CHAPTER XXII. I ESCAPE--BUT MR. SLOMAN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.

“_Malcolm._ This murderous shaft that’s shot,

Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way

Is, to avoid the aim.”

“For ‘tis the sport, to have the engineer

Hoist with his own petar.”

Shakspeare.

|It was pitch dark, and the locality as much unknown as if I had been dropped into Kamschatka. What the devil was I to do? I threw my cloak off, rolled it round my left arm, and firmly grasped my sapling; then, commending myself to the especial protection of St. Patrick, I endeavoured to retrace my steps.

I blundered on for half a minute, a low rascally whistle immediately in my rear assuring me that I was in vicarious society, from which the sooner I parted company the better. Moving a pace or two forward, my steps evidently attracted the attention of the scoundrels, for a low voice inquired, “Is that you--Josh?”

I never felt less inclination to be communicative, and silently continued my retreat. The suspicions of the cut-throats were confirmed. I heard a voice desire his comrade to “Come on,” adding, with an oath, “the bird’s alarmed!”

It was idle attempting to steal a march upon an enemy already on the alert; and a dreadful conviction shot across my mind, that escape from assassination was hopeless. To be coldly butchered in the dark--to be hurried from the stage of life at the very moment of my entrance on it--and in the spring of manhood to fill a bloody grave, with every thing prospectively before me which renders human existence desirable--the thought was horrible. These feelings were but momentary, and other ideas filled my mind. To resist to the uttermost--to display, even in death, a tiger-like ferocity--this changed the current of my thoughts, and a soul-sinking despondency gave place to the terrible calmness which desperate circumstances produce. I quickened my pace--my steps fell heavily on the pavement--the murderers increased their speed--and both parties rushed forward in the dark; I at random, and they in the full expectancy of attaining their object, and gaining the recompense which was to be contingent on my destruction.

Acquainted with the locality of the dark lanes in which I found myself unfortunately involved, the scoundrels closed upon me fast, and at last I was regularly brought to bay.

“Back, villains!” I exclaimed.

“All’s right--that’s he--at him, Jim!” was responded.

In one thing the darkness favoured me. My sapling was unperceived; the ruffians closed fearlessly--and the first intimation that they had “caught a tartar” was by the bolder of the twain being sent to the ground with a crashing blow that shattered his jawbone, and rendered him _hors de combat_. His companion instantly fell back, and I was about to wheel round and continue my retreat, when a heavy blow from behind knocked off my hat, and a knife grazed my arm through the folds of the cloak that, fortunately for me, had formed its protection. Need I say that the fresh assailants were the bravo and hunchback? while, encouraged by their assistance, the scared ruffian resumed the offensive.

My chances of escape appeared utterly hopeless. The ruffians, by dividing my attention on either side, had enabled the hunchback to creep in and grasp my legs within his long and bony arms. Happily the knife dropped from his hold in his first attempt to stab me, and the night was too dark to enable him to pick it up again. I strove to shake him off, but the wretch clung to me with that virulent tenacity with which a reptile coils itself around its victim. In the attempt to free myself from the cripple, I struck my foot against a stone, stumbled, and, before I could recover my footing, a blow brought me to the ground, the assassins sprang in, and my fate seemed sealed.

That brief space of exquisite agony I shall never forget. Oh, God.’ how hard it is to die! and die, as I should, by felon hands, prostrate and powerless, murdered “i’ the dark,” without the satisfaction of even in an expiring effort “stinging the wretch that stung me.” That moment’s misery was ended. Steps were heard. I hallooed “Murder!”

A voice, and, saints and angels! an Irish one, replied.

The hunchback then hastily cried, “Quick!--strike!--brain him!”

I caught the miscreant by the throat as the last word passed his lips--and next moment two figures flitted past my fading vision, as a blow fell upon my head, and laid me senseless.

Presently I awoke as from a dream. A man supported me; another put a cup of water to my lips; and a couple of crippled watchmen held their lanterns over us. I looked at my supporter; he was strange. My eye turned to his companion. In the dim light his features were not remembered--and yet the hand that held the water to my lips was my foster brother’s. By degrees consciousness returned.

“Where am I?” I muttered.

“Arrah, the Lord only knows!” responded the ratcatcher.

“Was I not attacked--stabbed--knocked down? Who were the assailants? Where are they?” I continued, as wandering recollections of the past flitted across my memory.

“Sorra one of us knows who they were; but if you searched London through, you would’nt pick out an uglier couple. One was a spider-built divil without a back, and the other a black-muzzled thief of a Jew, with whiskers you could hang your hat on. They’re off--had luck pursue them!--and among these twists and turnings, ye might as well look for a rat in a rabbit warren, as ferret them out, the ruffins of the world!”

I rose with slight assistance, but staggered like a drunken man, and, preceded by the watchmen to give us light, walked slowly on, leaning on the arms of my deliverers. We reached a public-house at no great distance; and having committed me to the care of the landlord and Shemus Rhua--guided by a Charlie, Mark Antony set out to find a surgeon, perfectly unconscious who the stranger was, whom timely assistance had so miraculously preserved from murder.

He returned; the discovery was made; and need I describe what a meeting between persons attached by the tie of fosterage, under such circumstances, would be? I heard the detail of my deliverance. The surgeon dressed my wounds, and pronounced them merely flesh ones; for the knife had only razed the skin, and, in the dark, the blow intended as a _coup de grace_, had missed the head, struck against the kerb-stone, and fallen on the shoulder lightly. That I had been marked out for deliberate assassination, the gipsy’s warning, the adventure in Mr. Spicer’s house, and the discovery of a clasp-knife and _jemmy_ dropped on the field of battle, sufficiently established. We received those trophies from the venerable conservator of the city’s peace, paid him a fitting remuneration for the services of his lantern, and parted nearly at the same spot from which a woman’s wiles had so recently seduced me--to wit, St. Paul’s; I to return to my own inn by a hackney coach, and the ratcatcher and my foster brother to repair to the place from whence they came, with an arrangement to meet next morning--

“That we would all our pilgrimage dilate,

Whereof by parcels we had something heard,

But not intentively.”

I drove to Mr. Hartley’s residence. He was at home; and as Dominique had signified that I was anxious to speak with him before he retired for the night, he was waiting my return in the drawing-room. I found him leaning against the mantel-piece, buried in deep thought. His back was turned from me; and as I unclosed the door softly, for a few moments he was unconscious of my presence.

“Might he be trusted yet?” he muttered to himself. “I think so--for he loves her. Would it not be premature?” He raised his eyes--“Ha, Hector! returned! What means that patch across your forehead?”

“An attempt,” I answered, “has been made upon my life, and failed.”

“Indeed! Where--and by whom?” he asked eagerly.

Here was I again in trouble. To recount the evening’s “moving accidents” without a formal introduction of the soldier’s daughter, would, as a narrative, prove lame and inconclusive, as to enact Hamlet with the omission of the Prince of Denmark. I doubted whether Mr. Hartley would approve of my advocating the young lady’s claims upon the government; and, from his starched notions respecting female propriety, it was most probable he would consider a nocturnal interview not exactly a regular procedure. I commenced accordingly, “in fear and terror,” as the lawyers say; told a confused story of meeting a girl in a fog; blundered at bringing her into a tavern; and totally broke down when we met in St. Paul’s churchyard, on our way to the domicile of her respectable relative. As we proceeded in the dark, no doubt I stammered more.

“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “out with the whole truth; I hate half confidence.”

On I went. With the acute auditor I had to deal with, it would be useless to attempt concealment; and he listened with deep interest, and, as I fancied, no trifling mixture of displeasure, until I brought my story to a close.

“You have had a marvellous deliverance, Mr. O’Halloran”--(He _mistered_ me, and that looked squally)--“and you seem a man born to be the dupe of villains, through the agency of that worst of curses, a vicious woman. One would have thought that your recent escape from spoliation and disgrace by that amiable coterie in Jermyn Street, would have made you rather cautious in forming acquaintanceships with strangers, and believing every fabricated tale you heard. I am a candid man, and pardon me, while I give you a proof of my sincerity.

“I credit your tale, and totally disbelieve your motives. You could not be fool enough to remain for a second, in ignorance of the true character of this lady of the fog; for none but the profligate of her sex would accede to the request of a young gentleman of twenty-one, and, at first sight, grant him a nocturnal interview. This may seem impertinence in me, who, apparently, have no right or interest in inquiring into your love affairs--although I must confess, that in the selection of your female acquaintances you have not been particularly fortunate.”

“However imprudent, or, indeed, improbable my conduct may appear, I assure you, sir, upon the unblemished honour of a gentleman, that my motives were precisely what I described them,” I replied, with a firmness of voice and manner, that at once guaranteed my truth.

Mr. Hartley looked at me for a moment. He saw that his suspicions had hurt me; and, convinced of my sincerity, he held out his hand, which I accepted.

“Hector, I believe you, and acquit you of every thing but concealment. Did you know the deep interest I feel in all that concerns your character and future fortunes, you would forgive me in testing your motives and actions so rigidly as I do, and have done. No more of this at present. Where is that scrawl you received this evening from the woman whom you encountered with my daughter in the park? Your hand is feverish. Although you may not feel it at present, you could not have passed through the deadly struggle you have described uninjured. To bed, friend Hector; Dominique, a second time, shall look to your wounds, and I for once play gallant, and keep your appointment with the lady of the bridge. Hark! the clock chimes. Half-past eleven. The ‘trysted hour’ is twelve.”

I assured Mr. Hartley that I neither required leechcraft nor repose, but was most willing he should bear me company. The negro was summoned; his master gave orders in a whisper; I filled a glass of wine and water; Mr. Hartley unlocked a mahogany case, presented me with a brace of beautiful pistols, and put another brace into his own pockets; told me they were loaded; and next moment the sable functionary appeared with a dark lantern in one hand, and a bludgeon in the other. All we required was the companionship of the ratcatcher and Mark Antony, to enable us to take, regularly to the road, and rob every coach within sound of Bow bell; at least, so said Mr. Hartley.

Were it possible, the night was darker than when I kept my assignation with the soldier’s orphan. Three quarters chimed; and ere the hour of meeting struck, we were punctually at the place appointed.

The bridge was wrapped in fog; and the two or three lamps that still burned, flared such a dull and yellow light, as merely rendered “darkness visible.” The night was raw and chilly, and, save a few passing citizens, “few and far between,” the causeway of Blackfriars was deserted. It was an hour when none but the unfortunate are abroad; a night when only the houseless are encountered. All that was orderly were in-doors; and the elderly gentlemen, to whom watch and ward were entrusted, properly declined to exhibit a bad example of being found upon the streets, and ensconced themselves in comfortable corners of the night-houses most contiguous to their respective beats, leaving the dreary pavement to persons of indifferent reputation. No wonder, then, that we found ourselves in unmolested possession of the bridge. I took a position at that extremity which the gipsy’s billet had pointed out; while Mr. Hartley and his attendant occupied the recess immediately opposite my post.

A quarter chimed--another--and another. At last, dull as a muffled drum, one heavy stroke boomed from the clock-tower of St. Paul’s, and announced the first hour of morning.

“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he crossed the bridge, “it is useless to remain longer here. Your prophetic friend for once has broken her promise.”

“‘Tis false!” replied a voice within half-a-dozen paces--“she is here!” and a figure too much concealed for recognition flitted from the centre of the bridge, and boldly joined us.

*****

Again the scene must change; and once more we shall carry the indulgent reader into the close alley where Mr. Brown’s domicile was situated, and, at half-past eleven, introduce him to old acquaintances--the worthy owner of the mansion, and Mr. Sloman, his respected friend.

They were seated at the table, with all the appurtenances that rendered their former interview so pleasant; but the present mood of the worthy couple was very different from the former one. The countenances of both betrayed anxiety and impatience. To plot is one thing--to perpetrate another; and a deed of blood propounded and agreed to on their first meeting, was now in course of execution. No wonder that the scoundrels felt ill at ease; not that either felt the slightest compunction for hurrying a fellow-creature into eternity; the failure of the attempt was what they dreaded, with a fear, if the deed were done, that some circumstances should attend it which ultimately might compromise their safety. They drank, but the wine had no flavour; or if it had, it failed to call forth their approbation. They spoke but little; the sentences that passed were brief and in an under tone; and at the slightest noise without both started; each appearing impatient for intelligence, and yet half afraid to hear what the result had been.

“What the devil can delay them?” observed Mr. Brown. “The thing should have come off an hour ago.”

“They may have failed,” replied Mr. Sloman; “or have done it, and been detected; or--but, thank God, I know nothing of the matter.”

“Pish! as much as I do,” returned the owner of the mansion.

“How can you say so, Mr. Brown?” returned Mr. Sloman, angrily.

The host directed a meaning look at his visitor.

“Slowey, how soft you are! Well, don’t fear; in England there’s not a better hand at cracking a skull than Josh Levi; and at the knife--the creature’s too weak for anything but light work--I’ll back Frank for a hundred.”

“Damn it, don’t tell me particulars,” exclaimed the lawyer. “I wish all was over; I safe in Mary Axe; and you with your four hundred snug in pocket.”

“Is the cash right?” inquired Mr. Brown.

Mr. Sloman deigned no reply; but, producing a leather case from his side-pocket, he reckoned over nine bank notes.

“I don’t know a nicer thing to look at, than a clean hundred-pound flimsey fresh from the Bank,” observed Mr. Sloman, playfully.

Suddenly the street-bell rang, and a low and peculiar whistle followed the sound. Mr. Brown started.

“By Heaven! that’s not Frank’s signal,” lie exclaimed. “Something is wrong, or the hunchback would be the first to bring intelligence.”

Another, and a louder ring, told the impatience of the midnight visitor; and Mr. Brown descended to the lower story to ascertain who it was that at this late hour required admission. The answers from without satisfied him that the stranger might be let in. The chains rattled; the bolts were drawn; again the door was carefully secured; and Mr. Brown returned to his state apartment, accompanied by a very repulsive-looking gentleman, namely, the swarthy Israelite, who earlier in the evening had been reconnoitred by the captain and his companion while lying _perdu_ in Mr. Spicer’s lumber-room.

The ruffian’s face was flushed, one eye was swollen and discoloured, the collar was torn from his coat, and blood-stains were visible on his hands and linen. His whole appearance was that of a man recently engaged in some sanguinary affray.

A pause ensued. Mr. Brown filled a glass of brandy, which the Jew drained to the bottom.

“What news, Josh?” said the host, in an under tone. “Is the job done?”

“No mistake about it,” returned the bravo.

“You had a tussle for it,” remarked the host, as he threw a careless look over the outer man of the dew, which gave ample indication that the affair he had been recently employed in, to him had proved no sinecure.

“I tell you what, Mr. Brown, I have been in the general line of bisness these fifteen year; lifted three stiff’uns of a night; been shot at half-a-dozen times; got lagged; escaped transportation; and gone through as much rough work as any man in the trade; and in the course of my practice, 1 never had a tougher trial than to-night. Another drop of the brandy, if ye please.”

“But is the thing right, Josh?” inquired Mr. Brown, who always came to business.

“Safe as a trivet! I’ll tell you all.”

“No, no--curse particulars!” exclaimed Mr. Sloman. “You may mention the thing in confidence to Mr. Brown. I know nothing of what you are alluding to, remember that.”

“‘Well, no matter, Slowey; Josh and I will talk it over presently. But where is Frank? No harm done him, I hope. I wouldn’t lose that hunchback for a hundred.”

“Is he not here?” was the Jew’s unsatisfactory reply.

“Here? No! We have expected him an hour ago,” returned his master.

“Then I’m blowed if I know any thing of him.”

“But out with it. Tell us how matters went,” said Mr. Brown.

“Not in my presence,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, springing from his chair.

“Well, if you’re so devilish leary, you may go into that there closet,” and he rose and opened a door, through which Mr. Sloman immediately retreated; “and Slowey,” continued Mr. Brown, in a lower voice, “you’ll find a slit in the door, and hear as much through it as will suit your purpose.”

“I don’t like that’ere chap, he’s so etarnal cautious,” observed the Jew to Mr. Brown, when he returned. “If men mean wots right--as they ought--why be afeard to talk on bisniss?”

“Hush!” returned the host, as he applied his finger to his nose; “and now about the job, old boy. Drink slow, Josh; a third glass will smother ye.”

The Israelite replaced the brandy he was about to bolt, and then continued his narration, which, though delivered in a low voice, was perfectly audible in Mr. Sloman’s concealment--the fissure in the wood having been cunningly constructed for the purposes of professional espionage.

“Well, ye see,” said the bravo, commencing his murderous narration, “Frank and I--and he’s a handy little creature for a thing of legs and arms--were true to time at St. Paul’s; and there we spied our man reg’lar in tow with Julia. Away they goes together, and we follows close behind. When we comes to the place, the girl had mizzled, and Jim and ‘the smasher’ gone too soon to work; and, my eyes--if they hadn’t cotched it heavy! At him we goes from behind; Frank with his gully, and I with this here preserver;” and the scoundrel exhibited the murderous implement he used. “I niver, nowhere, saw a chap more wide awake. He fought like a good-un; and he was so knowin’, that it was almost impossible to draw him. At last Bill and I divides his attention, while Frank gripped him round the legs. He stumbled, fell, and the game was up; for I fetched him a blow across the skull that would have shattered a horse’s head, and left him dead upon the kerb-stones. Before I could strike again--for one likes to make things safe, ye know, Mr. Brown--two chaps jumps in as if they had riz out of the paving-stones. ‘The smasher’ was grassed in a moment--and I knocked clean away. I nivir got sich a nasty one in my life! I was all astray after it--and I know nothing more whatsomever, only lights came up, and fresh ones joined the others. I sneaked off as well as I could, reeling like a drunken man, and leaving our customer dead as a mackarel.”

“You’re sure he’s done for?” inquired Mr. Brown.

“Done for!” and a second time the scoundrel produced his implement of murder. “Is there a skull in England that would require a second blow of that small article?”

“The man is safe enough, no doubt,” returned Mr. Brown; “but what can have happened to Frank? Hark--by Heaven! he’s at the door!--All’s right!”

The signal was a curious imitation of angry cats, accompanied by a low sound upon the house-bell. Mr. Brown at once hurried down, and gave admission to his hunchbacked favourite, who followed him to the upper-chamber, accompanied by the ruffian called “the smasher.”

To the joint inquiries of the Jew and Mr. Brown, the deformed one gave satisfactory replies. It appeared that in the act of falling, I had kicked the weak wretch from me with such violence as drove him across the narrow lane; and before he could gather himself up again, the fosterer and his friend achieved my rescue. Self-preservation was now the hunchback’s care; and, crawling away unperceived in the confusion, he coiled himself in an obscure corner, from which, though concealed himself, all that passed subsequently was visible. Thence, he witnessed my recovery, and saw me, with slight assistance, leave the scene of the attempt upon my life. In several efforts to get off, the scoundrel had been nearly detected; and when he did succeed, he and his confederate were delayed by the removal of their disabled comrade; and hence, an hour elapsed before he could reach the dwelling of his worthy master.

“Where’s Bill?” was Mr. Brown’s first inquiry.

“Stretched with a broken jawbone in the Fortune of War,” was the reply.

“It seems the job was any thing but an easy one. But it’s done--and that’s a satisfaction.”

“It would have been,” returned the hunchback, “if I had not dropped the gully.”

“What the devil do ye mean?--Isn’t he finished?”

“No more than you are,” was the answer.

The Jew broke in with a coarse contradiction, and swore lustily that I was regularly defunct.

“Well, all I can say,” continued the being of legs and arms, “that for a dead gentleman he spoke as plain as I do. He was a little groggy when he got up, but in a few minutes he walked away as steadily as I can.”

“Damnation! Speak low--but all is overheard--and the reward is lost, I fear,” muttered Mr. Brown.

“The worst of it is,” continued the hunchback, “that my name is on the knife, and Bill has dropped his jemmy.”

“Ay, and the least clue will send the Bow-street villains after us immediately.”

“I won’t remain another moment,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, hurrying from the closet, and catching up his hat.

“Stop, my dear friend; all may be yet put right. Frank, bring these gentlemen to the parlour. They will require a bit of bread and cheese after their exercise; and when I have spoken a few words to Mr. Sloman”----

“That an’t my name!” exclaimed the alarmed lawyer, as the scoundrels left the room. “Damn it, Mr. Brown,” he continued, “how can you be so stupid? I thought I was dealing with a safe man of business. What the devil do ye call men by their right names for?”

“It was an oversight,” returned the host. “Don’t mind, Slovey--all’s safe here--and we’ll do the job better the next time we get an opportunity. Do we touch upon account to-night?”

“Not a rap!” exclaimed Mr.. Sloman, peevishly; “but won’t you return the hundred?”

Mr. Brown answered only by a look, but that look was an expressive one. It said, or seemed to say, in the elegant parlance ol the present time, “Don’t you wish you may get it?”

“I want to be off,” observed the lawyer, seeing that all chance of restitution was hopeless, “and I don’t like to be stared at by those body-snatchers in the parlour. The scoundrels never forget a man; and, as I attend the Old Bailey professionally, they might remember me on their trial, and call upon me to speak to character.”

“Stop, my dear friend, a minute where you are, and I’ll do the business effectually. Do take a little brandy and water before you start. It’s not to every body I give that Cognac,” and the host left Mr. Sloman to refresh himself before he should set out upon his return homewards.

The hunchback and his companions were seated at a table in the lower room, when Mr. Brown glided softly in. They had drunk freely, for the failure of the night seemed to have occasioned a general annoyance.

“By Heaven!” said the larger of the Jews, “I never, in the ring itself, received such punishment. And then the risk--and nothing for it. The attempt at murder is now a hanging matter. There’s law for ye! Well, I suppose that chap Sloman will make us some amends, and come down handsome, as he should do, for our being regularly served out in trying to oblige him.”

“You’ll never find grace or gratitude in a lawyer,” returned the hunchback.

“If he does not stump up, why I say he has no conscience,” observed the smasher, “but here is Mister Brown.”

“What are we to have for this night’s trouble?” inquired the stouter Jew.

“Sloman won’t stand a rap, because the thing’s a failure. I tried him hard; but he won’t bleed, nor come down with a single flimsey; and yet I’d give a hundred for what he has in the side-pocket of his coat; ay, and gain another by the bargain.”

“You would, would ye?” inquired “the smasher.”

“Ay, and drop a pony over and above. Come here, Frank;” and Mr. Brown retired with the hunchback, and left the ruffians to commune with themselves.

What passed between the owner of the mansion and his favourite is wrapt in mystery. The former returned to the apartment overhead, “to do the civil thing” to Mr. Sloman; the latter, to arrange some pressing business with his confederates in the parlour. In ten minutes Frank announced that “the gentlemen below” were gone; and Mr. Sloman, having expressed his satisfaction at the intelligence, buttoned his coat closely over the side-pocket where his note-case was deposited, put on his wrap-rascal, wound a shawl around his throat to secure it against the night air, was conducted to the churchyard door by the host, and respectfully lighted out by the hunchback.

“No failure, I hope, next time, Mr. Brown,” was the lawyer’s valediction.

“_It’s all made safe already_. God bless you, Mr. Sloman!”

And these excellent gentlemen parted with a hearty “Good night.” Frank closed the door, Mr. Brown returned to his great chamber, and Mr. Sloman hurried away in the direction of his own residence.

An unbuilt piece of ground, not a hundred yards from the small cemetery we have described as the place on which Mr. Brown’s house abutted, was early next morning the scene of public curiosity. There, a man had been discovered dead; his skull fractured by the blow of some blunt instrument, and his pockets rifled of every thing they had contained. Within an hour the body was duly recognised. The deceased was Mr. Sloman.

Who were the murderers? Gentle, reader, I think you have a shrewd suspicion already. But “time tells many secrets,”--so says the Gaelic adage; and as none have doubted its accuracy, we’ll wait for further information on the subject.