Kabanata Kabanata 21 · THE EXPEDITION

. THE EXPEDITION

THE EXPEDITION

It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and

raining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had

been very wet: large pools of water had collected in the road: and the

kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming

day in the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the

scene: the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street

lamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the

wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody

stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses were

all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were

noiseless and empty.

By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had

fairly begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a

few country waggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and

then, a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver

bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash upon the heavy waggoner

who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had endangered his

arriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time. The

public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By

degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people

were met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their

work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads;

donkey-carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock

or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken

concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the eastern

suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and traffic

gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch

and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was

as light as it was likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy

morning of half the London population had begun.

Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square,

Mr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into

Long Lane, and so into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a

tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.

It was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with

filth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking

bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest

upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre

of the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into

the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the

gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep.

Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and

vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the

whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of

the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs,

the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides;

the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from every

public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and

yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every

corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty

figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the

throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite

confounded the senses.

Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the

thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the

numerous sights and sounds, which so astonished the boy. He nodded,

twice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting as many

invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they

were clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane

into Holborn.

“Now, young ’un!” said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew’s

Church, “hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don’t lag behind

already, Lazy-legs!”

Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion’s

wrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast

walk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as

well as he could.

They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park

corner, and were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his

pace, until an empty cart which was at some little distance behind,

came up. Seeing “Hounslow” written on it, he asked the driver with as

much civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as far

as Isleworth.

“Jump up,” said the man. “Is that your boy?”

“Yes; he’s my boy,” replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting

his hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.

“Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he, my man?”

inquired the driver: seeing that Oliver was out of breath.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes, interposing. “He’s used to it. Here,

take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!”

Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver,

pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest

himself.

As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and

more, where his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith,

Chiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on

as steadily as if they had only just begun their journey. At length,

they came to a public-house called the Coach and Horses; a little way

beyond which, another road appeared to run off. And here, the cart

stopped.

Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand

all the while; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look

upon him, and rapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant

manner.

“Good-bye, boy,” said the man.

“He’s sulky,” replied Sikes, giving him a shake; “he’s sulky. A young

dog! Don’t mind him.”

“Not I!” rejoined the other, getting into his cart. “It’s a fine day,

after all.” And he drove away.

Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he

might look about him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his

journey.

They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and

then, taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many

large gardens and gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and

stopping for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town. Here

against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large

letters, “Hampton.” They lingered about, in the fields, for some hours.

At length they came back into the town; and, turning into an old

public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinner by the

kitchen fire.

The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the

middle of the ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the

fire; on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking

and smoking. They took no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes;

and, as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade

sat in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their

company.

They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr.

Sikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to

feel quite certain they were not going any further. Being much tired

with the walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a little at first;

then, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell

asleep.

It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing

himself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy

in close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint

of ale.

“So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, I am,” replied the man, who seemed a little the worse—or better,

as the case might be—for drinking; “and not slow about it neither. My

horse hasn’t got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in

the mornin’; and he won’t be long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him.

Ecod! he’s a good ’un!”

“Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?” demanded Sikes,

pushing the ale towards his new friend.

“If you’re going directly, I can,” replied the man, looking out of the

pot. “Are you going to Halliford?”

“Going on to Shepperton,” replied Sikes.

“I’m your man, as far as I go,” replied the other. “Is all paid,

Becky?”

“Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,” replied the girl.

“I say!” said the man, with tipsy gravity; “that won’t do, you know.”

“Why not?” rejoined Sikes. “You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s

to prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?”

The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face;

having done so, he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real

good fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had

been sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.

After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company

good-night, and went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as

they did so, and lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see

the party start.

The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing

outside: ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without

any further ceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered

for a minute or two “to bear him up,” and to defy the hostler and the

world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then, the hostler was told to

give the horse his head; and, his head being given him, he made a very

unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and

running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing those

feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs, he

started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right

gallantly.

The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the

marshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was

piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken;

for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him

into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the

cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange

objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as

if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.

As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a

light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the

road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves

beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and

the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed

like quiet music for the repose of the dead.

Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road.

Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took

Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on.

They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected;

but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes

and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights

of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw

that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the

foot of a bridge.

Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then

turned suddenly down a bank upon the left.

“The water!” thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. “He has brought me

to this lonely place to murder me!”

He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for

his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house:

all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the

dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible.

The house was dark, dismantled: and, to all appearance, uninhabited.

Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low

porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they

passed in together.