CHAPTER XXI
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 gaslights
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; donkeycarts
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 signboard,
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 ferryhouse
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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