The Outlaw (Marriott Watson)/Chapter 5

HE very magnitude of a great city makes its solitude, and the aggregation of innumerable lives in one brief patch of earth is nearer to a wilderness than a vacant and a desert land. In London I lived unknown, unheeded, even unnoticed except by chance acquaintances. In London I came to feel myself as safe and warm as though I had never stepped outside the barriers of the law. No eyes pierced the darkness; I moved invisible, a corpuscle in the arteries of the town—a starved and battered corpuscle, drifting I knew not whither, Yet it was long ere I dared to pass a_police-station, and when I came to take heart in my security, I found that my name and crime had vanished from the warning boards, and that I had passed into oblivion, so far as public interest was concerned. Nevertheless I had my scares, and not once nor twice have I fled before suspicions, and the growing menace of a face. There was one face that appeared at intervals in my outcast life—a hooked nose, a black, even a swart colour, small agate eyes, and huge-lobed ears that seemed almost to flop like a monstrous ape's. The first time that I came across this man I was in a crowd beyond the water—a rough, foul-tongued crowd, occupied with some quarrel of its own; and, like an evil vulture, this face passed by me, moving swiftly and furtively through the pack, and cast upon me one soft, lingering glance, ere it disappeared upon its business—whatever that might be. I have said vulture, but that is not the word. There was nothing of bird or beast, still less of the human creature, in him. He gave me the impression of something perverted, of some morbid growth, of something out of Nature, yet grossly mimicking her. Faces pursue and haunt one in a great town, and again and again I encountered this, which I detested and feared. But nothing ever happened, nothing beyond the encounter, a sudden recognition of those abominable eyes, and then the passage of the meeting into the things of the past.

After my adventure in the house by the canal, I took some precautions against the revenge of Bannister. Indeed, I resolved for a time to avoid the streets in which I might have encountered him, and with that object I migrated from London to Brentford. This latter place is peculiar, being in some part a country town of a deplorable character, and for the rest a poor and sordid slum on the back doors of the Metropolis. There I could find shelter, among those wretched houses, as safely almost as in the purlieus of the Lane, or Soho, or Bermondsey; and there I lay hid for a fortnight. I got rid of my fine clothes very easily, and with the remains of the money I had I lived in comfort for that time, as nearly content as I had been for many months. I spent my time in idling by the river wharves, or watching the barges in the lock. Sometimes I penetrated westwards, and walked in the lanes by Osterley, where the spring was showing green within wood and copse. And for the more part I refused to look ahead: I was living, I had food and a bed of nights; and I did not care to confront the future. That must solve itself.

Yet this pleasant sense of ease and safety came to an end naturally with my money; and as these resources gave out I cast about me for some means of livelihood. I begged work in the town from many people, but always without success. I suppose my appearance did not bear out my professions, and, in addition to that, I had no references. As the days moved forward I began to go down again to my old condition of indigence and despair. It was at this stage, and when I was weakened by the ravages of hunger, that I saw the face once more. It was a dark fine night—a Saturday, as I remember, and the streets were running with an unusual flow of people, women at their markets, men from their public- houses, and a stream of carts and barrows. Walking amidst all this traffic, I was arrested by the sight of the man, as he stood watching from under a blazing lamp. In that same instant he saw me, and the evil glitter of recognition, which I had seen before, came into his eyes; he moved from the lamp-post and came slowly towards me. I withdrew, for no reason that I could have given at the time, but, I suppose, out of a mixed feeling of suspicion and distaste. I went down the narrow, ugly road, and mingled with the throng, and soon came out beyond the market-place. I had forgotten the man by this time, and was idly looking at a street juggler, when I became aware of the face again, in the circle of spectators opposite me; and it watched, not the show, but me. I began to grow uncomfortable, and once more I retreated, descending a dark lane which led towards the river. A little distance along it I halted and looked back; and at the head of the lane I beheld the man, stationary, still watching. He spoke to some people that passed by, and pointed down the lane; then three or four of them followed him and came steadily towards me. At this I took fright, I will confess; and, though I was in shadow, I ran fast towards the bottom of the lane, which here was little broader than a footpath. Indeed, it was an alley that led direct and abruptly upon the water. I discovered this in the darkness by the reflexion of a light from a house near by. I came to a stop quickly; in the blackness of the stream a light twinkled from a rushing launch, and died. Behind me drew on the feet of the men from the highway. It was a warm night, and I took my decision at once. I stooped and launched myself softly and boldly on the waters of the Thames.

I was an admirable swimmer, and I felt little inconvenience from my clothes. Moreover, the river here is not too broad—a wide horizon of despair; and I struck out my arms mechanically, in no fear that I should fail to reach the farther bank. But presently something occurred which changed this design; for the darkness was so great that I had no guide except a light shining across the river, and of a sudden this disappeared. Almost immediately afterwards I hit my head against something hard. It took me but a few seconds to make up my mind what this could be,—it was clearly a barge, but whether one at anchor or in motion, I could not guess. Instinctively I laid my hands on the gunwale, and pulled myself up cautiously. There was no light visible on the boat, and no creature was to be seen. I crawled on deck by the stern, and looked about me.

Now, it became evident at once that this was no barge at anchor: it ran; the shore-lights went by swiftly; the tide was drawing underneath, and she was moving for the Pool. When I discovered this I was amazed to find the huge tiller rolling free. I crept down into the little cabin, and discovered nothing but a small oil lamp feebly burning, a bunk, and some poor remnants of a meal. Not a soul was upon the boat. As I came to this conclusion, I was aware of the necessity of piloting the barge, for an angry oath in the night proclaimed that we had nearly run down upon a launch. I put the tiller straight, and the barge hummed down the tide; Brentford and Strand-on-the-Green moved by, and we drew into the bend by Chiswick.

But here was I at length the prey to various considerations, I was for all purposes master of a lumbering ugly boat, driving I knew not whither, through a black night and upon a swirling tide. What was I to do? There was the choice of jumping overboard into the element from which I had come, and leaving things in their original position, or of continuing to steer the rude creature down the river. In the latter event what should I gain? Indeed, I could see nothing by which I was to be benefited in this voyage; and, upon the contrary, at any moment I might meet with an accident through my lack of experience, and fall within the reach of the law, or, at the least, endanger my own safety. And yet, though all circumstances pointed towards an abandonment of the barge, I did not take the decisive step. The noise of the water below her, the procession of nocturnal lights alongshore, and the sense of power as I swept the tiller about, constrained me. I had a feeling almost of exultation, and I put her round the corner; she rolled broadside, and righted under my hands; and then sliding forward, like a great weight freed suddenly, groaned down the empty river.

The stars came out and shone upon me, but no one questioned me. I was not pulled up with a hail, and a demand as to what I did there. The barge was ownerless, and I was skipper, no one gainsaying. Those stars voyaged with me; they beamed upon me as I dropped down the long reaches to Chelsea, and accompanied me by Westminster and along the Embankment towards the Pool. But when I was a little short of London Bridge I had a gleam of reason, knowing with what a multitude that part of the river by the Tower is haunted. The spars and funnels of many strangers pierced the sky, and, even as I doubted, the tide seized me bodily and dragged me in towards the narrow arches, crying and gurgling under the bows. The barge wobbled from side to side, and it was with difficulty that I kept her nose straight. The water sucked her forward, and, as if drawn by a cable, she ran out upon the crowded Pool. I was committed to the enterprise even against my will.

As she issued from the darkness of the Bridge I noticed a small boat at a little distance; a big steamer moved out from the wharves, and the boat tossed and fell; I saw the sculls dip. The barge ran down and shot into the middle of the stream, and all my eyes were upon the manœuvring steamer, whose lights glowed in her masts. Suddenly I was conscious of a voice calling to me; I turned stupidly, and gazed into the obscurity of the water.

“Is that the Sarah Champion?” shouted the voice. “Barge ahoy!” and I beheld the small boat tossing nearer.

I made no answer, for my wits were with the danger ahead, and there was an oath of impatience.

“It's her, right enough—damn it, I know her,” said a second voice; and the boat pulled nearer, Simultaneously the stern of the steamboat bulged, as it seemed, towards me, and I threw back the tiller, bringing the barge across the stream. The boat clattered in to the side. “By Gawd, you done that well,” said some one; and I became aware of three men that stood on the barge with me.

“Is't you, Bill?” said one.

“No,” said I quietly, for I guessed how matters stood. “Bill's met with a little accident.”

There was a short silence, while one of the others took possession of the tiller and moved the boat across towards the Surrey shore. I knew not why I had answered thus on the spur of the moment, but I think I had an instinctive fear that my possession of the barge was suspicious, and that any explanations would not be accepted.

After a pause a coarse hard voice asked, “Who are you?” and a light was struck.

“I have taken Bill's place,” I said: “he had an accident by Brentford.”

The light from a fusee flared on the faces of the three men and on my own. If I saw suspicion in those formidable countenances I read also something more, something uglier.

But the man with the tiller interrupted impatiently.

“It's all right, you fools. Bill spoke of a safe hand. Where'd he pick you up?” he asked me unexpectedly.

“Brentford,” said I laconically, but promptly recalling the purpose in those savage faces.

“How much do you know, eh?” inquired the rough-voiced man.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Better put me ashore. That's all I want,” I replied shortly.

“No, by Gawd, you don't,” was the response. “I know a trick as is worth more'n that. Here you are, and here you stay, till you go out which way we choose. You can do less harm here than anywhere else. I'll take my oath it's a split.”

“Well, 'e's all right—'e can't 'urt. We got work without 'im,” said the third, spitting into the water.

“Here, down in that cuddy-hole!” commanded the man who seemed to be in authority.

I hesitated just a moment; some guess of what these fellows might be came over me, and I cast a glance at the water. We were close by the Surrey shore, and a plunge might save me; but a hand was on my shoulder, and I turned indignantly,

“What the mischief are you at?” I cried angrily. “Drop it!” and I swore one of their oaths.

“Bet you it's all right,” said the man at the tiller. “But you can have your own way just now. Down there, sonny, and I'll speak to you a bit later.”

I descended into the cabin, and sat by the faint lantern with very unpleasant thoughts. I had fallen into the hands of a crew of miscreants, but I did not yet understand what sort of rascals they were. I was conscious that the barge was still moving, but that was all; and presently the motion ceased, we struck upon something, and finally there was silence above and below. A little afterwards the man who had been at the tiller descended into the cuddy-hole.

“Well, sonny, we're there,” said he cheerfully; “but you got to look after yourself, or else there 'll be mischief. You stay quiet, sonny,” and with that he shut the lid upon me, bolted it, and was gone.

Where we might be I had no guess, but I was resolved not to remain in that evil-smelling and stifling hole longer than I could help, and no sooner did I recognise my imprisonment than I began to look for an outlet. I could hear whispering upon the deck, and then a small splash alongside. What could the ruffians be doing? I saw no chance of escape if the lid were secure; but fortunately it had been rarely used, and the socket in which the bolt ran home was but loosely attached to the woodwork. My jailer was evidently of a more easy-going character than his fellows, and I owed this oversight to his carelessness. A heavy jerk of my shoulders upwards loosened the lid, and I peeped forth.

The night was now very dark, and darker for a wall of stone that rose on one side of the barge; the river lapped under a row of empty barges upon the other side. I began to see our position, and that we lay against one of the wharves in the neighbourhood of Cherry Gardens. As I made this discovery I made another. A light flashed for a moment between the cracks of the door upon the lowest storey of the wharf. It vanished the next instant, but it set me wondering. I crawled stealthily from the cabin and looked about me. In the body of the barge was a man's figure, which I set down as my jailer, but of the others there was no sign. Were they in the wharf? And if so, what was afoot? Even as the question was framed in my mind it was answered. There could be no doubt upon what these furtive night-hawks were bent: it could be nothing but robbery.

I stood looking up at the black obsession of the wharf, and the silence about me was almost audible. Then I saw a flash of light jump from an upper floor. A little later a slight noise overhead caused me to strain my eyes upwards, and I perceived gradually to emerge out of the night a long chain, rattling weakly as it dropped, and carrying a massive burden. It fell into the hold of the barge, whence I heard noises of the man at work. The bold ruffians were pillaging the wharf under the very noses of the river-police. I now had time to devote some thoughts to myself. The barge lay close to the wharf, and it was probable that I might drop into the water without attracting notice; but the darkness prevented me from seeing more than a few yards on either side, and there might be no access to the land—nothing but an unbroken wall of houses for some distance. I did not like the thought of groping in that water, waist deep (it might be) in the mudbanks, with no certainty of finding firm ground. The pictures of the mud flats at low tide, as I remembered them, rose in my fancy, and made me shudder. I dismissed the thought, and looked up at the wharf again. By this time the chain had descended two or three times, and each time the man in the barge had relieved it of its load; and now it swung idly, waiting to be hauled up by those above, not more than an arm's length from the edge of the cuddy-hole. It was the plan of desperation, but I made up my mind: I reached over and drew the chain to me, tested it softly, to see if it would support my weight, and swung gently into the air.

I climbed hand over hand as fast as I could. It was no design of mine to mount to the floor in which the two scoundrels were no doubt arranging their plunder; but I trusted to reach the lowest door, and find some way into the building. Yet I was pursued by one great fear—that the noise of the chain might attract the attention of the man below, and I should be discovered. Luckily the lowest door was not far above the water-line, and by a twist I succeeded in reaching it, the chain left me with a loud clank, and I was clinging to the ledge with my hands, fearful of an alarm. Yet none was raised, and I at length mustered courage to work myself higher until I sat upon the ledge and had a chance to examine the door. And now I found Fortune befriend me in earnest for once; for it must have been by this door that the thieves had made their entrance,—the sliding doors were apart, and by pushing them softly wider I could pass into the interior with ease. I paused on the threshold, and cast down a glance to see if my absence had been noticed. The barge was silent, but I could make out a black figure working, and the chain was slowly descending again. My gaze went out across the river, and I thought for a moment that I saw something darker than the darkness fall into the grave shadows under the wharves. But I could not be certain, and in any case if it were a boat from the river police it mattered nothing to me. I was in transit, and I had no doubt that I should soon be out at some back door, and safe in the maze of streets in that dismal and disreputable region of the Surrey side.

I pulled-to the doors and turned towards the blackness of the interior; but ere I had gone a dozen steps I had resolved that it was not wise to explore these unknown recesses without a light. Then again came the fear that this might attract attention from the floor above, and I pushed on, feeling my way among the barrels and sacks as best I could. At last I came to a stop against a wall, and, composing my resolution, I pulled out my matches and struck one. The first thing my eyes lighted on was the figure of a man, stretched upon some sacks, a rug rudely cast over him. Whether it was the noise of my progress or the sudden light, I know not, but the man's eyes opened, he stretched himself, sat up, and his glance fell on me.

“Who the devil are you?” he asked abruptly. At the same moment my match went out. I lit another, and regarded him. He was about my age, a well-dressed, strongly-built and handsome fellow, clearly of a superior station.

“Are you the watchman?” I asked in my turn.

He was standing now, with a stern, regarding face; but at this a sardonic smile passed across his features,

“You may call me that,” said he. “May I repeat myself and inquire who you are, and what you are doing here?”

“This place is broken into,” I exclaimed eagerly: “the thieves are gutting it.”

“It is obviously broken into,” he said with sarcasm.

“You mistake me,” I replied sharply; “I am here to warn you.”

He hesitated, and my match flickered towards its end. “Excuse me,” said he: “I have a candle here. Perhaps that will enable us to shed light on the situation,” and he stepped into a small boxroom with glass walls which stood near—the cabinet of a clerk or foreman. When he came forth he had a lantern in his hand. “Now, sir,” said he, “I have no doubt I owe you an apology. Will you be good enough to explain?”

“There is nothing to explain more than I have said,” I answered shortly. “The wharf is being looted. I don't know who you are.”

“You may take it from me that I am a responsible person,” he said coolly. “My name is Parton, and I am one of the owners of this wharf—Cherry Wharf.” He considered. “What you say interests me. We have had a valuable consignment only to-day. Clearly information...” He paused and regarded me. “Your friends are in the upper floor?”

“They are no friends of mine,” I said angrily, conscious of my poor clothes.

“I beg your pardon,” he said; “the question is what are we to do. The watchman was there; he must have been overpowered.”

He was silent, pondering, and I spoke hastily. “If I may advise,” I said, “the best thing seems to be to run for assistance. The police can be summoned easily, and the thieves surprised.”

“That sounds good advice,” he replied, but still had the air of thought. “You look a fairly strong man,” he went on, scrutinising me. “How many are there?”

“Two in the wharf and one in the barge,” I replied.

“Barge!” he echoed, lifting his eyebrows. “Well, if they have dared so greatly, there is no reason why we shouldn't. Indeed, that is why I am here to-night.”

He beckoned me to follow him, and, not realising what he was about, I obeyed his gesture. We passed through the room and ascended softly to the loft above. It was in the floor above this again that the two thieves were at work by a dark lantern, and we could hear their feet moving overhead, What Mr. Parton intended I do not know, but he was already making his way up the ladder with his lantern when a groan caught our ears. Parton stopped and threw his light upon the floor towards a heap of sacking.

“Underwood, by Heaven!” he exclaimed, and quickly descended again, It was the watchman, bound and gagged, and just recovering his senses from an ugly knock-down blow. We released him from bonds and gag, and Parton gave him a nip from a flask he carried.

“You solve our difficulties, Underwood, poor chap,” he said. “If we two keep guard here, you can run for help. I don't like to miss 'em; by Jove, I don't want to miss 'em!”

The watchman stared at him, struggling with his returning wits. Suddenly Parton uttered an exclamation, and with a stroke of his arm knocked over the lantern. The room was plunged in darkness, but a thread of light came from the direction of the ladder. I heard the breathing of several men, of whom I was one. Parton's hand went silently down to my arm in a pressure of warning. Upon that I caught the noise of swift feet coming in a rush. I stood up and backed away. A cry and a groan came from near by, and after that a scuffling noise, and then silence. This lasted for the space of two minutes or more, and then a light flared from a match. I cowered underneath the bags which hid me.

“By Gawd,” said a horrid voice, which I recognised, “the watchman's gone: this isn't him. It's another bloke.” He swore foully. “We must mizzle with what we got.”

A moment later I heard their feet above, and a rattling of the chain informed me that they were descending to the boat. When I was sure of that I came out of my hiding-place, and, groping for the lantern, lit it. It illumined faintly the body of Mr. Parton curled in an awkward heap upon the floor.... He had been struck through the vitals by a knife. I gently composed the corpse and knelt over it, fingering the heart.

A light step struck on my senses, startling me; but I reflected that the murderers were unlikely to revisit so dangerous a spot, and I turned my head with the expectation of meeting the police, for whom Underwood had, no doubt, gone when he made his escape. But out of the shadows stole a solitary figure, light-footed, thin-jowled, and hooked of face. I gazed in amazement and in terror, for I knew it. It was the face that had so constantly observed me.

I gave a start, but the stealthy eyes were fixed upon me, whilst the coarse lips parted in an ugly grin.

“What is it you want?” I managed to ask, scarcely conscious what I said.

He pointed a finger to the body beside me. “This is very awkward,” he said, with some strange accent in his voice. It was English no more than was his appearance, and his race was apparent in both. I followed the direction of his hand, and looked back to him, waiting. Something there was in the air, something in my secret and instinctive abhorrence of this creature, that warned me. I held my courage tightly; I even contrived to meet his gaze with indifference.

“Yes,” said I simply; “there has been murder done.”

“So I perceive—so I perceive,” said the vulture, rubbing his fingers together. “I came too late, but just in time—just in time.” He looked at me with meaning. I rose to my feet

“A party of thieves, dangerous criminals, have attempted to loot the wharf,” I explained, “and though I was able to warn this gentleman he met his death at their hands.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” agreed the vulture pleasantly; and then approaching he whispered at my ear, “I have had my own ideas about you. That was why I watched you. It's a comfort to find I was right.”

I knew what he meant—it was a menace. I turned on him with all the coolness I could command, and surveyed him from head to foot.

“Who may you be?” I said. “Are you the police?”

“Ah,” said the vulture, smiling, “I have not that honour; but I know the police. Oh yes, I know 'em well: they are very good friends of mine. I work with them.”

“You are an informer,” I said bluntly.

He grinned. “I belong to the honourable profession of the law,” he said; “I am on the rolls. There is few people know so much as I of what goes on—oh, very few.”

I saw now with what sort of man I had to deal. He was the modern representative of the thief-taker, the Jonathan Wild of to-day—the medium between crime and the law, and one making his money out of both. There was no other type of human creature that could have filled my soul with such loathing; but I let nothing appear in my face. I studied him attentively.

“Well,” said I, “what are you going to do? It seems to me that you had better turn your mind to the perpetrators of this outrageous crime.”

He shook his head. “My friend,” he said, “there is no good to undertake such perilous risks. I know the gang, and can put my hands on them. 'Tis you that interest me.”

“I am deeply obliged,” said I, with what nonchalance I could muster. I knew my danger, and that for some reason this foul creature would have me in his toils. I met his eye boldly. “Come,” I continued, “if you will step to these doors that open on the river I will show you something.”

He did as I asked, keeping his distance now, and holding a hand within the breast of his coat, no doubt upon the haft or butt of some weapon. I threw open the doors, and the stars were shining. The river blinked faintly from below and lapped among the anchored boats.

“Your boat lies yonder” (for I remembered of a sudden what I had thought I saw), “and if you are not gone into the darkness whence you arrived within three minutes it will be the worst act of your evil life.”

He grinned abominably, disclosing a fang. He withdrew his hand, and the lanthorn lighted up a revolver.

“I am always prepared for that, he said harshly. “I don't think I make many mistakes,”

I surveyed him calmly. “You misunderstand,” I answered: “I am not given to encounters with people of your class. But still I warn you. You say that you know this gang. I have no doubt you do: it may be that the relations beween [sic] you are more intimate than might appear. What do you here?”

“I came for you. I have a use for you,” said the vulture. “I like picking up men. I have many.”

“Quite so,” I answered, “and yet from your trade I should have thought you studied prudence. It's an ugly trade, but I could have sworn you made it safe. But how will your presence here strike the police, your friends?”

“I think you and I will leave before the police arrive,” he answered, with a smirk.

“I think not,” said I.

“Then you are lost,” he retorted.

“By no means,” I answered. A sound struck on my attentive ears. “Hark! do you hear that? Some minutes ere you made your very dramatic appearance the night-watchman, who was not killed, managed to make his escape for the purpose of warning the police. I am waiting here until they arrive. That, if I mistake not, is the signal of their arrival.”

He stared at me, uncertainty and even something of fear upon his features,

“You are lying,” he said hoarsely.

“Wait and see,” said I. “As Underwood the watchman was released by Mr. Parton and myself, he will be in a position to explain matters to the police, your friends. But how is your presence to be accounted for?”

His narrow brows contracted. I caught the sound of heavy steps ascending from the lowest floor, and in my heart I quaked lest they should arrive ere I could be rid of my companion and be gone myself. He was for a moment undecided, and then, as the feet drew nearer, he cast upon me a malignant look.

“I will have you yet,” said he, and with that swiftly and silently disappeared.

On the instant I struck out the lantern, and slipped to the open doors. The chain dangled before me at arm's length; and the feet of the law were on the stairs. I swung out over the water, and dropped rapidly, noiselessly, until my legs were in the river. The barge was gone, and the tide was running high. I crept along the mud-bottom, waist-deep, and made my way among the groaning lighters into the darkness of the night.