Hello.
Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,
Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.
Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.
But before we begin,
Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.
Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.
Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.
It is time to relax and fully let go.
There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.
Happy listening.
Chapter 50 The Pursuit and Escape Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abats,
Where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest,
With the dust of colliers and the smoke of those close-built,
Low-roofed houses,
There exists the filthiest,
The strangest,
The most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London,
Wholly unknown even by name,
To the great mass of its inhabitants.
To reach this place,
The visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close,
Narrow and muddy streets,
Thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion.
The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops,
The coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman's door and stream from the house parapet and windows.
Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class,
Ballast heavers,
Coal whippers,
Brazen women,
Ragged children and the raff and refuse of the river,
He makes his way with difficulty along,
Assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left,
And deafened by the clash of ponderous wagons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner.
Arriving at length in streets remoter and less frequented than those through which he has passed,
He walks beneath the tottering housefronts,
Projecting over the pavement,
Dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes,
Chimneys half-crushed,
Half-hesitating to fall,
Windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away.
Every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect.
In such a neighbourhood,
Beyond Dockhead in the borough of Southwark,
Stands Jacob's Island,
Surrounded by a muddy ditch,
Six or eight feet deep and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in,
Once called Mill Pond,
But known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch.
It is a creek or inlet from the Thames,
And can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the lead mills from which it took its old name.
At such times,
A stranger,
Looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane,
Will see the inhabitants of the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows,
Buckets,
Pails,
Domestic utensils of all kinds,
In which to haul the water up.
And when his eyes turn from these operations to the houses themselves,
His utmost astonishment will be excited by the scene before him.
Crazy wooden galleries,
Common to the backs of half a dozen houses,
With holes from which to look upon the slime beneath,
Windows broken and patched with holes and poles thrust out,
On which to dry the linen that is never there,
Rooms so small,
Filthy and confined,
That the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter,
Wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud and threatening to fall into it,
As some have done,
Dirt besmeared walls and decaying foundations,
Every repulsive liniment of poverty,
Every loathsome indication of filth,
Rot and garbage,
All these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.
In Jacob's Island,
The warehouses are roofless and empty,
The walls are crumbling down,
The windows are windows no more,
The doors are falling into the streets,
The chimneys are blackened but they yield no smoke.
Thirty or forty years ago,
Before losses and chancery suits came upon it,
It was a thriving place,
But now it is a desolate island indeed.
The houses of no owners,
They are broken open and entered upon by those who have the courage,
And there they live and there they die.
They must have powerful motives for a secret residence,
Or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed,
Who seek a refuge in Jacob's Island.
In an upper room of one of these houses,
A detached house of fair size,
Ruinous in other respects,
But strongly defended,
A door and window,
Of which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already described,
There are assembled three men,
Who regarding each other now and then with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation,
Sat for some time in profound and gloomy silence.
One of these was Toby Crackett,
Another Mr Chitling,
And a third,
A robber of fifty years,
Whose nose had been almost beaten in,
In some old scuffle,
And whose face bore a frightful scar,
Which might probably be traced to the same occasion.
This man was a returned transport,
And his name was Cags.
I wish,
Said Toby,
Turning to Mr Chitling,
You'd got picked out some other crib,
When the two old ones got too warm,
And had not come him a fine fella.
Why didn't you blunder,
Ed?
Said Cags.
Well,
I thought you'd have been a little more glad to see me than this,
Replied Mr Chitling with a melancholy air.
Look,
Young gentleman,
Said Toby,
When a man keeps himself so very exclusive,
As I've done,
And by that means has a snug house over his head,
With no one a-prying,
Smelling about it,
It's rather a startling thing to have the honour of a visit from a young gentleman,
However respectable and pleasant a person he may be,
To play cards with at all conveniency.
Especially when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with him,
That's arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts,
And is too modest to want to be presented to the judges on his return,
Added Mr Cags.
There was a short silence,
After which Toby Crackett,
Seeming to abandon as hopeless any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger,
Turned to Chitling and said,
When was Fagin took then?
Just at dinner time,
Two o'clock this afternoon,
Charlie and I made our lucky up the washer's chimney,
And Bolter got into the empty water bath,
Ed downwards,
But his legs were so precious long they stuck out the top,
And they took him too.
And Bette,
Poor Bette,
She went to see the body,
To speak to who it was,
Replied Chitling,
His countenance falling more and more.
She went off mad,
Screaming and raving,
And beating her head against the board,
So they put a straight waistcoat on her and took her to the hospital,
And there she is.
What's come of young Bates?
Demanded Cags.
He hung about not to come over here for dark,
But he'll be here soon,
Replied Chitling.
There's nowhere else to go now,
The people at the cripples are all in custody,
And the bar of the Ken,
I went up there and see it with my own eyes,
Is filled with traps.
This is a smash,
Observed Toby,
Biting his lips.
There's more than one will go with this.
The sessions are on,
Said Cags,
If they get the inquest over,
And Bolter turns King's evidence,
As of course he will,
And what he said already,
They can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact,
And get the trial on Friday,
And he'll swing six days from this by God.
You should have heard the people groan,
Said Chitling.
The officers fought like the devils,
Or they'd have torn him away.
He was down once,
But they made a ring round him and fought their way along.
You should have seen how he looked about him,
All muddy and bleeding,
And clung to them as if they were his dearest friends.
I can see him now,
Not able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob,
And dragging him along amongst them.
I can see the people jumping up,
Right behind another,
And snarling with their teeth and making at him.
I can see the blood upon his hair and beard,
And hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd.
Swore they'd tear his heart out,
They did.
The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears,
And with his eyes closed,
Got up and paced violently to and fro like one distracted.
While he was thus engaged,
And the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor.
A pattering noise was heard upon the stairs,
And Sykes's dog bounded into the room.
They ran to the window,
Downstairs and into the street.
The dog jumped in at an open window,
Made no attempt to follow them,
Nor was his master to be seen.
What's the meaning of this?
Said Toby when they returned.
He can't be coming here,
I hope not.
If he was coming here,
He'd have come with a dog,
Said Cags,
Stooping down to examine the animal who lay panting on the floor.
Here,
Give us some water for him,
He's run himself faint.
He's drunk it all up,
Every drop,
Said Chickling after watching the dog some time in silence,
Covered with mud.
Lame,
Half-blind,
He must have come a long way.
Where can he have come from?
Exclaimed Toby.
He's been to the other kens,
Of course,
And finding them filled with strangers,
He's come on here,
Where he's been many a time.
But where can he have come from first?
And how's he here alone without the other?
He.
.
.
None of them called the murderer by his old name.
He can't have made away with himself.
What do you think?
Said Chickling.
Toby shook his head.
If he had,
Said Cags,
The dog would want to lead us away to where he did it.
No,
I think he's gone out of the country and left the dog behind.
He must have given him the slip,
Or he wouldn't be so easy.
This solution,
Appearing the most probable one,
Was adopted as the right.
The dog creeping under a chair,
Coiled himself up to sleep without more notice from anybody.
It being now dark,
The shutter was closed and a candle lighted and placed upon the table.
The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three,
Increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position.
They drew their chairs closer together,
Starting at every sound.
They spoke little,
And that in whispers,
And were as silent and awestricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.
They sat thus some time when suddenly a hurried knocking was at the door below.
Young Bates,
Said Cags.
The knocking came again.
No,
It wasn't Young Bates.
He never knocked like that.
Crackett went to the window and shaking all over,
Drew in his head.
There was no need to tell them who it was.
His pale face was enough.
The dog was on the alert in an instant,
And ran whining to the door.
We must let him in,
He said,
Taking up the candle.
Isn't there any help for it?
Asked the other man in a hoarse voice.
None.
He must come in.
Don't leave us in the dark,
Said Cags,
Taking down a candle from the chimney piece.
And lighting it with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he'd finished.
Crackett went down to the door and returned,
Followed by a man with a lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief,
And another tied over his head under his hat.
He drew them slowly off.
Blanched face,
Sunken eyes,
Hollow cheeks,
Beard of three days' growth,
Wasted flesh,
Short,
Thick breath.
It was the very ghost of Sykes.
He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room,
But shuddering as he was about to drop into it,
He seemed to glance over his shoulder,
Dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go,
And ground it against it before sitting down.
Not a word was exchanged.
He looked from one to another in silence.
If an eye were furtively raised and met his,
It was instantly averted.
They seemed never to have heard its tones before.
How came the dog here?
He asked.
Alone,
Three hours ago.
Tonight's paper said Fagin's took.
Is it true or a lie?
True.
Damn you all,
Said Sykes,
Passing his hand across his forehead.
Have you nothing to say to me?
There was an uneasy movement among them,
But nobody spoke.
You that keep this house,
Said Sykes,
Turning his face to Crackett.
Do you mean to sell me,
Or let me lie till this hunt's over?
You may stop here if you think it's safe,
Returned the person after some hesitation.
Sykes carried his eye slowly up the wall behind him,
Rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it,
And said,
Is it.
.
.
Is the body buried?
They shook their heads.
Why isn't it,
He retorted with the same glance.
Why do they keep such ugly things above the ground?
Who's that knocking?
Crackett intimated by a motion of his hand as he left the room,
There was nothing to fear,
And directly came back with Charlie Bates behind him.
Sykes sat opposite the door so that the moment the boy entered the room,
He encountered his figure.
Toby,
Said the boy,
Falling back as Sykes turned his eyes towards him.
Why didn't you tell me this downstairs?
There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking of all the three that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad.
Accordingly,
He nodded and made as though he would shake his hand.
Let me go into some other room,
Said the boy,
Retreating still further.
Charlie,
Said Sykes,
Stepping forward.
Don't you know me?
Don't come near me,
Answered the boy,
Still retreating and looking with horror in his eyes upon the murderer's face.
You monster!
The man stopped halfway and they looked at each other,
But Sykes' eyes sunk gradually to the ground.
Witness you three,
Cried the boy,
Shaking his clenched fist.
Witness you three?
I'm not afraid of him.
If they come here after him,
I'll give him up,
I will.
I'll tell you that at once.
He may kill me for it if he likes or if he dares,
But if I'm here,
I'll give him up.
I'll give him up if he was boiled alive.
Murder!
Help!
If there's the pluck of a man among you three,
You'll help me.
Murder!
Help!
Down with him!
Pouring out these cries and accompanying them with violent gesticulation,
The boy actually threw himself single-handed upon the strong man.
And in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise,
He brought Sykes heavily to the ground.
The three spectators seemed quite stupefied,
They offered no interference,
And the boy and the man rolled on the ground together,
The former heedless of the blows that showered upon him,
Wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast and never ceasing to call for help with all his might.
The contest,
However,
Was too unequal to last long.
Sykes had him down,
His knee was on his throat,
When Crackett pulled him back with a look of alarm and pointed to the window.
Down below there were lights gleaming,
Voices in loud and earnest conversation that tramp of hurried footsteps.
Endless they seemed in number,
Crossing the nearest wooden bridge.
One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd,
For there was the noise of hooves rattling on the uneven pavement.
The gleam of lights increased,
The footsteps came more thickly,
Then came a loud knocking at the door,
And a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices that would have made the boldest quail.
