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
aggrevated 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, and
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 seemd 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
figues 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 the, 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 the
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.
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