 2 of 3. James Ewing Ritchie
his heye on me, and got fourteen days’ imprisonment for assault. The next time I had three months for an attempt to rob a drunken old sailor in the Borough. Then I ’ad six months for stealin’ a watch. And the next time – and that I did not like – twelve months for stealin’ a purse. However, when I came out I enjoyed my liberty, and did not make a bad use o’ my time. Arter that I got a long sentence, and now for good behaviour I am out with a liberty ticket.’
‘Well, well, such is life!’ said the red-nosed curate, who had been listening attentively. ‘I suppose we’re all villains of necessity, and fools by a divine thrusting on. What’s the odds as long as we’re happy? Look at my learning, my abilities, my virtues – where am I the better? Are we not all on the same low level? All, if I may be pardoned the phrase, a little shaky, a little down in the world? Let’s liquor up,’ said he, bringing out of his side pocket a bottle of rum, and passing it round, often tasting with evident gusto its contents.
In the midst of the excitement a gent came in apparently much excited. I say gent, as he was not a gentleman. He had too red a nose and too sodden an appearance to be taken for anything of the kind. He was a perfect picture of a human wreck as, unwashed and unshaven, with a short pipe in his mouth, he joined the drinking group.
‘Hollo, parson,’ they all exclaimed, ‘wot’s the row? Anythink up?’
‘Nothing particular, only a highway robbery in the Black Country, and a farmer left for dead.’
‘In the Black Country? Where’s that?’ asked the tramp. ‘Whoever heard of such a place?’
‘Why, you just said you’d been down there,’ said one of the party.
‘Well, what if I did? You don’t suppose I had anything to do with the job?’ said the new-comer angrily.
‘Of course not,’ was the universal reply.
Harmony being restored, the bottle of gin was drunk, and another sent for. The fun grew fast and furious. The conviviality was of the choicest character, or rather it degenerated into an orgie. Does the reader recollect that splendid passage of Lord Bacon, in which he tells us, ‘In Orpheus’s theatre all the birds assembled, and forgetting their several appetites – some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel – stood all sociably together, listening to the concert, which no sooner ceased, or was drowned by some louder noise, but every beast returned to his own nature.’ The gin in the low lodging-house had produced a similar effect. While it lasted the partakers for the time being had forgot their several appetites – some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel – and stood or sat all sociably together. No sooner had the supply of liquor ceased than the good-fellowship became changed into hate and discord, as the various natures of the guests reasserted themselves.
The tramp’s female companion became suspicious. She was not so drunk as the rest, and had become conscious that there was a reward of ten pounds offered to anyone who should give such evidence as might lead to the conviction of the perpetrator or perpetrators of the recent outrage. The company she knew comprised more than one individual who was quite ready to earn a ten-pound note in such a way, and she determined, as far as it was in her power, not to give them the chance. Unperceived she slipped out, and fled as fast as she could and as far as she could. All at once there was a cry on the part of the tramp and his friends, ‘Where’s Sal?’
Some searched for her under the table, others investigated the sleeping apartments, others the back premises, which were of the most capacious kind, but no Sal was to be found.
The curate summoned up all his dignity, and, approaching the inebriated tramp, said to him:
‘My friend, I have a painful revelation to make.’
‘A wot?’
‘A painful revelation.’
‘I don’t know wot yer mane; but out with it, old man, and don’t stand there as if you was chokin’.’
‘Your wife has bolted.’
‘Oh, has she? Let her bolt. She’s no wife of mine. There are others as good as she.’
‘You don’t seem much affected by the loss,’ replied the Oxonian. ‘You’re quite a philosopher. You seem perfectly aware how femina mutabile est.’
‘Now, don’t come that nonsense with me,’ said the man angrily. ‘When I drinks, I drinks; and I don’t bother my head about anything else. Why should I? As to women, they’re like all the rest of us – here to-day, gone to-morrow.’
‘Ah, I see you’re a man of the world.’
‘I believe yer, my boy,’ said the tramp, who felt flattered at the intended compliment.
‘You don’t think she’s gone to split,’ whispered one of the party in the tramp’s ear.
‘No, I should think not. Let me catch her at it!’
‘Or me,’ added his chum. ‘We’ll be sure to mark her, and serve her d- well!’
The sentiment being favourably received, more exhilarating liquor was circulated. That which cheers and inebriates at the same time by many is much preferred to that which cheers alone. In that long room and low company it was intoxicating liquor that had done the mischief. Without character, without clothes, without food, without money, filthy and fallen, these poor wretches had given up all for drink. For that the mother was ready to sell her child, or the husband his wife. For that the criminal was ready to give up an accomplice, and to turn King’s evidence, or to commit any deed of shame. In time the drink supply was stopped, and the drinkers staggered upstairs to the crowded bedrooms, redolent of filth and blasphemy.
‘I say,’ said the tramp’s friend, ‘where do you think that woman’s gone?’
‘Gone; how should I know? Perhaps she’s gone back to Sloville.’
‘To Sloville! why?’
‘To look after the boy.’
‘A child of hers?’
‘What do you want to know for?’ said the tramp angrily. ‘You’re too inquisitive by half,’ said he, in a drunken tone, and in the next moment he sank into a drunken sleep. And the questioner – he, too, in a moment was in the Land of Nod, dreaming of the days of innocence, when he was a bright, happy boy, guarded with a mother’s love and father’s care, in a well-appointed home, with gardens where grew fruits and flowers, and musical with the song of birds; where the sun shone bright and the air was balmy; in a home where care and filth and sorrow and disease and want and woe seemed almost unknown. His pals carried him off to bed. Suddenly he woke up and asked himself where he was. Presently he lifted himself up in bed and looked around. At the far end a dim gas-light helped him to realize the horrors of his situation. He was in a long, filthy, evil smelling, low room, with thirty beds in a row, side by side, packed as close together as sardines in a box. Every bed was occupied. And as he gazed on the sad faces near him he gave a scream which drew down on him many a curse.
‘Hush! why can’t you be quiet?’ said the deputy keeper, ever fearful of the police.
But the scream was renewed.
‘Why, I’m blessed,’ said one, ‘if he ain’t got the D.T.!’
Could anything be more horrible, as the angry keepers mocked and jeered and maddened him? Struggling and shrieking, he was borne off by men stronger than himself to the nearest hospital, and for awhile there was peace.
CHAPTER XIII.
CONCERNING SAL
And where had the woman gone? Westward, we are told by the poet, the course of empire takes its way. She had gone west, and very naturally; not at first, she was too artful for that – her old man, as she called him (she did not know his proper name), might be after her, and she had had enough of him, and wanted to be free. In this case she had not two strings to her bow. She was not thinking of accepting a new keeper in the case of the one cashiered. She simply wanted to be free – at any rate for awhile. As to the child left behind, she had no thought of that. Somebody would give it a crust and a night’s lodging.