or to any duty to-day? I shall wait your return here. Remember, it was
by your advice that I did not, as I know I ought to have done, go to my
husband last night and warn him. You said it would be all for the best
if I did not do so. I shall wait here until you bring me the news which
proves I was right in taking, and you in giving such advice.’
I went out to keep my appointment, as miserable and wretched a man as
any who that day crawled through the streets of London. How I blamed
myself for meddling in painful and disagreeable business which I
ought to have been done with for ever, and how I vowed to keep clear
of everything of the kind, if I could only get out of this scrape. I
met Sam’s wife; a pale, care-worn, thinly clad little woman; without
a trace, I was sure, of the habitual criminal in her spare features,
although I daresay she knew more of Sam’s doings than the law would
have looked favourably on.
‘O Mr Holdrey!’ she said—she knew me, it seemed, better than I knew
her—‘I am so glad you have come.—But, lor! how bad you look, sir!’
I did not answer her; I could not.
‘He’s going to make a bolt of it,’ she went on; ‘he means sailing for
America in a day or two. He got the money from the old lady last night;
and I have seen him since I have been here this morning.’
‘Seen him?—seen’—— I began. I knew very well whom she meant, but I was
obliged to say something. Yet, it was impossible, I thought, when I
recalled the previous night and many other incidents of the case, that
young Harleston could be thinking of going abroad.
‘Why, that precious Mr Godfrey,’ she answered. ‘We are only just in
time. A pal—a friend, I mean, of poor Sam’s knows him, and has kept an
eye on him, to oblige Sam; so he learnt enough to tell me this.’
‘Where did you see him?’ Goodness knows why I asked it, but it did as
well as anything else I could think of.
‘He went into a house in that street,’ said Mrs Sam, pointing down a
turning at the corner of which we stood. We had met in Gracechurch
Street, as being half-way, she living over the water, and because I
thought it just possible I might have to see Mr Thurles, after hearing
what she had to say.
It was a shipping office, it appeared, into which he had gone. This
might easily have been on business for Thurles & Company; yet it agreed
so far with what the woman had said, although the place was not an
American agency. I dreaded my visit to the Mansion House. I felt that
anything would be welcome which might, even for a short time, postpone
the awful business I had before me, so I proposed that we should watch
until he came out, stationing ourselves in a court where we were not
likely to be seen.
She readily agreed, and indeed had said much which I cannot stay to
put down, which showed the bitterest animosity against the young man,
whom she had seen several times, and who had evidently offended her.
This, although of no great consequence, was to me a little strange, as,
although I had only seen Godfrey Harleston twice, yet I should have
said he was the last man in the world to deserve such hatred. Whatever
his faults may have been, there was something open and pleasant in
his manner at anyrate. However, Mrs Sam was very decided in her
opinion, and while we waited at our post, gave utterance to a good many
unflattering speeches regarding Mr Godfrey.
I had in my time been on the watch for six or eight hours at a stretch,
and had never felt so uneasy as I did in the twenty minutes I passed
in that entry in —— Street. My eyes now fairly ached with watching
the never-ceasing streams of figures which came and went in the busy
thoroughfare. More than one person came out of the house we were
interested in, but I took no more notice of them than of the other
strangers. I was looking only for one figure—a figure which I dreaded
to see appear, as then I could make no further excuse for delay.
Intently as I was watching the office, I thought I must for an instant
have dozed, or lost consciousness in some way, for, suddenly, Mrs Sam
pulled me sharply by the sleeve, and said: ‘There he is! He has just
come out.—Don’t you see him?’ she added hurriedly, seeing me look
confusedly from side to side. ‘You say you know him. Don’t you see
him?—There—there!’ She pointed with her finger, as she almost angrily
uttered these words.
‘No; I do not!’ I exclaimed, with equal sharpness. ‘Mr Harleston is not
in sight, I am certain.’
‘Why, what do you mean?’ she cried, and again pointed across the road.
‘Don’t you see him just passing the public-house? He carries a small
black bag.’
‘Aha! that—_that_ man!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is that Mr Godfrey Harleston?’
‘Of course it is,’ she retorted. ‘I know him as well as I do you.’
Then she started back in alarm, and no wonder, for I burst out
laughing, and ended by wringing the little woman’s hand with a force
which brought tears to her eyes.
‘It’s all right!’ I exclaimed. ‘If that is your Godfrey Harleston, I
can understand everything.—Hi!’—this was to a passing cab—‘Mansion
House, my good fellow!—Now, jump in, Mrs Sam, and we will settle the
business in no time.’
We rattled away. What a load was off my mind! How deep and cunning the
trick, and yet how easy to understand, when once the clue was supplied!
The man she identified as Godfrey Harleston was no other than Mr George
Picknell, my friendly clerk, who had taken so much interest in me, and
who had so constantly, although without any seeming intention, directed
suspicion to the step-son of Mr Thurles; and if Sam had not been
‘shopped,’ or if Picknell had had the honesty to behave fairly to Sam’s
wife, his scheme might have been successful—so far as he was concerned.
We told our story at the Mansion House; and the case being one of
importance, Mr Picknell was arrested that very afternoon, as he sat at
his desk in the office. If he had not been taken then, we should not
have had him at all, for he had a ticket in his pocket for his passage
to the Cape, by a vessel sailing the next day.
But before all these things had been done and found out, you may be
sure I had hurried off home in a cab. I dashed up the steps, opened the
door with my key, and then into the parlour, where Winny was sitting,
half distracted with suspense and anxiety. But there must have been
something in my face which told a tale, for before I had spoken a word,
she rose, and with a laugh, which was a sob before it was finished,
threw her arms round my neck and exclaimed: ‘My dear father! Thank
heaven!’ She could say no more just then for sobbing and tears; but she
knew somehow that all was well. We should have made a pretty picture,
if any one could have seen us, for I was as bad as Winny; but we were
both brimming over with happiness.
Yet there was a great deal to be accounted for, which at another time
would have checked anything like pleasure; but I had got over the
worst; the most fatal difficulty had been mastered, and I did not care
about anything else.
Mr Godfrey—the real Godfrey—called upon me that afternoon, and much was
explained then; while the examination in Picknell’s case supplied most
of the rest. What was still obscure was cleared by Godfrey’s mother and
by the confession of the unlucky young fellow who had forged the bills
and was apprehended about this time. The poor creature was at death’s
door, and never lived to take his trial.
I daresay, however, that every one can see pretty nearly what had
happened, so I will be very brief. Godfrey Harleston had really taken a
fancy for betting on horseraces. Picknell had told the truth in saying
this. Most of what he said was true, but so mixed up and coloured
that it was worse than a lie. This, of course, is common enough; all
mischief-makers resort to this trick.
Well, young Godfrey had bad luck from the first; and Smithers—I
forget whether I mentioned his name before, but this was the party
who absconded—being his chief adviser, Harleston applied to him to
obtain the money to meet some heavy losses. Smithers was as bad off
as himself, and had no one to look to for help; while Godfrey, if he
chose to make any emergency known, could always get assistance. He
trusted to his luck to bring him round, however, without applying
to his mother—most novices would have felt the same—so was ready to
agree, when Smithers suggested bills at two months, which he could get
discounted on his own signature—so Godfrey understood.
Harleston drew up the bills; and Smithers, being unable to get a
shilling on his own name, put in a fictitious firm, depending on
Godfrey getting the money to meet the bills in time. But, by an awful
stroke of luck, the bills were rediscounted, and afterwards paid to
Thurles & Company, where some accidental circumstance caused the
recognition of Godfrey’s writing, and then inquiry soon proved that
the accepting firm was a sham.
Old Thurles was delighted at this, and spoke too freely as to what he
would do. Picknell was either in the room at the time when the merchant
uttered his threats, or—as I should say was more likely—he listened and
skulked till he found out enough to give him his cue. He saw at once
how, if the young man had committed forgery, the documents proving his
guilt would be a valuable property, and he determined to get them into
his possession. But it was not easy to do this and keep suspicion from
himself. If stolen from the safe in any ordinary manner and during the
day, a clerk must have been suspected. Some little time before, Mr
Godfrey had a more serious quarrel than usual with his step-father, and
had left the office. It was not until after this that he knew forgery
had been committed, but he was aware that the bills had come into the
possession of Thurles & Company. His absence suggested a brilliant
idea to Picknell, who had a rather large circle of acquaintance of
the shadiest character, and was himself, indeed, under a very demure
aspect, about as bad a fellow as the Newgate calendar could show. He
found out Sam, who was quite willing to undertake so profitable and
easy a piece of work as Picknell represented the breaking into the
office to be.
The clerk had secured impressions in wax of the keys of the outer
safe—he could not get at those which opened the interior one—and Sam
had no difficulty in finding an artisan who would make duplicate keys
from those patterns. While dealing with his ‘professional’ friend, a
splendid piece of strategy suggested itself to the clerk. He saw how to
screen himself and throw suspicion on the quarter where it was already
only too likely to fall, so he assumed the name of Godfrey Harleston. A
tolerably correct account of what had occurred as regarded the forgery,
fully satisfied Sam of the expediency of his new friend’s proceedings,
and convinced him that he ‘had got hold of a good thing.’
The burglary came off successfully, but with much less immediate
profit than Sam had hoped for; however, he anticipated a harvest from
the bills. Of course Picknell had to tell his confederate much of his
plan in regard to these documents, because they were in the burglar’s
possession, and he was not likely to give them up without some
inducement.
Without loss of time—for he knew how dangerous a path he was
treading—the clerk waited on Mrs Thurles, and claiming to represent
those who had discounted bills forged by her son—the lady knew nothing
of the burglary—so wrought upon her fears, that she paid him a handsome
sum on account, and promised a great deal more when the bills should
be given to her. Had the poor lady had the courage to speak openly to
her son, she would have found how little he had to do with the forgery.
He was uneasy about it, and had been trying to raise money elsewhere
to pay the firm who had originally discounted the bills. This he had
succeeded in doing, which led him to tell Winny he had at last got
over the difficulty he had spoken of. The young dog had more to think
about than even the bills at the time, for he had just been married
to my Winny; at anyrate, his mother could see he was in trouble, and
naturally feared the worst.
So the way was clear for Picknell; but he was so covetous and so
thoroughly dishonourable, that he could not act fairly to anybody.
He gave Sam the paltry two pounds, which aggravated the burglar more
than if he had received nothing. This first sum from Mrs Thurles was
obtained on the night when I tracked Picknell to the public-house in
the mews, so you may guess how my appearance startled Sam. Picknell had
meant to abscond the moment he got the money, and till then, he thought
he could put Sam off with excuses, especially as the latter supposed he
was dealing with Godfrey Harleston, and the name of Picknell had never
been mentioned.
Sam found out that his accomplice was cheating him; then, being
arrested, and fearing that his wife and child would be left destitute,
he sent for me. Mrs Thurles got nearly all her money back; while Sam
and Picknell were each tried at the same sessions of the Central
Criminal Court, and were each sentenced to penal servitude; Sam’s time
being much the longer.
Mr Thurles paid the reward, and I shared it with Mrs Sam, who went
away, soon after, to some relatives in the north of England. I never
heard any more of her. But before she went, she brought me a queer,
old-fashioned silver jug, as a present to Winny—at the wish of Sam,
she said. I did not want to take this; but the little woman declared,
most earnestly, that it was her grandmother’s or great-grandmother’s,
and honestly come by. She said, too, that Sam had talked so much about
his gratitude to me for speaking up for him at the trial, that he would
be disappointed if his gift was refused. I recollected Sam’s promise
then, and accepted the present, which Winny has on her sideboard; and a
gentleman who knows about such things has told her that the jug is very
curious and valuable.
Poor Mrs Thurles was so delighted to find her son free, that she would
have welcomed his wife if she had been an Eskimo. She took kindly to
Winny; and I am proud to say that there is not a happier wife in London
than my daughter.
AN OLD LAMMAS REVEL.
The festival of the _Gule_ of August, on Lammas Day, was one of the
four great pagan festivals of Britain. This _Gwyl_ (or festival)
probably originated in the desire to celebrate the ingathering of the
first-fruits of the earth, particularly that of the grain. Upon the
introduction of Christianity into this country the festival continued
to be observed on that account. The usual offering at church at this
season of the year was a loaf (_hlaf_) of bread, hence the day became
known as ‘Hlaf-mass,’ which became shortened into ‘Lammas.’
Several customs have been observed in various portions of the United
Kingdom at Lammas. A very curious custom was practised in Scotland
until about the middle of last century. This appears to be a relic of
the ancient pagan festival of the _Gule_ of August, and was practised
in some parts of the Lothians. We are informed that near the beginning
of summer the herdsmen within a certain district associated themselves
into bands, which in some instances numbered one hundred members, and
occasionally more. It was agreed by each of these communities to build
a tower (generally of sods) in some conspicuous place near the centre
of their respective districts, to serve as their place of rendezvous
on Lammas Day. The base of the erection was usually about four feet
square. The tower, seven or eight feet high, was made to slope up to a
point, above which floated the colours of the party who had erected it.
From the commencement of its being built, the tower became an object
of care to the whole community, for it was deemed a disgrace to suffer
it to be defaced. Any attempt made to demolish it, either by fraud or
force, was resolutely resisted. Each party endeavoured to circumvent
the other, and laid plans to steal out unperceived in the night-time
and to level the tower to the ground. A successful exploit brought
great honour to the undertakers of the expedition. Although the tower
was easily rebuilt, yet the news was quickly spread through the whole
district by the successful adventurers, who filled it with shouts of
joy and exultation, while their unfortunate neighbours were covered
with shame. To ward off this disgrace, guard was kept at night at each
tower, which was made stronger and stronger as the building advanced.
Numerous petty skirmishes ensued; but the assailants seldom made an
attack in force, preferring rather to succeed by surprise. As soon,
therefore, as they saw they were discovered, they made off as best they
could.
Dr James Ferguson—to whom we are indebted for the facts concerning
the Lothian Lammas tower builders—states that in order to give the
alarm on these and other occasions, every person was armed with a
‘tooting-horn,’ that is, a horn perforated in the small end, through
which wind can be forcibly blown from the mouth so as to occasion a
loud noise. As every one wished to acquire dexterity in the use of this
instrument, the herdsmen practised upon it during the summer while
tending their flocks or herds. Towards Lammas, they were incessantly
employed answering to and vieing with each other, so that the whole
country rang continually with the sounds.
Before the day of the ceremony came round, each community elected a
captain; and a stand of colours was prepared for the great event. This
consisted of a fine table-cloth of the largest size, decorated with
ribbons. All things being ready, the band of herdsmen sallied forth
on the morning of the first of August, attired in their best apparel,
and armed with stout cudgels. Repairing to the neighbouring tower,
the colours were displayed in triumph; then the assembly indulged in
horn-blowing and in making merry until about nine o’clock, when they
partook of breakfast as they sat upon the green-sward. Scouts were
despatched to every quarter to watch the approach of any hostile party.
It frequently happened that on Lammas Day the herdsmen of one district
proceeded to attack those of another locality, to bring them under
subjection by force. On the approach of a hostile party the horns
sounded to arms; the band immediately arranged itself in the best
order that could be devised—the boldest and strongest in front,
and those of inferior prowess behind. They seldom remained on the
defensive, but generally rushed forward bravely to meet the enemy.
The captains carried the colours and led the van. When both parties
met, they mutually desired each other to lower their colours, in
sign of subjection. When there appeared a great disproportion in the
strength of the bands, the weakest usually submitted to this ceremony
without difficulty, believing their honour was saved by the evident
disproportion of the match. If the bands were nearly equal in strength,
neither of them yielded; blows ensued, and sometimes bloodshed. It is
said that on one occasion four herdsmen were killed and many disabled.
If no opponents appeared, or if they themselves had no intention of
making an attack, the bands took down their colours about mid-day from
their towers, and marched, blowing their horns, to the largest village
in the neighbourhood. Here they were met by the lasses and the people
generally, who participated in the diversions of the day. Boundaries
were marked out, and proclamation made that all who intended to compete
in the foot-races should appear. Prizes were offered. The first prize,
usually a bonnet ornamented with ribbons, was displayed upon a pole.
Sometimes half-a-dozen competitors started, and ran with as great
eagerness as if the prize had been a kingdom. A pair of garters was
awarded to the victor of the second race; and the winner of the third
gained a knife. After the races were over, the people amused themselves
in such rural sports as suited their taste, and before sunset dispersed
quietly to their respective homes.
In the case where two parties met and one of them yielded to the
other, they marched together for some time in two separate bodies, the
subjected body behind the other, and then they parted good friends,
each holding their games at their own appointed place. Next day, the
ribbons and tablecloth that formed the colours were returned to their
respective owners; the tower was no longer a matter of consequence, and
the country returned to its usual state of tranquillity.
THE LOTTERY OF DEATH.
AN EPISODE IN GUERRILLA WARFARE.
While on a trip to Europe last summer, I noticed in the smoking-room of
the good steamer _Servia_ a rather portly, middle-aged gentleman, with
a mild expression of countenance, and certainly no trace of the soldier
in his bearing; and yet he was the hero of a thrilling adventure. I
was introduced to him by one of the officers of the steamer, and found
him to be an insurance agent in a large way, going abroad for needed
rest—Mr Balcom by name. In the course of a conversation on personal
courage, one evening, over our after-dinner cigars, my new-found friend
related the following interesting adventure:
You know, in the late war between the North and South, nearly all our
able-bodied men on both sides of the line were more or less soldiers of
some sort. I was myself a Captain and ‘Commissary of Subsistence’ in
the United States Volunteers, and was attached to a cavalry brigade in
the army of the Potomac. In the Fall of 1864, my brigade was located
in camp for the winter about four or five miles to the south of
Winchester, Virginia. As a ‘commissary,’ I had constantly to pass with
my train of wagons from the town to camp; but so confident was I that
no danger could possibly befall me on that short jaunt, actually all
within our own lines, that I carried neither sword nor pistol. Well,
one pleasant afternoon in the latter part of November, as I was riding
with my orderly, a good soldier, by the name of Leonard, at the head of
the wagon-train, wearying of the slow progress made by the mule-teams,
I placed the train in charge of the commissary sergeant, and rode
on ahead, followed by my orderly only. I had gone little more than
half-way to camp—the road we followed became wooded by young timber and
underbrush—when, as I turned a bend in the road, I saw four or five
mounted men about a quarter of a mile in advance of us. Calling my
orderly to my side, I asked him what he thought of them.
‘I guess they are some of our boys, sir. They have our uniform on, and
are too far inside of our lines to be “Johnnies”’ (a term applied to
the Southerners).
This was my own idea; but still, I seemed intuitively to feel that
all was not right. These men evidently saw or heard us, for, turning
their horses’ heads toward camp, they marched slowly onward. This at
once disarmed me of all doubt, for I knew camp was near, and if they
were not ‘all right,’ they would hardly venture that way; so I resumed
my canter, and soon overtook my fellow-travellers. When I approached,
they filed to each side of the road, as if to let me pass, and I kept
on. But no sooner was my orderly and myself past their last file of
men, than in an instant we found ourselves confronted by half-a-dozen
pistols and the sharp command, ‘Halt!’ (A sixth man had come out of the
bush.)
‘Now, you Yanks want to keep your mouths shut, and do as you
are told, or it will be all up with you,’ said the commander.
‘Forward—trot—march!’ and away we swept at a swinging trot, Leonard and
I completely surrounded by this unwelcome bodyguard, and well covered
by their pistols.