the Mill Prison some months since, and who came to Bristol, where he had
old acquaintances; he is now at work in a coppersmith's shop," explained
the captain. "He has been able to help some of his shipmates since
then, and, under the assumed character of an American Loyalist, has
enjoyed the confidence of both parties. 'T will be a dangerous fellow
to tamper with; I have heard something of him before. I doubt if he is
very honest, but he turns many a good sound penny for himself. Lee
believes that all his spies are as trusty as Ford and Thornton, but I
can tell you that they are not." The captain's temper appeared to be
rising, and Dickson winced a little. "I know of some things that go on
unbeknownst to him, and so perhaps do you, Mr. Dickson; this man has
advised me of some matters in Bristol this very night, about which I own
myself to be curious. He says that there are two men out of the Mill
Prison who may be expected in, and are hoping to get safe away to sea.
It would be a pretty thing to add a pair of good American sailors to our
number without the trouble of formal exchange. So I must again delay
our sailing for France, and I shall leave you here to-night, while I go
to inspect the fugitives. There are special reasons, too, why I wish to
get news from the prison."
The captain seemed excited, and spoke with unusual frankness and
civility. Though Dickson had begun to listen with uneasiness, he now
expressed approval of such a plan, but ventured at the same time to give
an officious warning that there might be danger of a plot among the
Bristol Loyalists. They would make themselves very happy by securing
such an enemy as John Paul Jones. But this proof of sagacity and
unselfishness on Dickson's part the captain did not deign to notice.
"I shall pass the day in fishing, and toward night take another
anchorage farther up the channel," he continued. "There are reasons why
prudence forbids my going into the Avon again by boat, or being seen by
day about the Bristol quays. I shall run farther up the Severn and land
there, and ride across by Westbury, and over the downs into Bristol, and
so return by daybreak. I have bespoken a horse to wait for me, and you
will see that a boat is ready to take me off in the morning."
Dickson received these instructions with apparent interest and an
unconscious sigh of relief. He understood that the captain's mind was
deeply concerned in so innocent a matter; there was probably no reason
for apprehension on his own part. The next moment his spirits fell, and
his face took on that evil color which was the one sign of emotion and
animosity that he was unable to conceal. There was likely to be direct
news now from the Mill Prison; and the grievous nightmare that haunted
Dickson's thoughts was the possible reappearance of Roger Wallingford.
Once or twice he swallowed hard, and tried to gather courage to speak,
but the words would not come. The captain passed him with a scowl, and
threw himself into the wretched bunk of the cabin to get some sleep.
"Captain Jones," and Dickson boldly followed him, "I have something
important which I must say"--
"Will not you read your letter first?" inquired the captain, with
unaccustomed politeness. "I am very much fatigued, as you might see. I
want a little sleep, after these two nights."
"We are alone now, sir, and there is something that has lain very heavy
on my mind." The man was fluent enough, once his voice had found
utterance.
The captain, with neither an oath nor a growl, sat up in his berth, and
listened with some successful mockery of respect, looking him straight
in the face.
"That night,--you remember, sir, at Whitehaven? I have come to be
troubled about that night. You may not recall the fact that so
unimportant a person as I stood in any real danger on such an occasion
of glory to you, but I was set upon by the town guard, and only escaped
with my life. I returned to the Ranger in a suffering condition. You
were a little overset by your disappointment, and by Mr. Wallingford's
disappearance and your suspicions of his course. But in my
encounter,--you know that it was not yet day,--and in the excitement of
escaping from an armed guard, I fear that I fought hand to hand with
Wallingford himself, taking him for a constable. He was the last of
them to attack me, when I was unable to discriminate,--or he, either,"
added Dickson slyly, but with a look of great concern. "The thought has
struck me that he might not have been disloyal to our cause, and was
perhaps escaping to the boat, as I was, when we fell into such desperate
combat in that dark lane. It would put me into an awful position, you
can see, sir.... I may be possessed of too great a share of human
frailty, but I have had more than my share of ill fortune. I have
suffered from unjust suspicions, too, but this dreadful accident would
place me"--
"You thought to save your life from an unknown enemy?" the captain
interrupted him. "You struck one of your own party, by mischance, in
the dark?" he suggested, without any apparent reproach in his voice.
"Exactly so, sir," said Dickson, taking heart, but looking very
mournful.
"Yet you told us that Mr. Wallingford alarmed the guard?"
"I could suspect nothing else, sir, at the time; you heard my reasons
when I returned."
"Never mind your return," urged Paul Jones, still without any tone of
accusation. "'T was long after the gray of the morning, it was almost
broad day, when I left the shore myself at Whitehaven, and a man might
easily know one of his shipmates. 'T was a dark lane, you told me,
however," and his eyes twinkled with the very least new brightness. "If
we should ever see poor Wallingford again, you could settle all that
between you. I can well understand your present concern. Do you think
that you did the lieutenant any serious damage before you escaped? I
recall the fact that you were badly mauled about the countenance."
"I fear that I struck him worst in the shoulder, sir," and Dickson
shifted his position uneasily, and put one hand to the deck timber above
to hold himself steady, now that they were rolling badly with the anchor
off ground. "I know that I had my knife in my hand. He is a very
strong fellow, and a terrible man to wrestle with,--I mean the man whom
I struck, who may have been Wallingford. I thought he would kill me
first."
"I wish you had bethought yourself to speak sooner," said the captain
patiently. "'T is a thing for us to reflect upon deeply, but I can hear
no more now. I must sleep, as you see, before I am fit for anything. Do
not let the men disturb me; they may get down channel to their fishing.
If they succeed as well as yesterday, we shall soon make the cost of
this little adventure."
He spoke drowsily, and drew the rough blanket over his head to keep the
light away.
Dickson mounted to the deck. If he had known how easy it would be to
make things straight with the captain, how much suffering he might have
spared himself! You must take him in the right mood, too. But the
captain had an eye like a gimlet, that twisted into a man's head.
"Wallingford may never turn up, after all. I wish I had killed him
while I was about it," said Dickson to himself uneasily. "It may be all
a lie that he was sent to Plymouth; it would be such a distance!" There
was something the matter with this world. To have an eye like Paul
Jones's fixed upon you while you were trying to make a straight story
was anything but an assistance or a pleasure.
The captain was shaking with laughter in the cabin as Dickson
disappeared. "What a face he put on the smooth-spoken hypocrite! His
race is run; he told me more than he needed," and Paul Jones's face grew
stern, as he lay there looking at the planks above his head. "He 's at
the bottom of the hill now, if he only knew it. When a man 's character
is gone, his reputation is sure enough to follow;" and with this sage
reflection the captain covered his head again carefully, and went to
sleep.
Unaware of this final verdict, Dickson was comfortably reading his
letter on the deck, and feeling certain that fortune had turned his way.
His mind had been made up some days before to leave the Ranger as soon
as he got back to France, even if he must feign illness to gain his
discharge, or desert the ship, as others had done. He had already a
good sum of money that had been paid him for information useful to the
British government, and, to avoid future trouble, proposed to hide
himself in the far South or in one of the West Indian Islands. "My poor
wife would gain by the change of climate," said the scoundrel, pitying
himself now for the loss of friendship and respect from which he felt
himself begin to suffer, and for those very conditions which he had so
carefully evolved.
He started as he read the brief page before him; the news of the letter
was amazingly welcome. It was written by some one who knew his most
intimate affairs. The chance had come to give up the last and best of
those papers which he had stolen from the captain's desk. For this
treasure he had asked a great price,--so great that Thornton would not
pay it at Brest, and Ford's messenger had laughed him in the face. Now
there was the promise of the money, the whole noble sum. Word of his
being with Paul Jones had somehow reached Bristol. The crafty captain
had been unwise, for once, in speaking with this make-believe
coppersmith, and the play was up! The writer of the letter said that a
safe agent would meet Mr. Dickson any night that week at seven o'clock,
at the inn by Old Passage, to pay him his own price for certain papers
or information. There was added a handsome offer for the body of Paul
Jones, alive or dead, in case he should not be in custody before that
time. The letter was sealed as other letters had been, with a device
known among Thornton's errand runners.
"Old Passage!" repeated the happy Dickson. "I must now find where that
place is; but they evidently know my present situation, and the inn is
no doubt near!"
He stepped softly to the cabin hatchway, and looked down. The captain's
face was turned aside, and he breathed heavily. The chart of that coast
was within easy reach; Dickson took it from the chest where it lay,
since it was an innocent thing to have in hand. There was all the shore
of the Severn and the Bristol Channel, with the spot already marked
nearest Westbury church where the captain was likely to land; and here
beyond, at no great distance, was Old Passage, where a ferry crossed the
Severn. He should have more than time enough for his own errand and a
good evening ashore, while Paul Jones was riding into Bristol, perhaps
to stay there against his will. For the slight trouble of ripping a few
stitches in his waistcoat seams and taking out a slip of paper, Dickson
would be rich enough at that day's end.
"Yes, I 'll go to the southward when I reach America, and start anew,"
he reflected. "I 've had it very hard, but now I can take my ease.
This, with the rest of my savings, will make me snug."
He heard the captain move, and the planks of the berth creak in the
stuffy cabin. They were running free before the east wind, and were
almost at the fishing grounds.
*XLII*
*THE PASSAGE INN*
"The Runlet of Brandy was a loving Runlet and floated after us out of
pure pity."
Just before nightfall, that same day, two travel-worn men came riding
along a country road toward Old Passage, the ancient ferrying-place
where travelers from the south and west of England might cross over into
Wales. From an immemorial stream of travel and the wear of weather, the
road-bed was worn, like a swift stream's channel, deep below the level
of the country. One of the riders kept glancing timidly at the bushy
banks above his head, as if he feared to see a soldier in the thicket
peering down; his companion sat straight in his saddle, and took no
notice of anything but his horse and the slippery road. It had been
showery all the afternoon, and they were both spattered with mud from
cap to stirrup.
As they came northward, side by side, to the top of a little hill, the
anxious rider gave a sigh of relief, and his horse, which limped badly
and bore the marks of having been on his knees, whinnied as if in
sympathy. The wide gray waters of the Severn were spread to east and
west; the headland before them fell off like a cliff. Below, to the
westward, the land was edged by a long line of dike which walled the sea
floods away from some low meadows that stretched far along the coast.
Over the water were drifting low clouds of fog and rain, but there was a
dull gleam of red on the western sky like a winter sunset, and the wind
was blowing. At the road's end, just before them, was a group of gray
stone buildings perched on the high headland above the Severn, like a
monastery or place of military defense.
As the travelers rode up to the Passage Inn, the inn yard, with all its
stables and outhouses, looked deserted; the sunset gust struck a last
whip of rain at the tired men. The taller of the two called impatiently
for a hostler before he got stiffly to the ground, and stamped his feet
as he stood by his horse. It was a poor tired country nag, with a kind
eye, that began to seek some fondling from her rider, as if she harbored
no ill will in spite of hardships. The young man patted and stroked the
poor creature, which presently dropped her head low, and steamed, as if
it were winter weather, high into the cool air.
The small kitchen windows were dimly lighted; there was a fire burning
within, but the whole place looked unfriendly, with its dark stone walls
and heavily slated roof. The waters below were almost empty of
shipping, as if there were a storm coming, but as the rider looked he
saw a small craft creeping up close by the shore; she was like a French
fishing boat, and had her sweeps out. The wind was dead against her out
of the east, and her evident effort added to the desolateness of the
whole scene. The impatient traveler shouted again, with a strong,
honest voice that prevailed against both wind and weather, so that one
of the stable doors was flung open and a man came out; far inside the
dark place glowed an early lantern, and the horses turned their heads
that way, eager for supper and warm bedding. There seemed to be plenty
of room within; there was no sound of stamping hoofs, or a squeal from
crowded horses that nipped their fellows to get more comfort for
themselves. Business was evidently at a low ebb.
"Rub them down as if they were the best racers in England; give them the
best feed you dare as soon as they cool,--full oats and scant hay and a
handful of corn: they have served us well," said Wallingford, with great
earnestness. "I shall look to them myself in an hour or two, and you
shall have your own pay. The roan's knees need to be tight-bandaged.
Come, Hammet, will you not alight?" he urged his comrade, who, through
weariness or uncertainty, still sat, with drooping head and shoulders,
on his poor horse. "Shake the mud off you. Here, I 'll help you, then,
if your wound hurts again," as the man gave a groan in trying to
dismount. "After the first wrench 't is easy enough. Come, you 'll be
none the worse for your cropper into soft clay!" He laughed cheerfully
as they crossed the yard toward a door to which the hostler pointed
them.
The mistress of the inn, a sharp-looking, almost pretty woman, suddenly
flung her door open, and came out on the step to bid them good-evening
in a civil tone, and in the same breath, as she recognized their forlorn
appearance, to bid them begone. Her house was like to be full, that
night, of gentlefolk and others who had already bespoken lodging, and
she had ceased to take in common wayfarers since trade was so meagre in
these hard times, and she had been set upon by soldiers and fined for
harboring a pack of rascals who had landed their run goods from France
and housed them unbeknownst in her hay barn. They could see for
themselves that she had taken down the tavern sign, and was no more
bound to entertain them than any other decent widow woman would be along
the road.
She railed away, uncontradicted; but there was a pleasant smile on
Wallingford's handsome face that seemed to increase rather than diminish
at her flow of words, until at last she smiled in return, though half
against her will. The poor fellow looked pale and tired: he was some
gentleman in distress; she had seen his like before.
"We must trouble you for supper and a fire," he said to the landlady.
"I want some brandy at once for my comrade, and while you get supper we
can take some sleep. We have been riding all day. There will be a
gentleman to meet me here by and by out of Bristol," and he took
advantage of her stepping aside a little to bow politely to her and make
her precede him into the kitchen. There was a quiet authority in his
behavior which could not but be admired; the good woman took notice that
the face of her guest was white with fatigue, and even a little
tremulous in spite of his calmness.
"If he 's a hunted man, I 'll hide him safe," she now said to herself.
It was not the habit of Old Passage Inn to ask curious questions of its
guests, or why they sometimes came at evening, and kept watch for boats
that ran in from mid-channel and took them off by night. This looked
like a gentleman, indeed, who would be as likely to leave two gold
pieces on the table as one.
"I have supper to get for a couple o' thieves (by t' looks of 'em) that
was here last night waiting for some one who did n't come,--a noisy lot,
too; to-night they 'll get warning to go elsewhere," she said, in a loud
tone. "I shall serve them first, and bid them begone. And I expect
some gentlefolk, too. There 's a fire lit for 'em now in my best room;
it was damp there, and they'd ill mix with t' rest. 'T is old Mr.
Alderman Davis a-comin' out o' Bristol, one o' their great merchants,
and like to be their next lord mayor, so folks says. He 's not been
this way before these three years," she said, with importance.
"Let me know when he comes!" cried Wallingford eagerly, as he stood by
the fireplace. There was a flush of color in his cheeks now, and he
turned to his companion, who had sunk into a corner of the settle.
"Thank God, Hammet," he exclaimed, "we 're safe! The end of all our
troubles has come at last!"
The innkeeper saw that he was much moved; something about him had
quickly touched her sympathy. She could not have told why she shared his
evident gratitude, or why the inn should be his place of refuge, but if
he were waiting for Mr. Davis, there was no fault to find.
"You 'll sleep a good pair of hours without knowing it, the two of you,"
she grumbled good-naturedly. "Throw off your muddy gear there, and be
off out o' my way, now, an' I 'll do the best I can. Take the left-hand
chamber at the stairhead; there's a couple o' beds. I 've two suppers
to get before the tide turns to the ebb. The packet folks 'll soon be
coming; an' those fellows that wait for their mate that's on a fishing
smack,--I may want help with 'em, if they 're 's bad 's they look. Yes,
I 'll call ye, sir, if Mr. Davis comes; but he may be kept, the weather
is so bad."
Hammet had drunk the brandy thirstily, and was already cowering as if
with an ague over the fire. Wallingford spoke to him twice before he
moved. The landlady watched them curiously from the stair-foot, as they
went up, to see that they found the right room.
"'T is one o' the nights when every strayaway in England is like to come
clacking at my door," she said, not without satisfaction, as she made a
desperate onset at her long evening's work.
"A pair o' runaways!" she muttered again; "but the tall lad can't help
princeing it in his drover's clothes. I 'll tell the stable to deny
they 're here, if any troopers come. I 'll help 'em safe off the land
or into Bristol, whether Mr. Alderman Davis risks his old bones by night
or not. A little more mercy in this world ain't goin' to hurt it!"
*XLIII*
*THEY FOLLOW THE DIKE*
"There's not a fibre in my trembling frame
That does not vibrate when thy step draws near."
Early in the morning of that day, when Mr. John Davis had been returning
from a brief visit to his counting-room, he was surprised at being run
against by a disreputable looking fellow, who dashed out of a dirty
alley, and disappeared again as quickly, after putting a letter into his
hand. The alderman turned, irate, to look after this lawless person,
and then marched on with offended dignity up the hill. When he had
turned a safe corner he stopped, and, holding his stout cane under his
arm, proceeded to unfold the paper. He had received threats before in
this fashion, like all magistrates or town officials; some loose fellow
warned off, or a smuggler heavily fined, would now and then make threats
against the authorities.
The letter in his hand proved to be of another sort. It might be dingy
without, but within the handwriting was that of a gentleman.
"Dear Sir," he read slowly, "my father's old friend and mine,--I ask
your kind assistance in a time of great danger, and even distress. I
shall not venture to Bristol before I have your permission. I am late
from prison, where I was taken from an American frigate. At last I have
found a chance to get to Chippenham market as a drover, and I hope to
reach Old Passage Inn (where I was once in your company) early in the
night on Friday. Could you come or send to meet me there, if it is
safe? I know or guess your own principles, but for the sake of the past
I think you will give what aid he needs to Roger W----, of Piscataqua,
in New England. Your dear lady, my kinswoman, will not forget the boy
to whom she was ever kind, nor will you, dear sir, I believe. I can
tell you everything, if we may meet. What I most desire is to get to
France, where I may join my ship. This goes by a safe hand."
The reader struck his cane to the sidewalk, and laughed aloud.
"What will little missy say to this?" he said, as he marched off. "I
'll hurry on to carry her the news!"
Miss Hamilton ran out to meet the smiling old man, as she saw him coming
toward the house, and was full of pretty friendliness before he could
speak.
"You were away before I was awake," she said, "and I have been watching
for you this half hour past, sir. First, you must know that dear Madam
Wallingford is better than for many days, and has been asking for you to
visit her, if it please you. And I have a new plan for us. Some one
has sent me word that there may be news out of the Mill Prison, if we
can be at the inn at Passage to-night. I hope you will not say it is
too far to ride," she pleaded; "you have often shown me the place when
we rode beyond Clifton"--
Mr. Davis's news was old already; his face fell with disappointment.
"It was a poor sailor who brought me word," she continued, speaking more
slowly, and watching him with anxiety. "Perhaps we shall hear from
Roger. He may have been retaken, and some one brings us word from him,
who has luckily escaped."
The old merchant looked at Mary shrewdly. "You had no message from
Wallingford himself?" he asked.
"Oh no," said the girl wistfully; "that were to put a happy end to
everything. But I do think that we may have news of him. If you had
not come, I should have gone to find you, I was so impatient."
Mr. Davis seated himself in his chair, and took on the air of a
magistrate, now that they were in the house. After all, Roger
Wallingford could know nothing of his mother or Miss Hamilton, or of
their being in England; there was no hint of them in the note.
"I suppose that we can make shift to ride to Passage," he said soberly.
"It is not so far as many a day's ride that you and I have taken this
year; but I think we may have rain again, from the look of the clouds,
and I am always in danger of the gout in this late summer weather.
Perhaps it will be only another wild-goose chase," he added gruffly, but
with a twinkle in his eyes.
"If I could tell you who brought the news!" said Mary impulsively. "No,
I must not risk his name, even with you, dear friend. But indeed I have
great hope, and Madam is strangely better; somehow, my heart is very
light!"
The old man looked up with a smile, as Mary stood before him. He had
grown very fond of the child, and loved to see that the drawn look of
pain and patience was gone now from her face.
"I wish that it were night already. When can we start?" she asked.