PART II

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

https://books.google.com/books?id=tE9CAQAAMAAJ

(Library of the University of Illinois)

THE LAND OF BONDAGE

ROMANCES BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE HISPANIOLA PLATE

IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY

SERVANTS OF SIN

THE YEAR ONE

THE FATE OF VALSE

ACROSS THE SALT SEAS

THE CLASH OF ARMS

DENOUNCED

THE SCOURGE OF GOD

FORTUNES MY FOE

A GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER

THE INTRIGUER'S WAY

THE DESERT SHIP

THE LAND OF BONDAGE

A ROMANCE

BY

JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON

AUTHOR OF

"THE HISPANIOLA PLATE"

"A DEAD RECKONING"

ETC., ETC.

LONDON

F. V. WHITE & CO., LIMITED

14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1905

CONTENTS

PART I

THE NARRATIVE OF GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE

CHAPTER

I. FUNERAL.

II. AN UNPEACEFUL PASSING.

III. A BEGGAR AND AN OUTCAST.

IV. INTO THE LAND OF BONDAGE.

V. THE SPRINGE IS SET.

VI. THE BIRD DRAWS NEAR.

VII. TRAPPED.

VIII. AND CAGED.

IX. MY MOTHER.

X. A NOBLE KINSMAN.

XI. IMPRESSED.

PART II

THE NARRATIVE OF JOICE BAMPFYLD OF VIRGINIA

XII. A COLONIAL PLANTATION.

XIII. THE BOND SLAVE.

XIV. A SLAVE'S GRATITUDE!

XV. A VISITOR FROM ENGLAND.

XVI. ANOTHER VISITOR.

XVII. THE RED MAN.

XVIII. BESIEGED.

XIX. AT BAY.

XX. THE GREAT MEDICINE CHIEF.

XXI. IN CAPTIVITY.

XXII. AMONGST THE SAVAGES.

XXIII. DENOUNCED.

XXIV. 'TWIXT BEAR AND PANTHER.

PART III

THE NARRATIVE OF LORD ST. AMANDE CONTINUED

XXV. THE SHAWNEE TRAIL.

XXVI. AS FOEMEN FIGHT.

XXVII. A LONG PEACE.

XXVIII. THE REWARD OF A TRAITOR.

PART IV

THE NARRATIVE OF JOICE BAMPFYLD CONTINUED

XXIX. HOMEWARD BOUND.

XXX. IN THE LAND WHERE THEIR FATHERS DWELT.

XXXI. FACE TO FACE.

XXXII. NEMESIS.

THE NARRATIVE CONCLUDED BY GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE

"AFTER THESE STORMS AT LAST A CALM"

PREFACE

The groundwork of the following narrative, accompanied by a vast

number of papers and documents bearing on the main facts, was related

to me by the late Mr. Clement Barclay of Philadelphia, the last

descendant of an old Virginian family. On reading over these papers

and documents, I was struck by the resemblance which the story bore to

the history of another unfortunate young Englishman whose case created

much sensation in the English Law Courts at about the same period,

_i.e_., that of the reign of King George II. Recognising, however,

that the adventures of Lord St. Amande were not only more romantic

than those of that other personage, while his character was of a far

more noble and interesting nature, I resolved to utilise them for the

purpose of romance in the following pages, which are now submitted to

the public. Except that in some few cases, and those the principal,

the names have been altered, the characters bear the same names as in

the documents, private papers, journals and news-letters handed to me

by Mr. Barclay.

J. B.-B.

_October_, 1904.

THE LAND OF BONDAGE

PART I

THE NARRATIVE OF

GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE

CHAPTER I

MY LORD'S FUNERAL

And this was the end of it. To be buried at the public expense!

To be buried at the public expense, although a Viscount in the Peerage

of Ireland and the heir to a Marquisate in the Peerage of England.

The pity of it, the pity that it should come to this!

A few years before, viz., in the fourth year of the reign of our late

Queen Anne, and the year of Our Lord, 1706, no one who had then known

Gerald, Lord Viscount St. Amande, would have ventured to foretell so

evil an ending for him, since he and life were well at evens with each

other. Ever to have his purse fairly well filled with crowns if not

guineas had been his lot in those days, as it had also been to have

good credit at the fashioners, to be able to treat his friends to a

fine turtle or a turbot at the coffee-houses he used, to take a hand

at ombra or at whisk, to play at pass-dice or at billiards, and to be

always carefully bedeck't in the best of satins and velvets and laces,

and to eat and drink of the best. For to eat and drink well was ever

his delight, as it was to frequent port clubs and Locketts or Rummers,

to empty his glass as soon as it was filled, to toss down beaker after

beaker, while, meantime, he would sing jovial chaunts and songs of

none too delicate a nature, fling a handful of loose silver to the

servers and waitresses, and ogle each of the latter who was comely or

buxom.

Yet now he was being buried at the public expense!

How had it come about? I must set it down so that you shall

understand. During this period of wassailing and carousing, of

ridottos at St. James's and dances at lower parts of the town, for he

affected even the haunts at Rotherhithe in his search for pleasure, as

he did those in the common parts of Dublin when he was in that, his

native, city--and during the time when he varied his pursuits by

sometimes frequenting the playhouses where he would regard fondly the

ladies at one moment and amuse himself by kicking a shop-boy or poor

clerk, or scrivener, at another, and by sometimes retiring into the

country for shooting, or hunting, or fighting a main, his heart had

become entendered towards a young and beautiful girl, one Louise

Sheffield.

He had met her in the best class of company which he frequented, for,

although bearing no rank herself, she was of the best blood and race,

being indeed a niece to the Duke of Walton. Later on you shall see

this girl, grown into a woman, full of sorrows and vexations and

despite, and judge of her for yourself by that which I narrate.

Suffice it, therefore, if I write down the fact that she repaid his

love with hers in return and that, although she knew this handsome

gallant, Gerald, Lord St. Amande to be no better than a wastrel, a

tosspot and a gamer, she was willing to become his wife and to endow

him with a small but comfortable fortune that she possessed. Alas!

that she should ever have done so, for from that marriage arose all

the calamities, the sufferings and the heartaches that are to be

chronicled in this narrative.

From the commencement all went awry. George, Marquis of Amesbury, to

whom this giddy, unthinking Lord St. Amande was kinsman and heir, did

hate with a most fervent hatred John, Duke of Walton, they having

quarrelled at the succession of the Queen, when the Marquis espoused

the cause of her Majesty, while the Duke was all for proclaiming the

Pretender; and thus the whole of Lord St. Amande's family was against

the match. The ladies, especially his mother and sister, threw their

most bitter rancour into the scales against the bride, they

endeavoured to poison his mind against her by insinuating evil conduct

on her part previous to her marriage, and they persuaded the Marquis

to threaten my lord with a total withdrawal of his favour, as well as

a handsome allowance that he made annually to his heir, if he did not

part from her.

At first he would not listen to one word against her--he had not owned

his bride long enough to tire of her; also some of her fortune was not

yet wasted. Yet gradually, as he continued in his evil courses,

becoming still fonder of his glass and rioting, and as her fortune

declined at the same time that he felt bitterly the pinch occasioned

by the withdrawal of the Marquis's allowance, he did begin to hearken

to the reports spread broadcast against his young wife.

She had borne him a child, dead, during his absence in Ireland, and it

was after this period that he began to give credence to the hints

against her; and thus it was that while he was still in that country

he sent to his mother a power of attorney, authorising her to sue to

the Lords for a divorce, as his representative. This petition,

however, their Lordships refused, dismissing the plea with costs

against him, saying that there was no truth in his allegations, and

stigmatising them as scandalous.

And then he learnt that he had indeed wronged her most bitterly and,

turning upon his mother and sister, went over to England where, upon

his knees, he besought his wife for her pardon, weeping many tears of

contrition as he did so, while she, loving him ever in spite of all,

forgave him as a woman will forgive. Then they passed back to Ireland

where, she being again about to become a mother, he cherished her with

great care and tenderness, and watched over her until she had

presented him with a son.

Yet, such was this man's sometime evil temper and brutality of nature

that, on the Duke of Walton refusing to add more money to the gift he

had already made her--the original fortune being now quite

dissipated--he banished her from his house and she, flying to England,

was forced to take refuge with the Duke and, worse still, to leave her

child behind.

Now, therefore, you shall see how it befell that, at last, he owed

even his coffin and his grave to charity.

When she was gone from him, he, loving the child in his strange way,

proclaimed it as his heir, put it to nurse in the neighbourhood, and

invariably spoke of it as the future Lord St. Amande and Marquis of

Amesbury. But, unfortunately for this poor offspring of his now dead

love, he became enamoured of a horrid woman, a German queen, who had

come over to England at the time of the succession of King George--for

over twenty years had now passed since his marriage with the Duke of

Walton's niece--a woman who had set up in Dublin as a court fashioner,

lace merchant and milliner. But she had no thought for him, being in

truth much smitten with his younger brother, Robert, and she persuaded

him that to relieve himself of the dire poverty into which he had

fallen, it would be best that he should give out that his son was dead

and secrete him, so that he and Robert, who would then be regarded by

all men as the heir, could proceed to dispose of the estate. And my

lord's intellects being now bemused with much drink and other

disordered methods of life, besides that he was in bitter poverty,

agreed to do this and gave out that the son was dead and that he and

his brother were about to break the entail.

And even this villainy, which might have seemed likely to ward off his

penury for at least some years, did nothing of the sort, but, indeed,

only brought him nearer to the pauper's grave to which he was

hurrying. So greedy was he for money--as also was his brother, who,

knowing that while the boy lived _he_ could never succeed to the

estates, was naturally very willing to dispose of them at any

price--that large properties were in very truth sold for not more

than, and indeed rarely exceeded, half a year's purchase! How long was

it to be imagined that the half of such sums would last this poor

spendthrift who no sooner felt his purse heavy with the guineas in it

than he made haste to lighten it by odious debaucheries and

wassailings and carousings? His clothes, his laces, nay, even his wigs,

his swords, and his general wearing apparel had long since gone to the

brokers, so that, at the time of selling the properties, he was to be

seen going about Dublin with a rusty cutbob upon his once handsome

head, a miserable ragged coat that had once been blue but had turned

to green with wear, ornamented with Brandenburgh buttons, upon his

back, and a common spadroon reposing on his thigh and sticking half a

foot out of its worn-out sheath, instead of the jewel-hilted swords he

had once used to carry.

To conclude, he fell sick about this time--sick of his debauches,

sick, it may be, from recollections of the evil he had done his

innocent wife and child, and sick, perhaps, from the remembrance of

how he had wasted his life and impaired the prospects of his rightful

heir. Ill and sick unto death, with not one loving hand to minister to

him, no loving voice to say a word of comfort to him, and dying in a

garret, to pay for which the woman who rented it to him had now taken

his last coat. His wife was in England, sick herself and living on a

small trifle left her by her uncle, now dead; his son, sixteen years

of age, had escaped from the custody of a ruffian named O'Rourke, by

whom he had been kept closely confined and reported dead, and, of all

men, most avoided his unnatural father. What time his brother Robert

would not have given him a crust to prolong his life and was indeed

looking forward to his death with glee and eager anticipation.

So he died, with none by his pallet but the hag who owned the garret

and who was waiting for the breath to be out of his body to send that

body to the parish mortuary. So he died, sometimes fancying that he

was back in the bagnios he had found so pleasant, sometimes weeping

for a sight of his child and for the wrongs he had done that child,

sometimes, in his delirium, bellowing forth the profligate songs that

such creatures as D'Urfey and Shadwell had made popular amongst the

depraved. And sometimes, also, moaning for his Louise to come back and

pity him, and forgive him once again in memory of the sweetness of

their early love.

Now, therefore, you see how this once handsome lordling--and handsome

as Apollo he was in his younger days, I have heard his wife say,

though wicked as Satan--was brought so low that, from ruffling it with

the best, he came to dying in a filthy garret and being buried at the

public expense. Alas, alas! who can help but weep and wring their

hands when they think on such a thing, and when they reflect on all

the evil that Gerald, Lord St. Amande, wrought in his life and the

bitter heritage of woe he left behind to those whom he should,

instead, have loved and cherished, and made good provision for.

'Twas a dull November day, in the year of our Lord, 1727, and the

first of the reign of our present King George II., that the funeral

procession--if so poor and mean an interment as this may be so

termed--passed over Essex Bridge on its way to the burying ground

where the body was to be deposited. Yet how think you a future peer of

the realm should be taken to his last home, how think you one of his

rank should be taken farewell of? This man had once held the King's

commission, he having carried the colours of his regiment at

Donauwerth and been present as a lieutenant at Tirlemont, at both of

which the great Marlborough had commanded--therefore upon his coffin

there should have been a sword and a sash at least, with, perhaps, a

flag. He stood near unto a marquisate, therefore his coffin should

have been covered with purple velvet and the plate upon it should have

been of silver. Yet there were no such things. His swords, you know by

now, were pawned; his sashes had gone the way of his laces, apparel

and handsome wigs. The bier on which he was drawn was, therefore, but

a common thing on which the bodies of beggars, of Liffey watermen and

of coach-drivers were often also drawn; the coffin was a poor, deal

encasement with, nailed roughly on it, some black cloth; the

name-plate bearing the description of his rank and standing--oh,

hollow mockery!--was of tin.

And yet even this was obtained but at the public expense!

A dull November day, with, rolling in from the Channel, great masses

of sea fog, damp and wet, that made the dogs in the street creep

closer to the house doors for shelter and warmth, and the swine in the

streets to huddle themselves together for greater comfort. A day on

which those who had no call to be out of doors warmed themselves over

fires, or gathered round tavern tables and drank drams of nantz and

usquebaugh; a day which no man would care to think should resemble the

day on which he would himself be put away into the earth for ever. But

the melancholy of the elements and the weather were the only part of

the wretched funeral of this man for which he had not been

responsible. The gloom and the fog and the damp he could not help,

since none, whether king or pauper, can fix the date of their death,

or choose to die and go to their last home amidst the shining of the

sun and the singing of the birds and the blooming of the flowers, in

preference to the miseries of the winter. But all else he might have

avoided had he so chosen.

For he might have been borne--not to a beggar's grave, but to the tomb

of his own illustrious family in England--amidst pomp and honour had

he so willed it; the pomp and honour of a Marquis's heir, the pomp and

honour of a gallant officer who had fought under the greatest general

that England had ever known, and for his mourners he might have had a

loving wife and child weeping for his loss.

Only he would not, and so there was not one that day to shed a tear

for him.

CHAPTER II

AN UNPEACEFUL PASSING

So the funeral passed over Essex Bridge and by the French Church, on

the steps of which there sat a boy who, on its approach, sprang to his

feet and, from behind a pillar of the porch, fixed his eyes firmly on

those who attended it.

A boy of between fifteen and sixteen years of age, tall and, thus,

looking older, and clad partly in rags and partly in clothes too big

for him. To be explicit, his hose was torn and mended and torn again,

his shoes were burst and broken and his coat which, though threadbare

was sound, hung down nearly to his feet and was roomy enough for a man

of twenty, to whom indeed it had once belonged till given in charity

to its present owner. By the boy's side there stood a big, burly man

with a red, kindly face and a great fell of brown hair, himself

dressed in the garb of a butcher, and with at the moment, as though he

had but just left the block, his sharpening steel hanging at his side.

Also, on the steps of the church were one or two gentlemen arrayed in

their college gowns and caps, as if they too had strolled forth at the

moment from Trinity and had happened upon the spot, while, around and

under the stoops of the neighbouring houses, were gathered together

several groups of beggars and ragamuffins and idle ne'er-do-wells.

And now you shall hear a strange thing, for, as the bier with its mean

burden came close, so that the features of those who accompanied it

might be plainly perceived through the fog, the butcher, turning to

the lad dressed as a scarecrow, said, "_My lord_, stand forth and show

thyself. Here come those who have put it about that you have been dead

these two years, and who, if they had their will, would soon have you

dead now. Show thyself therefore, I say, Lord St. Amande, and prove

that thou art alive."

"Ay, ay, do," one of the collegians added. "If the news from London be

true, thy uncle, Robert, has already proclaimed himself the new lord,

and it is as well that the contrary should be proved."

Thus solemnly adjured, the boy did stand forth and, figure of fun

though he looked, gazed fiercely on those who rode behind his father's

coffin.

There were but three mourners--if such these ghouls could be called

who followed the body to its last resting place, not with any desire

to pay a tribute to the dead, but rather with the desire of satisfying

themselves, and one other, their master, that it was indeed gone from

the world for ever--two men mounted and a woman in a one-horse hackney

coach.

All were evil-looking, yet she was the worst, and, as she peered forth

from the window, the beggars all about groaned at her while the

students regarded her with looks of contempt. She was the German woman

who had come to Dublin when the late King had come to London, and was

called Madame Baüer, and was now no longer young. That she may once

have been comely is to be supposed, since the late Herr Baüer was said

to have been a wealthy German gentleman who ruined himself for

her--if, indeed, he had ever existed, which many doubted--and also

since the dead man now going to his grave had formed a passion for

her, while his usurping brother was actually said to be privately

married to her. Yet of a certainty, she had no beauty now, her face

being of a fiery red, due, it was whispered, to her love of strong

waters; her great staring and protuberant eyes were of a watery

blue-green hue, and her teeth were too prominent and more like those

of an animal. And when the small crowd groaned at her and called her

"painted Jezebel"--though she needed no paint, in truth--she gnashed

those teeth at them as though she would have liked to tear and rend

them ere she sank back into the carriage.

Of the men who followed the bier one was a pale cadaverous-looking

person, with about him some remnants of good looks, his features being

not ill-formed, though on his face, too, there were the signs of

drinking and evil-living in the form of blotches and a red nose that

looked more conspicuous because of the lividness of his skin. This man

was Wolfe Considine, a gentleman by birth, and of an ancient Irish

family, yet now no better than a hanger-on to Robert St. Amande; a

creature who obeyed his orders as a dog obeys its master's orders, and

who was so vile and perjured a wretch that for many years, when out of

the reach of Lord St. Amande, he had allowed it to be hinted that he

was in truth the father of that lord's son, and, if not that, had at

least been much beloved by Lord St. Amande's wife. In obedience,

perhaps, to his master's orders he wore now no signs of mourning but,

instead, rode in a red coat much passemented with tarnished gold lace,

as was the case with his hat, and with his demi-peaked saddle quilted

with red plush, while the twitter-boned, broken-winded horse he

bestrode gave, as well as his apparel, but few signs that his employer

bestowed much care upon him. The man who paced beside him was liveried

as a servant and rode a better horse, and was doubtless there in

attendance on him and the woman in the coach.

Noticing the ominous and glowering looks of the beggars on the

sidewalk as well as the contemptuous glances of the students standing

by the steps of the French Church, Considine drew his horse nearer to

the coach and spoke to the inmate thereof, saying:--

"I' faith, my lady, they seem to bear no good will to us judging by

their booings and mutterings, for it cannot be to this poor dead thing

that their growls are directed--_he_ was beloved enough by them, at

any rate, so long as he had a stiver in his purse with which to treat

them to a bowl of hypsy or a mug of ale."

The woman in the hackney glanced at the beggars again with her cold,

cruel eyes as he spoke, but ere she could reply, if indeed she

intended to do so, she shrank back once more, seeing that from the

crowd there was emerging an old woman, a hideous creature bent double

with age, who leaned upon a stick and who shock as though with the

palsy.

"What want you, hag?" asked Considine, while as he spoke he pricked

the horse he rode with the spur, as though he would ride over her.

"To look upon the coffin of a gentleman," she answered, waving at the

same time her crutch, or stick, so near to the animal's nostrils that

it started back, almost unseating its rider. "To look upon the coffin

of a gentleman, and not upon such scum as you and that thing there,"

pointing to the woman who had been addressed as "my lady."

"Proceed," called out Considine to the driver of the bier. "Why tarry

you because of this woman. Proceed, I say."

But here a fresh interruption occurred, for, as he spoke, the butcher,

motioning to the lad with him to remain where he was, descended the

steps of the church and, coming forward, said in a masterful manner:--

"Nay! That shall you not do yet. Wolfe Considine, you must listen to

me."

"To thee, rapscallion," said the other, looking down on him, yet

noting his great frame as he did so. "To thee. Wherefore, pray, to

thee? If you endeavour to stop this funeral the watch shall lay you by

the heels, and my lady here shall hale you before a Justice for

endeavouring to prevent the interment of her brother-in-law."

"'My lady! Her brother-in-law!'" repeated the butcher contemptuously,

and glancing into the hackney carriage as he did so. "'My lady! Her

brother-in-law!' Why, how can she be either?" and he smiled at the

red-faced woman.

"You Irish dog," she said, now protruding her head from the window.

"The law shall teach you how I am both, at the same time that it

chastises you for your insolence. Let us pass, however."

"You shall not pass until you have heard me. Nay, Wolfe Considine,

put not thy hand upon thy sword. There is no courage in thy craven

heart to draw it. What! shall he who ran away from Oudenarde--thou

knowest 'tis truth; I fought, not ran away, as a corporal there

myself--threaten a brave and honest man with his sword? Nay, more, why

should he wear one--? I' faith, I have a mind to take it from thee.

Yet even that is not the worst, though the Duke did threaten to brand

thy back if ever he clapt eyes on thee again."

Here the collegians, in spite of the halted bier with the dreary

burden on it, burst into laughter, while Considine trembled with rage

and was now white as a corpse himself.

"That, I say, is scarce the worst. You speak of the watch to me--you!

Why! call them, call all the officers of the law and see which they

shall arrest first. An honest man or a thief. Ay, a thief! I say a

thief." He advanced closer to Considine as he spoke. "A thief, I say

again."

"Vile wretch! the law shall punish you."

"Summon it, I tell you. Summon it. Then shall we see."

And now, changing his address, which had been up to this moment made

to Considine alone, he turned half round to the crowd--which had much

augmented since the altercation began and the stopping of the funeral

had taken place--and addressing all assembled there, he said in a loud

voice so that none but those who were stone deaf could fail to hear

his words.

"Listen all you who to-day see the body of the late Lord St. Amande on

its way to the grave, listen I say to the villainy of this creature,

Wolfe Considine, the tool and minion of the man Robert St. Amande, who

now claims to have succeeded to his honours. Hear also how far

she,"---and he pointed his finger to the hackney carriage where the

woman glowered out at him--"has aided both these scoundrels."

"By heavens, you shall suffer for this," exclaimed Considine, "to

defame a peer is punishable with the hulks----"

"Tush," answered the other, "I defame no peer, for he is none. The

true peer is Gerald St. Amande, the younger, now the Lord Viscount St.

Amande since his father's death."

"Thou fool," bellowed Considine, "he is dead long since. 'Tis well

known."

"Is it so? Well, let us see. But first answer me, Wolfe Considine,

deserter from the colours of Her Majesty Queen Anne's 1st Royal Scots'

Regiment, panderer and creature of the usurper Robert St. Amande,

purloiner of the body of the present Lord St. Amande--said I not you

were a thief?--instigator of murder to the villain, O'Rourke, who

would have slain the child or, at least, have shipped him off a slave

to the Virginian plantations; traducer of an honest lady's fame who,

so far from favouring thee, would not have spat upon thee. Answer me,

I say, and tell me if you would know that dead child again were you to

set your eyes upon it?"

He hurled forth these accusations against the wretch shivering on his

horse with so terrible a voice, accompanied by fierce looks, that the

other could do naught but writhe under them and set to work to bawl

loudly for the watch as he did so, and to offer a gibing beggar who

stood near a crown to run and fetch them, which the beggar refused, so

that at last the servant started to find them. But, meanwhile, the

butcher again began:

"He is dead long since, is he? Well, we will see." Then beckoning to

the lad in rags still standing on the steps of the French Church, he

said, "Lord St. Amande, come hither and prove to this perjured villain

that thou art no more dead than he who would have had thee so."

Slowly, therefore, I descended--for I who write these lines was that

most unhappy child, Lord St. Amande, as perhaps you who read them may

have guessed--and slowly in my tatters I went down and stood by him

who had succoured me, and fixed my eyes on that most dreadful villain,

Wolfe Considine.

Now, the effect upon him was wonderful to witness, for verily I

thought he would have had a fit and fallen from his horse. His eyes

seemed to be starting forth from his head, his cadaverous face became

empurpled, his hands twitched, and all the while he muttered, "Alive!

Alive! yet O'Rourke swore that he was safe at the bottom of the

Liffey--the traitor! Alive!"

He spoke so low and muttered so hoarsely to himself that I have ever

doubted if any other but I and Oliver Quin, the butcher, heard his

self-condemnatory words--by which he most plainly acknowledged his

guilt and the part he had played in endeavouring to get me made away

with. But, ere he could say more, he received support from the woman,

Baüer, or "Madam," as she was generally called, who, descending now

from her hackney carriage, thrust aside the beggars around it and

advanced towards me.

That she was a woman of courage need not be doubted, for, although

these miserable gutter-birds had hitherto been jeering at her to even

such an extent as remarking on the redness of her face and the

probable cause thereof, she at this time awed them by her manner. Her

eyes flaming, her great white teeth gleaming like those of a hunted

wolf as it turns to tear its pursuers, she thrust them all aside (she

being big and of masculine proportions) and exclaiming, "Out you

wretches, away you kennel dogs, stand back, I say, you Irish curs,"

made her way to me.

"Let me see," she said, seizing me roughly by the collar, "the brat

who is to be palmed upon us as the dead child. Let me see him." And

then, as she gazed in my face, she burst into a loud, strident laugh,

while in her harsh voice and her German accent (which she had always)

she exclaimed, "So this is the beggar's brat who is to be thrust in

before us as a son of this dead lord," pointing to my father's

coffin--"this thing of rags and filth. Man," she said, turning

suddenly upon Quin, "man, know you the punishment awarded those who

falsely endeavour for their own evil ends to deprive rightful

inheritors of what is theirs? You shall so suffer for this vile

imposture that you had better have been slain at Oudenarde--of which

you boast so freely--than ever have lived to see to-day."

"With the respect due to such as you, Madam Baüer----"

"Fellow, I am the Viscountess St. Amande."

"Nay. Nay! Even though you be Robert St. Amande's wife--as most people

doubt"--she struck at him with her hand as he said this, which blow he

avoided easily, so that she over-reached herself and nearly fell, at

which the crowd jeered--"even then you are not Lady St. Amande. There

is but one, this poor lad's mother, now sick in England but safe from

your evil attempts. And, Madam Baüer, it is more meet that I should

ask if _you_ know what is the punishment of such malefactors as those

who endeavour for their own evil ends to deprive rightful inheritors

of what is theirs?"

"The imposition shall not go unpunished, this boy shall indeed be sent

to the plantations and, with him, you, you ruffian. I will myself seek

out the King sooner than he shall escape."

But here there stepped forth one of the collegians who had been near

me all through this most strange scene, a grave and pious youth of

twenty years of age--'twas his coat I was wearing--who said:

"By your favour, madam, it is impossible that the boy should be

punished. I am from New Ross in the County of Wexford myself,"---both

she and Considine started at this---"where his father dwelt much. I

have known the lad from his birth, as a child myself I took part in

the festivities--alas! terrible debaucheries and drinkings!--which

this poor dead lord caused to be made in honour of his birth. I have

known him all his life, and that he is the present Lord St. Amande

none can doubt. Added to which, madam, there must be fully five

hundred people in Ireland, including his pastors and teachers, to say

nothing of those in England, who can equally speak for him."

"It is a lie," Considine shouted, having now regained something of his

courage, "It is a lie. I, too, knew the lad who was son to Lord St.

Amande, and he is dead and this brat is not he."

"Mr. Considine," said the young student, his pale face reddening, "I

am intended for the Ministry, but being not yet ordained no man may

insult me with impunity, nor doubt my word. Much less such a foul

braggart as you, therefore, unless you ask my pardon on the moment I

will pull you down from off that horse and force you to beg it of me

in the mud at my feet." And he advanced towards Considine with his arm

outstretched to carry out his threat.

But that person being never disposed to fight with anyone, instantly

taking off his hat said:

"Sir, my words were ill chosen. I ask your pardon for them. I should

have said that I feared, as I still do, that you are grievously

mistaken."

CHAPTER III

A BEGGAR AND AN OUTCAST

And thus, in such a dreadful way and amidst such surroundings--with

brawling in the streets and insults hurled over his body from one to

another--was my father buried. Alas! unhappily such scenes and

terrifying episodes were but a fitting prologue to the stormy life

that was henceforth before me for many years; I say a fitting prologue

to the future.

When the craven Considine had made, or rather been compelled to make,

his amends to Mr. Jonathan Kinchella, the young student, my protector,

Quin, announced that, since he had produced the rightful Lord St.

Amande and exhibited him to the public at so fitting a moment as his

father's funeral procession (so that, henceforth, there were in

existence witnesses who could testify to the assertion of my claim),

he had no more to say, except that he hoped that the spirit of the

dead peer would forgive the interruption in consequence of the good

which he wished to do to his son. And he also announced with great

cheerfulness the pleasure which he had experienced in being able to

tell Mr. Wolfe Considine to his face his appreciation of his

character.

"So that," he said to that person, as once more the procession set

out, "if, henceforth, any one in Dublin shall be so demented as to

deem you an honest man and to be deceived by you, they owe thanks to

none but themselves."

"Ay, ruffian!" said Considine, brazening it out, however, "thou art

the cock o' the walk for the moment, yet think not to escape

punishment. Thou hast to-day threatened and reviled a gentleman of

birth and consideration, for which thou shalt clearly suffer; thou

hast insulted, slandered and abused a peer and a peeress of His

Majesty's realm, for which thou shalt lie in the bilboes and gemmaces.

Thou hast also endeavoured to usurp my lord's rightful rank and degree

by passing off a base counterfeit of his brother's dead child, for

which the punishment is death, or, at least, branding in the hand and

being sold to slavery in the plantations, all of which thou and thy

accomplice shall most surely receive ere many days are sped."

Then, turning to the driver of the bier, he ordered him to proceed.

"Tut, tut, tut," exclaimed Oliver. "Thou art but an empty windbag,

tho' 'tis well that thou hast an accurate knowledge of the law--yet, I

misdoubt if it will save thee when thy time comes. But, as thou

sayest, let the funeral proceed, and, for further assurance of thy

position, young sir," he said to me, "we will accompany it on foot.

Let us see who will prevent us."

Then, seizing me by the hand, we set out to follow my father's body.

And now you, my children, for whom I write this narrative (and your

children who in the fulness of time shall come after you), have seen

in how wretched a manner I, who should have been cradled in luxury,

began my existence at my father's death. Had that father been as he

should have been, or had even my uncle, Robert, been an honest man, or

had the head of our house, the Marquis of Amesbury, looked properly to

the rights of his lawful successor, Ulster King-at-Arms would have

enrolled me on the certificate of the late lord's death as Gerald St.

Amande, Viscount St. Amande, in the peerage of Ireland, and heir

apparent of the Marquisate of Amesbury in the peerage of England. Yet,

see what really happened. The King-at-Arms refused so to enrol me, on

the petition of my uncle--though this was somewhat later,--in spite of

much testimony on my behalf from countless people who had known me,

and, instead of enjoying luxury, I was a beggar. At the time when I

begin this history of my cares and sorrows, and of the wanderings

which will be set down in their due Order, and the hardships that I

have been forced to endure, I, a tender child, was dependent on

strangers for the bread I ate and the clothing I wore. Until I fell in

with honest Oliver Quin, himself a poor butcher, I had, after escaping

from O'Rourke, who endeavoured to drown me and then kept me in a

cellar, been lurking about Dublin, sleeping sometimes on a wharf,

sometimes in the many new houses then a-building (three thousand were

built in this great city between the accession of the late king and

the year of which I now write, viz., 1727), sometimes against a shop

bulk or a glass-house for warmth, and sometimes huddling with other

outcasts on the steps and in the stoops of houses and churches. Food I

had none but I could beg or wrest from the dogs, or the many swine

which then roamed about the streets like dogs themselves. And,

sometimes, I and my wretched companions would kill one of these latter

stealthily by night, and, having roasted parts of it in some empty

house, would regale ourselves thereby. My father I avoided as a

pestilence, for him I regarded as the unnatural author of all my

sufferings. I knew afterwards that I misjudged him, I knew that he had

never meant me to be harmed by O'Rourke, but only kept out of the way

so that he might get money for his evil doings, he feeling sure that,

when he should die, my succession to the rank, if not the estates

(which he had made away with) could not be disputed. But, as I say, I

regarded him as my worst enemy, and, when I saw him come reeling down

the street jovial with drink, or, on other occasions, morose and sour

from ungratified desire for it, I fled from him.

Then I, by great good chance, fell in with Quin, who was but a

journeyman butcher earning poor wages and much dissatisfied with his

lot, and who, coming from Wexford to Dublin to better that lot, had

recognised me at once as the boy who was always styled the Honourable

Gerald St. Amande in the county, and, out of the goodness of his

heart, succoured me. But what could he do? He himself dwelt near the

shambles, earning but eleven shillings a week, which had to suffice

for all his wants, so that, if sometimes as I passed his master's shop

he could toss me a scrag of mutton or a mouthful of beef--which I

found means to cook by some outcast's fire--it was as much assistance

as he could render. And from Mr. Jonathan Kinchella, himself but a

poor sizar, and, as he stated, also from my neighbourhood and

consequently willing to assist me, I could ask nothing. Beyond his

"size," which was an allowance of a farthing's worth of bread and beer

daily, he had but ten pounds a year from his father wherewithal to

clothe himself and find such necessaries as he required, above that

which he was entitled to as a servitor. Yet was he ever tender to me,

and would say when I crept into the college to see him:

"Here, Gerald, is the beer and here the bread. Drink and eat thy fill

to such extent as it will go, which is not much. However, for myself I

can get more. But I wish I could do more for thee than give thee these

poor victuals and cast-off garments. Yet, _tunica pallio propior_,

and, as I cannot give thee my skin, I will give thee the best coat I

can spare." Which he did, though, poor youth, it was little enough he

had for himself, let alone to give away.

From my mother I had, alas! long been parted, for though when I was in

my father's keeping, after she had fled from him, she had made many

attempts to wrest me from him and to get me away to England, she, too,

had come to believe that I had either died in the hands of, or been

killed by, the villain O'Rourke, so that of her I had now heard

nothing for more than two years. But as Mr. Kinchella had written her

informing her of her husband's impending death, of my safety for the

time being, and also of the probable usurpation by my uncle, we were

looking for some news of her by every English packet that came in. "If

her ladyship can compass it," this good and pious young man said on

the night after my father's burial, and when he and Oliver and I sat

in his room over the fire, "she should come to Dublin at once. There

is much to be done at which alone she can help, and it will want all

the assistance of her family to outwit thy uncle. Unfortunately my

lord did go about the city saying that you were dead and that,

therefore, he and his brother were at liberty to dispose of the

property, and, thus, there is a terrible amount of evidence to contend

against."

"With submission, sir," Oliver said, "surely all that should make in

the young lord's favour. For who shall doubt that his mother can swear

to him as their child? Then there are the peasants with whom he was

placed as an infant at New Ross, and, again, the tutors he was with,

both there and here and in England, to say nothing of many servants.

While, to add to all, his uncle has made himself a criminal by

seconding his father in the false reports of his death and obtaining

money thereby. With my lady's evidence and yours and mine alone, to

say nothing of aught else, we should surely be able to move the

King-at-Arms to enregister him as his father's heir."

Yet, oh, untoward fate! my mother could not come, but in her place

sent a letter which, being of much importance as affecting all that

afterwards occurred, I here set down, fairly copied.

_From the Viscountess St. Amande, at_ 5 _Denzil Street, Clare Market,

ye _29_th of November_, 1727.

_To Mr. Jonathan Kinchella,

Student,

Trinity College, Dublin_.

Honoured Sir,

My deepest gratitude is due to you for the pains you have been at to

write to me under the care of my late uncle's bankers, which

communication has safely reached me. Sir, I do most grievously note

that my lord and husband, the Viscount St. Amande lyeth sick unto

death--(Mr. Kinchella had written when Quin had learned from the woman

my father lodged with that there was no hope for him)--and also in

dire poverty; and, ill as he hath treated me, I do pray that his end

may be peace. Moreover, if you or any friend of yours should see him

and he should be able to comprehend your words, I do beseech you to

tell him that I forgive him all he has done to me and that, in another

and a better world, to which I believe myself to be also hastening, I

hope to meet him once more, though, whether he live or die, we can

never meet again upon this earth.

But, sir, if the news which you give me of the grievous state in which

my lord lies is enough to wring my heart, what comfort and joy shall

not that heart also receive in learning that my beloved child, whom I

thought dead and slain by his father's cruelty, is still alive, and

that he, whom I have mourned as gone from me for ever, should live to

be restored to his mother's arms? Yet, alas! I cannot come to him as I

fain would and fold him in my arms, for I am sorely stricken with the

palsy which creepeth ever on me, though, strange to relate, there are

moments, nay hours, when I am free from it, so that sometimes my

physician doth prophesy a recovery, which, however, I cannot bring

myself to hope or believe. And, moreover, honoured sir, I am without

the means to travel to Dublin. My uncle, when he rescued me from my

unhappy husband's hands, provided me with one hundred guineas a year,

which, at his death last year, he also willed, should be continued to

me while parted from my husband. But if he dies that ceases also,

since my uncle, the Duke, did naturally suppose that I by settlement

shall be well provided for, tho' now I doubt if such is likely to

prove the case.

Yet, though well I know my brother-in-law to be a most uncommon bad

man and one who will halt at nothing to further his own gains, I

cannot believe that the law will allow him to falsely possess himself

either of my child's rank and title, or of aught else that may be his

inheritance, though I fear there is but little property left, short of

his succession to the Marquisate of Amesbury. But, honoured sir, since

it is not possible that I can come to my boy, could he not come to me?

He would assuredly be as safe in London, if not safer, under the

protection of his mother, as in Dublin where, you say, he lurketh, and

where, I cannot doubt, his uncle will take steps to bring about harm

to him. Here he would be with me and, since my uncle is now dead, it

may be that the Marquis will be more kindly disposed towards him and,

even at the worst, he cannot refuse to recognise him. Therefore, sir,

if the wherewithal could be found for bringing or sending him to

London, I would see the cost defrayed out of my small means, on which

you may rely.

So, honoured sir, I now conclude, begging you to believe that I thank

you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done for my

child, and that also I thank the honest man, Mr. Quin, of whom you

speak, and I do most earnestly pray that the God of the fatherless and

the orphan may reward you for all. And, sir, with my greatest

consideration to you, and a mother's fondest love to my child, whom I

pray to see ere long, I remain your much obliged and grateful,

Louise St. Amande.

"Gerald," said Mr. Kinchella, when he had concluded reading this

letter to me, over which, boy-like, I shed many tears, "her ladyship

speaks well. Dublin is no place for thee. If in his lordship's

lifetime you were not safe, how shall you be so when now you alone

stand between your uncle and two peerages?"

"Yet," I exclaimed, while in my heart there had arisen a wild desire

to once more see the dear mother from whom I had been so ruthlessly

torn, "yet how could it be accomplished? Surely the cost of a journey

to London would be great!"

"I have still a guinea or two in my locker," said Mr. Kinchella, "if

that would avail--though I misdoubt it."

"I have a better plan, sir," exclaimed Quin, who was also of the party

again on this occasion. "If his young lordship would not object to

voyaging to London entirely by sea, there are many cattle-ships pass

between that port and this by which he might proceed. Or, again, he

might pass from here to Chester, there being many boats to Park Gate,

or he might proceed to Milford."

"Yet he is over-young for such a journey," said kind Mr. Kinchella; he

being, as ever, thoughtful for me. But I replied:

"Sir, have I not had to endure worse when I was even younger? The deck

of a cattle-boat is of a certainty no worse than O'Rourke's cellar,

and, however long the passage, of a surety there will be as much

provision as was ever to be found in wandering about these streets ere

I fell in with you and Oliver. I pray you, therefore, assist me to

reach London if it be in your power."

"How much will it cost to defray the expense?" Mr. Kinchella asked of

Quin, "by one of these boats? I fear me I have not the wherewithal to

enable him to voyage by the packet."

"He can go for nothing, I think," replied the other, "if so be that I

speak with one of the drovers who pass over frequently; or at most for

a few shillings. He could go under the guise of that drover's boy, or

help, and at least he would be safe from danger in that condition. The

expense will be from Chester to London, if that is the route

observed."

So we discussed matters until it was time for us to quit the college

for the night, but, ere the time came for me to journey to England,

there occurred so many other things of stirring import that here I

must pause to narrate them in their due order, so that the narrative

which I have to tell shall be clear and understandable.

CHAPTER IV

INTO THE LAND OF BONDAGE

Quin had made shift to lodge me in his poor room for the last day or

so and, so great and kind was his heart, that he had now announced

that, henceforth, until I was fairly on my way to London, he would not

let me be without the shelter of his roof again.

"For," he said to me that night as we walked back to his abode, "be

sure that the chase will be hot after you directly your uncle arrives

in the packet. You are known to be once more at large and,

consequently, dangerous to his claims, therefore he must put you out

of his way somehow ere you can be seen by those who will swear to you

as being the rightful Lord St. Amande."

"But," I asked him, for my mind had been forced of late to devise so

many shifts that I had become, perhaps, sharper and more acute than

other lads of my age. "But what if I were to appear at the Courts, or

at the Office of the King-at-Arms, and, boldly stating who and what I

am, with witnesses for testimony thereto, claim protection. Would it

not be granted me?"

"Ay," replied Quin, thoughtfully. "I doubt not it would be granted

thee, and thy uncle would be restrained for a time at least from

falsely assuming that which is not his. But such a state of things

would not last long. Before many weeks had elapsed you would again be

missing, or perhaps not missing but, rather, found. Though I misdoubt

me but what, when found, you would not be alive."

I shuddered at this terrifying prospect as he spoke, though too well I

knew that what he said might very easily come to pass. O'Rourke had

attempted to kill me once before and would do so again if he were paid

for it; doubtless Considine would also take my life if he had but the

slightest opportunity offered him, and there would be many more who,

in such a city as Dublin, could be hired to assassinate me. For, poor

and wretched as I was, and roaming about the streets as I did, how

easily might I not fall a prey to my uncle's designs! On the other

hand, if I could but reach England I must surely be in far greater

safety. For though my mother was, as she wrote, in ill health, it was

not possible to believe that the Marquis would not extend me his

protection as his rightful heir against so wicked a wretch and knave

as my uncle, nor that the law would not exert itself more strongly

there on my behalf than here, where it was to almost every one's

advantage to have me dead. It was the lawyers who had bought up our

estates, _my estates_, from my father and uncle at so meagre a price,

believing, or pretending to believe, that I was in truth dead; it was

not therefore to their interests to have me alive, and to be forced to

disgorge those estates. Thus I should get no help from them. Again,

O'Rourke would, if he could be found, surely swear that the real Lord

St. Amande was dead--since to obtain his reward and also to enable my

father and uncle to get the money they wanted, he had in some way

obtained a certificate of my death (I learned afterwards that he had

palmed off the dead body of a boy resembling me, which had been found

in the Liffey, as mine).

I agreed with Oliver, therefore, and also with Mr. Kinchella, whose

counsel marched with that of my honest protector, that, at present,

Dublin was no place for me and that I must make for London to be safe.

Meanwhile I lay close in Quin's room until he should have found a

cattle-boat that was passing over to Chester, by which route it was

decided I should go, it being more expeditious and exposing me less to

the disagreeables of the sea. This was arrived at by my two friends

out of the goodness of their hearts, but, could they have foreseen

what storms and tempests were yet to be my portion both by sea and

land, I doubt if they would have thought it much worth their trouble

to secure me from a few hours more or less of discomfort on this

particular voyage.

But, at present, there was no such boat going, the cattle being sent

over to Park Gate (where all freight for Chester was landed) only

about once every two weeks, and thus, as I say, I lay close in Quin's

room until such time as he should advise me to be ready for my

departure.

During this time of idleness and waiting, there occurred, however,

many other things in connection with me, of which I heard from Oliver

whenever he came home at night. To wit, my uncle had arrived by the

packet and had at once proceeded to notify to the whole city, both by

his own and Considine's voice--whom he sent round to all the

coffee-houses and ordinaries, as well as to the wine clubs and

usquebaugh clubs--an errand I doubt not highly agreeable to that

creature!--as well as by advertisement in the new newsletter entitled

"Faulkner's Journal," which was just appearing, that my father had

died childless and that he had consequently assumed the rank and style

of Viscount St. Amande in the peerage of Ireland.

"Yet," said Oliver to me as I strolled by his side, for it was his

custom to take me out a-walking for my health's sake at night after he

returned home from his work; he holding me ever by the hand, while in

the other he carried a heavy Kerry blackthorn stick, and had a pair of

pistols in his pocket, "yet he succeeded not altogether to his

satisfaction, nor will he succeed as well as he hopes. The people hiss

and hoot at him and insult him as he passes by--Mike Finnigan flung a

dead dog, which he had dragged out of the gutter, into his coach but

yesterday--and they yell and howl at him to know where the real

lord--that's you--is?"

Then again, on another day, he told me that Mr. Kinchella had come to

his stall to tell him a brave piece of news, it being indeed no less

than the fact that the King-at-Arms had refused to enrol the

certificate of his brother having died without issue, while saying

also that, from what he gathered, he was by no means sure that such

was the case. This, Oliver said Mr. Kinchella told him, had led to a

great scene, in which my uncle had insulted the King-at-Arms, who had

had him removed from his presence in consequence, while he said even

more strongly than before that, from what was told him, he did firmly

believe that Mr. Robert St. Amande was endeavouring to bring about a

great fraud and to attempt a villainous usurpation of another's rights

to which he, at least, would be no party. Now, therefore, was my time,

we all agreed, for me to present myself and to claim my rights, and

Quin and Mr. Kinchella had even gone so far as to furbish me up in

some fitting apparel wherewith to make a more respectable appearance

in public, when everything was again thrown into disorder and my hopes

blighted by the arrival in Dublin of the new Lord Lieutenant and of

the Lord Chancellor Wyndham, than whom no one could have been worse

for my cause. He was then an utter stranger to Ireland (though

afterwards created Baron Wyndham of Finglass) in spite of having been

sent from England to be, at first, the Chief Justice of the Common

Pleas; he knew nothing of the descents of our ancient Irish families,

nor, indeed, the names of many of them, and what was worse than all,

he had known my uncle in England and was his friend.

"So, poor lad," said Oliver to me a few days later, "thy uncle has now

the first trick o' the game. The Lord Chancellor has taken counsel at

Mr. St. Amande's suggestion with several of the nobility of Wexford,

who have told him they never heard of thy father having had a son, as

well they may not, seeing he would associate with none of them but

only with the poorer sort. He has also questioned many of the

attorneys of this city, who find it to their interest, since they have

bought thy estates, to say that either you never lived or are dead

now, or else that you were born out of wedlock. And thus----"

"And thus?" I repeated, looking up wistfully at his kindly face.

"And thus--and thus--poor child! thy uncle is now enrolled as the

Viscount St. Amande. But courage, courage, my dear, thou shalt yet

succeed and prosper. Thy mother's family will surely see to thy

rights, and, if not, then will not the Lord raise up a champion for

thee?"

Long afterwards I remembered this pious aspiration of dear Oliver, who

was himself a most sincere Protestant, and when that champion had

appeared, though in how different a guise from what I should have ever

dreamed, I came to think that, for the time at least, my good, simple

friend had been granted the gift of prophecy.

So the days went on until at last the time drew near for the next

cattle-boat to pass over to Chester, and Quin was busily engaged in

making arrangements for me to go in it when there befel so strange a

thing that I must write it down in full.

Quin came home one night--and, ah! what a bitter December night it

was! I remember it now many, many years afterwards, and how the frost

stood upon the window panes of the garret and the cold air stole in

through those panes so that I was forced to throw on all the fuel he

could afford to keep myself from freezing. Well, I say, Quin came home

on this night in a different humour from any I had ever seen him in

before, laughing, chattering to himself, chuckling as he removed the

heavy frieze surtout he wore, and even snapping his fingers as again

and again he would burst out into his laughs. And he produced from

that surtout a bottle of nantz but three parts full, and, seizing the

kettle, filled it with water and placed it on the fire, saying that

ere we went to bed we would drink confusion to all the rascals

harbouring in Dublin that night. After which he again laughed and

grimaced.

"What ails thee, Oliver?" I asked, "or rather, what has given thee

such satisfaction to-night?"

He went on laughing for some time longer until I thought that I was to

be debarred from hearing what it was that amused him so much, but at

last he said: "I am rejoicing at the chance that has arisen of playing

a knave, or rather two knaves, ay, or even three, a trick. And such a

grand trick, too; a trick that shall make thy uncle curse the day he

ever heard the name of Oliver Quin."

"My uncle!" I exclaimed. "My uncle! Why, what have he and you to do

together, Oliver?"

"Listen," he said, and by this time the kettle was boiling and he was

making the hypsy, "listen. I have seen O'Rourke to-night and--and I

have promised, for the sum of one hundred guineas, to deliver thee

into his hands for transportation to the colonies, to Virginia. To

Virginia, my lad, thou art bound, so that thou shalt plague thy uncle

no more. To Virginia. Ha, ha, ha!" and he burst into so loud a laugh

that the rafters of the garret shook with it.

To be sure I understood that Oliver was but joking me--if I had not

known his honest nature, his equally honest laugh would have told me

so--yet I wondered what this strange discourse should mean! He had, I

think, been drinking ere he entered, though not more than enough to

excite him and make him merry, but still it was evident to see that,

over and above any potations he might have had, something had

happened. So I said:

"Go on, Oliver, and tell me about O'Rourke and the plantations, and

when I am to be sold into slavery."

"I met O'Rourke this evening," he said, "as I happened into a

hipping-hawd[1] on my way home. There the villain was, seated on a

cask and dressed as fine as fivepence. On his pate was a great ramilie

wig, so please you! clapped a-top of it, and with an evil cock to one

side of it, a gold laced hat. He wore a red plush coat--though I doubt

me if the fashioner ever made it for him! with, underneath, a blue

satin waistcoat embroidered; he had a solitaire stuck into his shirt,

gold garters to the knees of his breeches, and, in fine, looked for

all the world as if he had come into a fortune and had been spending

part of it in buying the cast-off wardrobe of a nobleman."

"But the Virginia plantations, Oliver!" I said; "the plantations!"

"I am coming to them--or, at least, thou art going to them! But first

let me tell thee of thy old friend and janitor, O'Rourke. When I

entered he was bawling for some sherris, but, on seeing me, he turned

away from his boon companions and exclaimed, 'What, my jolly butcher,

what my cock o' the walk, oh, oh! What, my gay protector of injured

youth and my palmer-off of boys for noble lords! How stands it with

thee? Art cold?--'tis a cold night--tho' thou wilt be in a colder

place if my Lord St. Amande catches holt on thee. But 'tis cold, I

say; you must drink, my noble slaughterer. What will you? A thimbleful

of sherris, maybe, or a glass of Rosa Solis? Here, Madge,' to the

waitress, 'give the gentleman to drink,' and he lugged out of his

pocket a great silk purse full of golden guineas and clinked it before

us.

"'You seem rich and merry, Mr. O'Rourke,' I said. 'Plenty of money

now, and brave apparel. Whence comes it all? Hast thou been smuggling

off more boys or dragging out some more dead bodies from the river? It

seems a thriving trade, at least!' This upset him, Gerald, so he said,

'Hark ye, Mr. Quin, this is no joking matter. When it comes to

smuggling boys, it seems to me you are the smuggler more than I. Yet,'

he went on, 'let me have a word with thee,' whereon he got off his

cask and came over to me. But as he did so he paused and turned round

on the men drinking with him, and said, 'Will you stay drinking all

night, you dogs? Get home, get home, I say. I will pay for no more

liquor to-night; be off, I say. Finish your drink and go,' which the

men did as obediently as though they were really dogs, touching their

caps and wishing the ruffian and myself and Madge--who was half asleep

beside her bottles--good-night.

"'Now, Quin,' said O'Rourke, drawing a chair up to where I was

sitting, and resting his hands on the handle of his sword, which he

stuck between his legs, 'listen to me, for I have matter of importance

to say to thee, which thy opportune appearance has put into my head!'

"'If 'tis any villainy,' I said, 'which, coming from you, is like

enough----'

"But he interrupted me with, 'Tush, tush! What you call villainy we

gentlemen call business. But interrupt no more; listen. Quin, you know

well enough that the lad you harbour is no more the Lord St. Amande

than I am. I say you know it,' and here he winked at me a devilish

wink, and put out his finger and touched me on the chest, while I,

waiting to see what was coming, nodded gravely. 'The young lord, I

tell you, is dead, drowned in the Liffey--have I not the certificate?

Therefore, Quin--drink, man, drink and warm thyself--his uncle is now

most undoubtedly, both by inheritance and the Lord Chancellor's

enrolment, the rightful lord. But,' and here he paused and looked at

me and, when he thought I was not observing, filled my glass again,

'his lordship wishes for peaceable possession of his rights and to

harm none, not even thee who hast so grievously slandered him and his.

Therefore, if you will do that which is right there is money for you,

Quin; money enough to set you up as a flesher on your own account, and

a trader in beasts; and, for the evil you have done, there shall be no

more thought of it.'

"'And what is it I am wanted to do?' I asked, while I made a pretence

of faltering, and said, 'If I were sure that the lad I have in keeping

were not truthfully the young lord----'

"'The young lord is dead, I tell thee--take some more drink, 'tis

parlous cold--the young lord is dead. I know it.'

"' And therefore you want me to----?'

"'Do this. My lord, by whom I mean his uncle, can now, by warrant of

the Lord Chancellor, assume his proper station, and hath done so.

Only, since he is a man of peace, he wisheth not to fall foul of the

young impostor, and would-be usurper, _as you know he is_, Quin,' and

again his evil eye drooped at me, 'nor to proceed either to punish him

for his cheat nor to have to defend himself from any attempts your lad

might make against him in the manner of impugning his title. And,

therefore--to use thy thoughts--what would be best is that he should

be got out of the way.'

"'By murder?' I asked him.

"'Nay, nay, never! The Lord forfend. We are gentlemen, not assassins,

and so that all should be done peaceably and quietly it would be best

to proceed as follows.'

"Here I again interrupted him, Gerald, by saying, 'If I were only

sure, if I could be but sure----'

"'Sure!' he exclaimed, rapping the table so loudly that the maid

started from her nodding to stare at us. 'Sure! Sure! Man, I tell

you the boy is dead.' Then, glancing suspiciously at the girl and

lowering his voice, he went on again, 'We will proceed as follows.

There is a friend of mine who maketh it his business to consign the

ne'er-do-wells and prison scourings of this city to Virginia, where he

sells them to the tobacco planters for what they will fetch over and

above what he has given for them. Now for a boy such as young

Gerald--pish! I mean him whom you _call_ young Gerald--he would give

as much as twenty guineas, especially on my description of him. But,'

he said, again touching me with his finger on the breast so that I

felt disposed to fell him to the floor, 'but that is not all. For so

that his lordship, who is a noble-minded gentleman if ever there was

one, may peaceably enter upon and enjoy his own, subject to no

disturbance nor thwarting, he will give two hundred guineas to me for

having him safely put aboard my friend's brig, the _Dove_, and shipped

to Newcastle, on the Delaware, where he trades.'

"'Two hundred guineas,' I said, appearing to dwell upon it; ''tis a

goodly sum, and the boy might do well in Virginia. He is a lad of

parts.'

"'Ay,' he replied, forgetting himself and that he pretended not to

know you, 'he is. Smart and brisk, and looking a good two years older

than his age. But of the two hundred guineas, all is not for you. I

must have my share.'

"'That being?' I asked.

"'One half,' he replied. 'And think on it, Quin. One hundred golden

guineas for thee and more, much more than that; for if you do this

service for my lord he will absolve thee from thy contumacy and thine

insults, both to his name and to the face of his wife--for his wife

she is--and also to Mr. Considine, who is a gay and lightsome blade as

ever strutted.'

"'That is something,' I said, giving now what appeared my adhesion to

his scheme. 'Perhaps I spoke too roughly to them, and I would not lie

in the clink for it. Yet to kidnap a boy--for such 'twill be at best,

and he, too, sheltering with me and trusting me--is a grave and

serious thing, which, if discovered, might send me to the plantations

also, if not the gibbet.'

"'Have no fear,' he said; 'my lord shall give you a quittance to hold

you harmless.'

"'He must,' I made answer, 'and more; I must have an earnest of my

payment. I will attempt nothing until I receive an earnest.'

"He looked round at the sleeping serving-maid as I spoke, and then he

drew forth his silk purse again and shook some guineas out into the

palm of his hand, and whispered to me, 'How much will serve, Quin? Eh?

Five guineas. Eh? What! More!'

"'Ay, more!' I said. 'Many more. That purse contains forty pieces if

one. Give me twenty-five as an earnest and twenty-five to-morrow when

we meet again and then, provided that I have the remainder an hour

before your friend's brig sails, the boy shall be hoisted on board

insensible, and the _Dove_ may take him to Virginia or the devil

either for aught I care.'

"And so," Oliver concluded, "he did it. He paid the guineas

down--there they are; look at them, lad! And thou art, therefore,

bound for Virginia, there to spend thy life, or at least a portion of

it, in slavery on the plantations. Ho, ho, ho!" and again he laughed

until the rafters rung once more.

CHAPTER V

THE SPRINGE IS SET

Thus Oliver concluded his narrative of his meeting with O'Rourke.

What came of that meeting you are now to see.

But first I must tell you what his own scheme was, and how he intended

to work out upon the head of Robert St. Amande the result of his own

villainy. My uncle had been married in early life to a young lady of

good family and some means--upon which latter he had more or less

managed to exist for several years--belonging to the South of

Scotland. She had, however, died in giving birth to a son ere they had

been married a twelvemonth, and it was as guardian of this son and

custodian of his late wife's property, which that son was to inherit

when he attained his twenty-first year, that he had, as I say,

principally existed. At least he had done so until he devised the

scheme of assisting my father to ease himself of the family property,

when, naturally, he found more money coming his way than he had

heretofore done, and so, perhaps, ceased his inroads on what remained

of that which was due to my cousin on reaching his majority.

Whether, however, Roderick St. Amande--who was named after his

grandfather, known as Rich Roderick of Dumfries---would ever live to

come into his patrimony, or what remained of it, was a very much

questioned subject. For the youth, who was some two years older than

I, though not a wit bigger, if so big, had already taken to the most

dreadful courses and, young as he was, might sometimes be seen reeling

tipsy about the streets of Dublin (in which city his father thought

fit to generally keep him); sometimes squabbling and rioting with

the watch at nights, and sometimes leering over the blinds of the

coffee-houses and wine clubs at any comely girl who happened to be

passing up or down the streets. Moreover, I suppose, because since my

birth he had always regarded me as an interloper who had come in

between him and the future peerages of St. Amande and Amesbury, as,

had I never been born, he must have eventually succeeded to them, he

had always treated me with great cruelty so long as it was in his

power to do so. When I was little better than a baby and he an urchin

he saw fit to purloin or destroy the toys given me by my mother and my

reckless and unhappy father; because I loved a terrier which a tenant

had given me as a pup, that unfortunate creature was found drowned in

a pool shortly after Roderick had been seen in the neighbourhood, and

there were countless other ill treatments which he pleased to practise

towards me. And at the time when I was consigned to O'Rourke by my

father, who, in his then bemused state, probably did think that he was

only secreting me for a while without dreaming of the harm to be

attempted on me, this young villain, as I afterwards knew, was one of

the prime instigators of that ruffian to make away with me. And, to

conclude, when it was known that I had escaped from O'Rourke's hands

he it was who, either on his own behalf or on that of his father,

raised the hue and cry upon me until, when my own father lay a-dying

in his garret, they saw fit to shift their tactics and give out that I

was dead, which both father and son would have been consumedly

rejoiced to have me.

Now, Oliver Quin knew all this and accordingly hated him as much as he

loved me, and he knew also of the young man's habits, of his love for

the bottle and for bottle-songs, of his revellings and reelings in the

streets by nights and in the early mornings, sometimes in the company

of Considine and sometimes in that of worse almost than he; and he

formed his plans accordingly when approached by O'Rourke. Those plans

were no less, as doubtless you have ere now perceived or guessed, than

to take a great revenge on this youth for all his and his father's

transgressions towards me, and, in fact, to ship him off to Virginia

in the Dove instead of me and in my place.

Such a scheme was easier to be accomplished than might at first be

supposed, for more reasons than one. To begin with, when O'Rourke met

Oliver on the second night to unfold his plans and concert measures

with him, one of the first things the vagabond told my friend was that

he must by no means appear to be concerned in my sending away. "It

will not do for me to be seen in the matter, Quin," he said on

that occasion, on which, because of its importance, they were now

closeted in a private room of the house where they had encountered

each other overnight; "it will not do. Fortune has caused me to be

mixed up before in one or two unpleasant jobs with the Lord Mayor's

myrmidons--the devil shoot them!--and I must keep quiet awhile. But

that matters not, if you are to be trusted. For see, now, see! The

_Dove_ saileth the instant the wind shifts into the east, which it

seems like enough to do at any moment. Therefore must you be ready

with the freight which we would have. The captain, a right honest man,

will send you word overnight at change of wind that he will up-anchor

at dawn, and that, as dawn breaks, you must be alongside of him. He

will see that the boy answers to my description--though I have said he

is a year or so older than he actually is, so as to make him appear

more worth the money--and, when he is aboard, you will receive the

payment. Thus, Quin, you will have pouched one hundred and twenty

guineas, and my lord will stand thy friend."

"Since the wind shifts, or seems like to shift ere long," Oliver

replied, fooling him to the end, "let us conclude. Pay me the

remaining seventy five pieces and I will have him ready at any

moment."

"Nay, nay, softly," the other answered. "Thou wouldst not trust me too

far, I guess, therefore neither must I be too confident. Yet listen! I

shall not be on the quay when you put off to the _Dove_, but one who

has served me before will be. An honest gentleman he is, too, just

back from England where he hath been employed nosing out a Jacobite

plot in the north, and to him you will show the lad, whereon he will

pay you the guerdon and give you also a letter from my lord which will

hold you harmless."

"Is he known to any of us, or to--to, well! to the law and its

officers?"

"To none. He hath but just arrived and knows not a soul in Dublin

except me and one or two of my friends."

"So be it," said Oliver, well enough pleased to think that this

"honest gentleman" would not know the difference between me and my

cousin. "So be it. Now, it will be best that the boy should be drugged

ere I set out with him--is it not so?--and wrapped in some long cloak

so that----"

"Ay, ay," replied the ruffian, "you are brisk. It shall be so. Get a

long frieze cloak such as that you wear--the guineas will indemnify

you for its cost and buy many another--and for the stupefying him,

why, either a dram well seasoned or a crack on the mazard will do his

business for him. Only, be sure not to kill him outright. For if you

do, you will be twenty guineas short of your count, since he will be

no use to the captain then, and you will be forced to fling him into

the Liffey for the prawns to make a meal of."

Thus the wretch, who had no more compunction for my life than that it

would be twenty guineas lost to him whom he now considered his

accomplice, arranged everything, and after a few more instructions to

Oliver as well as a further payment of twenty-five guineas as Oliver

insisted (two of which afterwards turned out to be Jacks, or bad ones)

they parted--the thing being, as O'Rourke remarked gleefully, now well

arranged and in train.

"But," he said for his last word, "keep thy eye on the weathercock and

be ready for the captain's hint, which he will send to this house. Let

not the _Dove_ sail without her best passenger."

"She shall not," answered Oliver. "Be sure of that."

"And now, Gerald, for so I shall call thee, lord though thou art,"

Oliver said to me that night, "we must think for the means for seizing

on thy cousin. I know enough of the weather and the many signs it

gives to feel sure that it is changing. It gets colder, which presages

a north easterly wind, and this will carry the _Dove_ out of the river

and to sea. Therefore, it behoves us to be busy. To-night is Monday,

by Wednesday at daybreak, if I mistake not, the brig will be away.

Therefore, to-morrow night we must have the young princock in our

hands. Now, how shall we proceed?"

"He is almost nightly at Macarthy's tavern--I have seen him in

passing, when I was hiding with the beggars. Yet," I said, breaking

off, "oh, think, Oliver, of what you are about! If you are made

accountable for this, you may be sent to prison or worse even."

"Tush, tush! lad!" he answered. "Have no fear for me. Yet it is kind

of thee to think of it. Still, there is nought to fear. He goes not on

board until I have thy uncle's quittance, though he may say little

enough, fearing to commit himself overmuch; and for the rest, when he

is gone, why we go, too--only another gait."

"We, too! Why, where shall we go?"

"Where? Why, to England, lad. To London. To thy mother. Shall we not

have the wherewithal? We have fifty guineas already; we shall have

more than double by Wednesday morning; and then away for Holyhead or

Liverpool by the first packet that sails, and so to London."

"But, Oliver, what will you do to live? The guineas will not last for

ever."

"No, that is true; but they will go far, and with them I can traffic

as a master and not a man. Or I can hoard them for thy use" (how

unselfish he was, I thought!) "and go back to work as a journeyman--they

say none need want for work in London--and so be ever near to watch and

ward over thee."

"Oliver," I exclaimed, "I think that even now the Lord has raised up

that champion for me of whom you spoke. It seems that you are mine."

"Nay, there will arise a better for thee than I can ever be; but until

he comes I must, perforce, do my best. Now let us make our plans."

And these are the plans we arranged. Knowing that there was no longer

any search likely to be made for me--since 'twas certain that those

who sought my ruin thought it was as good as accomplished--I was to

sally forth next night disguised, and was to prowl about Macarthy's

tavern and other haunts of my abandoned cousin until I had safely run

him to earth. After this Quin was to be summoned by me from the

hipping-hawd where he would be, and, presuming that the captain of the

_Dove_ had sent the expected word, he was then to keep Mr. Roderick

St. Amande in sight until we could secure him.

There was nought else to arrange, for if these plans but fell out as

we hoped all must go well; nothing could upset them.

And the next day, when it came, seemed to give promise of one thing at

least happening as we desired, the wind was blowing strong from the

N.N.E., a wind that would carry the _Dove_ well beyond Bray Head, did

it but hold for thirty-six hours.

At six o'clock that night, therefore, I, having made a slight meal of

some food Oliver had let in the garret for me, banked up the fire, put

out the light, and sallied forth to follow the instructions he had

given me to find our quarry. Of compunctions as to what I was about to

do I had none, as, perhaps, it was not to be expected I should have.

For, consider. That which was to happen to this cousin of mine was but

the portion which his father had endeavoured to deal out to me, and,

as I learnt an hour or so later, was a portion which Roderick knew was

intended for me and over which he gloated in his cups. Therefore, I

say, I felt no pity for him, and I set about to perform my part of the

task with determination to go through with it to the best of my power.

My rags were now discarded, and the clothes which I wore, and which

Oliver had purchased for me with some of O'Rourke's guineas, were in

themselves a disguise. To wit, I wore a fine silk drugget suit lined

with silk shagreen, for which he had given six of the pieces; my

muslin ruffles were of the best, a pair of long riding-boots covered

my stockings to the knees, and a handsome roquelaure enveloped me and

kept the cold out. To add to my disguise as well as my appearance, I

wore a bag wig, and at my side--Oliver said I might find some use for

it ere long--a good sound rapier. Who could have guessed that in the

youth thus handsomely apparelled, and looking any age near twenty-two

or three--the wig and boots giving me an appearance much above my

actual years--they saw the beggar who, a fortnight before, slunk about

the streets of Dublin dressed as a scarecrow!

The wind still blew from the same quarter as I passed down the street

in which Quin dwelt, while one or two passers-by turned to look at the

unaccustomed sight of a well-dressed young man in such a

neighbourhood, and as I went along I meditated on all that was before

me. Moreover, I could not but muse on how strange it was that such a

worldly-wise villain as O'Rourke, to say nothing of those others, my

uncle and Considine, could have fallen so easily into the trap of

Oliver and have been willing to believe in his turning against me thus

treacherously. Yet, I told myself, 'twas not so very strange after

all. They could never have dreamt, no mortal man could possibly have

dreamt, that he should have conceived so audacious and bold a scheme

of turning the tables on them so completely as to dare to kidnap his

very employer's own child in place of the one he wanted to have

transported to the colonies. And, when they trusted him, if they did

in very truth trust him, they only did so to a small extent, since, if

he failed to produce me and to yield me over to the tender clutches of

the captain of the _Dove_, they had but lost a handful of guineas and

could make a cast for me again. Lastly, as I learned more surely when

I grew older, when men are such uncommon rogues as these three were,

they are often bound, whether they will or no, to hope that others

with whom they have dealings are as great rogues as they themselves,

and to make their plans and rely upon that hope accordingly.

Thus meditating and resolving on what I had to do, I drew near to

Macarthy's tavern--then one of the most fashionable in the city--and,

raising myself on tiptoes, I peeped over the blind and saw my

gentleman within regaling himself on a fine turbot, with, to keep him

company, another youth and two young women, much bedizened and

bedeckt. These I knew, having seen them before, to belong to the

company of actors who had been engaged to play at the new theatre in

Aungier Street.

CHAPTER VI

THE BIRD DRAW'S NEAR

And now it behoved me to pause and consider as to what course it would

be best for me to follow. It was as yet but seven of the clock, and

Quin quitted not his stall until eight, so that it would be

impossible, or rather useless, to apprise him of my cousin's

whereabouts. Moreover, nothing could be done at this early hour of the

evening, while, on the other hand, when night came on and it grew late

it was almost a certainty that Roderick would be in his cups. Yet it

would not do to lose sight of him, for should he wander forth from

Macarthy's, as was like enough seeing the company he was in, we might

not find him again that night, in which case the _Dove_, if she sailed

at dawn, would have to go without my gentleman.

So I determined to enter the tavern. Of recognition from Roderick

there was but little likelihood--nay, there was none at all. It was

six years since he had seen me (though scarcely many more days since I

had seen him without his knowing it); six years since he had drowned

my pup, there recollection of which made my hatred of him now stir

afresh in me; years during which I had been at school in two or three

different towns in the country, and also had been in England; and

these years had made much difference between the child of ten and the

youth of sixteen. And, as I have written, what with my height, which

was considerable, and my dress, which was more suited to a young man

of twenty than to me, there was no possibility of Roderick knowing me.

So I determined to enter the tavern, I say, and to ensconce myself in

a box near where my cousin and the actresses sat, and which from the

window I could perceive was vacant, and thus glean what news I might

of his intended action that night. My entrance caused some little

attention, the room not being well filled as yet, and "What a pretty

fellow!" said one of the girls to the other in a very audible voice as

I took my seat in the place I had selected.

"I' faith!" replied the second, a painted minx, like her friend, with

half a score of patches on her face--"pretty enough, but too much like

a girl. For my part, I prefer to look upon a man. Now, Roddy, here,

hath none too much beauty yet enough, or will have when he is a man."

"When he is a man!" my cousin said, "when he is a man, indeed! Man

enough any way to find the wherewithal for giving you a good supper,

Mistress Doll, which it strikes me you would not get from your wages

nor from any of your 'manly' actors who strut about the booths with

you, nor from the half-starved looking playwrights I have seen lurking

about the theatre doors."

"There! there! Roddy!" said the one who had spoken last, swallowing

his abuse as best she might, "there, there! Take no offence where none

is meant, and, for the supper, 'tis most excellent. Yet the claret

runs low, my lad, and I am thirsty."

"Thirsty!" the gracious Roderick replied; "that you are always, Doll,

like all your crew. But claret is useless to such as thee! Here,

drawer, waiter, come here. Bring us some of the brandy punch that

Macarthy knows so well how to brew, and quick--dost hear?"

"The score, sir," I heard the man whisper, "is large already. And I

have to account to the master----"

"The devil take you, and the score, and your master, too! Is not my

father the Honourable Viscount St. Amande, thou rogue, and can he not

pay for all the liquor I drink as well as what my friends consume? Go,

fetch it, I say."

Meanwhile I sat in my box sipping a small measure of claret--which

stuff I wondered some could be found to approve so much of--and

regarding sideways the others. The punch being brought, my cousin,

with a lordly air, bade the other young man ladle it out, telling him

coarsely to keep the glasses of the girls well filled, since they were

capable of drinking the Liffey dry if 'twere full of liquor; and the

women, taking no notice of these remarks, to which and similar ones

they were probably well used, fell to discussing some play in which

they were shortly to appear.

"The lines are fair enough," said the elder of the two, whom Roderick

had fallen foul of, to the other; "yet there are too many of them, and

the action halts. Moreover, as for plot--why, there's none."

"'Tis the failing of our modern playwrights," said her companion,

"that there never seems to be any, so that the audiences soon weary of

us. Yet, if at Lincoln's Inn or Drury Lane they would try more for the

plot, I feel sure that----"

"Plot!" here, however, interrupted my well beloved cousin, who was by

this time approaching intoxication, and adding noise to his other

modes of entertaining his guests, "who's talking about plots? Plots,

forsooth!" And now he smiled feebly, and then hiccoughed, "Plots, eh?

I know a plot, and a good one, too."

"With submission, sir," said Doll, looking angrily at him--for she had

evidently not forgiven his remarks--"we were talking about the

difficulty that 'half-starved looking playwrights' found in imagining

new plots for the playhouses and our crew, the actors. It follows,

therefore, that even though the noble Mr. Roderick St. Amande should

know a good plot, as he says, it could avail us nothing. He surely

could not sink his nobility so low as to communicate such a thing to

the poor mummers."

"Ha, ha!" answered Roderick, "but couldn't he, though. I' faith, I'll

tell you a good plot--take some more drink, I say!--and when next some

snivel-nosed dramatist wants a--a--what d'ye call it, a--plot, tell

him this."

"We are all attention, sir. This is indeed an honour. We have of late

had more than one noble lord as patron and poetaster--it seems we have

another in store. Nell," to her companion, "listen carefully."

"Doll, thou art a fool and a vixen too, especially when thou hast

supped, as the black fellow calls it, not wisely but too well. Yet,

listen. Thou hast heard of my uncle's death----"

"Verily we have," interrupted Doll again. "All Dublin has. A noble

lord buried by charity, and that not the charity of his relatives; a

doubtful succession, an impugned title--ha! ha!--who has not heard of

that! Yet, if this is the plot, 'tis useless for us. It may do in

absolute real life, but not upon our boards. 'Twould be thought so

unnatural and inhuman that, if we endeavoured to represent the thing,

we should be hissed or worse."

"In truth, I have a mind to beat you," the now drunken youth roared

out, "yet I will not. Gim'-me some drink. A plot, I said. Well, now,

hear. There is a beggar's brat whom others are endeavouring to foist

on us as my uncle's child--thus commenceth the plot--but they will not

succeed. Not succeed? you ask. I will tell you. And there's the

continuation of the plot. No, they will not succeed. To-morrow, early,

that beggar's brat pays the penalty of his attempted cheat--he passes

away, disappears for ever. Where to? No, not to the grave, though I

trust he may find it ere long, but to the plantations. What! the bowl

is empty? Thy throat's a lime-kiln, Doll. To the plantations, I say,

to the plantations. That should kill the dog, if aught will. If the

work and the fever and the beatings, to say nothing of the bad food,

will not do it, why, perhaps the Indians will, and so we shall have no

more disputed successions nor impugned titles. Now, say, is it not a

good plot? Let's have more drink!" And he sank back into his chair.

The woman Doll regarded him for a moment with her steely blue eyes,

what time he shut his own and seemed about to slumber--the other youth

had long since gone off into a drowsy and, I suppose, tipsy nap. And

then she whispered to her companion, "I wish I did but know where that

beggar's brat he speaks of were to be found. I would mar his plot for

him." And the companion nodded and said she too wished they had never

consented to come with him to supper.

Meanwhile, I, who had also feigned sleep so that, if they should look

at me, they would not think I had overheard them--though in truth I

think they had forgotten my presence, since I was shielded from their

sight by the box sides--called for my reckoning, and, paying it, rose

to depart. For it was time now that I should go and seek Oliver. As I

passed down the room the girls looked at me and then at each other,

but said nothing; and so I went swiftly out and to the place appointed

to meet Quin.

"Come quickly," I said to Oliver, who was on the watch for me and came

out directly I put my head in the door, "come quickly. He is drunk now

in the company of another youth who is as bad or worse than he, and of

two actresses, neither of whom would, I believe, raise a finger to

help him even though we slew him. He has insulted them and they will

do nothing."

Therefore we hurried along, but as we went Quin told me we must be

careful. First, the streets were full of people as yet, so that, if we

endeavoured to carry him off, we should of a certainty arouse

attention; and, next, the people at Macarthy's would be sure to keep

an eye to him, more especially as he owed them a reckoning. And he

told me that the captain of the _Dove_ had sent to say he sailed at

daybreak; "so that," he said, "if nought mars our scheme--which heaven

forfend may not happen--we have the bird in the springe, and then for

London to your lady mother by the packet boat which sails, I hear,

to-morrow, at noon. And, Gerald, thou look'st every inch a young lord

in thy brave apparel--she will scarce believe you have been hiding

amongst the beggars of Dublin."

By now we had returned to the outside of Macarthy's and, again peering

over the blind of the bow-window, we saw that Roderick and his boon

companions were still there. He and the young man with him were,

however, by now fast asleep, and the two girls were talking together

we could see; while, from the far end of the room, the waiter who had

served me and them was seated on a chair yawning lustily, and every

now and then regarding the party with his half open eye. Of others

present there were none, perhaps because it was a cold, inclement

night, though one or two of the boxes seemed to have been recently

occupied, as did some of the tables in the middle of the room--near

one of which our party sat judging by the disarranged napery and empty

dishes left upon them.

But, as we gazed, we observed that the actresses appeared to have

grown tired of the company they were in, and, softly rising, they went

over to the hangers and took down their camlet cloaks and hoods and

prepared to depart. The one called Doll took from her purse a piece of

silver which she flung to the waiter, and said some words to him

accompanied by a gesture towards my cousin and the other youth and

also by a laugh--perhaps she said that 'twas all the vail he would get

that night!--and then without more ado she passed with her friend out

into the street. But they came forth so swiftly that Oliver and I had

no time to do more than withdraw our eyes from the window and appear

to be talking, as though we were acquaintances met in the street,

before they were both upon us, and, fixing her eye upon me, Doll

recognised me again in a moment. "Why," she said to her friend, with

her saucy laugh, "'tis the pretty youth who was in the tavern but an

hour ago." And then, turning to me, she went on, "Young sir, you

should be a-bed by now. The night air is bad for--for young gentlemen.

Yet, perhaps, you have a tryst here with some maid, or"--but now she

halted in her speech and, bending her brows upon me, said--"or, no, it

cannot be that you are concerned in the foul plot Mr. St. Amande spoke

of within. No, no! That cannot be. You did not appear to know him, nor

he you. Yet, again, that might be part of the plot, too." And once

more she looked steadfastly at me.

I would have answered her but Oliver took the word now, and speaking

up boldly to her, said:

"Madam, if my young master be concerned at all in the plot of which

you speak it is to thwart it, as, by good chance, he most assuredly

will do. Therefore, since you say it is 'foul,' by which I gather that

you do not approve of it, I pray you pass on and leave us to do our

best."

She looked at his great form and at me, her friend standing always

close by her side, and then she said to me:

"Who are you? No friend of his, assuredly. And if such be the case, as

it seems, then I heartily wish that your attempts to thwart his villainy

may be successful. Oh! 'tis a shame--a shame."

"I guessed you thought as much," I answered in reply to her, "from

what I overheard you say within. Therefore, I make bold to tell you

that he will doubtless be so thwarted. And, if you would hear the

ending of the plot which he described to you to-night, and which I

assure you was incomplete, you will have to wait a little longer.

Then, if I have the honour to encounter you again, it shall be told.

Meanwhile, if you wish us well, I beg of you to leave us. He may come

out at any moment when your presence would interfere with our plans."

"So be it," she replied, "and so farewell, and fortune go with you.

And--stay--I should like to hear the ending of that gallant and

courteous young gentleman's plot; a line to Mistress Doll Morris at

the New Theatre in Aungier Street will reach me. Farewell."

"Farewell, my pretty page," said the other saucily, and so they passed

down the street, I telling them as they went that, doubtless, they

would hear something ere long.

And now the evening was gone, the passers-by were getting fewer, the

shops were all shut; soon Macarthy's would shut too. The time for

action was at hand.

CHAPTER VII

TRAPPED

And still the night drew on and we waited outside, sheltering

ourselves in the stoop of an empty house opposite Macarthy's, or

walking up and down the street to keep ourselves warm as well as not

to attract observation to our loitering. Yet, indeed, there was but

little fear that we should be observed, since there were but few

people in the streets. A coach or hackney carriage would now and again

rumble past; once the watch went by; two of his Majesty's sailors

passed down singing a jovial chaunt about the West Indies and the

girls and the drinking there--but that was all. The city was fast

going to bed.

Knowing that my hopeful cousin was intoxicated by now, we had somewhat

altered our plans, and we had determined that, directly we could seize

him, we would carry him down to the boat which we had ready for us at

Essex Stairs. Once there, we would await the arrival of O'Rourke's

"honest gentleman" with the remaining hundred guineas and my uncle's

acquittal, the form of which was already arranged; after which we

would pull off to the _Dove_, which lay below Dublin in mid stream,

and deposit our cargo with the captain, and take his guineas too.

Resistance from our prize we had no fear of. I could myself have

easily mastered him in the state he now was, while for any noise he

might make--why, a gag would stop that and would be perfectly

understood and approved of by the captain, should Roderick go aboard

thus muzzled. It would, doubtless, not be the first victim he had

shipped for Virginia in such a condition.

Yet there was no necessity for even this, as you shall now see, since

my cousin's own actions, and his love for the bottle, led him to fall

into our hands as easily as the leaf falls from the tree when autumn

winds are blowing.

As we stood in the street waiting for him and his friend to come

forth--who we hoped would soon part from him and seek his own home--we

heard a hubbub and loud noises in Macarthy's, as well as

expostulations in the drawer's voice, and then, suddenly, the door was

flung open and out into the street there came, as though they had both

been thrust forth together by strong hands, my cousin and his guest.

"Now what may this mean?" whispered Oliver, while, as he spoke, he

drew me further within the porch, or stoop, so that we were quite

invisible behind its thick pillars.

It took not long to learn. My cousin was mightily flustered as 'twas

easy to see; his hat was awry as also was his steinkirk, his face was

flushed and he breathed forth most dreadful execrations against the

tavern first, and then his companion, who, perhaps because of his

longer sleep within, seemed more cool and calm.

"I tell thee 'tis a scurvy trick, Garrett," bawled Roderick, after he

had finished kicking at the tavern door, which was now fast closed,

while the lights within were extinguished; and after he had yelled

through the keyhole at them that "they should be indicted on the

morrow." "A scurvy trick, and worst of all from a guest as thou art.

But it shall not pass, and I will have satisfaction." And he began

tugging at the sword by his side, though he lurched a good deal as he

did so.

"Mr. St. Amande," replied the other, "satisfaction you shall indeed

have, as I will for the blow you dealt me in there, which led to our

ignominious expulsion. And you may have it now, or in the park

to-morrow morning, or when and where you will. But, previously, let me

tell you, sir, that when you say that I am any party to the departure

of the young ladies, or that I know where they are, or am about to

rejoin them, you lie. Now, sir, shall we draw?"

"Where are they then? I did but doze, yet when I opened my eyes they

were gone," but he made no attempt further to unsheath his weapon.

"As I have now told you twice, I know not. But I cannot stay parleying

here with you all night. A friend will wait upon you to-morrow. Frank

Garrett must wipe out that blow. I trust my friend's visit will be

agreeable. Sir, I wish you a good night," and he took off his richly

gold laced hat with great ceremony and, bowing solemnly, withdrew. My

cousin gazed with drunken gravity after him and hiccoughed more than

once, and muttered, "A nice ending truly to a supper party. The girls

gone, insulted by landlord and--and the reckoning to pay and fight

to-morrow--Garrett knows every passado to be learnt at the fence

school. I must see to it. And there is no more to drink." Here he

reeled over to the tavern again from the middle of the road, and,

beating on the door, called out to, them to come down and give him

another draught and he would forget their treatment of him while the

reckoning should be paid in the morning. But his noise produced no

other reply than the opening of a window upstairs, from which a man

thrust forth his head covered with a nightcap and bade him begone or

the watch should be summoned. While for the reckoning, the man said,

his honour might be sure that that would have to be paid since he knew

his honour's father well. After which the window was closed.

But now, when once more all was still, Oliver and I stepped forth, and

the former taking off his hat with great civility and bowing, said,

"Sir, we have been witnesses of how ill you have been treated, both by

your friend and the tavern-keeper. And 'tis a sin to thrust forth so

gallant a gentle man when he wishes another cup."

"I do, plaguily," muttered Roderick.

"Therefore, young sir, if you require another draught I can show you

where it may be obtained."

"Can you? Then you are a right good fellow, though who and what you

are I know not from Adam. Some city put, I suppose, who wishes to be

seen in company with a gentleman!"--'twas ever my cousin's habit to

make such amiable speeches as these, and thereby to encounter the ill

will of those whom he addressed. "But, however, I care not whom I am

seen in company with. I'll go along with you." Then, suddenly, his eye

lighted on me, whereon he exclaimed, "What, my gentleman! Why, 'twas

you who were in Macarthy's earlier in the evening. I suppose you left

ere I awoke from my doze. Are you, too, stranded for a draught and

obliged to be indebted to this good--humph!--person for procuring you

one?"

"Even so," I answered, thinking it best to fall in with his

supposition, whereon Oliver said:

"Come on then, young sirs, or all the taverns will be closed. Yet,

stay, will you have a sup ere we set forth. I have the wherewithal in

my pocket," and he thrust his hand in his coat and pulled out a great

flask he had provided to keep out the morning air from our lungs when

we should be on the river.

"First come, first served," he said, winking at me, which action being

under an oil lamp I could well perceive, and he handed me the flask

which I put to my mouth and pretended to drink from, though not a drop

did I let pass my lips. "And you, sir," he went on, turning to my

cousin, "will you try a draught? 'Tis of the right kind--and--hush! a

word--the gauger has never taken duty on it."

"So much the better. Hand over," said Roderick, "the night air is raw.

Ah!" He placed the bottle to his lips as he uttered this grunt of

satisfaction and took a long deep draught, and then returned the flask

enviously to Oliver and bade him lead to the tavern he knew of, where

he promised he would treat us both to a bowl of punch ere the night

was done.

But Oliver (as he told me afterwards) not thinking it advisable to be

seen in more public houses than necessary--considering the business we

were on--purposely led the way to one near the river of which he knew,

by as circuitous a route as possible, so that, ere we had gone half a

mile, Roderick called a halt for another refresher. All the way we had

come he had been maundering about the treatment he had received at the

tavern, about the desertion of him by the actresses, and about his

friend's treachery, mixed up with boastings of his father's standing,

his speech being very thick and his gait unsteady. So that the same

hope was in Oliver's mind as in mine, namely that another attack upon

the bottle might do his business for him. Yet, when he had taken it,

he was not quite finished--though nearly so, since he would once or

twice have fallen had we not held him up between us as we went

along,--and we were fain at last to suggest a third pull at the flask.

And shortly after he had taken that he could go no farther but, after

hiccoughing out some unintelligible words, sank helpless on the

stones.

"Caught in their own toils!" exclaimed Oliver, as he bent over him,

"caught in their own toils! Gerald, already the spell begins to work

that shall undo your uncle. Yet, if this were not the son of a

villain, and a villain himself in the future if he be not one now, as

by his rejoicing over the plot in the tavern he seems to be, I would

never have taken part in such a snare as this. But," he continued,

"they would have sent you, poor lad, to where he is going, and he

would have gloated over it. Let us, therefore, harden our hearts and

continue what we have begun."

He stooped over Roderick as he spoke and gazed at him as he lay there

insensible, and said, "We must remove from him his lace and ruffles;

they are too fine. His hat with its lacings is easily disposed of,"

saying which he tossed it on a heap of refuse such as was then to be

found in every street in Dublin. "His clothes," he continued, "are,

however, none too sumptuous, and they are soiled with mud where he has

fallen. His sword he must not have however," with which words he

unloosed it as well as the sash and placed the former against a

doorway and the latter in his pocket. "Now," he said, "let us carry

him to the stairs," and he forthwith hoisted him on his back as easily

as he had hundreds of times hoisted a sheep in a similar manner.

We passed scarcely any persons on our road, and, when we did, they

seemed to think little enough of such a sight as a man who looked like

a porter carrying another who was overcome by drink on his back, while

a third, probably, as they supposed, the drunken man's friend, walked

by their side. Such sights were common enough in the days when I was

young and George II. had just ascended the throne, and not only in

Dublin but in England and all over his dominions. Nay, in those days

things were even worse than this; men went to taverns to pass their

evenings, leaving word with others, to whom they paid a regular wage,

to come and fetch them at a certain hour, by which time they would be

drunk. Noblemen's servants came for them on the same errand to their

wine clubs and the ordinaries, and even many divines thought it no sin

to be seen reeling home tipsy through the streets at night, or being

led off by their children who had sought them out at their houses of

use.

So, I say, we passed unheeded by those few we encountered, and in this

manner we came to Essex Stairs, where Oliver deposited his burden upon

the shingle under a dry arch and went to fetch the boat.

"I know not," he said, "whether 'tis best to put him in the boat at

once and so to row about the river, or whether to let him lie here

until O'Rourke's friend comes to see that the scheme is accomplished.

He is to wear a red cockade by which we shall know him."

"I imagine 'twould be best to take to the boat," I said. "Any one may

come down to the river shore at any moment, but the river is as still

as death. And we could lie under yon vessel that is listed over by the

tide, and so see those on shore without being seen."

"Thou art right, Gerald; thou art right. No thing could be better.

Wilt lend a hand to carry him in? And then we will shove off."

We bent over the prostrate form enveloped now in Oliver's frieze coat,

when, as we did so, we heard behind us a voice--a voice that terrified

me so that I felt as though paralysed, or as if the marrow were

freezing in my bones--a voice that said, "Softly, softly! What!

Would'st put off without the other guineas and the acquittance?" And,

starting to our feet, we saw behind us O'Rourke regarding us with a

dreadful smile.

"So, Mr. Quin," he went on, "thou would'st have tricked me, eh! and

hast found some other youth to send to the plantations in place of

this young sprig here--who, in spite of his gay apparel and his smart

wig, I recognise as the brat who was not long ago in my custody, and

shall be again. A pretty trick in faith! a pretty trick to try on me

who, in my time, have served the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender,

and hoodwinked the whole joyous three. Why, Quin," he went on

banteringly, "you are not so clever as I took you for."

"I may outwit you yet, O'Rourke," replied Oliver, "in spite of your

cleverness. But," he continued, in a peculiar voice that I could not

understand, and, indeed, I felt now so miserable and wretched at the

failure of our undertaking that I paid but little heed to what they

said, "I suppose you, too, were tricking me. If we had got down the

river we should have found no _Dove_ there to take our cargo on

board."

"Nay, nay, Quin," continued the other, "for what then think you I have

paid you the guineas, which now you must return or I will blow your

brains out? The _Dove_ is there fast enough, though she is anchor

a-peak now and ready to sail. And in my pocket, too, are the remaining

pieces--for I am an honest man, Quin, and keep my word--and with a

line from my lord absolving thee, which now thou must forego." Here he

burst into another laugh such as he had once or twice given before,

and went on, "Yet I cannot but smile at your simplicity. What! pay

thee twenty-five guineas for nothing, and entrust an honest gentleman

with a red cockade in his hat--ha, ha!--to look after my affairs when

I can look after them myself. 'Tis not thus that I have prospered and

made my way. Now, Quin, give back my guineas to me."

"Nay," said Oliver, "that will never be. We have the guineas and we

mean to keep them."

"I am armed," said O'Rourke, "and I will have them; yet, ere I take

them from you or shoot you like a dog, let's see what creature, what

scaramouch or scarecrow thou hast picked out of the gutter to send to

Virginia in place of this boy, Gerald," and, stooping down, he bent on

his knee and flung Oliver's cloak off my cousin's form till it lay

there as it had fallen, and with a ray from the oil lamp of the

archway glistening on his face.

"What!" he exclaimed, "what! nay, 'tis impossible--yet, yet, oh! oh!

Quin, thou damnable, thou double-dyed scoundrel; why--why--thou

wretch, thou execrable wretch, had this happened, had this wicked plot

been put in practice, my lord would have slain me. Oh! thou villain. I

should have been ruined for ever."

"As so you shall be yet," said Oliver springing at him as he spoke,

"as you shall be if I myself do not slay you first."

In a moment he had seized the ruffian by the throat with his great

strong hands while he called to me to secure his pistols, which I did

without loss of time; and he so pressed upon his windpipe that

O'Rourke's face became almost black. Yet he struggled, too, being, as

I think, no coward, and dealt out buffets and blows right and left,

some falling on Oliver's face and some on his body. But gradually

these blows relaxed in strength and fell harmless on his more brawny

antagonist, who never loosed the hold upon his throat, so that 'twas

easy to perceive, even in the dark of the archway with its one faint

illumination, he must in a few moments be choked to death.

"Do not kill him, Oliver," I whispered, "do not kill him. Spare him

now; he is harmless."

Whether it was my words or his own merciful nature I know not, but, at

any rate, Oliver did at last relax his hold on the other, who, when he

had done so, fell to the earth and, after writhing there for a moment,

lay perfectly still.

"We must be speedy," said Oliver, "and lose no time. Look! towards the

east the light is coming. Quick. Do you rifle his pockets for the

money and the paper--above all, the paper; do not overlook that! while

I lift the other into the boat. And gag him with this sash," taking

Roderick's sword sash out of his pocket and tossing it to me; "gag him

tightly, but leave him room to breathe. I have not killed him, though

I came near doing so."

As he spoke, he snatched up my cousin as easily as though he had been

a valise, and went down with him to the boat, throwing him lightly

into the stern sheets, and then pushed the boat off by the bow so that

she should be ready to float the moment we were in.

As for me, I went through O'Rourke's pockets hurriedly, finding in

them the bag with the remainder of the guineas (in which we discovered

afterwards three more jacks, so that we were led to think that he

followed, amongst other pursuits, that of passing bad coin whenever it

was possible) and also the paper--a scrawl in my uncle's hand writing

saying that "he thanked Mr. Quin for what he had done in ridding

Ireland of an atrocious young villain and impostor falsely calling

himself a member of a noble family, to wit, his own"--and pledging

himself to hold Mr. Quin harmless of any proceedings on that account.

Then, tying Roderick's sash in O'Rourke's mouth, I ran down to the

boat, and, jumping into it, rolled up my cloak and coat and took the

bow oar.

Half-an-hour later the dawn was come; already there was stealing over

the river that faint light which, even on a winter morning, tells that

the day is at hand, and our oars were keeping time well together as we

drew near to the ship that was to carry my wretched cousin far away to

the Virginia plantations--the plantations to which he and his father

fondly hoped they would have consigned me.

CHAPTER VIII

AND CAGED

As we thus drew near to what Oliver said was the _Dove_--he having

been down to reconnoitre her the day before from the shore--our burden

gave some signs of coming to, or rather of awakening from his drunken

slumbers. First he rolled his head about under the cloak, then he got

it free from the folds, and, when he had done this, he opened his

bloodshot eyes and stared at us with a look of tipsy amazement. Yet,

so strong was the unhappy youth's ruling passion, that he exclaimed:

"If you have a taste of that spirit left in the flask, I pray you give

it me."

"Feel in the pocket over by your left shoulder," replied Quin, "and

you may yet find a drop or so--'twill warm you." Then, turning to me

as the wretched Roderick did as he was bidden, Quin said over his

shoulder, in a whisper, "'Tis a charity to give it him. It is the last

he will taste for many a day. The skippers do not give their prisoners

aught else but water on these cruises, and as for the planters--if all

accounts be true!---they treat their white slaves no better." After

saying which he bent to his oar again.

For a moment the draught seemed to arouse Roderick and even to put

sense into his muddled pate, since, as he gazed on the shore on either

side, he muttered, "This is not the way home. Not the way I know of";

but, even as he did so, the fumes of the overnight's liquor, stirred

up perhaps by the new accession of drink, got the better of him again

and once more he closed his eyes.

"'Tis thy way home at any rate," I heard Oliver mutter; "the way to

the only home you will know of for some years. And may it be as happy

a one to thee as thou destined it for thy cousin." Then turning

swiftly to me, he said, "Pull two strokes, Gerald; we are alongside

the _Dove_."

As we slewed round to run alongside the gangway, there stood at the

top of it as villainous a looking old man as ever it was my lot to

see. An old man clad in a dirty plush suit with, on his head, a hat

covered with tarnished, or rather blackened, silver lace; one who

squinted hideously down at us.

"Whence come you, friends?" he asked. "From the noble Captain

O'Rourke," replied Oliver, "and we bring you his parting gift. The

youth is not well, having partaken freely over night, doubting,

perhaps, of your hospitality. Now, sir, if you will produce the price

named to the Captain and send down a man or so to haul him on board,

he is very much at your service."

"Ay, ay," said the captain, "let's see him though, first. I don't want

to buy a dead man--as I did up at Glasgow not long ago--or one who has

lost his limbs. Here, Jabez, and you, Peter, jump down and haul him

up," while, as he spoke, he produced a filthy skin bag from his pocket

and began counting out some guineas into his palm.

Those called Jabez and Peter--one of whom was a negro--did as they

were bidden, and, shoving our boat a little forward so as to bring the

stern, where Roderick lay, up to the platform of the gangway, they

quickly threw off the cloak, and, seizing his limbs, began to lift

them up and let them fall, to see that they were not broken nor he

dead. But such treatment even this poor bemused and sodden creature

could not bear without protest, so, as the men seized him and swiftly

bore him up the gangway until he stood upon the deck of the _Dove_--a

filthy, dirty-looking craft, with, however, a great, high poop much

ornamented with brass and gilding--he began to strike out right and

left, and to scream and ejaculate.

"Hands off, you ruffians, hands off you wretches, I say! What! do you

know who I am; do you know that I am the son of the Viscount St.

Amande and his heir? Let me go, you dogs!" and putting his hand to

where his sword should have been and not finding it there, he struck

at the negro, who, instantly striking back at him, fetched him such a

blow on the cheek as sent him reeling against the rough-tree rail,

where he glowered and muttered at all around.

"Hark ye, young sir," said the villainous looking skipper, "we have

been informed before this by the gallant Captain O'Rourke that it

pleases you to style yourself a son of Lord St. Amande." Here Quin

nodded up to the speaker, saying, "'Tis so, I have even at this moment

a paper in my pocket saying that he does so claim that position." "But

let me tell you," the captain went on, "'twill avail you nothing on

board this craft. I am, like the honest man in the boat below, in

possession of a paper from his lordship saying you will try this tack

with me, and, as I tell you, 'twill profit you nothing. You may call

yourself what you will but you must accustom yourself to this ship for

some weeks, at least, and take your part with these your companions

till you reach your destination. While, if you do not do so, I will

have you brained with a marling-spike or flung into the sea, or, since

I cannot afford to lose you, have you put in irons in the hold," after

which he turned away from Roderick, handed the twenty guineas to

Oliver, and bellowed out his orders for getting the ship under weigh

at once.

But now, as I glanced at those whom the man spoke of as his

companions, my heart went out to my cousin, and, cruelly as he had

ever used me, and even remembering that he had chuckled over the doom

which now was his having been planned for me, I could not but pity

him. Nay, I think, had it been possible, that I would have saved him,

would have had him set on shore free again, and would have trusted to

Heaven to soften his heart and make him grow into a better man. His

companions! The creatures with whom he was to live and herd until he

reached Virginia, and even afterwards, maybe. Oh! 'twas dreadful to

reflect upon. They stood upon the deck of that horrid-looking craft,

surrounding him, jeering at him, mocking at him, but not one with a

look of pity in his or her face--as, indeed, 'twas not likely they

should have since his fate was theirs. Amongst them there were

convicted felons with chains to their legs and arms, who were being

sent out so as to ease the jails which were always full to

overflowing; there were women who were coin clippers and coiners, and

some who--for I learnt their histories afterwards--had been

traffickers in their own sex, or ensnarers of drunken men, or even

murderesses--though some of them were fair enough in looks and some,

also, quite young. And there were youths, nay, lads, younger than I

was, who had been sold to the captain (to be again re-sold by him at

the end of his voyage) by their own unnatural parents, so that, as

they became lost, the parents' shame might become forgotten. There,

too, lying about, were drunken lads and girls who had been picked up

in the streets and brought on board and kept drunk until the ship

should sail; there were some who looked like peasants who had been

enticed in from the country, since they wore scarce any clothes,

and--horror of horrors!--sitting weeping on a cask was a clergyman,

still with his cassock on and with a red blotchy face. He--I

afterwards learnt also--had forged to obtain money for drink, and this

was his doom. And those who were not drunk, or sleeping off the

effects of drink, came near that other drunkard, my cousin, and,

approaching as close as possible to him until the mate and sailors

kicked them, men and women, indiscriminately away, jeered at and

derided him and made him welcome, and asked him if he had any money,

or what he thought of the prospects of a sea voyage, and with what

feelings he looked forward to a sojourn in Virginia as a slave.

"As a slave! In Virginia!" he screamed, taking in his situation at

last. "As a slave in Virginia! Oh, God! spare me, spare me! 'Tis a

mistake, I tell you. A mistake. Another one was meant, not I. 'Tis he

who should go. 'Tis he! Send for him and set me free!"

And then they all laughed again, while the captain, seizing him

roughly by the collar, threw him amidst the others, telling him he

would do very well for him; and then they hauled up the gangway and

gradually the ship wore round.

She had commenced her voyage.

So he went forth a slave and, as he went, the pity that had welled up

into my heart for him became stifled and I felt it no more. For,

think! As he screamed in his desperation for mercy he asked for it

only for himself, he would at that moment, in spite of the horrors

which he saw, have cheerfully sent me in his place. Nay, in his place

or not, he had meant that I should go. Why, I asked myself, should I

pity him?

The _Dove_ had quickly caught the north wind that was blowing now; she

had slipped away so easily from us when once her anchor was up and her

sails set, that, as she went heeling over down the river, we saw but

little of her but her stern and her poop lantern swinging aft. And so

we turned our boat's nose back to the city and prepared to return.

Oliver was himself silent; I think because in his noble heart there

was the same conflict going on that there was in mine--the regret for

having been concerned in such a deed fighting with the pleasant

conviction that he had foiled a most wicked plot against me and thus

defeated two utter villains, my uncle and Considine, while, on a third

one, the punishment had fallen. And now that years have passed it

pleasures me to think that it was so with him, and that that brave

heart of his could, even at this moment of triumph, feel sorrow for

what he had thought it best to do. A brave heart, I have called it; a

noble heart--and so it was. A heart ever entendered to me from the

first when, God He knows, there was none else to show me kindness; a

heart that so long as it beat was ever loyal, good, and true.

"Will you put back to the bridge?" I asked him, seeing that he still

kept the boat's course headed up river. "Surely it would be best to

make straight for the packet and go on board at once. Suppose O'Rourke

has recovered by now and informed my uncle. What may he not do to us?"

"Nothing," replied Oliver, as he still set a fast stroke, "nothing. To

begin with--which is the most important thing--he cannot catch the

_Dove_, no, not even if he could persuade the captain of one of His

Majesty's sloops now lying in the river to put out in chase of

her,--such vessels as she is can show their heels to anything they

have a few hours' start of. And as for what he can do to us--why, what

can he attempt? We have been employed on his service, I hold in my

pocket a letter from him justifying me in kidnapping the youth who

claims to be Lord St. Amande. Well! that is what thy cousin claims to

be in succession, and, even if he did not do so, how can thy uncle

make any stir, or announce himself, as he needs must do if he blows on

me; he, a participator in what I have done? While for O'Rourke--the

noble Captain O'Rourke, Hanoverian spy, Jacobite plotter, white or

black cockade wearer as the time serves and the wind shifts, crimp and

bully,--think you he will come within a hundred leagues of Mr. Robert

St. Amande after having failed so damnably? Nay! more likely are we to

meet him in the streets of London when we get there than in those of

Dublin! So bend thy back to it, Gerald, and pull hard for Essex

Bridge. The tide runs out apace."

As we passed up through the shipping lying in the river and on to our

destination, Quin did utter one more remark to the effect that, if he

had in very fact slain O'Rourke, or injured him so badly that he could

not rise from the spot where he fell, it was possible we might still

find him there, but that he did not think such a thing was very likely

to come about.

"The fellow has as many lives as a cat," he said,--"he was nigh hanged

at Carlisle for a Jacobite in the last rising, and almost shot at St.

Germain for a Hanoverian, yet he escaped these and countless other

dangers somehow--and he has also as many holes as a rat in this city

into which he can creep and lie hid, to say nought of his den farther

up the river, of which you know well, since you escaped from it. 'Tis

not like we shall find him when we land."

To land it was now time since we had reached the bridge, though by

this the river had run so low that we were forced to get out and drag

the boat up through the slime and ooze of the bank to get her high and

dry. And as we were doing so, I, who was lifting her with my face

turned towards the shore, saw a sight that had quite as terrible an

effect on me as the sight of O'Rourke standing over us a couple of

hours before had had. For, wrapped in long horsemen's cloaks and with

their hats pulled down well over their eyes, I observed upon the

river's brink my uncle and his friend and creature, Wolfe Considine,

both of whom were regarding us fixedly. But, when I whispered this

news to Oliver as I bent over the bows of the boat, he whispered back

to me, "No matter; fear nothing. Courage. Courage!"

"Well, fellow," said my uncle to Quin, as we approached them, I

walking behind my companion and with my own hat drawn down as low as

possible so as to evade observation if I could do so. "Well, fellow,

so thou hast determined to change thy song and serve Lord St. Amande,

instead of vomiting forth abuse on him and doing thy best to thwart

him. Is't not so?" and he let his cloak fall so that his features were

visible, and his fierce, piercing eyes shone forth.

"To serve Lord St. Amande is my wish," Quin replied gruffly, returning

his glance boldly.

"And have done so this morning, as I understand, though where that

tosspot, O'Rourke, is, who should be here to settle matters, I know

not."

"Ay," Quin replied in the same tone as before, "I have done good

service to his lordship this morning."

"And the fellow is away to sea? The _Dove_ has sailed?"

"Ay, away to sea on the road to Virginia! The _Dove_ has sailed."

But while this discourse was taking place I was trembling in my wet

boots--remember, I was still but a youth to whom tremblings and fears

may be forgiven--for fixed on me were the eyes of Considine, and I

knew that, disguised as I was in handsome apparel, if he had not yet

recognised me he would do so ere long.

"Yet," my uncle went on, "I should have thought you would have chosen

a somewhat different style of companion for a helpmate in the affair

than such a dandy youth as this. Wigs and laces and riding-boots, to

say nought of roquelaures and swords by the side, are scarcely the kit

of those who assist in carrying youths off for shipment to the King's

colonies!" and he bent those piercing eyes on me while I saw that

other pair, those of Considine, looking me through and through.

"But," went on my uncle, "doubtless you know your own business best,

and I suppose the youth is some young cogger, or decoy, whom thou

can'st trust and who finds his account in the affair."

"Nay," said Considine, springing at me, "'tis the whelp himself, and

we are undone; some other has gone to sea, if any, in his place. Look!

Look, my lord, you should know him well," and, tearing off my wig, he

left me standing exposed to my uncle's regard and that of a few

shore-side denizens who had been idly gazing upon us, and who now

testified great interest in what was taking place.

"What!" exclaimed my uncle, rushing forward. "What! 'Tis Gerald, as I

live, and still safe on shore. Thou villain!" he said, turning to

Oliver, "what hast thou done?"

"The duty I was paid for and the duty I love. My duty to Lord St.

Amande."

"Scoundrel," the other said, lugging out his rapier, "this is too

much. I will slay you and the boy as you stand here. Considine, draw."

"Ay," exclaimed Oliver, "Considine draw--though you could not have

bade him do an thing he fears more. But so will I. Let's see whether

steel or a blue plum shall get the best of this fray"; with which he

produced his two great pistols and pointed one at each of his

opponents, while the knot of people who had now gathered together on

the bank cheered him to the echo. And especially they did so when they

learnt the circumstances of the dispute, and that, in me, they beheld

the real Lord St. Amande, the youth deprived of his rights, and, in

Robert St. Amande, the usurper whose misdeeds were now the talk of the

lower parts of Dublin, if no other.

"Bah!" the latter exclaimed, thrusting his rapier back into the

scabbard with a clash, "put up thy pistols, fellow. This is no

place for such an encounter. Nor will I stain my sword with thy base

blood. But remember," he said, coming a pace or two closer, as he saw

Oliver return the pistols to his belt, "remember, you shall not

escape. You have my writing in your pocket to hold you free of this

morning's work, but"--and he looked terrible as he hissed forth the

words--"think not that I will fail to yet be avenged. Even though you

should go to the other end of the known world I will follow you or

have you followed, while as for you," turning to me, "I will never

know peace night nor day till I have blotted your life out of

existence. And if you have not gone forth to the plantations this

morning, 'tis but a short reprieve. If I do not have thy life, as I

will, as I will"--and here he opened and clenched both his hands as he

repeated himself, so that he looked as though trying to clutch at me

and tear me to pieces--"as I will, why then still shalt thou be

transported to the colonies, thou devil's brat!"

"Ay to the colonies," struck in Quin, "to the colonies, whereunto now

the _Dove_ is taking the false usurper, or the future false usurper of

the title of St. Amande, while the real owner remains here safe and

sound for the present at least. To the colonies. Right!"

"The _Dove_. The false usurper," exclaimed Considine and my uncle

together, while their faces became blanched with fear and rising

apprehension. "The _Dove_ taking the false usurper. Villain!" said my

uncle, "what mean you? Speak!"

"I mean, _villain_," replied Oliver, "that on board the _Dove_, now

well out to sea, is one of the false claimants of the title of St.

Amande, one of those who were concerned in the plot to ship this, the

rightful lord, off to Virginia. I mean that, amongst the convicts and

the scum of Dublin who have been bought for slavery, there goes

Roderick St. Amande, your son, sold also into slavery like the rest."

From my uncle's lips there came a cry terrible to hear, a cry which

mingled with the shouts of those who could catch Oliver's words; then

with another and a shorter cry, more resembling a gasp, he fell

fainting into the arms of Considine.

CHAPTER IX

MY MOTHER

That afternoon we took the first packet boat for Holyhead, where,

being favoured by fortune, we found a fast coach about to start for

London which, in spite of its rapidity and in consequence of the

badness of the roads and some falls of snow in the West, took

five days in reaching the Metropolis. Yet, long as the journey

was--though rendered easier by the quality of the inns at which we

halted and the excellence of the provisions, to which, in my youth,

there was nothing to compare in Ireland--yet, I say, long as the

journey was and tedious, I was happy to find myself once more in

London--in which I had not been since I was a child of six years of

age, when my father and mother were then living happily together in a

house in the new Hanover Square. Nay, I was more than happy at the

thought that I was about so soon to see my dear and honoured mother

again, so that, as the coach neared London, I almost sang with joy at

the thought of all my troubles being over, and of how we should surely

live together in peace and happiness now until my rights were made

good.

Oliver had rid himself of his occupation by a simple method; he had

merely abstained from going to his work at the butcher's any more, and

had sent round to say he had found other and more suitable employment,

and, as a slight recompense to his master for any loss he might

suppose himself to sustain, had bidden him keep the few shillings of

wage due to him. So that he felt himself, as he said, now entirely

free to look after and protect me.

"For look after you I always shall," he said, "So long as it is in my

power and until I see you accorded your own. Then, when that happens,

you may send me about my business as soon as you will, and I will

shift for myself."

"It can never happen," I replied, "that the time will come when you

and I must part,"--alas! I spake as what I was, a child who knew not

and could not foresee the stirring events that were to be my portion

for many years to come, nor how the seas were to roll between me and

that honest creature for many of those years,--"nor can the time ever

come when I shall fail in my gratitude to you or to Mr. Kinchella.

You! my only friends."

Then Oliver's face lighted up with pleasure as I spoke, and he grasped

my hand and said that if Providence would only allow it we would never

part.

To Mr. Kinchella I had gone between the time of the affray with my

uncle--of whom the last I saw was his being half-led and half-carried

to a coach by Considine, after he had learnt who it was who had gone

to Virginia in my place--and the sailing of the packet, and I had

found him busy making his preparations for departing for his vacation,

the Michaelmas term being now nearly at its end. He was astonished at

my appearance, as he might well be, and muttered, as he looked

smilingly down at me, "_Quantum mutatus ab illo!_ Have you come in for

your fortune and proved your right to your title, my lord?"

But when I had sat me down and told him the whole of my story and of

the strange things that had happened during the last two days, he

seemed as though thunderstruck and mused deeply ere he spoke.

"'Tis a strong blow, a brave blow," he exclaimed at last, "and boldly

planned. Moreover, I see not how your uncle can proceed against you or

Quin for your parts in it. If he goes against Quin, there is the paper

showing that he was willing that you should be sold into slavery.

Therefore he dare not move in that quarter. Then, as for you, if he

proceeds against you he acknowledges your existence and so stultifies

his own claim. And, again, he cannot move because witnesses could be

brought against him to show that the scheme was his, though the

carrying out of it was different from his hopes--those player wenches

could also testify, though I know not whether a court of law would

admit, or receive, the evidence of such as they."

"There are others besides," I said. "Mr. Garrett, with whom Roderick

quarrelled, and who seemed to be of a good position; he, too, heard

it. Also, there were several by the river this morning who witnessed

the fit into which my uncle fell when he found how his wicked plot had

recoiled on his own head----"

"Ay, hoist with his own petard! Well, I am honestly glad of it. And,

moreover, 'tis something different from the musty old story told by

the romancers and the playwrights. With these gentry 'tis ever the

rightful heir who goes to the wall and is the sufferer, but here in

this, a real matter, 'tis the heir who--up to now at least--is

triumphant and the villains who are outwitted. Gerald, when you

get to London, you should make your way to the coffee-houses--there is

the 'Rose'; also 'Button's' still exists, I think, besides many

others--and offer thy story to the gentlemen who write. It might make

the fortune of a play, if not of the author."

"'Tis as yet not ripe," I replied, though I could not but laugh at

good Mr. Kinchella's homely jokes; "the first act is hardly over. Let

us wait and see what the result may be."

"Prosperity to you, at least," he said, gravely now, "and success in

all that you desire. For that I will ever pray, as well as for a happy

issue for you and your mother out of all your afflictions," and here

he bent his head as he recited those solemn and beautiful words. "And

now, farewell, Gerald, farewell, Lord St. Amande. Any letter sent to

me here at the College must ever find me, and it will pleasure me to

have news of you, and more especially so if that news is good. Fare ye

well."

And so, after my thanks had been again and again tendered to him, we

parted, and I, making my way swiftly to the quay was soon on board the

packet. But I thought much of him for many a long day after, and when,

at last, Providence once more, in its strange and mysterious

visitations, brought me face to face with him again and I saw him well

and happy and prosperous, I did indeed rejoice.

And now the coach was rolling rapidly over Hadley Heath, that dreaded

spot where so many travellers had met with robbery, and sometimes

death, from highwaymen (one of whom and the most notorious, one

Richard Turpin, was hanged at York a little more than a year after we

passed over it); and the passengers began to point out to each other

the bodies of three malefactors swinging in chains as a warning to

others. Yet, it being daytime as we crossed the heath, I took very

little heed of their stories and legends, but peered out of the window

and told Oliver that this place was not many miles from London, and

that we should soon be there now. As, indeed, he could see for

himself, for soon the villages came thicker and thicker together;

between Whetstone and Highgate we passed many beautiful seats,

doubtless the suburban retreats of noblemen and gentry, while, at

Highgate itself, so close were the dwellings together that, had we not

met a party of huntsmen with their horns and hounds, who, the guard

told us, were returning from hunting, we should have supposed we were

already in London instead of being still four miles from it. But those

four miles passed quickly and soon we arrived.

So now we had come to the inn whence the north-western coaches

departed, and at which they arrived three times a week with a

regularity that seems incredible, since, even in the worst of wintry

weather, they were scarce ever more than a day behind in their time.

And here amongst all the bustle of our arrival, of the shouts of the

hackney coachmen to those whom they would have as fares, and of the

porters with their knots, Oliver and I engaged a coach, had our

necessaries put on it, and gave directions to be driven to my mother's

abode.

The house in Denzil Street, to which we soon arrived, presented but a

sordid appearance such as made me feel a pang to think that my dear

mother should be forced to live in such a place when, had she but

possessed all that should have been hers, her lot would have been far

different. The street had once been, I have since heard, the abode of

fashion--indeed 'twas a connection of my mother's house, one William

Holles, a relative of that Denzil Holles who had been, as many even

now recall, one of the members impeached of high treason by King

Charles, who built it,--but certainly 'twas no longer so. Many of the

houses seemed to be occupied by persons of no better condition than

musicians and music-teachers; a laundry-woman had a shop at one end in

which might be seen the girls at work as we passed by; there were

notices of rooms to be let in several of the houses, and there was

much garbage in the streets. Heaven knows I had seen so much squalor

and wretchedness in Dublin, and especially in the places where I had

lain hid, that I, of all others, should have felt but little distaste

for even such a place as this, nor should I have done so in this case

had it not been that it seemed so ill-fitting a spot for my mother,

with her high birth and early surroundings, to be now harbouring in.

Nor did the maid who opened the door to us present a more favourable

appearance than the street itself, she being a dirty, slatternly

creature who looked as if the pots and pans of the kitchen were her

constant companions. Neither was she of an overwhelming civility,

since, when she stood before us, her remark was:

"What want you?" and, seeing our necessaries on the hackney coach,

added, "There are no spare rooms here."

"We wish to see the Lady St. Amande," I said, assuming as much

sternness as a youth of my age could do. "Tell her----"

"She is sick," the servant replied, "and can see none but her

physician."

"Tell her," I went on, "that her son, Lord St. Amande, with his

companion, Mr. Quin, has arrived from Ireland. Tell her, if you

please, at once."

Whether the creature had heard something of my untoward affairs I know

not, but, anyway, she glanced at me more favourably on receipt of this

intelligence, and, gruffly still, bade us wait in the passage while

she went to speak to her ladyship. But I could not do that, and so,

springing up the stairs after her, was into the room as soon as she,

and, almost ere she had announced my arrival, I was enfolded in my

mother's arms.

She was at this time not more than thirty-five years of age, having

been married at eighteen to my father, yet, already, pain and sickness

had laid its hand heavily upon her, and, along with trouble, had

saddened, though they could not mar, her sweet face. The brow that, as

a still younger woman I remembered so soft and smooth, and over which

I had loved to pass my hands, was now lined and had a wrinkle or so

across it; the deep chestnut hair had threads of silver in it, the

soft blue eyes looked worn and weary and had lost their sparkle. For

sorrow and tribulation had been her lot since first my unhappy father

had crossed her path, and to that sorrow there had come ill health in

the form of a palsy, that, as she had written Mr. Kinchella, sometimes

left her free but mostly kept her fast confined to the house.

And now, the servant having quitted us, she drew me to her closer

still as I knelt beside her, and removing my wig which, she said

through her tears and smiles, made me look too old, she fondled and

caressed me and whispered her happiness.

"Oh, my child, my sweet," she said, "how it joys me to hold thee to my

heart again after I had thought thee dead and gone from me. My dear,

my dear, my loved one, 'tis as June to my heart after a long and cruel

winter to have thee by me once again; my child, my child of many tears

and longings. And how handsome thou art," pushing back my hair with

her thin white hand, "even after all thy sufferings, how beautiful,

how like--Ah! how like _him_," and here she shuddered as she recalled

my father, though she drew me nearer to her as she did so and took my

head upon her breast. Then she wept a little, silently, so that I

could feel her tears falling upon my face and wetting my collar, and

whispered half to herself and half to me, "So like him, who was as

handsome as an angel when first I saw him, yet so vile--so vile." And

then, bending her head even nearer to me so that her lips touched my

ear, she murmured, "Is't true? was it as that gentleman, your friend,

wrote me? Did he die alone and unbefriended? Were there none by him to

succour him? None to pity him? Oh! Gerald, Gerald, my husband that

once was," she moaned, "oh! Gerald, Gerald, how different it might all

have been if thou would'st have had it so."

We stayed locked in each other's arms I know not how long, while she

wept and smiled over me and wept again over my dead father. After

which, calming herself somewhat, she bade me go and fetch Oliver of

whom I had whispered something to her in the time, since she would see

and thank him for all that he had done.

So Oliver came up from the passage where he had been sitting patiently

enough while whistling softly to himself, and stood before her as she

spoke gratefully as well as graciously to him.

"Sir," she said after she had given him her hand, which Oliver bent

over and kissed as a gentleman might have done, and with a grace

which, I think, he must have acquired when he followed the great Duke

twenty years before and was himself a gallant young soldier of

eighteen years of age. "Sir, how shall a poor widow thank you for all

that you have done for her son and your friend?"--here Oliver smiled

pleasedly at my being termed his friend, but disclaimed having done

aught of much weight for me. "Nay, nay," she went on, "do not say

that. Why! you have brought him forth from the jaws of death, you have

saved him from those scheming villains to place him in his mother's

arms again, you have risked your own safety to do so--shall I not

thank you deeply, tenderly, for all that?"

"Madam," Oliver said, "my lady, I could not see the poor youth so set

and put upon and stand idly by without so much as lending him a hand.

And, my lady, if there was any reason necessary for helping him beyond

that of mercy towards one so sorely afflicted as he was, I had it in

the fact that I had known him long before at New Ross."

"At New Ross!" my mother exclaimed. "At New Ross! Is that your part of

the country?"

"It is, my lady, and there, after quitting the army, I lived for many

years working at my trade. And it was there that I have often seen

Gerald--as I have come to call him, madam, since we have been drawn so

close together, tho' I am not forgetful of his rank nor of the respect

due to it--with you and with his late lordship, more especially when

you all drove into New Ross in the light chaise my lord brought from

London, or when Gerald would ride into the town on his pony with his

groom."

These recollections, more especially that of the light chaise which

had been a new toy, or gift, from my father to his wife at the time

they were living happily together and he still had some means,

disturbed my dear mother so much that the tears sprang to her eyes.

And Oliver, who was tender as a child in spite of his determination

and great fierceness when about any business which demanded such

qualities, desisted at once and, turning his remarks into such a

channel as he doubtless thought more acceptable, went on to say:

"And, my lady, none who ever saw his present lordship then--and there

are scores still alive who have done so--but would testify to him. So

it cannot be but that his uncle must ere long desist from the wicked

and iniquitous claims he has put forward and be utterly routed and

defeated, when my lord here shall enjoy his own."

"I pray so. I pray so," said my mother. "And, moreover, his kinsman

the Marquis now seems, since my husband's death, to veer more to our

side than to Robert's. So we may hope."

But now the slatternly servant came in bearing upon a tray some

refreshments that my mother had bade her fetch, there being some good

salted beef, a stew and some vegetables, a bottle of Madeira and two

fair-sized pots of London ale. And being by now well hunger-stung, for

we had eaten nought since the early morning, we fell to and made a

good meal while my mother, sitting by my side and ministering to both

our wants, listened to all we had to tell her. Wherefore, you may be

sure, when she heard of the wicked plot which my uncle had conceived

for shipping me off as a redemptioner, or an indented servant, to

Virginia, and of how it had failed and the biter had himself been bit

through the astuteness of Oliver as well as his manfulness in carrying

out the plans he conceived, she again poured out her gratitude to him

and told him that never could she forget all that he had done for her

and her child.

CHAPTER X

A NOBLE KINSMAN

As the evening drew on Oliver retired, accompanied by the

maid-servant, to seek a room in one of the neighbouring houses which

advertised that they had these commodities at the service of those who

required them; and on the latter returning to say that Mr. Quin had

found a room hard by which he considered suitable, my mother and I sat

over the fire discussing the past, the present, and the future.

"Something," she said, "must be done for Mr. Quin, and that at once.

For his kindness we may well be indebted to him, nay, must, since he

seems of so noble a nature that he would be wounded at any repayment

being offered. But for the money which he has spent--that must

instantly be returned."

"I doubt his taking it," I said. "He regards it as mine since he has

come by it entirely through saving me from my uncle's evil designs.

And, indeed, if you do but consider, dear mother, so it is."

"Nay," she said. "Nay. He would have earned the money easily enough

had he been false to you and put you in that dreadful ship the

_Dove_--gracious Heavens, that such a vile craft should have so fair a

name!--surely we must not let him lose any of that money by being true

and staunch to you."

"Give it back to him, then," I exclaimed with a laugh, "if you can

persuade him to take it. Of which, however, as I said before, I doubt

me much."

"Alas!" she replied, "I cannot give it back to him, but interest must

be made with the Marquis to take up your cause and help you, as he

seems well disposed to do now. For myself, until the villain, Robert,

is defeated, I have but the hundred guineas a year left me by my

uncle--a bare pittance only sufficing to pay for these rooms, the

physician's account and my food."

"Shall I not see the Marquis?" I asked; "surely I should go to him and

tell him all."

"Thou shalt see him soon enough," she said. "I have acquainted him

with the fact of all I knew--no human creature could have guessed or

thought how much more there is to tell, nor how wicked can be the

heart of man, ay! even though that man be one's own flesh and

blood--and also that you might soon be expected to reach London. And

he has sent two or three times a week to know if you had yet arrived:

doubtless he will send again to-morrow. He lives but a stone's throw

from here, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, on the north side."

At ten o'clock my mother told me she must go to her bed for she was

tired and never sat up later, and she rang for Molly, the maid, to ask

if the small room in which she kept her dresses and other apparel had

been prepared for me as she desired. Hearing that it was in readiness,

she told me that a good night's rest would do me good also, and

prepared to retire. And now for the first time, as she rose to depart,

I saw what inroads her disease had made upon her and that she who,

when I first remember her, stood up a straight, erect young woman, was

much bent and walked by the aid of a crutch-stick, and that one of her

hands shook and quivered always.

"Yet strange it is," she said, observing my glance, "that there come

moments when I am free from all suffering and affliction, when I can

stand as straight as I stood at the altar on my wedding day, and when

this hand is as steady as your own. Nay, I can almost will it to be

so. See!" and she held it out before me and it did not quiver, while

next, seizing a huge brass candelabra that stood upon the table, she

lifted that and held it at arm's-length, and neither did that quiver

nor was any of the hot wax from the lighted candles spilt.

"Ah! courage, mother," I said, "courage! You have but to will it and

you are strong. There is enough strength in that arm, which can lift a

candlestick as heavy as this, to do anything it needs. You could hold

a runaway horse with it, or keep off a dog flying at your throat,

or---or--" I went on with a laugh at my silly thoughts, "thrust a

sword through a man's body if you desired to do so."

She was bending to kiss me for the last time that night while I spoke,

but as I uttered the final words of my boyish speech she stopped and

drew herself up so that she was now erect, and then, in a voice that

seemed altered somewhat, she said:

"'Thrust a sword through a man's body if I desired to do so! Thrust a

sword through a man's body!' My sweet, such deeds ill befit a woman.

Yet there are two men in this world through whose bodies I would

willingly thrust a sword if they stood before me and I had one to my

hand. I mean thy uncle Robert, the false-faced, black-avised villain,

and that other and most despicable liar, his friend and creature,

Wolfe Considine."

Yet, even as she spoke, her hand fell powerless by her side and

commenced to shake and quiver once more, when, putting her other upon

my arm, she bade me Good Night and blessed and kissed me and went to

her room.

I lay awake some time in my own bed thinking on what she had said, for

well I knew what had prompted her to speak as she had done. I knew

that, outside the evil and the wrongs that my uncle had testified to

me, there was that other far greater wrong to her which no honest

woman could bear; the base insinuations that Considine had uttered

about his intimacy with her, insinuations partly made to gratify his

own vanity, and partly, as I judged, to enable Robert St. Amande to

cast doubt upon my birth. And I thought that, knowing as she did know,

of these horrid villainies, it was not strange she should feel and

speak so bitterly. These my musings, with some sounds of revellers

passing by outside singing and hooting ribald songs--though one

with a sweet voice sang the old song "Ianthe the Lovely," most

bewitchingly--kept me awake, as I say, some time, but at last I

slumbered in peace within my mother's shelter. Yet not without

disturbance through the night either, for once on turning in my bed I

heard her call to me to know if all was well, and once I heard her

murmur, "The villains, oh! the villains," and still once more I heard

her sob, "Oh! Gerald, Gerald, if thou would'st but have had it so!" by

which I knew that she was thinking of my misguided father and not of

me.

In the morning as we sat at our breakfast of chocolate and

bread--with, for me, another plate of the corned beef which, my mother

told me, the landlady put up in great pickling tubs when the winter

was approaching and, with her family, lived upon for many months,

serving out to the lodgers who wished for them fair-sized platesful at

two pence each--there came a demure gentleman who asked of Molly if

the young lord had yet arrived, or if news had been heard of him.

"It is the Marquis's gentleman," my mother whispered to me, "and,

observe, dear one, he speaks of you as 'the young lord.'" Then,

raising her voice a little, she bade Molly show him in as his lordship

had arrived.

When he had entered the room and made a profound obeisance to her and

another to me, he said that, since I was now in London, he had orders

to carry me to the Marquis in a coach which he had outside, for he was

ready to receive me, being always in his library by eleven o'clock to

grant interviews to those who had business With him.

"We will attend his lordship," my mother said. "I presume, Mr. Horton,

there can be no objection to my going too. And I feel well this

morning; a sight of my child's dear face has benefited me much; I am

quite capable of reaching the coach."

Mr. Horton replied that he knew of no reason whatever why her ladyship

should not go too, and so, when my mother had put on a heavy cloak and

riding hood, for the morning was cold and frosty, we set forth. But,

previous to starting, I ran to the house where Oliver had got a room

and, finding him sitting in a parlour eating his breakfast, I told him

where we were bound.

He rejoiced to hear the news I brought him and offered his escort,

saying he would go on the box of the coach; but I told him this was

unnecessary, and so I left, promising him that, when I returned, I

would come and fetch him and we would sally forth to see some of the

sights of the town. Yet, so faithful was he, that, although he

complied with my desire that he should not accompany us, I found out

in the course of the morning that he followed the coach to the

Marquis's house and there kept guard outside while we were within.

My kinsman's library, to which we were shown by several bowing

footmen to whom Mr. Horton had consigned us, plainly testified that we

were in a room which was used for the purpose from which it took its

name--that it was indeed a library and was so considered. Around the

apartment on great shelves were books upon books of all subjects and

all dates, and of all classes of binding. Some there were bound in

velvet, some in silk as well as vellum, leather and paper: some were

so large that a woman could scarce have lifted them, and some so small

that they would easily have fitted into a waistcoat pocket. And then,

too, there were maps and charts hanging on the walls of counties and

countries, and one of London alone--a marvellous thing showing all

the streets and fields as well as principal buildings of this great

city!--while, when I saw another stretched on a folder and designated,

"A chart of all the known possessions of His Majesty's Colonies of

America," you may be sure my eye sought out, and my finger traced, the

spot where Virginia stood.

"Tell him everything, my dear," said my mother, "as you have told it

to me, and fear nothing. He is just if stern, and, above all, hates

fraud and trickery. Moreover, he has forgiven me for being of those

who espoused, and still espouse, the fallen house of Stuart, and is

not unfriendly to me. Also, remember, he must now be our only hope and

trust on earth, so do thy best to impress him favourably with thee."

I promised her that I would indeed do all she bade me and, then, while

I was turning over a most beautiful book called "Sylva, or a Discourse

concerning Forest Trees," by a gentleman named Evelyn, a footman

opened the door and the Marquis of Amesbury stood before us.

"Louise," he said, going up to her and taking her hand, while, at the

same time, he kissed her slightly on the cheek, "I am glad to see that

you can come forth again. I trust you are more at ease." Then, turning

to me, he gazed down and said, "So, this is your child," and he placed

his hand upon my head. As he did so, and after I had made my bow, I

gazed at him and saw a tall gentleman of over sixty years of age, I

should suppose, very lean and very pale, clad in a complete suit of

black velvet and with but little lace at either breast or wrists. The

gravity of his face was extreme, though he looked not unkind; and,

truly, his manner had not been so up to now.

"Well," he said, when he had motioned me to a seat and was himself

standing before us with his back to the huge fire that roared up the

chimney, "well, so you claim to be the present Viscount St. Amande and

my heir when it pleases God to take me. And you, Louise," turning to

her, "proclaim that he is so?"

"Can a mother not know her own child, Charles, or have so hard a heart

as not to wish to see him enjoy his own?"

"Humph! It hath been done. My Lady Macclesfield, though 'tis true she

earned the contempt of all, ever called her son, the wretched man,

Savage, an impostor; and endeavoured to work his ruin, in which desire

she came at last near to success, since this very month he has stood

at the Old Bailey on a charge of murder. Yet, Louise, thou art not as

she was."

"Nay, God forbid! The wicked wanton! Yet I know not--there are those

who have vilified me for their own wicked ends and said the worst that

scoundrels can say of any woman. But, Charles, you are honest and have

ever held a character for justice amongst men, and, although you loved

not my uncle nor my kin, you would not think evil of me. You could

not, oh! you could not!"

He looked down gravely at her, but still again with kindness in his

eyes, and then he said: "No, no. Never, Louise, never. You were always

too good and true, too fond of the unhappy man to have been aught but

faithful. And, although I opposed his marriage with you, it was never

because of your own self but because of your uncle's principles. Had

he had his way, which I thank God was not permitted, he would have

brought back the false-hearted, grieving Stuarts to the throne; he

would have cursed his country and its laws and religion. But for you,

Louise, for you, child, I never had aught of distrust, but only pity

deep and infinite that you should wed with such a poor thing as my own

dead kinsman and heir, this lad's father."

"God bless you," said she, seizing his hand with her well one and

kissing it ere he could draw it away, "God bless you for your words as

I bless Him for having raised you up to be even as a father to the

fatherless--to my poor fatherless boy. And, Charles, if those whom you

loved so well, your own wife and child, had not been taken from you, I

would pray night and day for them as I pray for you."

He turned away and passed his hand swiftly across his eyes as she

mentioned those whom he had once loved so dearly and who, as all the

world knows, were both torn from him in one short week! 'Twas by one

of those dreadful visitations of smallpox which carries off kings and

queens impartially with their humbler subjects, as was the case

fifteen or sixteen years before, when it swept away the Emperor of

Germany and the Dauphin and Dauphiness of France as well as their

child, and also ravaged both those great countries.

Then, turning back to us, he said:

"But now, ere anything else can be done, I must know all that has

occurred since your husband's death. Something I have heard from you,

Louise, and something from other sources yet there is much I cannot

comprehend. Nay, more, there are some things that seem incredible. It

is said he was buried by the subscription of a few friends--many of

them the lowest of the low, with whom he in life wassailed and

caroused--yet, how could it be?"

"He was penniless, Charles," my mother sobbed; "penniless. He had

nothing."

"Penniless! Penniless! Nay. Nay. His brother was here in London at the

time and I bade him let Gerald have all necessaries in reason, and I

dispatched to Mr. Considine a hundred guineas for his funeral by a

sure hand. I could not let the heir to my title----"

"What!" rang out my mother's voice clear and distinct, while I stared

at the Marquis as though doubting whether he were bereft of his senses

or I of my hearing. "What, you sent money by and to them for him? Oh!

Charles, never did he receive one farthing of it."

"So I have cause to fear. And I know not what is to be done with thy

brother-in-law. He seems to be a rogue of the worst degree."

But now she fixed her eyes upon him and exclaimed:

"You say so, knowing only the little that you do know, that he and his

base servant, Considine--Considine," she, repeated, "Considine, the

traducer of my fame whom yet, if God spares me, I will have a heavy

reckoning with; you know only that they have conspired to defraud my

child of his rights, nay, more, of his honest name. That they have

stolen the money you sent to succour my wretched husband in his last

days and to bury him as he should be buried according to his rank and

fashion when he was dead. That you know, Charles, Marquis of Amesbury,

kinsman of this my child, but you do not know all. Will you hear their

further villainies, will you know all that they have attempted on him;

will you do this, you who are powerful and great, and then will you

stretch forth your right hand and crush, as you can crush, these

wretches to the earth while, at the same time, you also stretch forth

that hand to shelter and protect this innocent child, your heir?"

She had spoken as one inspired by her wrongs; her eyes had flashed and

her frame had quivered as might have quivered that of a pythoness as

she denounced some creature who had outraged her gods, but the effort

had been too much for her weak frame--she could sustain it no further,

and, sinking back into her chair, she was but able to gasp out in

conclusion, "For his sake, Charles, for the sake of an innocent child.

For his sake."

Upon which the Marquis, after trying to calm her, said gently:

"If there are other villainies to hear, I will hear them, yet it seems

impossible that more can remain behind. And, Louise," continued the

old man, touching her arm very gently, "dry your tears. I cannot bear

to see you shed them. Nor have you need. The boy shall be righted. I

promise you."

"Tell him all, Gerald; tell him all," my mother sobbed. "Oh! it would

be enough to melt a heart of stone, let alone one so kind as his."

So I told the Marquis everything that has here been set down.

CHAPTER XI

IMPRESSED

"Many as are the villainies which I have known of in my life," said

the Marquis, when the tale was told, "never have I known aught such as

this. It appears incredible. Incredible that such things can be, and

in these days. Heavens and earth!---in the days of King George the

Second, when law and order are firmly established." Then he fell

a-musing and lay back in the deep chair before the fire in which he

had sat during the whole of my recitation, and nodded his head once or

twice, and muttered to himself. After which he spake aloud and said,

"And the hundred guineas that I sent to bury Gerald; they were those,

I imagine, which the villain O'Rourke paid to your protector, Quin.

Humph! 'Tis well they have fallen into the hands of an honest man

again."

It was at the collation which he offered to my mother and me, for it

was now nearly two o'clock, that he once more took up the subject and

spake out his heart to us, but before he did so he bade the footmen

who had waited at table begone and leave us alone. And, in truth, I

was glad enough to see these immense creatures leave the room and

cease their ministrations to our wants, for they had wearied me, and,

I think, my mother too. All our hopes were centred in what the Marquis

would do to espouse my cause, so you may well imagine that the roasts

appealed not to us nor did the sweetmeats and iced froth and fruit,

nor the wines which they pressed upon us. But when these menials were

gone, he, as I say, again went on with the subject that engrossed all

our thoughts.

"The first thing to do is," he said, "to obtain the certificate of the

child's birth--of that of course there can be no difficulty; then

proof must be forthcoming that this lad is that child--that, I

imagine, can also be obtained?"

"There are hundreds who can testify to it," my mother answered. "The

boy's nurse still lives; he had many tutors both in Ireland and in

London; Mr. Quin, his benefactor, remembers when his father and I used

to drive into New Ross with him; and Mr. Kinchella, a gentleman at

Dublin University, does the same. Charles, there can be no doubt of

many witnesses being able to testify."

"That is well. Then the next most important thing is that I should

acknowledge him as my heir, which I will publicly do----"

"Again I say--God bless you, Charles. God ever bless you!"

"----and," he went on, "in this my house. Next week I have a gathering

here of many of the peers who affect our interests,"--he was speaking

of the Whig party. "Sir Robert sits firm now, and may do so for years

to come. Yet 'tis ever wise to guard against aught the Tories may

attempt. And I expect him to come as well as the Duke of Devonshire,

and Lord Trevor--to them all you shall be presented. And 'tis well

that Mr. Robert St. Amande affects not our side, he will be easier to

deal with."

"What will you do to frustrate him?" my mother asked.

"Do?" the Marquis replied. "Why, first I will proclaim him to all as

an utter villain who has falsely assumed a title to which he has no

claim. Next, the new Irish Lord Chancellor, Wyndham,--who is indebted

somewhat to me for his appointment--must be told to reverse his

favours to the scoundrel, and this boy's name must be entered in his

place. But next week when he has met my friends we can do more."

"And for that other unhappy one--that wretched Roderick?" said my

mother, whose woman's heart could not but feel pity for the miseries

to which he was now subjected, to which he must be subjected, "can

naught be done for him? Could he not be rescued from the dreadful fate

into which he has been plunged?"

"Doubtless," the Marquis replied. "Doubtless. Those who are sold to

the planters, as distinguished from those who are convicts, can easily

be bought back. Only it must be those of his own kind who do it. His

worthy father seems to have some choice spirits in his pay; he may

easily send out Mr. Considine or Mr. O'Rourke with a bagful of guineas

to purchase him back again. For our side,"--and my mother and I told

each other that night how good it was to hear our powerful relative

identify himself with us as he did--"for our side we cannot do

anything. Moreover, we are supposed to know nothing."

"Yet, my lord," I replied, "we _do_ know, and they know we do. Ere my

uncle fainted in Considine's arms he had heard and knew all."

"Yes," the Marquis replied, "yes. But he also knew that your friend,

Quin, held his indemnity for what was done. So, rely upon it, he will,

nay, he must, hold his peace. Kidnapping, or authorising kidnapping,

is punished, and righteously punished, for 'tis a fearful crime, so

heavily by our laws that your uncle stands in imminent deadly peril

for what he has done. And, remember, he is not a peer, therefore he

has no benefit to claim. Rest assured that though he has lost his son

he will never proclaim what has happened nor divulge a word on the

subject. Though, that he may send agents to Virginia to endeavour to

obtain his recall is most probable, since, wretch as he is, there must

be some heart in his bosom for his own child."

So thus, as you may now observe, that great man, my relative, was won

over to my cause, and already it seemed as though the champion whom

dear Oliver had prayed that the Lord might raise up for me had been

discovered. And vastly happy were all of us, my mother, myself, and

that faithful friend, at thinking such was the case. So happy indeed

were we that we made a little feast to celebrate the Marquis's

goodness, and, as he had given my mother a purse with a hundred

guineas in it to be spent on anything I should need, we had ample

means for doing so. We decorated her humble parlour with gay flowers

from the market hard by, we provided a choice meal or so to which we

three sat down merrily, all of us drinking the Marquis's health in

champaign; we even persuaded my mother to be carried to the theatre in

Lincoln's Inn Fields, close to Denzil Street, where from a box we

witnessed Mr. Congreve's affecting play, "The Mourning Bride," at

which my mother wept much.

Unfortunately, as I have now to tell, these joys were to be of but

short duration; the time had not yet arrived for our happiness to be

complete and on a sure foundation; both of us were still to be

trouble-haunted and I to be tossed about by Fate, and, as it seemed,

never to know peace.

Oliver had a friend and countryman who lived on Tower Hill in a

considerable way of business in the cattle trading line, and he, being

desirous of seeing this friend so that he might thereby, perhaps, be

put into some way of earning a livelihood in the trade he understood,

made up his mind to go and visit him. That I should go too was a

natural conclusion, and, indeed, had we not gone about together I

should have got no necessary exercise at all, since my mother was so

confined to the house, while, on his part, he knew little of the

town--nay, nothing--so that I was really a guide to him. Thus together

we trudged about, looking for all the world like some young gentleman

and his governor, since I was generally dressed in my fine clothes

bought in Dublin, while Quin wore a sober suit of black which he, too,

had purchased. Many a sight did we see in company in this manner, for

both of us were curious as children and revelled much in all the

doings of the wondrous great city--we went together to the Abbey, we

walked to Execution Dock and Kennington Common to witness men hanged,

or hanging, or, as the mob then called such things, "the step and

string dance"; to see where the noblemen play bowls at Mary-le-bone

Gardens in the summer and frequent the gaming tables in the winter; to

the Spring Garden at Knightsbridge; and countless other places too

numerous to write down.

But amongst all these our walks and excursions it befell, as I have

said, that one fine frosty day Oliver and I decided to go into the

city to Tower Hill, there to see his friend, the dealer. We set out

therefore along Fleet Street, that wondrous place where the writers

for the news-sheets and letters dwell, and where we could not but

laugh at the other strange characters we encountered. First there flew

out a fellow, whom I have since learnt they call a "plyer," who bawled

at us to know if either of us wanted a wife, since they had blooming

virgins to dispose of or rich widows with jointures. Then a woman

screamed to us from the brandy-shop, "We keeps a parson here who'll do

your business for you," while, dreadful to narrate, as all this was

going on, there reeled by a drunken divine swearing that he would have

more drink at the "Bishop Blaize's Head," since he had married three

couples that day at five shillings a brace and had more to tie up on

the morrow.

Resisting, however, all these importunities, though we could not

resist glancing at the advertisements of such things in the windows,

such as, "Without Imposition. Weddings performed cheap here"; or, "The

Old and True Register. Without Imposition. Weddings performed by a

clergyman educated at the University of Oxford, chaplain to a

nobleman," we went along and so, at last, we came to Tower Hill.

"And now," said Oliver, "let's see for the abode. The number is

twenty-seven, this is fourteen--it cannot be afar. Wil't come in

Gerald and show thyself to my friend, who will surely gape for wonder

at seeing a real lord; or go into the tavern? Or, stay, yonder seems a

decent coffeehouse where, doubtless, you may read a journal or so; or

what?"

I was about to say I would go with him and, because I was in a merry

mood, exclaimed that I would treat his friend to so gay a sight as a

real Irish lord when, alas! my boyish attention was attracted by a

raree-show fellow who came along, followed by a mob of children of all

ages, many grown-up men and women, and his servant or assistant. This

latter bore upon his back the long box in which his master kept his

stock-in-trade and apparatus, and, as they drew near, was cursing

vehemently the crowd who wished them to exhibit their tricks and

wonders. "What," he muttered, "show you the fleas that run at tilt

when there is not so much as a groat amongst you all, or the hedgehog

that can divine the stars, or the wonderful snake, for which we paid

twenty Dutch ducatoons at Antwerp--and without payment, the devil take

you all!"

But here, while still the children screamed at him and his master and

the elders jeered, his eyes fell on me standing at the hither end of

the street after Oliver had gone in to the house he wanted, and,

advancing down it, he said: "Now here is a young gentleman of quality

or I ne'er saw one, whose purse is lined with many a fat piece I

warrant. Noble, sir," addressing me, and speaking most volubly, "will

you not pay to see our show? We can exhibit you the wonderful snake

and divining hedgehog, the five-legged sheep and six-clawed lobster,

the dolls who dance to the bagpipes' merry squeak and the ape who

scratched the Cardinal's nose in Rome. Or my master will knock you a

knife in at one cheek and out at t'other without pain or bleeding,

swallow dull cotton and blow out fire or make a meal of burning coals,

or by dexterity of hand fill your hat full of guineas from an empty

bottle. And then again, noble sir, we have pills that are good against

an earthquake, so that the worst cannot disturb you; or, again, an

elixir which shall prevent the lightning from harming you even tho' it

strike you fair, or still again----"

But here I interrupted him, crying, "Nay! nay! I want not your pills

or elixir, but I have ten minutes to await a friend, so show me your

curious beasts and I will give you a shilling."

"And let us see, too," the mob cried. "We must see, too."

"Ay," said the master of the raree-show taking the word up while he

opened his box to earn my shilling, "Ay, you must see, too, though

devil a fadge have you got to pay. Yet, ere long, will I hire a booth

where none can see who pay not. I'll lead this dog's out-o'-door life

no longer."

Yet neither was it foredoomed for me or any of the vagrant crew around

to see the mountebank's treasures. For as he produced his snake, a

poor huddled up little thing that looked as though it had neither life

nor venom in it, we heard a shouting and bawling at the top end of the

street and the screams of women; and presently saw advancing down it

about fifteen sailors fighting their way along, while still the women

howled at them and they endeavoured to secure all the men around them.

"The Press! The Press!" called out the raree men and our crowd

together, while all fled helter-skelter, leaving me the only one

standing there all by myself, so that, in a moment, I was surrounded

by the press-gang, for such I soon knew it to be. "Your age, name and

calling," said a man to me who seemed to be the leader and was, as I

later learned, the lieutenant in command. He was a poor-looking fellow

very much unlike all ideas I had conceived of His Majesty's naval

officers, and, unlike the officers of the army, had no uniform to

wear. Therefore, since he was one of those poor creatures who are

officers in the navy without money or interest and with mighty little

pay, it was not strange that his clothes were shabby, his boots burst

out, and his hat a thing that would not have done credit to a

scarecrow, though it had a gold cockade, much tarnished, in it.

"That is my affair," I retorted, "and none of yours. Pass on and leave

me."

For a moment he seemed astonished at my reply as did his men, but then

he said: "Young man, insolence will avail you nothing. I am lieutenant

of His Majesty's ship _Namur_, on shore for the purpose of

impressment, and you must go with me unless either you have a

protection ticket, are under eighteen, or are a Thames waterman

belonging to an insurance company."

"I am neither of these things and have no ticket," I replied; "yet I

warn you touch me not. I am the Viscount St. Amande and future Marquis

of Amesbury, and if you assault me it shall go hard with you."

"Shall it?" he replied, though he seemed staggered for a moment. "We

will see. And for your viscounts and marquises, well! this is not the

part of the town for such goods. However, lord or no lord, you must

come with me, and, if you are one, doubtless you can explain all to

the Admiral. I must do my duty." Then, turning to his followers, he

cried, "Seize upon him."

This they at once proceeded to do, or attempt to do, though I resisted

manfully. I whipped out my hanger and stood on the defence while I

shouted lustily for Oliver, hoping he might hear me; and I found some

able auxiliaries in the screaming rabble of women who had been

watching the scene. For no sooner did they see me attacked than they

swooped down upon the press-gang; they belaboured the members of it

with their fists and did much execution on them with their nails,

while all the while they shouted and bawled at them and berated them

for taking honest men and fathers of families away from their homes.

But 'twas all of no avail. The lieutenant knocked my sword out of my

hand with his cutlass, a sailor felled me with a blow of his fist, and

two or three of them drove off the women, so that, in five minutes, I

was secured. And never a sign of Oliver appeared while this was going

on, so that I pictured the dismay of that loyal friend when he should

come forth from the house he was visiting at, and learn the news of

what had befallen me from the viragoes who had taken my part.

They carried, or rather dragged, me to a boat lying off the stairs

near the Tower and flung me into it, fastening me to a thwart by one

hand and by the other to a miserable-looking wretch who, with some

more, had been impressed as I had. And so the sailors bent to their

oars while the lieutenant took the rudder lines, and rowed swiftly

down the river on a quick ebbing tide. In this way it was not long ere

we reached the neighbourhood of Woolwich, and I saw before me a

stately man-o'-war with an Admiral's flag flying from her foretopmast

head.

That ship was the _Namur_ under orders for the West Indies and North

America, and was to be my home for many a day. Yet I knew it not then,

nor, indeed, could I think aught of my future. My heart was sad and

sorry within me, and, when I thought at all, it was of a far different

home; the home in which my poor sick mother was sitting even now

awaiting my return.

PART II

THE NARRATIVE OF

JOICE BAMPFYLD OF VIRGINIA