by by G.E.S.
Originally published in Bradshaw's Journal (William Strange) vol.2 #9 (01 Jan 1842).
On Christmas Eve, 18—, three notorious blackguards were assembled round the taproom fire of the little Red Lion, in our village of B--. One was Ned Shakoe, the town crier, who could never effectually exercise his vocation, unless he were about seven-eighths drunk; the second was Bob Bunce, the shoemaker; and the third, for some reason unknown, rejoiced in the euphonical sobriquet of "Bell Horse."
The occupation of the latter worthy was, at least, as mysterious as his nick-name. Ostensibly he was a hawker of fish, but it was thought that all was fish that came to his net; he was strongly suspected of a penchant for smuggling; more than suspected of poaching; had been taken up three times, on suspicion of hen-roosting, but discharged for want of sufficient evidence to warrant a committal; he was once lame of the off-leg for a fuJl month, in consequence (as he averred) of a fall from his fagot-stack—though it was none of the highest—but it was considered a remarkable coincidence, that, on the very night in which he met with this misfortune, one of Squire Golding's man-traps had miraculously progressed several yards along the garden walk, in chase of a fragment of yarn, very much resembling, in colour and texture, the stockings usually worn by Bell Horse; and it was shrewdly, though very uncharitably, imagined, that if the said trap had not been rather weak in the joints, and minus a fang or two, by reason of age, it would have had something more than an old stocking between its jaws, when the gardener went his morning round; but all these things, as before observed, were mere suspicions.
But to return to the little Red Lion—awhile the three friends sat in solemn silence, puffing, with laudable industry, their short black-looking pipes, and occasionally moistening their throats from a pewter pot that stood on the table at their elbows. At length this silence was broken by Ned Shakoe kindly enquiring as to the prospects of his companions relative to a Christmas dinner. To all appearance, however, the question elicited no very cheering anticipation, as Bob Bunce shook his head despondingly, and puffed away with renewed energy; and Bell Horse growled out an emphatic "taters, I reckon." But Ned was not to be rebuffed in this way, for a bright thought had taken possession of his imagination; so he repeated the word "taters" with very decided indignation, and expressed his surprise that so honourable a gentleman as his friend Bell Horse should be satisfied with a dinner so every way Irish, and summed up his exordium with asking whether either Bell Horse or Bob Bunce had noticed the fine show of sucking pigs, that had, on the previous day, been exhibited for sale in the shop of Barton, the pork butcher. Thus appealed to, Bob Bunce and Bell Horse could not but acknowledge that the sight had rivetted their attention, and excited their longing desires.
"Well, my hearties," said Ned, warming with the benevolent project he had formed, "what do you say to a lick of pig for to-morrow?"
"What! a sucking pig?" asked Bunce.
"No, my boy, not a sucking pig, but a nice young porker."
"Where's it to come from?" growled Bell Horse.
"Out of Bob Bunce's sty," chuckled Ned Shakoe, with a broad grin that would have delighted George Colman the younger.
"Thankee, Ned," retorted Bob, "that won't do, my boy—the pig must go for rent; you must look somewhere else for your Christmas dinner I reckon."
"Well then," whispered Ned, in a low tone, and casting a furtive glance round the room, to make sure they were alone—"well then, if we can't have your pig, we can have—but, honour bright."
"Honour bright," echoed Bob.
"Honour bright," re-echoed Bell Horse.
"Hasn't old Marks got one about the size of yourn?"
"'Twon't do, Ned; his garden joins next mine, and he'd track us through the hedge."
Will he though?" chimed in Bell Horse, "not if we go the back way, through the fields and so get him out at the bottom of his garden."
"Well," said Bob, doubtfully, "and what shall we do with him then?"
"Take him round to your house, Bob, and cut him up there."
"Umph! what, before he's killed?"
"No, no!" said Bell Horse, who began to warm to the anticipated exploit,—"we can stick him in the sty."
"He'll kick up a row," said Bob.
"He won't," replied Bell Horse.
"What's to hinder him?" asked Bob, enquiringly.
"That's a secret," grinned Bell Horse.
"I won't have anything to do with it," growled Bob.
"You will," replied Ned, "and I tell you what you shall do: you stop at home, and Bell Horse and I will do the job, and then we'll bring him round to your street door. We'll take care that old Marks shan't track us, and he won't think of looking for his pig so near home."
This pretty well settled the bargain, and when they parted at the Red Lion door, it was understood that Bob was to wait up, in the dark, while Bell Horse and Ned proceeded with the more active and energetic measures necessary for the success of their plot.
The night was propitious—the moon was below the horizon, and the stars glimmered fitfully and faintly through the murky atmosphere. "There was just light enough," as Bell Horse remarked, "and none too much," and the pig stealers set about their work skillfully and expeditiously. A hammer and a sharp knife soon settled the business, and the folds of a sack enveloped the stiffening limbs of the for-ever-silenced porker. Stealthily did the two rogues traverse the field that bounded the gardens at the back of our village; swiftly did they glide through the churchyard, which lay in their route; cautiously did they creep along the darkened street; and safely did they deposit their burden on the floor of Bob Bunce's room, which, like that of his celebrated brother of the lapstone, "who lived in a stall—served him for kitchen and parlour and hall."—There we must leave them, while we just step back to the churchyard.
It so happened, that, silently and rapidly as our two heroes passed through the dreary precincts of the dead, they were not altogether unobserved; and it happened on this wise. Just a week before, 'our village' had suffered an irretrievable loss in the sudden demise of that worthy old gentleman, Jacob Meadows, Esq., or, as he was oftener called—by reason of his diminutive stature and obese bulk—Squire Dumpy. Now Squire Dumpy—like other little big men—had his whims and oddities, and one of these, was a sure and certain expectation that his body would not be permitted to repose in peace, beneath the green sods of his native village—in other words, he had a supreme dread of a premature and surreptitious resurrection. He had, therefore, like a wise man as he was, extorted a solemn promise from a friend, whom he made his executor, that for a certain number of nights subsequent to his burial, a strict watch should be kept in the vicinity of his grave. It happened, too, that his friend was alike faithful to his trust, and secret in the performance of it, so that, though this was the third night of the watch, none but the parties immediately concerned were aware of its existence. The watchers were two, and for their accommodation, the church porch was allowed to be used as a sentry box, and sundry little indulgencies, in the shape of sandwiches, biscuits, and brandy ad libitum, were thrown into the bargain. It is not, therefore, to be greatly wondered at, that a certain degree of obliviousness crept over them towards the middle of the night, which, though it did not altogether close their eyes to external objects, had the effect of rendering them less capable of drawing deductions 'a priori,' from what passed before them. When, therefore, they observed through the surrounding gloom, two figures, bearing between them an apparently heavy load, tied up, as they fancied they could discern, in a sack, and proceeding evidently from the vicinity of Squire Dumpy's grave, they jumped at once to the very natural conclusion that these were neither more nor less than the wretches against whose machinations they had expressly pitted themselves. It was too evident to themselves that they had slept at their post, and that while they slumbered, the deed had been performed. What was to be done?
"Let's knock 'um down," whispered Jack Armstrong.
"Let's see where they go," advised Sam Carey.
Sam's advice prevailed over the bolder suggestion of Jack; and they followed at a secure distance, till they found themselves suddenly at fault in the vicinity of Bob Bunce's house.
"Where did they go?" said Sam.
"Hush," said Jack.—"I can hear 'um."
"Where?" asked Sam, in a low whisper.
Jack put his finger to his lips, and crept on tiptoe to Bob Bunce's window. A low muttering was heard inside, the purport of which seemed to indicate to the astonished listeners without, the most cold-blooded, disgusting, and unnatural disposition of the villains within. The corpse they had just disinterred was evidently the subject of their conversation.
"Seems a good fat 'un," said a low voice, which they at once recognized as belonging to Bob Bunce. And the encomium was followed up by two or three loving pats on the bare body. The blood curdled in Sam's veins, and Jack shivered, much as though suddenly seized with the ague.
The next words they could distinguish were something very like "cut him up."
"I think we had better cut," said Sam.
"Wait a bit," said Jack.
"Hands in salt," were the next distinguishable words. Sam's fingers began to itch horribly.
"Feet stewed in vinegar," whispered one, and "toes chopped up for sauce," rejoined another. Sam grew very faint, and Jack's stomach heaved unmercifully, but they stood their ground, and listened with awful intensity.
"Boil his head," and "fry his liver," were the next propositions—it was enough,—nature could bear no more. It was as much as the horrified auditors could do, to withdraw to a safe distance from the vicinity of the wretched anthropophagi undiscovered. The retreat was no sooner accomplished than Sam Carey fainted outright, and Jack Armstrong only stayed a violent fit of retching, by cramming the whole contents of his tobacco box into his mouth at once.
Sam's fainting fit did not last long, for the sharp air of a December morning has a wonderfully reviving effect; and the two frightened watchmen were soon on their way to the house of their employer, who lived a little way out of the village, and who happened to be one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace. Mr. Field—for that was his name—was speedily roused from his sleep, and listened, with becoming patience and wonder, to the mysterious story, of which, however, little could be made. That the bodysnatchers—for he did not for a moment call in question the statement that the body of his friend had been exhumed—but that the body snatchers could in reality purpose the mutilation and mastication of it, was beyond the bounds of credibility; the most reasonable inference to be drawn from the statement of his men, was that either some coarse jokes had been bandied by the hardened villains, or that the purport of the words had been altogether misunderstood and misinterpreted. But let this be as it might, it was enough that the grave had been violated, and he forthwith took measures for the rescue of his friend's remains, and the capture of the violators.
Mr. Field's first step was to equip himself for active service; his second, to call up his man-servants to accompany the expedition; his third, to fortify his company—not forgetting himself—with a dram of something stronger than water; and his fourth, to march in due order to the house of the devoted Bob Bunce. On their way, they called up the constable, who, at the sound of Mr. Field's voice, lost no time in preparing himself for the, to him, unknown adventure. A few words sufficed for explanation, and again the procession moved on.
The village clock struck four, just as the avenging party ranged themselves on each side of the detestable dwelling of Bob Bunce. Not a footfall was heard—not a whisper escaped the lips—not a breath that could give notice of the approach of so formidable a beleaguerment. And within, all was silent too. What! had the wretches decamped? No. Hark! footsteps are approaching—the bolt is withdrawn—the door is carefully opened—the two marauders step into the street, and fall into the trap set for them—one struggle, and they are secured. Before the door could be again closed and bolted—so sudden and unexpected was the attack—poor Bob was added to the list of prisoners, and the trio were marched off to the cage. But another arduous undertaking remained to be accomplished; this was nothing less than the removal of "the body" to some place of security. There it lay, still enclosed in the horrible sack, and exhibiting, in length and breadth, the very form of the defunct Squire Dumpy—what mattered it. that it was a few score pounds lighter than might have been expected?—they were in no mood to calculate weights to a nicety; and as the awful load was tenderly laid in a wheelbarrow, found on Bob Bunce's premises, and carefully conveyed to the house of Mr. Field, not one of the rescuers entertained the most remote misgiving of its actual identity.
An unusual bustle was observable at the magistrate's mansion, on the morning of Christmas day. Before nine o'clock the prisoners, in the safe custody of constable Headborough and train, were marshalled into the hall of justice, little deeming the charge on which they were apprehended; but conscious of guilt, as far as pig-stealing was concerned. Meantime, the magistrate's clerk arrived, big with the fate of the hapless caitiffs in the hall.
Slowly and reverently did the worthy Magistrate and clerk, with John, Jack, and Sam, enter the chamber of death; fearfully and tremblingly did John, at his master's command, untie the dreadful sack; and breathlessly did every living soul await the terrific disclosure. When—hocus pocus—kind reader, imagine the rest!
* * * * *
"I caution you," said our worthy magistrate, "that you need not answer any questions that are put to you, but if you can account, satisfactorily, for the way in which this pig came into your possession, I shall be happy to set you all immediately at liberty, otherwise, I shall be compelled to keep you in custody till the owner is found."
"Why, please your honour," said Bell Horse, who was spokesman for his fellow-prisoners, "we don't see the good of holding our tongues any longer, and so—only we hope your honour won't be very hard with us—and so we got the pig out Master Marks's sty."
"Oh,—that was it, was it?—Constable, just step into the village, and ask Marks to come down."
"Mr. Marks," said the Magistrate, in a condoling tone, when the old man entered the room, "I am sorry to find your pig has been stolen."
"Stolen! no such thing, your worship. I had just fed it when the constable came to fetch me."
"Hum—an odd business this," said Mr. Field.
"Bother," whispered Ned Shakoe, "hang'd if we didn't go to the wrong sty."
"I think I can give a guess whose pig is stolen, your worship."
"Ah, indeed, Mr. Marks, whose is it, pray?"
"I rather think Master Bunce's is out of its sty, for it generally makes the hem of a noise when I feed mine, and this morning I heard nothing of it; so I just took the liberty of looking over the hedge, your worship, and sure enough the pig was gone."
And so it turned out at last, that the two thieves had actually made a mistake in the garden, and stolen Bob Bunce's pig instead of his neighbour's, and Bob had been the receiver of property stolen from himself. Here was a puzzle for the lawyers! it nearly threw the old magistrate's clerk, as Jack Armstrong affirmed, "into a perplexity fit." But the matter ended in the discharge of the prisoners, "pig and piggage."
What became of the redoubtable animal afterwards, deponent saith not, but so numerous were the enquiries of Bob's neighbours as to its general health and condition, that he decamped within three weeks of his adventure, and was never more heard of in B—.
Ned and Bell Horse were more case-hardened, and took the matter very little to heart; but not long afterwards, being concerned in a bona fide robbery—if the term be not misapplied—were committed, convicted, and transported.
Reader, if the proverb be not too trite, "Honesty is the-best policy."