whiner to say he _tried_; a man either does the thing he ought, or he
does it not. I gave your orders with care, sir; the treachery began
here on hoard. There should have been fires set in those spots I
commanded. 'T was the business of my officers to see that this was
done, and to have their proper lights at hand. Curse such incompetence!
Curse your self-seeking and your jealousy of me and one another!" he
railed. "This is what you count for when my work is at the pinch! If
only my good fellows of the Alfred had been with me, I might have laid
three hundred ships in ashes, with half Whitehaven town."
Dickson's face wore a fresh look of triumph; the captain's hopes were
confessedly dashed to ground, and the listener was the better pleased.
Hall, a decent man, looked sorry enough; but Dickson's expression of
countenance lent fuel to the flames of wrath, and the captain saw his
look.
"I could sooner believe that last night's villain were yourself, sir!"
he blazed out suddenly, and Dickson's smug face grew a horrid color.
The attack was so furious that he was not without fear; a better man
would have suffered shame.
"I take that from nobody. You forget yourself, Captain Jones," he
managed to say, with choking throat; and then the viper's instinct in
his breast made him take revenge. "You should be more civil to your
officers, sir; you have insulted too many of us. Remember that we are
American citizens, and you have given even Mr. Wallingford good reason
to hate you. He is of a slow sort, but he may have bided his time!"
The bravery of the hypocrite counted for much. Paul Jones stared at him
for a moment, wounded to the quick, and speechless. Then, "You sneaking
thief!" he hissed between his teeth. "Am I to be baited by a coward
like you? We 'll see who's the better man!" But at this lamentable
juncture Lieutenant Hall stepped between, and by dint of hard pushing
urged the offending Dickson to the deck again. Such low quarrels were
getting to be too common on the Ranger, but this time he was not
unwilling to take the captain's part. Dickson was chilled to the bone,
and his teeth were chattering; the bruises on his face were swelling
fast. He looked like a man that had been foully dealt with,--first well
pounded and then ducked, as Hall had once seen an offender treated by
angry fishwives in the port of Leith.
There was much heaviness among those Berwick men who stood bravely for
Roger Wallingford; one of them, at least, refused to be comforted, and
turned his face to the wall in sorrow when the lieutenant's fate was
discussed. At first he had boldly insisted that they would soon find
out the truth; but there were those who were ready to confute every
argument, even that of experience, and now even poor Cooper went sad and
silent about his work, and fought the young squire's enemies no more.
*XXVI*
*THEY HAVE MADE PREY OF HIM*
"Implacable hate, patient cunning, and a sleepless refinement of device
to inflict the extremest anguish on an enemy, these things are evil."
While Wallingford insisted that he must carry out the captain's plain
instructions to the letter, the moment their boat touched the landing
steps Dickson leaped over the side and ran up the pier. He had said,
carelessly, that it was no use to risk several lives where one might
serve; it was possible that they had been seen approaching, and he would
go and play the scout, and select their buildings for firing. Both the
lieutenants, Wallingford and Hall, took this breach of discipline
angrily; there seemed to be an aggravating desire in Dickson's heart to
put himself first now when it would count to his own gain. Their orders
had been to leave the boat in his charge while the landing party was
away; and in the next few moments, when he had disappeared into the
narrow street that led up from the small pier, Wallingford grew uneasy,
and went ashore himself. He climbed to the top of the pier, and then
heard Dickson's voice calling at no great distance as if for help. As
he started to run that way, he shouted to the men below to follow him.
His voice was lost in the noise of waves lapping and splashing about
them against the pier; they heard his cry, but could not tell what it
meant, or whether they should stay or go. The captain's orders had been
strict that all three of the elder officers should not leave the boat at
once. Young Hill, the midshipman, a fine brave fellow, now landed; but
in the dim light he could see nobody, and returned. The discovery was
then made that they had all their kindlings and tar in readiness, but
there were no candles left in the two lanterns, and the bag of spare
candles and tinder box which the midshipman had in charge was no longer
to be found in the boat. It had been laid next the thwart, and in
crossing some rough water might have fallen overboard, though nobody
could understand the accident.
They could only wait now, in mortification and distress, for
Wallingford's return, and some minutes passed in a grievous uncertainty.
The lieutenant had much resented Dickson's show of authority, and feared
the ill success of his errand; although he had no liking for the man, it
was no time to consider personalities; they were all on duty, and must
report to their commander. It was certainly dangerous for a man to
venture ashore alone, and the first distant outcry set him running at
the top of his speed, expecting the landing party to follow.
Wallingford was light-footed, and as he ran he plainly heard Dickson's
voice once more, and then all was silent. He hurried along, keeping
close to the walls of warehouses, and came next into a street of common,
poor dwellings of the seafaring folk. Then he stopped and listened, and
whistled a call familiar enough to Dickson or any man of the Somersworth
and Berwick neighborhoods, as if they had strayed from each other
hunting in the old York woods. There was no answer, and he turned to go
back; he must rejoin his men and attend to duty, and Dickson must take
care of himself. There were dark alleys that led from this narrow
thoroughfare to the water side; he heard footfalls, and again stood
listening in the shelter of a deep doorway, when a group of half-dressed
men burst out of a side lane, armed, and with a soldier or two among
them. They ran down the street toward the shore, and took a short way
round a corner. Wallingford heard a word or two which made him sure
they had been given warning; it flashed through his brain that this was
Dickson's business and plan for revenge. If their own men were still in
the boat or near it,--which seemed likely, since they had not followed
him,--they would be safe enough, but danger threatened them all. There
was a sound of gathering voices and frightened outcries and slamming
doors beyond in the town, as if the whole place were astir, and the
morning light was growing fast in the sky, and making a new day in the
dark little street. There was nothing for Wallingford to do but to
hurry back to the boat as best he might. In some of the neighboring
houses they had heard the guard go by, and sleepy heads were appearing
to learn the news. The lieutenant made haste. Just as he passed the
side passage whence the men had come, Dickson himself appeared through
an archway just beyond, and stopped to call, "Watch! Watch! The
Yankees are in the town to set it burning! _Watch! Watch!_" he was
crying at the top of his lungs, instead of that faint "_Help! Help!_"
which had seemed to cry for mercy in Wallingford's ears, and had enticed
him into peril of his life.
With one bound Wallingford leaped upon the scoundrel and caught him in a
mighty clutch. There was the look of a fiend in Dickson's face, in the
dim light, as he turned and saw the man he hated most, and the two
clinched in a fury. Then Dickson remembered the straight knife in his
belt, and as they fought he twisted himself free enough to get it in his
hand and strike; next moment Wallingford was flat on the cobblestones,
heavily fallen with a deep cut in his shoulder.
There were men running their way, and Dickson fled before them. He had
been badly mauled before the trick of stabbing could set him free; the
breath was sobbing out of his lungs from the struggle, but he ran
unhindered to the pier end, past the gaping townsfolk, and threw himself
into the water, striking out for the boat, which had drawn well away
from shore. There was a loud shout at his escape, but he was a good
swimmer. They were watching from the boat, and when they saw that
Dickson lagged, they drew nearer and dragged him in. It was all in a
moment; there was firing at them now from the shore. Hall and the
midshipman were at the very worst of their disappointment; they had
failed in their errand; the whole thing was a fiasco, and worse.
Then Dickson, though sick and heavy from such an intake of salt water,
managed to speak and tell them that Wallingford had waked the town; he
must have found the guardhouse at once, for the watch was out, and had
even set upon himself as he returned. He had reconnoitred carefully and
found all safe, when he heard a man behind him, and had to fight for his
life. Then he heard Wallingford calling and beating upon the doors.
They might know whether they had shipped a Tory, now! Dickson could
speak no more, and sank down, as if he were spent indeed, into the
bottom of the boat. He could tell already where every blow had struck
him, and a faintness weakened his not too sturdy frame.
Now they could see the shipping all afire across the harbor as they drew
out; the other boat's party had done their work, and it was near to
broad day. Now the people were running and crying confusion, and boats
were putting out along the shore, and an alarm bell kept up an incessant
ringing in the town. The Ranger's men rowed with all their might.
Dickson did not even care because the captain would give the boat a
rating; he had paid back old scores to the lofty young squire, his enemy
and scorner; the fault of their failure would be Wallingford's. His
heart was light enough; he had done his work well. If Wallingford was
not already dead or bleeding to death like a pig, back there in the
street, the Whitehaven folk were like to make a pretty hanging of him
before sunset. There was one pity,--he had left his knife sticking in
the Tory's shoulder, and this caused a moment of sharp regret; but it
was a plain sailor's knife which he had lately got by chance at Brest,
and there were no witnesses to the encounter; his word was as good as
Wallingford's to most men on their ship. He began to long for the
moment when the captain should hear their news. "He 's none so great a
hero yet," thought Dickson, and groaned with pain as the boat lurched
and shifted him where he lay like ballast among the unused kindlings.
Wallingford had given him a fine lasting legacy of blows.
*XXVII*
*A PRISONER AND CAPTIVE*
"Close at thy side I walk unseen,
And feel thy passion and thy prayer.
Wide separation doth but prove
The mystic might of human love."
The poor lieutenant was soon turned over scornfully by a musket butt and
the toe of a stout Whitehaven shoe. The blood was steadily running from
his shoulder, and his coat was all sodden with a sticky wetness. He had
struck his head as he fell, and was at this moment happily unconscious
of all his woes.
"Let him lie, the devil!" growled a second man who came along,--a
citizen armed with a long cutlass, but stupid with fear, and resenting
the loss of his morning sleep and all his peace of mind. They could see
the light of the burning vessel on the roofs above. "Let's get away a
bit further from the shore," said he; "there may be their whole ship's
company landed and ranging the town."
"This damned fellow 'll do nobody any mischief," agreed the soldier, and
away they ran. But presently his companion stole back to find if there
were anything for an honest man and a wronged one in this harmless
officer's pockets. There were some letters in women's writing that
could be of no use to any one, and some tobacco. "'T is the best
American sort," said the old citizen, who had once been a sailor in the
Virginia trade. He saw the knife sticking fast, and pulled it out; but
finding it was a cheap thing enough, and disagreeable just now to have
in hand, he tossed it carelessly aside. He found a purse of money in
one pocket, and a handsome watch with a seal like some great
gentleman's; but this was strangely hooked and ringed to the fob
buttons, and the chain so strong that though a man pulled hard enough to
break it, and even set his foot on the stranger's thigh to get a good
purchase, the links would not give way. The citizen looked for the
convenient knife again, but missed it under the shadow of the wall.
There were people coming. He pocketed what he had got, and looked
behind him anxiously: then he got up and ran away, only half content
with the purse and good tobacco.
An old woman, and a girl with her, were peeping through the dirty panes
of a poor, narrow house close by; and now, seeing that there was such a
pretty gentleman in distress, and that the citizen, whom they knew and
treasured a grudge against, had been frightened away, they came out to
drag him into shelter. Just as they stepped forth together on the
street, however, a squad of soldiers, coming up at double-quick,
captured this easy prisoner, whose heart was beating yet. One of them
put the hanging watch into his own pocket, unseen,--oddly enough, it
came easily into his hand; and after some consideration of so grave a
matter of military necessity, two of them lifted Wallingford, and
finding him both long and heavy called a third to help, and turned back
to carry him to the guard-house. By the time they reached the door a
good quarter part of the townsfolk seemed to be following in procession,
with angry shouts, and tearful voices of women begging to know if their
husbands or lovers had been seen in danger; and there were loud threats,
too, meant for the shaming of the silent figure carried by stout yeomen
of the guard.
After some hours Wallingford waked, wretched with the smart of his
wounds, and dazed by the first sight of his strange lodging in the town
jail. There were no friends to succor him; he had not even the resource
of being mistaken for a Tory and a friend of the Crown. There were at
least three strutting heroes showing themselves in different quarters of
the town, that evening, who claimed the honor of giving such a dangerous
pirate his deathblow.
Some days passed before the officer in charge of this frightened seaport
(stricken with sincere dismay, and apprehensive of still greater
disaster from such stealthy neighbors on the sea) could receive the
answer to his report sent to headquarters. Wallingford felt more and
more the despair of his situation. The orders came at last that, as
soon as he could be moved, he should be sent to join his fellow rebels
in the old Mill Prison at Plymouth. The Whitehaven citizens should not
risk or invite any attempt at his rescue by his stay. But, far from
regretting his presence, there were even those who lamented his
departure; who would have willingly bought new ribbons to their bonnets
to go and see such a rogue hanged, wounded shoulder and all, on a
convenient hill and proper gallows outside the town.
None of the heavy-laden barley ships or colliers dared to come or go.
The fishing boats that ventured out to their business came home in a
flutter at the sight of a strange sail; and presently Whitehaven was
aghast at the news of the robbery of all my Lady Selkirk's plate, and
the astonishing capture of his Majesty's guardship Drake out of
Carrickfergus, and six merchantmen taken beside in the Irish Sea,--three
of them sunk, and three of them sent down as prizes to French ports.
The quicker such a prisoner left this part of the realm, the better for
Whitehaven. The sheriff and a strong guard waited next morning at the
door of the jail, and Wallingford, taken from his hard bed, was set on a
steady horse to begin the long southward journey, and be handed on from
jail to jail. The fresh air of the spring morning, after the close
odors of his prison, at first revived him. Even the pain of his wound
was forgotten, and he took the change gladly, not knowing whither he
went or what the journey was meant to bring him.
At first they climbed long hills in sight of the sea. Notwithstanding
all his impatience of the sordid jealousies and discomforts of life on
board the Ranger, Roger Wallingford turned his weak and painful body
more than once, trying to catch a last glimpse of the tall masts of the
brave, fleet little ship. A remembrance of the good-fellowship of his
friends aboard seemed to make a man forget everything else, and to put
warmth in his heart, though the chill wind on the fells blew through his
very bones. For the first time he had been treated as a man among men
on board the Ranger. In early youth the heir of a rich man could not
but be exposed to the flatteries of those who sought his father's
favors, and of late his property and influence counted the Loyalists far
more than any of that counsel out of his own heart for which some of
them had begged obsequiously. Now he had come face to face with life as
plain men knew it, and his sentiment of sympathy had grown and doubled
in the hard process. He winced at the remembrance of that
self-confidence he had so cherished in earlier years. He had come near
to falling an easy prey to those who called him Sir Roger, and were but
serving their own selfish ends; who cared little for either Old England
or New, and still less for their King. There was no such thing as a
neutral, either; a man was one thing or the other. And now his head
grew light and dizzy, while one of those sudden visions of Mary
Hamilton's face, the brave sweetness of her living eyes as if they were
close to his own, made him forget the confused thoughts of the moment
before.
The quick bracing of the morning air was too much for the prisoner; he
felt more and more as if he were dreaming. There was a strange longing
in his heart to be back in the shelter and quiet of the jail itself;
there began to be a dull roaring in his ears. Like a sharp pain there
came to him the thought of home, of his mother's looks and her smile as
she stood watching at the window when he came riding home. He was not
riding home now: the thought of it choked his throat. He remembered his
mother as he had proudly seen her once in her satin gown and her laces
and diamonds, at the great feast for Governor Hutchinson's birthday, in
the Province House,--by far the first, to his young eyes, of the fine
distinguished ladies who were there. How frail and slender she stood
among them! But now a wretched weakness mastered him; he was afraid to
think where he might be going. They could not know how ill and helpless
he was, these stout men of his guard, who sometimes watched him angrily,
and then fell to talking together in low voices. The chill of the
mountain cloud they were riding into seemed to have got to his heart.
Again his brain failed him, and then grew frightfully clear again; then
he began to fall asleep in the saddle, and to know that he slept,
jolting and swaying as they began to ride faster. The horse was a
steady, plodding creature, whose old sides felt warm and comfortable to
the dreaming rider. He wished, ever so dimly, that if he fell they
would leave him there by the road and let him sleep. He lost a stirrup
now, and it struck his ankle sharply to remind him, but there was no use
to try to get it again; then everything turned black.
One of the soldiers caught the horse just as the prisoner's head began
to drag along the frozen road.
"His wound's a-bleeding bad. Look-a-here!" he shouted to the others,
who were riding on, their horses pressing each other close, and their
cloaks held over their faces in the cold mountain wind. "Here, ahoy!
our man 's dead, lads! The blood's trailed out o' him all along the
road!"
"He 's cheated justice, then, curse him!" said the officer smartly,
looking down from his horse; but the old corporal, who had fought at
Quebec with Wolfe, and knew soldiering by heart, though he was low on
the ladder of promotion by reason of an unconquerable love of
brandy,--the old corporal dropped on his knees, and felt Wallingford's
heart beating small and quick inside the wet, stained coat, and then
took off his own ragged riding cloak to wrap him from the cold.
"Poor lad!" he said compassionately. "I think he 's fell among thieves,
somehow, by t' looks of him; 't is an honest face of a young gentleman's
iver I see. There's nowt for 't now but a litter, an't' get some grog
down his starved throat. I misdoubt he 's dead as t' stones in road ere
we get to Kendal!"
"Get him a-horse again!" jeered another man. "If we had some alegar
now, we mought fetch him to! Say, whaar er ye boun', ye are sae dond out
in reed wescut an' lace?" and he pushed Wallingford's limp, heavy body
with an impatient foot; but the prisoner made no answer.
*XXVIII*
*NEWS AT THE LANDING*
"What, have the heralds come,
To tell this quiet shore of victories?--
* * * * *
There is a mother weeping for her son!
Like some lean tree whose fruit has dropt, she gives
Her all, to wither in autumnal woe."
There were several low buildings to the east of Colonel Hamilton's
house, where various domestic affairs were established; the last of
these had the large spinning room in the second story, and stood
four-square to the breezes. Here were the wool and flax wheels and the
loom, with all their implements; and here Peggy reigned over her
handmaidens one warm spring afternoon, with something less than her
accustomed severity. She had just been declaring, in a general way,
that the idle clack of foolish tongues distressed her ears more than the
noise of the loom and wheels together.
There was an outside stairway, and the coveted seat of the young maids
who were sewing was on the broad doorstep at the stairhead. You could
look up the wide fields to the long row of elms by General Goodwin's,
and see what might pass by on the Portsmouth road; you could also
command the long green lane that led downhill toward the great house;
also the shipyard, and, beyond that, a long stretch of the river itself.
A young man must be wary in his approach who was not descried afar by
the sentinels of this pretty garrison. On a perfectly silent afternoon
in May, the whole world, clouds and all, appeared to be fast asleep; but
something might happen at any moment, and it behooved Hannah Neal and
Phebe Hodgdon to be on the watch.
They sat side by side on the doorstep, each reluctantly top-sewing a new
linen sheet; two other girls were spinning flax within the room, and old
Peggy herself was at the loom, weaving with steady diligence. As she
sat there, treading and reaching at her work, with quick click-clacks of
the shuttle and a fine persistence of awkward energy, she could look
across the river to Madam Wallingford's house, with its high elms and
rows of shuttered windows. Between her heart and old Susan's there was
a bond of lifelong friendship; they seldom met, owing to their
respective responsibilities; they even went to different places of
worship on Sunday; but they always took a vast and silent comfort in
watching for each other's light at night.
It was Peggy's habit to sing softly at her work; once in a while, in her
gentlest mood, she chanted aloud a snatch of some old song. There was
never but one song for a day, to be repeated over and over; and the
better she was pleased with her conditions, the sadder was her strain.
Now and then her old voice, weak and uncertain, but still unexpectedly
beautiful, came back again so clear and true that the chattering girls
themselves were hushed into listening. To-day the peace in her heart was
such that she had been singing over and over, with plaintive cadences, a
most mournful quatrain of ancient lines set to a still more ancient
tune. It must have touched the chords of some inherited memory.
"O Death, rock me asleep"
sang Peggy dolefully;--
"O Death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest;
Let pass my weary, guiltless ghost
Out of my care-full breast!"
The girls had seldom heard their old tyrant forget herself and them so
completely in her singing; they gave each other a sympathetic glance as
she continued; the noisy shuttle subdued itself to the time and tune,
and made a rude accompaniment. One might have the same feeling in
listening to a thrush at nightfall as to such a natural song as this.
At last the poignancy of feeling grew too great for even the singer
herself, and she drew away from the spell of the music, as if she
approached too near the sad reality of its first occasion.