On that same night--events so crowd upon each other in convulsed and distracted times, that more than the stirring incidents of awhole life often become compressed into the compass of four-andtwentyhours--on that same night, Mr Haredale, having stronglybound his prisoner, with the assistance of the sexton, and forcedhim to mount his horse, conducted him to Chigwell; bent uponprocuring a conveyance to London from that place, and carrying himat once before a justice. The disturbed state of the town wouldbe, he knew, a sufficient reason for demanding the murderer"scommittal to prison before daybreak, as no man could answer for thesecurity of any of the watch-houses or ordinary places ofdetention; and to convey a prisoner through the streets when themob were again abroad, would not only be a task of great danger andhazard, but would be to challenge an attempt at rescue. Directingthe sexton to lead the horse, he walked close by the murderer"sside, and in this order they reached the village about the middleof the night.
The people were all awake and up, for they were fearful of beingburnt in their beds, and sought to comfort and assure each other bywatching in company. A few of the stoutest-hearted were armed andgathered in a body on the green. To these, who knew him well, MrHaredale addressed himself, briefly narrating what had happened,and beseeching them to aid in conveying the criminal to London before the dawn of day.
But not a man among them dared to help him by so much as the motionof a finger. The rioters, in their passage through the village,had menaced with their fiercest vengeance, any person who shouldaid in extinguishing the fire, or render the least assistance tohim, or any Catholic whomsoever. Their threats extended to theirlives and all they possessed. They were assembled for their ownprotection, and could not endanger themselves by lending any aid tohim. This they told him, not without hesitation and regret, asthey kept aloof in the moonlight and glanced fearfully at theghostly rider, who, with his head drooping on his breast and hishat slouched down upon his brow, neither moved nor spoke.
Finding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed hardly knowinghow to do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd, MrHaredale besought them that at least they would leave him free toact for himself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise andpair of horses that the place afforded. This was not acceded towithout some difficulty, but in the end they told him to do what hewould, and go away from them in heaven"s name.
Leaving the sexton at the horse"s bridle, he drew out the chaise with his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but thatthe post-boy of the village--a soft-hearted, good-for-nothing,vagabond kind of fellow--was moved by his earnestness and passion,and, throwing down a pitchfork with which he was armed, swore thatthe rioters might cut him into mincemeat if they liked, but hewould not stand by and see an honest gentleman who had done nowrong, reduced to such extremity, without doing what he could tohelp him. Mr Haredale shook him warmly by the hand, and thankedhim from his heart. In five minutes" time the chaise was ready,and this good scapegrace in his saddle. The murderer was putinside, the blinds were drawn up, the sexton took his seat upon thebar, Mr Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the door;and so they started in the dead of night, and in profound silence,for London.
The consternation was so extreme that even the horses which hadescaped the flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelterthem. They passed them on the road, browsing on the stunted grass;and the driver told them, that the poor beasts had wandered to thevillage first, but had been driven away, lest they should bringthe vengeance of the crowd on any of the inhabitants.
Nor was this feeling confined to such small places, where the people were timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came nearLondon they met, in the grey light of morning, more than one poorCatholic family who, terrified by the threats and warnings oftheir neighbours, were quitting the city on foot, and who told themthey could hire no cart or horse for the removal of their goods,and had been compelled to leave them behind, at the mercy of thecrowd. Near Mile End they passed a house, the master of which, aCatholic gentleman of small means, having hired a waggon to removehis furniture by midnight, had had it all brought down into thestreet, to wait the vehicle"s arrival, and save time in thepacking. But the man with whom he made the bargain, alarmed by thefires that night, and by the sight of the rioters passing hisdoor, had refused to keep it: and the poor gentleman, with his wifeand servant and their little children, were sitting trembling amongtheir goods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and notknowing where to turn or what to do.
It was the same, they heard, with the public conveyances. Thepanic was so great that the mails and stage-coaches were afraid tocarry passengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If thedrivers knew them, or they admitted that they held that creed, theywould not take them, no, though they offered large sums; andyesterday, people had been afraid to recognise Catholic acquaintance in the streets, lest they should be marked by spies,and burnt out, as it was called, in consequence. One mild old man-apriest, whose chapel was destroyed; a very feeble, patient,inoffensive creature--who was trudging away, alone, designing towalk some distance from town, and then try his fortune with thecoaches, told Mr Haredale that he feared he might not find amagistrate who would have the hardihood to commit a prisoner tojail, on his complaint. But notwithstanding these discouragingaccounts they went on, and reached the Mansion House soon aftersunrise.