ZERO'S TALE OF THE EXPLOSIVE BOMB. {4}
I dined by appointment with one of our most trusted agents, in a
private chamber at St. James's Hall. You have seen the man: it
was M'Guire, the most chivalrous of creatures, but not himself
expert in our contrivances. Hence the necessity of our meeting;
for I need not remind you what enormous issues depend upon the nice
adjustment of the engine. I set our little petard for half an
hour, the scene of action being hard by; and the better to avert
miscarriage, employed a device, a recent invention of my own, by
which the opening of the Gladstone bag in which the bomb was
carried, should instantly determine the explosion. M'Guire was
somewhat dashed by this arrangement, which was new to him: and
pointed out, with excellent, clear good sense, that should he be
arrested, it would probably involve him in the fall of our
opponents. But I was not to be moved, made a strong appeal to his
patriotism, gave him a good glass of whisky, and despatched him on
his glorious errand.
Our objective was the effigy of Shakespeare in Leicester Square: a
spot, I think, admirably chosen; not only for the sake of the
dramatist, still very foolishly claimed as a glory by the English
race, in spite of his disgusting political opinions; but from the
fact that the seats in the immediate neighbourhood are often
thronged by children, errand-boys, unfortunate young ladies of the
poorer class and infirm old men--all classes making a direct appeal
to public pity, and therefore suitable with our designs. As
M'Guire drew near his heart was inflamed by the most noble
sentiment of triumph. Never had he seen the garden so crowded;
children, still stumbling in the impotence of youth, ran to and
fro, shouting and playing, round the pedestal; an old, sick
pensioner sat upon the nearest bench, a medal on his breast, a
stick with which he walked (for he was disabled by wounds)
reclining on his knee. Guilty England would thus be stabbed in the
most delicate quarters; the moment had, indeed, been well selected;
and M'Guire, with a radiant provision of the event, drew merrily
nearer. Suddenly his eye alighted on the burly form of a
policeman, standing hard by the effigy in an attitude of watch. My
bold companion paused; he looked about him closely; here and there,
at different points of the enclosure, other men stood or loitered,
affecting an abstraction, feigning to gaze upon the shrubs,
feigning to talk, feigning to be weary and to rest upon the
benches. M'Guire was no child in these affairs; he instantly
divined one of the plots of the Machiavellian Gladstone.
A chief difficulty with which we have to deal, is a certain
nervousness in the subaltern branches of the corps; as the hour of
some design draws near, these chicken-souled conspirators appear to
suffer some revulsion of intent; and frequently despatch to the
authorities, not indeed specific denunciations, but vague anonymous
warnings. But for this purely accidental circumstance, England had
long ago been an historical expression. On the receipt of such a
letter, the Government lay a trap for their adversaries, and
surround the threatened spot with hirelings. My blood sometimes
boils in my veins, when I consider the case of those who sell
themselves for money in such a cause. True, thanks to the
generosity of our supporters, we patriots receive a very
comfortable stipend; I myself, of course, touch a salary which puts
me quite beyond the reach of any peddling, mercenary thoughts;
M'Guire, again, ere he joined our ranks, was on the brink of
starving, and now, thank God! receives a decent income. That is as
it should be; the patriot must not be diverted from his task by any
base consideration; and the distinction between our position and
that of the police is too obvious to be stated.
Plainly, however, our Leicester Square design had been divulged;
the Government had craftily filled the place with minions; even the
pensioner was not improbably a hireling in disguise; and our
emissary, without other aid or protection than the simple apparatus
in his bag, found himself confronted by force; brutal force; that
strong hand which was a character of the ages of oppression.
Should he venture to deposit the machine, it was almost certain
that he would be observed and arrested; a cry would arise; and
there was just a fear that the police might not be present in
sufficient force, to protect him from the savagery of the mob. The
scheme must be delayed. He stood with his bag on his arm,
pretending to survey the front of the Alhambra, when there flashed
into his mind a thought to appal the bravest. The machine was set;
at the appointed hour, it must explode; and how, in the interval,
was he to be rid of it?
Put yourself, I beseech you, into the body of that patriot. There
he was, friendless and helpless; a man in the very flower of life,
for he is not yet forty; with long years of happiness before him;
and now condemned, in one moment, to a cruel and revolting death by
dynamite! The square, he said, went round him like a thaumatrope;
he saw the Alhambra leap into the air like a balloon; and reeled
against the railing. It is probable he fainted.
When he came to himself, a constable had him by the arm.
'My God!' he cried.
'You seem to be unwell, sir,' said the hireling.
'I feel better now,' cried poor M'Guire: and with uneven steps,
for the pavement of the square seemed to lurch and reel under his
footing, he fled from the scene of this disaster. Fled? Alas,
from what was he fleeing? Did he not carry that from which he fled
along with him? and had he the wings of the eagle, had he the
swiftness of the ocean winds, could he have been rapt into the
uttermost quarters of the earth, how should he escape the ruin that
he carried? We have heard of living men who have been fettered to
the dead; the grievance, soberly considered, is no more than
sentimental; the case is but a flea-bite to that of him who should
be linked, like poor M'Guire, to an explosive bomb.
A thought struck him in Green Street, like a dart through his
liver: suppose it were the hour already. He stopped as though he
had been shot, and plucked his watch out. There was a howling in
his ears, as loud as a winter tempest; his sight was now obscured
as if by a cloud, now, as by a lightning flash, would show him the
very dust upon the street. But so brief were these intervals of
vision, and so violently did the watch vibrate in his hands, that
it was impossible to distinguish the numbers on the dial. He
covered his eyes for a few seconds; and in that space, it seemed to
him that he had fallen to be a man of ninety. When he looked
again, the watch-plate had grown legible: he had twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes, and no plan!
Green Street, at that time, was very empty; and he now observed a
little girl of about six drawing near to him, and as she came,
kicking in front of her, as children will, a piece of wood. She
sang, too; and something in her accent recalling him to the past,
produced a sudden clearness in his mind. Here was a God-sent
opportunity!
'My dear,' said he, 'would you like a present of a pretty bag?'
The child cried aloud with joy and put out her hands to take it.
She had looked first at the bag, like a true child; but most
unfortunately, before she had yet received the fatal gift, her eyes
fell directly on M'Guire; and no sooner had she seen the poor
gentleman's face, than she screamed out and leaped backward, as
though she had seen the devil. Almost at the same moment a woman
appeared upon the threshold of a neighbouring shop, and called upon
the child in anger. 'Come here, colleen,' she said, 'and don't be
plaguing the poor old gentleman!' With that she re-entered the
house, and the child followed her, sobbing aloud.
With the loss of this hope M'Guire's reason swooned within him.
When next he awoke to consciousness, he was standing before St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields, wavering like a drunken man; the passers-by
regarding him with eyes in which he read, as in a glass, an image
of the terror and horror that dwelt within his own.
'I am afraid you are very ill, sir,' observed a woman, stopping and
gazing hard in his face. 'Can I do anything to help you?'
'Ill?' said M'Guire. 'O God!' And then, recovering some shadow of
his self-command, 'Chronic, madam,' said he: 'a long course of the
dumb ague. But since you are so compassionate--an errand that I
lack the strength to carry out,' he gasped--'this bag to Portman
Square. Oh, compassionate woman, as you hope to be saved, as you
are a mother, in the name of your babes that wait to welcome you at
home, oh, take this bag to Portman Square! I have a mother, too,'
he added, with a broken voice. 'Number 19, Portman Square.'
I suppose he had expressed himself with too much energy of voice;
for the woman was plainly taken with a certain fear of him. 'Poor
gentleman!' said she. 'If I were you, I would go home.' And she
left him standing there in his distress.
'Home!' thought M'Guire, 'what a derision!' What home was there
for him, the victim of philanthropy? He thought of his old mother,
of his happy youth; of the hideous, rending pang of the explosion;
of the possibility that he might not be killed, that he might be
cruelly mangled, crippled for life, condemned to lifelong pains,
blinded perhaps, and almost surely deafened. Ah, you spoke lightly
of the dynamiter's peril; but even waiving death, have you realised
what it is for a fine, brave young man of forty, to be smitten
suddenly with deafness, cut off from all the music of life, and
from the voice of friendship, and love? How little do we realise
the sufferings of others! Even your brutal Government, in the
heyday of its lust for cruelty, though it scruples not to hound the
patriot with spies, to pack the corrupt jury, to bribe the hangman,
and to erect the infamous gallows, would hesitate to inflict so
horrible a doom: not, I am well aware, from virtue, not from
philanthropy, but with the fear before it of the withering scorn of
the good.
But I wander from M'Guire. From this dread glance into the past
and future, his thoughts returned at a bound upon the present. How
had he wandered there? and how long--oh, heavens! how long had he
been about it? He pulled out his watch; and found that but three
minutes had elapsed. It seemed too bright a thing to be believed.
He glanced at the church clock; and sure enough, it marked an hour
four minutes faster than the watch.
Of all that he endured, M'Guire declares that pang was the most
desolate. Till then, he had had one friend, one counsellor, in
whom he plenarily trusted; by whose advertisement, he numbered the
minutes that remained to him of life; on whose sure testimony, he
could tell when the time was come to risk the last adventure, to
cast the bag away from him, and take to flight. And now in what
was he to place reliance? His watch was slow; it might be losing
time; if so, in what degree? What limit could he set to its
derangement? and how much was it possible for a watch to lose in
thirty minutes? Five? ten? fifteen? It might be so; already, it
seemed years since he had left St. James's Hall on this so
promising enterprise; at any moment, then, the blow was to be
looked for.
In the face of this new distress, the wild disorder of his pulses
settled down; and a broken weariness succeeded, as though he had
lived for centuries and for centuries been dead. The buildings and
the people in the street became incredibly small, and far-away, and
bright; London sounded in his ears stilly, like a whisper; and the
rattle of the cab that nearly charged him down, was like a sound
from Africa. Meanwhile, he was conscious of a strange abstraction
from himself; and heard and felt his footfalls on the ground, as
those of a very old, small, debile and tragically fortuned man,
whom he sincerely pitied.
As he was thus moving forward past the National Gallery, in a
medium, it seemed, of greater rarity and quiet than ordinary air,
there slipped into his mind the recollection of a certain entry in
Whitcomb Street hard by, where he might perhaps lay down his tragic
cargo unremarked. Thither, then, he bent his steps, seeming, as he
went, to float above the pavement; and there, in the mouth of the
entry, he found a man in a sleeved waistcoat, gravely chewing a
straw. He passed him by, and twice patrolled the entry, scouting
for the barest chance; but the man had faced about and continued to
observe him curiously.
Another hope was gone. M'Guire reissued from the entry, still
followed by the wondering eyes of the man in the sleeved waistcoat.
He once more consulted his watch: there were but fourteen minutes
left to him. At that, it seemed as if a sudden, genial heat were
spread about his brain; for a second or two, he saw the world as
red as blood; and thereafter entered into a complete possession of
himself, with an incredible cheerfulness of spirits, prompting him
to sing and chuckle as he walked. And yet this mirth seemed to
belong to things external; and within, like a black and leaden-
heavy kernel, he was conscious of the weight upon his soul.
I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me,
he sang, and laughed at the appropriate burthen, so that the
passengers stared upon him on the street. And still the warmth
seemed to increase and to become more genial. What was life? he
considered, and what he, M'Guire? What even Erin, our green Erin?
All seemed so incalculably little that he smiled as he looked down
upon it. He would have given years, had he possessed them, for a
glass of spirits; but time failed, and he must deny himself this
last indulgence.
At the corner of the Haymarket, he very jauntily hailed a hansom
cab; jumped in; bade the fellow drive him to a part of the
Embankment, which he named; and as soon as the vehicle was in
motion, concealed the bag as completely as he could under the
vantage of the apron, and once more drew out his watch. So he rode
for five interminable minutes, his heart in his mouth at every
jolt, scarce able to possess his terrors, yet fearing to wake the
attention of the driver by too obvious a change of plan, and
willing, if possible, to leave him time to forget the Gladstone
bag.
At length, at the head of some stairs on the Embankment, he hailed;
the cab was stopped; and he alighted--with how glad a heart! He
thrust his hand into his pocket. All was now over; he had saved
his life; nor that alone, but he had engineered a striking act of
dynamite; for what could be more pictorial, what more effective,
than the explosion of a hansom cab, as it sped rapidly along the
streets of London. He felt in one pocket; then in another. The
most crushing seizure of despair descended on his soul; and struck
into abject dumbness, he stared upon the driver. He had not one
penny.
'Hillo,' said the driver, 'don't seem well.'
'Lost my money,' said M'Guire, in tones so faint and strange that
they surprised his hearing.
The man looked through the trap. 'I dessay,' said he: 'you've
left your bag.'
M'Guire half unconsciously fetched it out; and looking on that
black continent at arm's length, withered inwardly and felt his
features sharpen as with mortal sickness.
'This is not mine,' said he. 'Your last fare must have left it.
You had better take it to the station.'
'Now look here,' returned the cabman: 'are you off your chump? or
am I?'
'Well, then, I'll tell you what,' exclaimed M'Guire; 'you take it
for your fare!'
'Oh, I dessay,' replied the driver. 'Anything else? What's IN
your bag? Open it, and let me see.'
'No, no,' returned M'Guire. 'Oh no, not that. It's a surprise;
it's prepared expressly: a surprise for honest cabmen.'
'No, you don't,' said the man, alighting from his perch, and coming
very close to the unhappy patriot. 'You're either going to pay my
fare, or get in again and drive to the office.'
It was at this supreme hour of his distress, that M'Guire spied the
stout figure of one Godall, a tobacconist of Rupert Street, drawing
near along the Embankment. The man was not unknown to him; he had
bought of his wares, and heard him quoted for the soul of
liberality; and such was now the nearness of his peril, that even
at such a straw of hope, he clutched with gratitude.
'Thank God!' he cried. 'Here comes a friend of mine. I'll
borrow.' And he dashed to meet the tradesman. 'Sir,' said he,
'Mr. Godall, I have dealt with you--you doubtless know my face--
calamities for which I cannot blame myself have overwhelmed me.
Oh, sir, for the love of innocence, for the sake of the bonds of
humanity, and as you hope for mercy at the throne of grace, lend me
two-and-six!'
'I do not recognise your face,' replied Mr. Godall; 'but I remember
the cut of your beard, which I have the misfortune to dislike.
Here, sir, is a sovereign; which I very willingly advance to you,
on the single condition that you shave your chin.'
M'Guire grasped the coin without a word; cast it to the cabman,
calling out to him to keep the change; bounded down the steps,
flung the bag far forth into the river, and fell headlong after it.
He was plucked from a watery grave, it is believed, by the hands of
Mr. Godall. Even as he was being hoisted dripping to the shore, a
dull and choked explosion shook the solid masonry of the
Embankment, and far out in the river a momentary fountain rose and
disappeared.
