IN WHICH I HAVE MY FIRST TASTE OF A BRITISH PRISON
Around the first corner and down to Watling Street I ran, taking the
nearest course to the river, though I had no intention of returning to
my ship. The startling news I had heard about the state of affairs in
the homeland had fired me with a patriotism before which all thought
of allegiance to the King vanished. I was inflamed with the desire
to cross the ocean at once and throw in my lot with my struggling
countrymen. For the present I would endeavor to escape my pursuers;
later I would find some way to return to my native land.
I came to this decision in the brief time it took me to reach St.
Paul’s church. Turning there, I crossed Carter Lane and Queen Street,
and came out upon the Thames near St. Paul’s pier. Here a glance behind
me showed that I had distanced my pursuers. Noting this fact with much
satisfaction, I sped out upon the wharf and darted through the open
door of the nearest warehouse. No one appeared to dispute my entrance
or to check my advance, and swiftly I glided between the barrels and
boxes to the farthest side of the room. Here I found another door. It
was closed but unfastened, and I had time to open it before the angry
mob that was following me appeared. Passing quickly into the next
apartment, I shut the door and rolled a huge cask of rum against it,
effectually barring it. Confident now that it would be some time before
my pursuers discovered my whereabouts, I proceeded leisurely through
the semi-darkness of the room to a place where great bales of cotton
were piled nearly to the ceiling. Among these I at length found an open
space which allowed me to crawl back of the outer tier, where I lay
down and waited.
So still was the immense building I could plainly hear the pursuing men
enter the other apartment in search of me. The persistence with which
they kept at their task told of their eagerness to find me. At length
two of them tried the door of the room in which I was hiding, and, on
discovering it was barred, one of them exclaimed confidently:
“He cannot have gone in there!”
“Where is he then?” asked the other doubtingly. “I certainly saw him
enter here. Where can he have gone?”
“Out of that open scuttle in the roof,” answered the first.
“But it is more than four and twenty feet to the ground,” objected the
second.
“What of that?” retorted his companion scornfully. “He’s a sailor and
can climb up or down these walls as easily as he would a mast. It’s
just as I told you, while we have been looking for him among these
boxes and barrels, he has made good his escape.”
The objector seemed to be convinced, for without another word he
followed his comrade down the room. The sound of their footsteps grew
fainter and fainter, and finally ceased altogether. Evidently the
search for me had been abandoned. Still I did not stir. I was safely
hidden, and would remain where I was until the hour for closing the
warehouse had come.
Opposite the opening through which I had crawled was an outside door,
one edge of which was warped enough to allow a few rays of light to
enter. I watched these, knowing that when they disappeared it would be
time for me to make a move.
How slowly the minutes passed! What a tumult of thoughts crowded
through my brain! The events since I had left the colony came trooping
in rapid succession. The life on board the frigate was lived over
again. With these bygone experiences came plans for the future. I knew
there were several vessels in the river hailing from American ports.
Once let their captains know of the battle at Bunker Hill and they
would hasten to sail for home. Doubtless on one of these crafts I could
find a berth. I resolved therefore, to visit them in turn under the
cover of the night until I had secured a place.
At length the light through the doorway grew so faint as to be
scarcely perceptible, and I crawled out of my hole, and went over to
the entrance. First gently, and then more vigorously I tried to open
the door. My efforts were useless, however, for it was fastened on
the outside. So I retraced my steps to the place where I had entered,
rolled the cask away from the door, and opened it. Stepping through
into the next room, I turned to close the entrance after me, when a
voice startled me.
“So you were there after all, my young bantam,” it exclaimed. “Tim
Waters thought so. You didn’t fool him, if you did the others; and it
has been worth while to wait for you too, for now the five pounds
offered for your capture is mine.”
A glance showed me that the speaker was a burly fellow, evidently the
porter of the warehouse. Doubtless he had known that the door between
the apartments of the building was not fastened, and finding it
secured, had quickly divined that I was within. So, stimulated by the
reward offered for my apprehension, he had patiently awaited my coming.
Scarcely had I surmised this fact when he sprang forward to seize me.
But quick as he was, I was quicker, and, eluding his grasp, dodged by
him. So confident was he that he was going to grab me, he had put his
whole force into his forward spring, and now, missing me, he also lost
his balance, and plunged headlong against the door. Startled by his
call, I had but partly closed it, and, swinging back as he came against
it, he was precipitated into the other room. The cask which I had used
as a barricade was only a few feet away, and striking upon this with
his head and shoulders on one side and his legs and feet upon the
other, he set it to rolling. I could scarcely refrain from a shout of
laughter as I saw him struggling to regain his feet, and by his very
efforts sending his unwieldy steed farther and farther down the room.
Not until the barrel fetched up against the pile of cotton bales did
it stop, and even then it was a moment or two before he could regain
an upright position. I only waited long enough to notice he was not
seriously injured, and then shutting the door, I fastened it on my side
by passing a piece of a box cover through the door handle.
In another minute I was in the open air, and finding the way clear, I
hastened through the fast falling darkness to the street. Keeping in
the shadows as much as possible, I went down the river bank to a point
nearly opposite the first American vessel. Here I undertook to reach
the end of an adjacent wharf, hoping there to find a boat in which
I could visit the brig. But I had hardly got a dozen feet down the
planking before a watchman confronted me, saying gruffly as he tried
to look me over in the darkness:
“Who are you? What do you want here? Are you that rebel midshipman
I have been told to look out for? Faith, I believe you are!” and he
seized me by the collar before I could do a thing to prevent him.
Then began a struggle which lasted for some minutes. We were about
equally matched in strength, but he had me at a disadvantage and I am
quite sure would have at length mastered me but for an accident. Coming
to a place where the flooring suddenly raised itself a few inches, he
stumbled and fell full length upon his back. I was pulled down upon
him, but he lost his hold upon me, and before he could recover it, I
regained my feet and was away.
I had no trouble in eluding him, or those he aroused by his cries, but
as I made off under the friendly cover of the night I must confess my
heart was filled with apprehension. It was very evident that the whole
water front had been guarded against every attempt on my part to board
a ship from the colonies. The offer of a reward for my arrest had,
moreover, put all the watchmen on the alert. If I escaped, therefore,
two things were clear: I must change my naval garb for one less
conspicuous, and I must make off across the country to some other port.
Having come to this conclusion, I left the river, and started towards
the rear end of the town. After going a mile or more the lights of a
second-hand clothing shop attracted me. Crossing the street, I glanced
in at the window. The store was evidently kept by an old Jew who was
alone, and I ventured in.
“Have you a second-hand rig you would exchange for this I have on?” I
briefly asked.
He glanced curiously at me, and then with a shrewd look in his eyes
remarked:
“Running away from your ship, are you?”
“Yes,” I admitted promptly, “but I am willing to give you a good
bargain, so what does that matter to you?”
He shook his head. “It might get me into trouble with the naval
authorities,” he replied. “It’s risky business.”
“I don’t see how,” I retorted. “You can tell them I claimed to have
surrendered my commission, or anything else you choose. They cannot
blame you for making a good trade when you had the chance.”
He came slowly around his counter and looked my uniform carefully over.
It was nearly new, and in excellent condition, and as he noted these
facts the look in his eyes changed to one of greed.
“It’s risky, risky,” he replied, “and I can’t allow you much for the
garments. But here is something I will give you for it,” and he led
the way to the other side of the shop. From a shelf he took what had
evidently been the suit of a farmer lad. It was of coarse material and
well worn, yet neat and clean.
“I took this a week ago from a youngster who ran away to sea,” he
explained; “now I’ll exchange with you to help you run away from the
sea,” and he laughed at his attempt at facetiousness.
The clothes were not worth half those I was wearing, but I did not
hesitate.
“I will do it,” I said. “Can I go into your back room and make the
change?”
He assented, and led me into the rear room, leaving me alone, as
another customer came in just then. I took the opportunity, while
changing my clothing, to look over the state of my finances, finding I
had five shillings and a sixpence. There was little likelihood of my
earning any more and this sum, therefore, must last me until I could
find a ship for home. So it was clear that whatever port I decided to
go to, I must walk, in order to husband my little store.
My first anxiety, however, was to put the city behind me, and with this
end in view, upon leaving the shop I struck off uptown at a brisk rate.
An hour later, in the outskirts, I stopped at an inn long enough to get
supper, and then resumed my tramp. All night long I kept it up, but as
dawn came on, finding myself near a small village, which I afterwards
learned to be Watford, I entered and made my way to its one tavern.
There I secured a room, to which I at once retired for a much needed
rest. Some hours later I was awakened by the inn-keeper, whom I found
sitting down on the side of my bed gazing long and fixedly at me.
“There is a squad of soldiers down stairs who are looking for a lad
about your size and build, I should judge.”
Though greatly alarmed by the tidings, there was something in the man’s
gaze which reassured me, and I waited for him to go on:
“They say he is a young rebel from the colonies, who has cursed the
King.”
Still I was silent.
“Tell me all about it,” he continued. “You have a friend in me.”
The man’s dealing with me proved that, so I frankly told my story.
“If that is all, I will protect you,” he declared. “I have a brother
over there, and my sympathies are with the colonies. I hope they will
win,” and he abruptly left the room.
Listening at the door, I heard him descend the stairs, and say to the
officer in charge of the troopers:
“I have no one here dressed as you say that young rebel was; but I’ll
tell you what I’ll do. If he comes this way, I’ll take care of him,”
a promise he literally kept. For he not only boarded me a week, long
enough, as he believed, to end all search for me, but on my departure
put money enough into my hands to pay my fare by stage to Liverpool,
where he advised me to go.
“You may regard all I have done for you as a loan,” were his parting
words, “and repay me when I come to America,” a thing I am glad to say
I was able to do.
I left Watford with little fear of detection, and enjoyed to the full
my ride across the country to St. Helen’s, a small town a few miles
out of Liverpool. The stage reached there just at dark, and, as I had
done a half dozen times before, I descended from its top and entered
the tavern to order supper and a room for the night. Two feet over the
threshold a hand was laid upon my shoulder and a voice I instantly
recognized said:
“Master Dunn, you are my prisoner.” It was the recruiting sergeant whom
I had heard in Cheapside, London, telling of the war with the colonies.
Resistance was useless, for behind the officer stood four soldiers with
their muskets ready for instant use, so I submitted to my arrest with
the best grace I could muster.
In a few minutes they mounted me upon a horse, surrounded me with a
squad of troopers, and hurried me off towards Liverpool. Reaching
the city, they hastened along its narrow streets to a huge stone
building on the river’s edge before which they stopped. Tumbling me
unceremoniously from the beast I rode, they led me through the heavy
portals, and along the dark corridors to a room in the rear, into
which they thrust me and swung to its stout door with a clang that
still echoes in my ears. I did not need to be told where I was--the
structure, its form, its appearance, its interior arrangements, spoke
louder than human words. It said in a silent but unmistakable language,
“You are in a British prison.”