While arranging for young Bastow being sent out with the first batch of
convicts John Thorndyke had been introduced to several of the officials
of the Department, and called upon them at intervals to obtain news of
the penal colony. Three years after its establishment a Crown colony had
been opened for settlement in its vicinity. As the climate was said to
be very fine and the country fertile, and land could be taken up without
payment, the number who went out was considerable, there being the
additional attraction that convicts of good character would be allotted
to settlers as servants and farm hands.
Six years after Arthur Bastow sailed the Squire learned that there
had been a revolt among the convicts; several had been killed, and the
mutiny suppressed, but about a dozen had succeeded in getting away.
These had committed several robberies and some murders among the
settlers, and a military force and a party of warders from the prison
were scouring the country for them.
“Of course, Mr. Thorndyke,” the official said, “the Governor in his
report does not gives us the names of any of those concerned in the
matter; he simply says that although the mutiny was general, it was
wholly the work of a small number of the worse class of prisoners. By
worse class he means the most troublesome and refractory out there.
The prisoners are not classified according to their original crimes.
A poacher who has killed a game keeper, or a smuggler who has killed
a revenue officer, may in other respects be a quiet and well conducted
man, while men sentenced for comparatively minor offenses may give an
immense deal of trouble. I will, however, get a letter written to the
Governor, asking him if Arthur Bastow was among those who took part in
the revolt, and if so what has become of him.”
It was more than a year before the reply came, and then the Governor
reported that Arthur Bastow, who was believed to have been the leading
spirit of the mutiny, was among those who had escaped, and had not yet
been recaptured. It was generally believed that he had been killed by
the blacks, but of this there was no actual proof.
Mr. Bastow was much disturbed when he heard the news. “Suppose he comes
back here, Mr. Thorndyke.”
“I won't suppose anything of the sort,” the Squire replied. “I don't say
that it would be altogether impossible, because now that vessels go from
time to time to Sydney, he might, of course, be able to hide up in one
of them, and not come on deck until she was well on her way, when, in
all probability, he would be allowed to work his passage, and might be
put ashore without any information being given to the authorities.
I have no doubt that among the sailors there would be a good deal of
sympathy felt for the convicts. No doubt they have a hard time of it,
and we know that the gangs working on the roads are always ironed.
Still, this is very unlikely, and the chances are all in favor of his
being in hiding in the bush.
“The shepherds and other hands on the farms are chiefly convicts, and
would probably give him aid if he required it, and there would be no
difficulty in getting a sheep, now and then, for, as all reports say,
one of the chief troubles out there are the wild dogs, or dingoes, as
they are called; any loss in that way would readily be put down to them.
As to money, he would have no occasion for it; if he wanted it he would
get it by robbing the settlers, he would know that if he came back here
he would run the risk of being seized at once on landing or of being
speedily hunted down as an escaped convict. I don't think that there is
the slightest occasion for us to trouble ourselves about him.”
But though the Squire spoke so confidently, he felt by no means sure
that Arthur Bastow would not turn up again, for his reckless audacity
had made a great impression upon him. The proceeds of the robberies in
the colony, in which he had no doubt played a part, would have furnished
him with money with which he could bribe a sailor to hide him away
and, if necessary, pay his passage money to England, when discovered
on board, and perhaps maintain him when he got home until he could
replenish his purse by some unlawful means. Lastly, the Squire argued
that the fellow's vindictive nature and longing for revenge would act as
an incentive to bring him back to London. He talked the matter over with
Mark, who was now a powerful young fellow of twenty, who, of course,
remembered the incidents attending Bastow's capture and trial.
“I cannot help fancying that the fellow will come back, Mark.”
“Well, if he does, father, we must make it our business to lay him by
the heels again. You managed it last time, and if he should turn up you
may be sure I will help you to do it again.”
“Yes, but we may not hear of his having returned until he strikes a
blow. At any rate, see that your pistols are loaded and close at hand at
night.”
“They always are, father. There is no saying when a house like this,
standing alone, and containing a good deal of plate and valuables, may
be broken into.”
“Well, you might as well carry them always when you go out after dark.
I shall speak to Knapp, and request him to let me know if he hears of a
suspicious looking character--any stranger, in fact--being noticed in
or about the village, and I shall have a talk with Simeox, the head
constable at Reigate, and ask him to do the same. He is not the same
man who was head at the time Bastow was up before us, but he was in
the force then, and, as one of the constables who came up to take the
prisoners down to Reigate, he will have all the facts in his mind. He is
a sharp fellow, and though Bastow has no doubt changed a good deal since
then, he would hardly fail to recognize him if his eye fell upon him. Of
course we may be alarming ourselves unnecessarily, but there are several
reasons why I should object strongly to be shot just at the present
time.”
“Or at any other time, I should say, father,” the young man said with a
laugh.
“I shall know him, Squire, safe enough,” the head constable replied when
John Thorndyke went down to see him on the following day; “but I should
think that if he does come back to England he will hardly be fool enough
to come down here. He was pretty well known in town before that affair,
and everyone who was in the courthouse would be sure to have his face
strongly impressed upon their minds. You may forget a man you have seen
casually, but you don't forget one you have watched closely when he is
in the dock with two others charged with murder. Five out of my six men
were constables at that time, and would know him again the minute they
saw him; but anyhow, I will tell them to keep a sharp lookout in the
tramps' quarters, and especially over the two or three men still here
that Bastow used to consort with. I should say that Reigate is the last
place in the world where he would show his face.”
“I hope so,” the Squire said. “He has caused trouble enough down here as
it is; his father is getting an old man now, and is by no means strong,
and fresh troubles of that kind would undoubtedly kill him.”
A month later the Reigate coach was stopped when a short distance out
of the town by two highwaymen, and a considerable prize obtained by the
robbers. Soon afterwards came news of private carriages being stopped on
various commons in the South of London, and of several burglaries taking
place among the houses round Clapham, Wandsworth, and Putney. Such
events were by no means uncommon, but following each other in such quick
succession they created a strong feeling of alarm among the inhabitants
of the neighborhood. John Thorndyke, going up to town shortly
afterwards, went to the headquarters of the Bow Street runners, and had
a talk with their chief in reference especially to the stoppage of the
Reigate coach. Mr. Chetwynd had lately died, and John Thorndyke had been
unanimously elected by his fellow magistrates as chairman of the bench.
“No, Mr. Thorndyke, we have no clew whatever. Our men have been keeping
the sharpest watch over the fellows suspected of having a hand in such
matters, but they all seem keeping pretty quiet at present, and none of
them seem to be particularly flush with money. It is the same with these
burglaries in the South of London. We are at our wits' end about them.
We are flooded with letters of complaint from residents; but though the
patrols on the common have been doubled and every effort made, we are as
far off as ever. As far as the burglaries are concerned, we have every
reason to think that they are the work of two or three new hands. The
jobs are not neatly done, and certainly not with tools usually used by
burglars. They seem to rely upon daring rather than skill. Anyhow, we
don't know where to look for them, and are altogether at sea.
“Of course it is as annoying to us as it is to anyone else; more so,
because the Justices of the Peace are sending complaints to the Home
Secretary, and he in turn drops on us and wants to know what we are
doing. I have a sort of fancy myself the fellows who are stopping the
coaches are the same as those concerned in the burglaries. I could not
give you my reasons for saying so, except that on no occasion has a
coach been stopped and a house broken into on the same night. I fancy
that at present we shan't hear much more of them. They have created such
alarm that the coaches carry with them two men armed with blunderbusses,
in addition to the guards, and I should fancy that every householder
sleeps with pistols within reach, and has got arms for his servants. At
many of the large houses I know a watchman has been engaged to sit in
the hall all night, to ring the alarm bell and wake the inmates directly
he hears any suspicious sounds. Perhaps the fellows may be quiet for a
time, for they must, during the last month, have got a wonderful amount
of spoil. Maybe they will go west--the Bath road is always a favorite
one with these fellows--maybe they will work the northern side of the
town. I hope we shall lay hands upon them one day, but so far I may say
frankly we have not the slightest clew.”
“But they must put their horses up somewhere?”
“Yes, but unfortunately there are so many small wayside inns, that it
is next to impossible to trace them. A number of these fellows are in
alliance with the highwaymen. Some of them, too, have small farms in
addition to their public house businesses, and the horses may be snugly
put up there, while we are searching the inn stables in vain. Again,
there are rogues even among the farmers themselves; little men, perhaps,
who do not farm more than thirty or forty acres, either working them
themselves, or by the aid of a hired man who lives perhaps at a village
a mile away. To a man of this kind, the offer of a couple of guineas a
week to keep two horses in an empty cowshed, and to ask no questions, is
a heavy temptation.
“We have got two clever fellows going about the country inquiring at
all the villages whether two mounted men have lately been heard going
through there late at night, or early in the morning, so as to narrow
down the area to be searched, but nothing has come of it, although I am
pretty sure that they must have three or four places they use in various
directions. My men have picked up stories of horsemen being heard
occasionally, but they come from various directions, and nowhere have
they been noticed with any regularity. Besides, there are other knights
of the road about, so we are no nearer than we were on that line of
inquiry.”
A month later John Thorndyke had occasion to go up again to town. This
time Mark accompanied him. Both carried pistols, as did the groom,
sitting behind them. The Squire himself was but a poor shot, but Mark
had practiced a great deal.
“'Tis a good thing to be able to shoot straight, Mark,” his father had
said to him three years before. “I abhor dueling, but there is so much
of it at present that any gentlemen might find himself in a position
when he must either go out or submit to be considered a coward. Then,
too, the roads are infested by highwaymen. For that reason alone it
would be well that a man should be able to shoot straight. You should
also practice sometimes at night, setting up some object at a distance
so that you can just make out its outline, and taking a dozen shots at
it. I know it is very difficult when you cannot see your own pistol, but
you can soon learn to trust to your arm to come up to the right height
and in the right direction. Of course you must wait until morning to
find out where your bullet has gone.”
Two days after they had reached town the Squire received a letter from
Mrs. Cunningham.
“DEAR MR. THORNDYKE:
“Knapp has been up this morning to tell me that a stranger dismounted
yesterday at the alehouse, and while his horse was being fed he asked a
few questions. Among others, he wished to be told if you were at home,
saying that he had known you some fifteen years ago, when you lived near
Hastings, and should like to have a talk with you again. In fact, he had
turned off from the main road for the purpose. He seemed disappointed
when he heard that you had gone up to town, and hearing that you might
not be back for three or four days, said he should be coming back
through Reigate in a week or ten days, and he dared say he should be
able to find time to call again. Knapp did not hear about it until this
morning; he asked the landlord about the man, and the landlord said he
was about thirty, dark, and sparely built. He did not notice his horse
particularly, seeing that it was such as a small squire or farmer might
ride. He carried a brace of pistols in his holsters. The landlord was
not prepossessed with his appearance, and it was that that made him
speak to Knapp about him. I have told the men to unfasten the dogs every
night, and I have asked Knapp to send up two trustworthy men to keep
watch.”
“It may mean something, and it may not,” the Squire said, as he handed
the letter to Mark. “It is a suspicious looking circumstance; if
the fellow had been honest he would surely have said something about
himself. There is no doubt these housebreakers generally find out what
chance there is of resistance, and, hearing that we were both away,
may have decided on making an attempt. I have pretty well finished our
business and ordered nearly all the provisions that Mrs. Cunningham
requires. But I have to call at my lawyer's, and that is generally a
longish business. It is half past two o'clock now; if we start from
here at five we shall be down soon after eight, which will be quite soon
enough. We shall have a couple of hours' drive in the dark, but that
won't matter, we have got the lamps.”
“I am quite ready to start, father. I am engaged to sup with Reginald
Ascot, but I will go over this afternoon and make my excuses.”
At five o'clock they started. “You have got your pistols in order,
Mark?” the Squire asked, as they drove over London Bridge.
“I have them handy, father, one in each pocket.”
“James, are your pistols charged?”
“Yes, sir.”
At six o'clock it was beginning to get dusk, and they stopped while the
groom got down and lit the lamps; then they resumed their journey. They
were within five miles of Reigate when suddenly two horsemen rode out
from a side road with a shout of “Stand and deliver!”
The Squire lashed the horses, and a moment later a pistol was fired, and
the ball went through his hat. By the light of the lamps Mark saw
the other man raise his hand, and, leveling his pistol, fired on the
instant; then, as there was no reply to his shot, he discharged the
second barrel at the first who had fired, and who had at once drawn
another pistol. The two reports rang out almost at the same moment, but
Mark's was a little the first. There was a sharp exclamation of pain
from the highwayman, who wrenched round his horse and galloped down the
lane from which he had issued, the groom sending two bullets after him.
“Where is the other man?” Mark exclaimed, as his father reined in the
horses.
“Somewhere on the ground there, Mark; I saw him fall from his saddle as
we passed him.”
“Is it any use pursuing the other, father? I am pretty sure I hit him.”
“I am quite sure you did, but it is no good our following; the side
roads are so cut up by ruts that we should break a spring before we had
gone a hundred yards. No, we will stop and look at this fellow who is
unhorsed, Mark.”
The groom got down, and, taking one of the carriage lamps, proceeded to
a spot where the highwayman's horse was standing. The man was already
dead, the bullet having hit him a few inches above the heart.
“He is dead, father.”
“I think you had better lift him up on the foot board behind; James can
ride his horse. We will hand the body over to the constable at Reigate.
He may know who he is, or find something upon him that may afford a clew
that will lead to the capture of his companion.”
“No, I don't know him, Squire,” the constable said as they stopped
before his house and told him what had happened. “However, he certainly
is dead, and I will get one of the men to help me carry him into the
shed behind the courthouse. So you say that you think that the other is
wounded?”
“I am pretty sure he is. I heard him give an exclamation as my son
fired.”
“That is good shooting, Mr. Mark,” the constable said. “If every
passenger could use his arms as you do there would soon be an end to
stopping coaches. I will see what he has got about him, and will come up
and let you know, Squire, the first thing in the morning.”
“I will send Knapp down,” John Thorndyke said, as they drove homewards.
“I am rather curious to know if this fellow is the same Mrs. Cunningham
wrote about. I will tell him to take Peters along with him.”
“I hardly see that there can be any connection between the two.
Highwaymen don't go in for house breaking. I think they consider that to
be a lower branch of the profession.”
“Generally they do, no doubt, Mark; but you know I told you that the
chief at Bow Street said that he had a suspicion that the highway
robbers and the house breakers who have been creating so much alarm are
the same men.”
“It is curious that they should have happened to light on us, father, if
they were intending to break into our house.”
John Thorndyke made no reply, and in a few minutes drove up to the
house. Their return, a couple of days before they were expected,
caused great satisfaction to Mrs. Cunningham and Millicent. The former,
however, had wisely kept from the girl the matter on which she had
written to the Squire, and the suspicion she had herself entertained.
“It is very dull without you both,” Millicent said. “I was telling Mrs.
Cunningham that I thought it would be a good thing, when you got back,
for us two to take a run up to town for a week, just to let you see
how dull the place is when two of us are away. You are looking quite
serious, uncle. Is anything the matter?”
“Happily nothing is the matter with us, dear, but we have had an
adventure, and not a very pleasant one.”
“What was it?” the girl asked.
“If you examine my hat closely, Millicent, it will tell you.”
The girl took up the hat from a chair on which he had put it, and
brought it to the light. “There are two holes in it,” she said. “Oh,
Guardy, have you been shot at?”
“It looks like it, dear. Two gentlemen highwaymen--at least, that is
what I believe they call themselves--asked us pressingly to stop, and
as we would not comply with their request, one fired at me, and, as you
see, it was an uncommonly good shot. The other was about to fire when
Mark's pistol put a stop to him, and his second barrel stopped the
fellow who had fired first; he was hit, for we heard him give an
exclamation of pain, but before any more shooting could be done he
turned and rode off down a narrow lane where we could not follow.”
“And what became of the first?” Millicent asked with open eyes.
“He was dead before we could get down to examine him; he will not
disturb the King's peace again. It happened about four miles from home,
so we brought him in and gave him and his horse into the charge of the
constable at Reigate.”
“And you have really killed a man?” Millicent said, looking up with an
awestruck expression to Mark.
“Well, as the man would have killed us if I hadn't, I cannot say,
Millicent, that his death weighs in any way heavily on my mind. If he
were as good a shot as the other, my father's life would not have been
worth much, for as we were driving fast, he was not above half as far
away as the other had been when he fired. Just the same, I suppose, as
it would be in a battle; a man is going to shoot you, and you shoot him
first, and I don't suppose it ever troubles you afterwards.”
“Of course I don't mean that I blame you, Mark; but it does seem
shocking.”
“I don't suppose you would think that, Millicent, if a burglar, who had
taken one shot at you and was about to finish you with another, was cut
short in the operation by a shot from my pistol. I believe that your
relief and thankfulness would be so great that the idea that it was a
shocking thing for me to do would not as much as enter your head.”
“I wish you had shot the other man as well as the one you did, Mark,”
the Squire said, as he walked with his son down to Reigate to attend the
inquest the next morning on the man he had brought in. Mark looked at
his father in surprise.
“There is no doubt I hit him, father,” he said; “but I should not think
that he will be likely to trouble us again.”
“I wish I felt quite sure of that. Do you know that I have a strong
suspicion that it was Arthur Bastow?”
Mark had, of course, heard of Bastow's escape, but had attached no great
importance to it. The crime had taken place nearly eight years before,
and although greatly impressed at the time by the ill doings of the man,
the idea that he would ever return and endeavor to avenge himself on
his father for the part he had taken had not occurred to him. Beyond
mentioning his escape, the Squire had never talked to him on the
subject.
“It was he who bade us stand and deliver, and the moment he spoke the
voice seemed familiar to me, and, thinking it over, I have an impression
that it was his. I may be mistaken, for I have had him in my mind ever
since I heard that he had escaped, and may therefore have connected the
voice with him erroneously, and yet I cannot but think that I was right.
You see, there are two or three suspicious circumstances. In the first
place, there was this man down here making inquiries. Knapp went down
early this morning with the innkeeper, and told me before breakfast that
Peters at once recognized the fellow you shot as the man who had made
the inquiries. Now, the natural result of making inquiries would have
been that the two men would the next evening have broken into the house,
thinking that during our absence they would meet with no resistance.
Instead of doing this they waylaid us on the road, which looks as if it
was me they intended to attack, and not the house.”
“But how could they have known that it was us, father? It is certainly
singular that one of the two men should have been the fellow who was up
at the inn, but it may be only a matter of coincidence.”
“I don't know, Mark; I don't say that singular coincidences don't occur,
but I have not much faith in them. Still, if they were journeying down
to attack the house last night they would hardly have stopped travelers
by the way when there was a rich booty awaiting them, as they evidently
believed there was, or that man would not have come down specially to
make inquiries. My own impression is that when they heard that we should
return in two or three days one of them watched us in London, and as
soon as they learned that we were to start for home at five o'clock they
came down here to stop us. They would hardly have done that merely to
get our watches and what money we had in our pockets.”
“No, I should think not, father; but they might be friends of men who
have got into trouble at Reigate, and, as you are chairman of the bench,
may have had a special grudge against you for their conviction.”
“That is, of course, possible, and I hope that it is so.”
“But even if Arthur Bastow had escaped, father, why should he come back
to England, where he would know that he might be arrested again, instead
of staying quietly out in Australia?”
“There are two reasons. In the first place the life out there would not
be a quiet one; there would be nothing for him but to attack and rob the
settlers, and this, as they are sure to be armed, is a pretty dangerous
business. Then there are perils from the blacks, and lastly, such a
life would be absolutely devoid of comfort, and be that of a hunted dog;
living always in the bush, scarcely venturing to sleep lest he should
be pounced upon either by the armed constables of the colony or by the
blacks. It is not as if the country were extensively populated; there
are not a very large number of settlers there yet, and therefore very
small scope for robbers. These people would keep very little money
with them, and the amount of plunder to be got would be small indeed.
Therefore, I take it that the main object of any escaped convict would
be to get away from the place.
“That is one of the reasons why the fellow might come back to England
in spite of the risks. The other is that I believe him to be so
diabolically vindictive that he would run almost any peril in order to
obtain revenge upon me or his father. Twice he has threatened me, the
first time when we captured him, the second time as he left the court
after he had received his sentence. I am not a coward, so far as I know,
Mark, but I am as certain as I stand here that he meant what he said,
and that, during these years of imprisonment and toil out there, he has
been cherishing the thought of coming home some day and getting even
with me. You see, he is said to have been the leader of this convict
revolt. There is no doubting his daring, and to my mind the attack upon
us last night, when they knew that they could have managed a successful
robbery here, points to the fact that it was the result of personal
animosity, and strengthens my belief that it was Arthur Bastow who
called upon us to stand and deliver.”
“It is a very unpleasant idea, father.”
“Very unpleasant, and it seems to me that we should at any rate spare no
pains in hunting the man you wounded down.”
“I will undertake that if you like. I have nothing particular to do, and
it would be an excitement. You have a lot to keep you here.”
“I don't fancy that you will find it an excitement, Mark, for of course
the detectives will do the hunting, but I should certainly be glad if
you would take a letter for me to the head of the Detective Department,
and tell him what I think, and my reasons for thinking so, and say that
I offer a reward of a hundred pounds for the capture of the man who
tried to stop us, and who was, we are certain, wounded by you. Unless
he has some marvelously out of the way hiding place, it ought not to
be difficult. A wounded man could scarcely lie hidden in the slums of
London without it being known to a good many people, to some of whom
a reward of the sum of a hundred pounds would be an irresistible
temptation.”
By this time they had reached Reigate. The inquest did not last
many minutes, and the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of
justifiable homicide.