softly, and came in also. His eyes looked troubled, but he said nothing
as he stood a little way behind the others in the low room; the rain
dropped heavily from his long coat to the floor. The Sullivans stood at
either side the fireplace watching the pale lady who was their guest.
John Sullivan himself it was who unclasped her wet riding cloak and
threw it back upon the chair; within she wore a pretty gown of soft
crimson silk with a golden thread in it, that had come home in one of
her brother's ships from Holland. The rain had stained the breast of it
where the riding cloak had blown apart; the strange living dyes of the
East were brightened by the wet. The two old people started back, they
believed that she had sought them because she was hurt to death. She
lifted her hand forbiddingly; her face grew like a child's that was
striving against tears.
"Dear friends, it is not so bad as you think; it is because I am so full
of hope that I have come to you," she said to the anxious, kind old
faces. There was such a sweetness in the girl's voice, and her
beautiful dress was so familiar, so belonging to the old quiet times and
happy hospitalities, that the two men felt a sharp pain of pity, and
because there was nothing else to do they came nearer to her side.
Master Sullivan looked questioningly at young Mr. Lord, but old Margery
found instinctive relief in a low, droning sort of moan, which sometimes
lifted into that Irish keening which is the voice of fear and sorrow.
She was piling all her evening fagots at once upon the fire.
"Speak now!" said the master. "If my old heart knows the worst, it can
begin to hope the best. What is it that could not wait for the morning
of such a night as this?"
"There is bad news," replied Mary; "there are letters come from the
Ranger. They have attacked a large seaport town on the coast of
England, and spread great alarm, though their chief projects were
balked. They have fought with an English frigate in the Irish Sea, and
taken her captive with some rich prizes. Roger Wallingford was left
ashore in Whitehaven. They believe on the ship that he tried to betray
his companions and warned the town; but he was badly wounded ashore, and
thrown into prison. There is a great rising of the Patriots against
Madam Wallingford, who is warned to leave the country. They threatened
her very life last night." Mary was standing now, and the quick
firelight, sprung afresh, made her look like a bright flame. The master
made a strange outcry, like a call for hidden help, and looked hastily
at the walls of the room about him, as if he sought some old familiar
weapons.
"I am going away with her for a time," said Mary, speaking now without
any strain or quiver in her voice. "My brother does not need me, since
he is with the army, and Mr. Lord knows our business here, if any be
left. Peggy can stand bravely for me in the house. Dear master!" and
she came close to the old man's side; her young slender body was almost
as tall as his; she put her arm about his neck and drew down his head so
that he must look into her upturned face. "Dear master," she said, in a
low voice, "you told me once that you still had friends in England, if
the worst should come to Roger, and I think now that the worst has
come."
"You may bring the horses at once," said the master, turning quickly to
Mr. Lord. "Stay, Margery; you must light your old lantern and give it
him; and I would wrap you well and hold it for him to rub them off with
a wisp of thatch, and let them have a mouthful of corn to satisfy their
minds."
Mary felt for that one moment as if Hope were like an old frail friend
with eyes of living fire; she had known no other father than the master,
when all was said. He put her hand gently away from its unconscious
clinging hold of his shoulder, and, with a woman's care, took the wet
cloak, as he placed her again in his own chair, and spread its dry inner
folds to the fire, so that they might warm a little.
Then, without speaking, he went to the shelf of books, and took from one
of them a thin packet of papers.
"I am an old man," he said gently. "I have been fearful of all this,
and I made ready these things, since it might some day please God to let
me die. I have heard of the fray last night, but you will find letters
here that will be of service. Come, warm you now by the fire, and put
them in the bosom of your gown. I think you will find them something
worth; but if you keep their words in your heart or near it, 't will be
far the best. And burn them quick if there is need; but you shall read
them first, and send their messages by word of mouth, if need be.
Listen to me now; there are a few things left for me to say."
The girl's face was full of a sweet relief; she did not thank him, save
with one long look, and put the packet where he had bidden her. She
looked into the fire as she listened to his counsels, and suddenly was
afraid of tears, the errand being safely done.
"Forgive me, sir, for this new trouble!"
She spoke with a different impulse and recognition from any she had
known before, and looked brave as a young soldier. This was a friend
who knew indeed the world whither she was going.
"Why should you not come to me?" asked the master. "'Men were born for
the aid and succor of men,'" he added with a smile. "You do not know
your Rabelais, my little lady."
The horses had come up; they trod the ground outside impatiently. She
knelt before the old man humbly, and he blessed her, and when she rose
she kissed him like a child, and looked long in his face, and he in
hers; then she put on her heavy cloak again, and went out into the rainy
night.
Next day, in Portsmouth, Madam Wallingford, pale and stately, and Susan,
resolute enough, but strangely apathetic, put off into the harbor from
Langdon's wharf. They were accompanied to the shore by many friends,
whose hearts were moved at so piteous a sight. When the mistress and
maid were safe on the deck of the Golden Dolphin, Mary Hamilton stood
there before them; the beauty of her young face was like some heavenly
creature's.
"I know that you said last night, when I was for bidding you farewell,
that you should see me again. I have been thinking all this morning that
you had been prevented," whispered Madam Wallingford tenderly. They
were long in each other's arms. "I have a few things left to say; it is
impossible to remember all proper messages, at such short warning. Let
them keep the boat for Miss Hamilton, until the last moment before we
sail," she said to the captain.
"They are heaving up the anchor now," the captain answered. "I must not
lose this fair wind to get us out of the river."
Mary was impatient to speak; she cast a smiling glance at Susan, who
wore a timid look, not being used to plots, or to taking instructions
from any but her mistress.
"Dear friend," cried Mary then, "you must let me have my way! I could
not let you go alone. I tried to think as you bade me, but I could not.
I am going with you wherever you may go: I think it is my right. You
have short time now to give Susan your last charges, as I have given
mine to Peggy. I stay with you and Phebe with me, and Susan goes
ashore. Please God, some short weeks or months may see us sailing home
again up the river, with our errand well done!"
"I could not stand against them, Madam," and Susan looked more
apprehensive than triumphant, though she was grateful to Heaven to be
spared a voyage at sea. Her mistress was not one to have her own plans
set aside. "I listened well, Madam, to all you said to Rodney and the
maids. They are good girls, but they need a head over them. And I
could do nothing against Miss Mary; for Peggy, that has a love for great
ploys to be going on, and the world turned upside down, has backed her
from the first."
*XXXI*
*THE MILL PRISON*
"Lackyng my love, I goe from place to place."
"'Twixt every prayer he says, he names you once
As others drop a bead."
One morning late in spring the yellow primroses were still abloom on the
high moorlands above Plymouth; the chilly sea wind was blowing hard, and
the bright sunshine gave little warmth, even in a sheltered place. The
yard of the great Mill Prison was well defended by its high stockade,
but the wind struck a strong wing into it in passing, and set many a
poor half-clad man to shivering. The dreary place was crowded with
sailors taken from American ships: some forlorn faces were bleached by
long captivity, and others were still round and ruddy from recent
seafaring. There was a constant clack of sharp, angry voices. Outside
the gate was a group of idle sightseers staring in, as if these poor
Yankees were a menagerie of outlandish beasts; now and then some
compassionate man would toss a shilling between the bars, to be
pitifully scrambled for, or beckon to a prisoner who looked more
suffering than the rest. Even a south-westerly gale hardly served to
lighten the heavy air of such a crowded place, and nearly every one
looked distressed; the small-pox had blighted many a face, so that the
whole company wore a piteous look, though each new day still brought new
hopes of liberty.
There were small groups of men sitting close together. Some were
playing at games with pebbles and little sticks, their draughts board or
fox-and-geese lines being scratched upon the hard trodden ground. Some
were writing letters, and wondering how to make sure of sending them
across the sea. There were only two or three books to be seen in hand;
most of the prisoners were wearily doing nothing at all.
In one corner, a little apart from the rest, sat a poor young captain
who had lost his first command, a small trading vessel on the way to
France. He looked very downcast, and was writing slowly, a long and
hopeless letter to his wife.
"I now regret that I had not taken your advice and Mother's and remained
at home instead of being a prisoner here," he had already written, and
the stiff, painfully shaped words looked large and small by turns
through his great tears. "I was five days in the prison ship. I am in
sorrow our government cares but little for her subjects. They have
nothing allowed them but what the British government gives them.
Shameful,--all other nations feels for their subjects except our
Country. There is no exchange of prisoners. It is intirely uncertain
when I return perhaps not during the war. I live but very poor, every
thing is high. I hope you have surmounted your difficulties and our
child has come a Comfort to imploy your fond attention. It is hard the
loss of my ship and difficult to bare. God bless you all. My situation
is not so bad but it might be worse. This goes by a cartel would to God
I could go with it but that happiness is denied me. It would pain your
tender heart to view the distressed seamen crowded in this filthy
prison, there is kind friends howiver in every place and some hours
passed very pleasant in spite of every lack some says the gallows or the
East Indias will be our dreadful destiny, 't would break a stone's heart
to see good men go so hungry we must go barefoot when our shoes is done.
Some eats the grass in the yard and picks up old bones, and all runs to
snatch the stumps of our cabbage the cooks throws out. Some makes a
good soup they say from snails a decent sort that hives about the walls,
but I have not come to this I could not go it. They says we may be
scattered on the King's ships. I hear the bells in Plymouth Town and
Dock pray God 't is for no victory--no I hear in closing 't is only
their new Lord Mayor coming in"--
As this was finished there was another man waiting close by, who caught
impatiently at the thrice-watered ink, and looked suspiciously to see if
any still remained.
"Harbert said 's how I should have it next," grumbled the fellow
prisoner, "if so be you 've left me any. Who 'll car' our letters to
the cartel? They want to send a list o' those that's dead out o' the
Dolton, an' I give my promise to draw up the names."
There were many faces missing now from the crew of the Dolton
brigantine, taken nearly a year and a half before, but there were still
a good number of her men left in the prison. Others had come from the
Blenheim or the Fancy; some from the Lexington; and the newest resident
was a man off The Yankee Hero, who had spent some time after his capture
as sailor on a British man-of-war. He was a friendly person, and had
brought much welcome news, being also so strong and well fed that he was
a pleasant sight to see. Just now he sat with Charles Herbert, of
Newbury, in Massachusetts, whom they all called the scribe. For once
this poor captive wore a bright, eager look on his scarred face, as he
listened to the newcomer's talk of affairs; they had been near neighbors
at home. The younger man had been in prison these many months. He was
so lucky as to possess a clumsy knife, which was as great a treasure as
his cherished bottle of ink, and was busy making a little box of cedar
wood and fitting it neatly together with pegs. Since he had suffered
the terrible attack of small-pox which had left his face in ruins, and
given him a look of age at twenty, his eyesight had begun to fail; he
was even now groping over the ground, to find one of the tiny dowels
that belonged to his handiwork.
"'T is there by your knee; the rags of your trouser leg was over it,"
said Titcomb, the new man-of-war's man, as he reached for the bit of
wood.
"Who 's this new plant o' grace, comin' out o' hospit'l?" he asked
suddenly, looking over Herbert's shoulder, with the peg in his fingers.
"'T is a stranger to me, and with the air of a gentleman, though he lops
about trying his sea legs, like an eel on 's tail."
"No place for gentlemen here, God help him!" said the young scribe
sadly, trying to clear his dull eyes with a ragged sleeve as he turned
to look. "No, I don't know who it is. I did hear yisterday that there
was an officer fetched here in the night, from the nor'ard, under guard,
and like to be soon hanged. Some one off of a Yankee privateer, they
said, that went in and burnt the shipping of a port beyond Wales. I
overheared the sentinels havin' some talk about him last night. I
expect 't was that old business of the Ranger, and nothin' new."
There was a rough scuffling game going on in the prison yard, which made
all the sick and disabled men shrink back against the walls, out of
danger. The stranger came feebly from point to point, as the game left
space, toward the sunny side where the two Newbury men were sitting. As
they made room for him, they saw that he was dressed in the remains of a
torn, weather-stained uniform; his arm was in a sling, and his shoulder
fast bound with dirty bandages.
"You 're a new bird in this pretty cage," said poor Herbert, smiling
pleasantly. He was a fellow of sympathetic heart, and always very
friendly with new-comers.
The stranger returned his greeting, with a distressed glance toward
their noisy companions, and seated himself heavily on the ground,
leaning back against the palisade. The tumult and apparent danger of
finding himself trodden underfoot vexed and confused him in his
weakness; presently he grew faint, and his head dropped on his breast.
His last thought was a wish to be back in the wretched barracks, where
at least it was quiet. At that moment two men pushed their way out of
the middle of a quarreling group of playmates, and ran toward him.
"'Tain't never you, sir!" cried one.
"'Tis Mr. Roger Wallingford, too! Don't you think I 've got sense
enough to know?" scolded the other, both speaking at once, in tones
which conveyed much pity and astonishment to the Newbury men's ears.
"By God! it is, an' he 's a dyin' man!"
Gideon Warren was a Berwick sailor of the old stock, who had known the
lieutenant from a child, and was himself born and reared by the river.
"What 've them devils used him such a way for?" he demanded angrily.
"He looks as ancient as the old judge, his father, done, the week afore
he died. What sort of a uniform's this he's got on him?"
The other men looked on, and, any excitement being delightful in so dull
a place, a crowd gathered about them quickly, pushing and jostling, and
demanding to know what had happened. Warren, a heavily built,
kind-faced old mariner, had fallen on his knees and taken the sick man's
head on his own ample shoulder, with all the gentleness of a woman.
There was more than one old Berwick neighbor standing near The general
racket of noise began to be hushed.
"Git him some water, can't ye?" commanded Warren. "I misdoubt we 've
got no sperits for him. Stand to t' other side, there, some on ye
caw-handed cutters, an' keep the sun off'n him!"
"'T ain't no British fightin' gear, nor French neither, that's on him,"
said Ichabod Lord, as he leaned forward to get a better view of the red
waistcoat, and, above all, the gilt buttons of the new prisoner's coat.
"'T is an officer from one o' our own Congress ships; they 'd keep such
news from us here, any way they could," said young Earl angrily.
"Looks to me different," said the Newbury man who was with Herbert.
"No, I 'll begretch it's anything more 'n some livery wear and relic o'
fashion. 'T is some poor chap they 've cotched out'n some lord's house;
he mought be American-born, an' they took him to be spyin' on 'em."
"What d' you know o' them high affairs?" returned Warren with
indignation. "Livery wear? You ain't never been situated where you'd
be like to see none! 'T is a proper uniform, or was one, leastways;
there's a passel o' anchors worked on him, and how he ever come here
ain't for me to say, but 'tis our young Squire Wallin'ford, son an' heir
o' the best gentleman that was ever on the old Piscataqua River.
"When we come away, folks was all certain they had leanin's to the wrong
side: his mother's folks was high among the Boston Tories," explained
Ichabod Lord wonderingly. "Yet he must ha' been doin' some mischief
'long o' the Patriots, or he'd never been sent here for no rebel,--no,
they'd never sent him here; this ain't where they keep none o' their
crown jew'ls! Lord! I hope he ain't goin' to die afore he tells some
news from the old Lower Landin' an' Pound Hill, an' how things was goin'
forrard, when he left home, all up along the Witchtrot road!"
These last words came straight from the depths of an exile's heart, and
nobody thought it worth while to smile at the names of his localities;
there was hardly a man who was not longing for home news in the same
desperate way. A jail was but a jail the world over, a place to crowd a
man lower down, soul and body, and England was not likely to be anxious
about luxuries for these ship's companies of rebels and pirates, the
willful destroyers of her commerce; they were all thought guilty of
treason, and deserved the worst of punishment.
There was a faint flicker of color now on the stranger's cheeks, and
Charles Herbert had brought some water, and was fanning him with a poor
fragment of headgear, while some one else rubbed his cold hands. They
were all well enough used to seeing men in a swoon; the custom was to
lay them close to the wall, if they were in the way, to recover
themselves as best they could, but this man with the stained red
waistcoat might have news to tell.
"I 'll bate my head he 's been on the Ranger with Paul Jones," announced
Ichabod Lord solemnly, as if he were ready to suffer for his opinions.
"That's what 't is; they may have all been taken, too, off the coast."
"Why, 'tis the uniform of our own Congress navy, then!" exclaimed young
Herbert, with his scarred cheeks gone bright crimson like a girl's, and
a strange thrill in his voice. He sprang to his feet, and the men near
him gave the best cheer they could muster. Poor Wallingford heard it,
and stirred a little, and half opened his eyes.
"I've above two shillings here that I've airnt makin' of my workboxes:
some o' you fellows run to the gates and get a decent-looking body to
fetch us some brandy," begged Herbert hastily.
"I'm all right now," said Wallingford aloud; and then he saw whose stout
arms were holding him, and looked into a familiar face.
"Good God! we had news at home long ago that you were dead, Warren!" he
said with wide-eyed bewilderment.
"I bain't then, so now," insisted the honest Gideon indignantly, which
amused the audience so that they fell to laughing and slapping one
another on the shoulder.
"Well, I bain't," repeated Warren, as soon as he could be heard. "I 've
been here in this prison for seven months, and it's a good deal worse 'n
layin' at home in Old Fields bur'in' ground, right in sight o' the river
'n all's a-goin' on. Tell us where you come from, sir, as soon 's you
feel able, and how long you are from Barvick! We get no sort of news
from the folks. I expect you can't tell me whether my old mother 's
livin'?" The poor man tried hard to master his feelings, but his face
began to twitch, and he burst out crying suddenly, like a child.
"Looks like they've all gone and forgot us," said a patient, pale-faced
fellow who stood near. Wallingford was himself again now, and looked
with dismay at those who looked at him. Their piteous pallor and
hungry-eyed misery of appearance could give but little sense of welcome
or comfortable reassurance to a new captive. He was as poor as they,
and as lacking in present resource, and, being weak and worn, the very
kindness and pity of the arms that held him only added to his pain.
"If I had not come the last of my way by sea," he told them, trying to
speak some cheerful hope to such hopeless souls, "I might have got word
to London or to Bristol, where I can count upon good friends," but some
of the listeners looked incredulous and shook their heads doubtfully,
while there were those who laughed bitterly as they strolled away.
"Have you any late news from Captain Paul Jones?" he asked, sitting
straight now, though Warren still kept a careful arm behind him. "I was
at Whitehaven with him; I belong on the frigate Ranger," and his eyes
grew bright and boyish.
"They say that one of her own officers tried to betray the ship,"
sneered a young man, a late comer to the Mill Prison, who stood looking
straight into poor Wallingford's face.
"'T was true enough, too," said Roger Wallingford frankly; "it is by no
fault of mine that you see me here. God grant that such treachery made
no other victim!"
"They say that the Ranger has taken a mort o' prizes, and sent them back
to France," announced the Newbury sailor. "Oh, Lord, yes, she's scared
'em blue ever sence that night she went into Whitehaven! She took the
Drake sloop o' war out o' Carrickfergus that very next day."
"I knew there was business afoot!" cried the lieutenant proudly; but he
suddenly turned faint again, and they saw a new bright stain strike
through the clumsy bandages on his shoulder.
*XXXII*
*THE GOLDEN DRAGON*
"Give where want is silently clamorous, and men's necessities, not their
tongues, do loudly call for thy mercies."
The less said of a dull sea voyage, the better; to Madam Wallingford and
her young companion their slow crossing to the port of Bristol could be
but a long delay. Each day of the first week seemed like a week in
passing, though from very emptiness it might be but a moment in
remembrance; time in itself being like money in itself,--nothing at all
unless changed into action, sensation, material. At first, for these
passengers by the Golden Dolphin, there was no hope of amusement of any
sort to shorten the eventless hours. Their hearts were too heavy with
comfortless anxieties.