BRYDELL REDEEMS HIS PROMISE.
When Brydell waked it was near daylight next morning. His first thoughts
were confused and then the recollection of Black’s blow and the terrible
consequences to a sailor of striking an officer rushed to his mind. And
he remembered poor Grubb, his early friend, and thought to himself: “If
I can do anything for Esdaile, I will for Grubb’s sake.”
He was so troubled that he could sleep no more, and dressed and went on
deck very early. As soon as the regular routine was gone through, the
admiral sent for him into the cabin, where he asked an exact account of
everything, especially in regard to Black’s attack on him.
Brydell at once told him that he felt convinced Black was Esdaile. This
troubled Admiral Beaumont as it had troubled Brydell. He had sincerely
respected poor Grubb, and the spectacle of his boy’s downfall was a
painful one.
“I have issued an order this morning for a court-martial, and you will
probably be the first witness called,” said he.
“Admiral,” said Brydell after a moment, “I would like your permission to
see Black; I don’t care anything for him, but I promised my poor old
friend to do what I could for his son, and I’d like to tell him that I
haven’t any animosity toward him.”
The admiral gave his permission and Brydell went below to the dark place
where Black was in irons. He was sitting up with a scowl on his face,
and even in the dim light of the gruesome place Brydell saw that it was
Esdaile.
“I’m sorry to see you here,” said he when the marine on guard had turned
his back. “The more so that I believe your father was a man I loved very
much.”
“I’m Esdaile, if that is what you mean,” answered the supposed Black
coolly. “Of course I’ve gone to the dogs, driven to it by being driven
out of my class. My money went a long time ago, and as I knew no way of
making a living but by shipping before the mast, here I am.”
Brydell said not a word, but the thought of poor Grubb, his simple
honesty, his mistaken indulgence to his boy, his enduring poverty, and
privation all his life for this boy almost overcame him. Esdaile,
watching Brydell’s face, saw he was deeply moved, and so touching is the
sight of magnanimity and sympathy that few hearts can withstand it.
Esdaile’s could not.
After a few moments he broke the painful pause, saying hesitatingly and
with something like a sob between his words, “And when I saw you
standing there last night, an officer, and with such a chance for
distinction, I couldn’t help hating you; and when you spoke to me
sharply about my duty, I went crazy, I believe, and struck you. Now I
suppose I’ll have five or ten years in prison and after that I’ll take
my choice between the workhouse and the jail.”
Brydell, like most courageous and upright men, had a tender heart, and
the words of the man before him, scarcely a year older than himself,
gave him a powerful shock.
“I’m sorry to hear you talk in that way,” he said after a moment; “but I
want to tell you this—that although I shall have to tell exactly what
happened before the court-martial, I can’t find in my heart the least
feeling of revenge against poor old Grubb’s son, and when you are let
out of prison, if you’ll come to me, I’ll do what I can for you, because
I promised him when he was dying”—Brydell paused, and a slight change
came over Esdaile’s face at this, but he said nothing and Brydell turned
away.
The next day but one the court met, and it made short work with Esdaile.
The testimony was complete, and the offence of striking an officer,
under the circumstances, was almost as grave as if it were in time of
war.
When Brydell was called upon for his evidence he gave it in a plain and
straightforward way, and his examination brought out the fact that the
alleged Black was the son of Grubb the marine, who had been known to one
or two of the older officers in the court. Brydell could not but make
the best showing he could for Esdaile, and something in Esdaile’s face
seemed to indicate that a humanizing process was going on within him. It
was indeed the turning point in his life. Before that he had not fully
realized the wrongdoing of his whole life, but finding himself on trial
for a charge that must send him to prison, gave him some awful moments
of reflection.
Only a day or two were consumed in the trial. Every time that Brydell
saw Esdaile led forward to his place to be tried for what was in
military morals and discipline a terrible offence, it gave him a feeling
of agony. He thought of his kind old friend, and the tears would come
into his eyes in spite of himself. Esdaile was singularly cool and
behaved civilly and respectfully to the court.
At last the verdict was given out—five years in prison. Everybody was
surprised at its leniency. Esdaile when called up for sentence was asked
if he had anything to say.
“Only this, if you please, gentlemen,” he answered calmly, in the tone
and manner of an educated man. “The time was when Mr. Brydell and I were
not so unequal in our standing. I made a mistake, committed a fault, if
you will, in my early youth, that has made me what I am. I had not seen
Mr. Brydell since; we had both of us been youths together. On the night
of the storm I stood apart from my mates, watching him and envying him.
Here, thought I, is he—an officer, suddenly finding himself in the
position to reap the greatest credit, with the admiral, the captain, and
all the officers in the squadron to witness it, while I, a sailor before
the mast, forced to conceal my real name, poor and friendless, might
have been where he is. And when I went aloft I scarcely knew what I was
doing. When I came down on deck he spoke to me; I believe he
acknowledged that he spoke impatiently, and some devil seemed to rise up
in me, and I would have killed him if I could. But that has all passed.
I have been tried fairly and impartially, and all I can ask is the mercy
of the court.”
In the midst of a deep and breathless silence the verdict was read—five
years in prison. Esdaile, still wearing his impassive look, neither
groaned nor fell as men sometimes do in his awful circumstances; he only
said after a painful pause of a few minutes:—
“I thank the court for its very moderate punishment, and I should like
the favor of seeing Mr. Brydell.”
Brydell was hastily sent for. He had purposely kept out of the way; the
sight of Esdaile’s misery was terrible to him. He was found though, and
at once came in response to the summons.
“Mr. Brydell,” said Esdaile in the same composed and reasonable voice,
“I have received my sentence and nothing I may say or do now can
mitigate it. You will therefore think me sincere when I ask your pardon
for my conduct, and tell you that if I live to get out of prison I will
lead a different life. Won’t you shake hands with me, sir?”
Brydell, choking with emotion, held out his hand and, for the first time
in the lives of the two young men, they met in mutual goodwill.
It was now time for the Naiad to sail for home, and Esdaile had to be
taken back in her before he was consigned to prison. He was kept in
solitary confinement and treated rigorously but not unkindly.
Brydell asked permission of the admiral to go to Esdaile’s cell every
day for a few minutes. They would talk together, and Brydell began to
see that Esdaile was indeed a changed man. These visits became the one
bright spot in Esdaile’s hard life, and when at last the ship reached
New York he felt that he had at least one friend in the world.
* * * * * * * *
One night some years after that Brydell, now one of the brightest
lieutenants in the navy, sat in his pleasant quarters writing. His wife
sat near him under a softly shaded lamp, reading. After a long silence,
broken only by the scratching of Brydell’s pen, he turned to her and
handed her a paper.
“Read that, Minna,” he said. “Esdaile, I believe, is a reformed man.
These people will give him a place as bookkeeper, but as he told them
frankly his past history, they write me that if I will go on Esdaile’s
bond for five thousand dollars they will take him. I don’t believe there
is the slightest danger; his fault, you know, was not connected with
money; but I don’t think it right for any man to assume this sort of
responsibility without his wife’s consent. So it rests with you whether
I shall guarantee Esdaile or not.”
Minna took the letter and read it carefully. Then handing it back said
softly: “Of course you must sign it. Didn’t you promise the poor marine
when he was dying that you would befriend his boy?”
“It is you who are befriending him now,” answered Brydell. “Whenever a
man is saved there is always a good woman who has a share in it. Between
us we will redeem my promise to dear old Grubb. Here goes!” And Brydell
signed the letter.
A FOK’SLE STORY.
[Illustration: A FOK’SLE STORY.]
CHAPTER I.
ON BOARD THE DIOMEDE.
At sunset, on a wild January afternoon in 1776, the Diomede frigate
passed Beaver-Tail light and entered the harbor of Newport. At that time
the town was held by a large British fleet and land force.
The Diomede was a crack frigate and evidently had a crack crew from the
beautiful precision with which she made a flying moor. It seemed as if
in one minute her yards were squared, her sails furled, and her cable
rushed out of the hawse hole in a blaze of sparks.
All this was done under the orders of the Diomede’s commander, Captain
Forrester, who, being one of the best seamen in the British navy, liked
to show his skill in anchoring before the assembled fleet. As soon as
everything was made snug the captain went below and, seating himself at
the cabin table, began to examine some papers by the light of the
swinging lamp. He had a kindly, frank face, which was an index to a
kindly, frank nature.
After reading and writing for a while he called to the orderly who stood
at the cabin door.
“Direct the master-at-arms to bring me the man and the boy taken
prisoners on the brig Betsey,” he said.
The orderly disappeared and a few minutes later the master-at-arms
marched in with a remarkably handsome old sailor of about sixty and a
boy of ten or twelve.
As soon as the old sailor saw the captain, he touched his glazed hat
with prompt civility and in a way very suggestive of a naval man,
although he wore the rough pea jacket of a merchant sailor.
Captain Forrester motioned to the master-at-arms to leave him alone with
the two prisoners. As soon as the master-at-arms’ back was turned, the
captain said to the old sailor: “Shut the door, Bell.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Bell in a tone and manner of deference clearly
never learned in the merchant service.
“You see I know your name,” continued Captain Forrester, looking at him
keenly.
“Yes, sir,” replied the old sailor slyly, with something suspiciously
near a smile; “Bell ain’t a uncommon name, and I once knowed a
midshipman named Forrester, sir; a mighty smart little reefer he was,
too, sir.”
This time it was the captain’s turn to smile when he spoke.
“The man Bell that I knew was an American, but he had spent most of his
life in His Majesty’s service—Jack Bell he was—captain of the mizzentop
when I was midshipman on the Indomptable, and captain of the maintop
when I was sailing master on the old Colossus.”
Jack Bell’s eyes gleamed as the captain spoke, and there was an
answering gleam in the captain’s eyes. The tie that unites good
shipmates is a strong one, no matter how great the difference in rank;
and the old sailor’s delight at being recognized, although it might mean
trouble for him, was evident.
The captain remembered that in his reefer days, when as a mere lad he
was ordered to command a boat’s crew, that Jack Bell had always been
orderly, respectful, and sober, and had helped him out of not a few
scrapes, and had occasionally got him into some.
“The first time I ever went aloft,” said the captain, smiling
involuntarily, “Jack Bell was in the mizzentop, and I recollect my
feelings when I was ready to go down, and Jack held on to me, insisting
I should pay my footing.”
“Ten shillings it were, sir,” chimed in Jack with a broad grin. “That’s
what was axed reg’lar of the reefers on the old Indomptable, and many’s
the shilling you’ve give me besides—I—I mean—you give that ’ere Jack
Bell.”
Jack stopped, wholly confused.
“And that Jack Bell was a famous singer. Many a night when the ship was
going along under easy sail with a fair wind, I have sat for hours
listening to Jack’s sea songs, like ‘Tom Bowline,’ ‘When the Wind at
Night Whistles o’er the Deep,’ and all those fine old catches. I never
heard anybody sing them so well as he.”
“His voice is badly cracked now, sir,” said Jack solemnly, “but this
’ere little brat Dicky Stubbs can sing all them old songs—Jack Bell
l’arned ’em to him. But, Jack, he remembers that ’ere little midshipman
Forrester—and a gallant officer, sir, he turned out to be
arterwards—when he was sailin’ master on the Colossus. Did you ever see,
sir, such a ornhandy ship for tackin’ as the old Colossus? If Mr.
Forrester hadn’t been a rale sailor, he’d ’a’ got hisself in trouble all
the time with that old three-decker.”
Captain Forrester knew this was honest praise from an honest man, and it
pleased him more than many fine words from fine people. After a moment
Jack continued:—
“Axin’ your parding, sir, there’s a midshipman on this ’ere ship as is
named Mr. Forrester. I never see a young gentleman so like that other
midshipman Forrester as I knowed more ’n twenty-five year ago.”
“That’s my son—my only child—and a smart fellow, if I do say it myself.
But I want to hear something about Jack Bell. The man I knew was a
devoted American. I wonder what he did when the colonies rebelled
against His Majesty?”
Jack twiddled his cap awkwardly for a moment, glanced around and saw the
door was shut, and then began to speak. His manner was respectful and
not without a rude and simple eloquence of his own.
“Cap’n Forrester, that man Jack Bell wanted for to do his duty. He had
tooken the oath to King George when he ’listed in the navy and had
served him stiddy for more ’n forty year. But that man, Cap’n Forrester,
sir, was a American, and when that there Congress at Philadelphy said
Ameriky was free and independent, Jack Bell, he were in a peck o’
trouble. There was his oath o’ allegiance to King George starin’ him in
the face, and there were the heart and soul o’ him tellin’ him he were a
villain to fight ag’in his own country. Well, sir, Bell, not bein’ a
eddicated man, couldn’t think out easy what was right for him to
do—’cause that man, sir, wanted for to do his duty. But he knowed if he
had suspicioned King George was a-goin’ to declare war ag’in Ameriky,
Bell, he’d ’a’ never tooken that oath; so at last he thought it was his
duty to desert.”
The old sailor paused slightly at this word, and the officer and the
former captain of the maintop looked each other squarely in the eye. The
boy Dicky Stubbs, who had a bright glance, gazed first at one and then
at the other, wondering what it all was about. After a little pause Jack
Bell continued:—
“Well, sir, that man Bell had a considerable sum o’ prize money due him,
but he thought as how he’d ruther not take it, as he was goin’ to take
French leave; so he give that up willin’ and cheerful. And he knowed,
too, if he were caught, he’d be strung up at the yardarm in spite of his
havin’ served King George for more ’n forty years faithful; but he
thought he couldn’t die but oncet for his country, and it didn’t matter
much which way he went, if only he was a-doin’ of his duty. So one night
at Gibralty, Jack Bell disappeared from his ship—’twas a ship o’ the
line. Maybe the Don Spaniards garroted him; maybe he was tooken by
pirates; maybe he got on a American merchant vessel that was took
arterwards by the British, who thought she was a privateer. Anyhow Jack
Bell did what he thought was right, and if he’s got to be hanged for it,
well, that’s a easy, comfortable way o’ gittin’ out o’ the world, and
Jack Bell ain’t got no apologies to make, excep’”—and here the old
sailor’s voice deepened—“excep’ for not desertin’ sooner.”
All this time the officer and the sailor had looked steadily at each
other. Captain Forrester knew perfectly well that the man before him was
Jack Bell, and, if openly recognized, there would be but a short step
for him from the fok’sle of the Diomede to the whip[3] at the yardarm.
But Captain Forrester also believed Jack had acted from his conscience,
and he did not believe in hanging a man for that. After a pause the
captain spoke:—
“Sometimes it is as hard for an educated man as for an uneducated one to
know on which side his duty lies; but it is safer to be on the side of
mercy. If I should meet Bell, I should not feel obliged to know him.”
At this Jack stood upright at “attention” and saluted the captain. Each
knew what that meant. It was Jack’s way of thanking the captain, who
knew him perfectly well, for not betraying him.
“There is one thing, though, my conscience would require me to do if I
should meet Bell,” continued Captain Forrester. “It is to land him here
where he can be watched, that he can’t get away to enlist in the rebel
navy, army, or marine corps. If King George can’t have his services, the
rebels sha’n’t.”
Jack’s face was a study in its intense disappointment, but in a little
while he seemed to submit to the inevitable.
“Well, sir,” he said, “Jack’s pretty old now—goin’ on to sixty—and he
ain’t wuth his salt, excep’ as a foremast man on a man-o’-war. So
neither King George nor Ameriky ain’t losin’ much. He’d ’a’ liked to
jine the navy, but as for the marines, poor Jack Bell wouldn’t trust
hisself with them murderin’ marines.”
“The Jack Bell I know always hated the marines,” said Captain Forrester
with a smile.
“I reckon he do still,” calmly remarked Jack. “And as for fightin’ on
dry land—why, sir, he’d git so tired runnin’ about he never could do no
fightin’. Landsmen instid o’ fightin’ at close quarters fights over
forty or fifty acres and does more walkin’ than fightin’, I’m thinkin’.”
“Well, then,” said Captain Forrester, “to leave Jack Bell and come to
your own affairs. When I land you to-morrow morning I shall ask the
authorities to give you the run of the town of Newport, but not to let
you go outside. I think I can contrive it through the admiral, who is my
friend. And how about this youngster here?”
“That brat, axin’ your parding, sir, is the son o’ the Widow Stubbs at
Newport—a excellent woman, and a good hand at book-larnin’, as well as
at the spinnin’ wheel. Her husband was killed in one o’ the fust
scrimmages o’ the war, and this ’ere brat, he run away to jine the
’Merican navy and was took on the Betsey along with me. I knowed his
mother well, and I’ve kinder kep’ my eye on the young one. He is a right
handy sort o’ boy, and he can sing a lot o’ chunes I’ve larned him. He
can sing all the old songs and two or three ‘Tid re I’s’ I’ve set him.”
“Pipe up, youngster,” said the captain; “I’d like to hear one of the old
songs again. Give me ‘When the Wind at Night Whistles o’er the Deep.’”
Little Dicky Stubbs looked scared to death. His mouth came open, but no
sound issued. Jack Bell, giving him a nudge that nearly broke his ribs,
whispered:—
“Didn’t you hear the cap’n tell you to pipe up, you mutinous brat?”
Thus adjured, Dicky began in a deliciously sweet but rather uncertain
voice:[4]
When the wind at night whistles o’er the deep
And sings to landsmen dreary,
The sailor, fearless, goes to sleep
Or takes his watch most cheery.
Snoozing here,
Tossing there,
Steadily, readily,
Cheerily, merrily,
Still from care and thinking free,
Is a sailor’s life at sea.
Before he reached the third line Dicky’s courage, and his voice too,
returned and he sang like some sweet-throated bird the next verse:—
When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck,
And landsmen hoist the boat, sir,
The sailor scorns to quit the deck
While there’s a single plank afloat, sir.
Captain Forrester, leaning his head on his hand, listened to the song
that carried him back to his midshipman days, and watched the boy whose
young fresh voice echoed through the low-pitched cabin. Dicky was
unmistakably a child of the people, but his honest face, his bright,
intelligent eyes, and his clean though ragged attire made him a
prepossessing little fellow.
“You may go now,” said Captain Forrester to Jack Bell, and meanwhile
giving Dicky a bright shilling, “but do not forget what I have told you,
and also that you have got off very well. As for that lad, take him to
his mother and tell her to keep him at home until he has cut his wisdom
teeth.”
“Thank ye kindly, sir,” answered Jack. “I’ll not forget your orders,
sir, and as long as I live I’ll not forget your kindness, sir.” And,
with a parting salute, Jack returned to the custody of the waiting
master-at-arms.
CHAPTER II.
A GALLANT RESCUE.
The next morning ushered in a blustering day, and the wind blew so hard
as to make it decidedly uncomfortable for small boats in the harbor.
In the forenoon a boat was lowered from the Diomede to take Jack Bell
and Dicky Stubbs ashore. Captain Forrester had seen the admiral, and had
got permission to let Jack Bell remain at Newport in a merely nominal
imprisonment, upon the ground of the old sailor’s age; and with many
thanks Jack bade the captain good-by and got in the boat, with Dicky
after him.
The boat was commanded by young Forrester, the captain’s son, and so
like his father that Jack felt as if he had turned back many pages of
his life, and it was the Midshipman Forrester of twenty-five years ago
before him.
The captain’s gig had put off from the ship with the captain, bound
ashore, and was far behind the midshipman’s boat. The young midshipman
steered straight for the landing-place, but he knew nothing of the tides
and currents of the harbor. The fierce wind was against them, and he
suddenly found the boat too close to the shore, and fast nearing a ledge
of sunken rocks, around which the waves were boiling. As he half-rose
from his seat the boat lurched violently and he suddenly lost his
balance; in another moment he was jerked overboard and disappeared. A
cry went up from every man in the boat except Jack Bell. It was not a
mere everyday fall overboard, but a fall amid sharp-pointed rocks and
dangerous eddies. Before the echo of that cry had died over the water,
Jack Bell had kicked off his shoes, peeled off his jacket, and had
plunged into the icy water after the young midshipman.
Every movement was plain to Captain Forrester in his gig, only a short
distance away; and his crew, in a moment, pulled furiously toward the
other boat.
Jack Bell had dived exactly over the spot where young Forrester had
disappeared. In a minute or two he came up, but alone. At this the
agonized father covered his face and groaned. But after a few long
breaths Jack dived again. This time when he rose a great shout went
up—he had young Forrester in his arms.
In another minute he was in the boat, which headed for the nearest
shore, closely followed by the captain’s gig. Just above where they
landed was a lonely little cottage, and as soon as the keel touched the
sand two powerful sailors seized the unconscious young midshipman and,
led by Jack Bell and followed by Dicky Stubbs, rushed up the steep
incline toward the cottage.
Captain Forrester was not far behind, but when he reached the cottage
the little midshipman’s clothes had been stripped from him, Jack Bell
was vigorously rolling, rubbing, and pounding him, while Dicky Stubbs
and his mother—for it was the Widow Stubbs’ plain cottage—were wringing
out hot cloths to put on young Forrester. Just as Captain Forrester
entered, the young midshipman gave a loud gasp and opened his eyes, only
to close them again.
“He’s all right, sir,” cheerily called out Jack Bell, not stopping in
his rubbing. “He’s wuth all the dead reefers betwixt Newport and Chiny.
He got a whack on his head from some o’ them jagged rocks, and he just
fainted like—but he’s a-comin’ to fast, sir.”
“He would not have been here to come to at all if it had not been for
you, my friend,” said the captain in a choking voice.
Jack Bell said nothing,—he was too busy,—and the captain, seeing the
color return to his boy’s face, and that he was breathing better at
every moment, sat and watched with longing eyes his return to life. The
Widow Stubbs was as useful in her way as Jack Bell, while Dicky seemed
to have six hands and four legs, he was so helpful.
In half an hour the young fellow was laid in the widow’s plain though
clean bed, and, except a little weakness, was as well as ever he was in
his life, and was carried on board the Diomede that very afternoon. The
story of Jack Bell’s plunge into the surf for him was known on board,
and from that hour Jack was safe from being denounced as a deserter.
The fact that he was born in America had already deprived his offence of
the moral guilt that would have attached to it. It was common enough for
British sailors to be pressed into the service of Spanish and French
ships when captured on merchant vessels, but there was an unwritten law
that they should desert the first chance they had. This rule applied
perfectly to Jack Bell, and his plucky dive after a young British
officer secured for him that his past should be universally winked at
among the officers and sailors at Newport who might recognize him.
That same night Captain Forrester came ashore and went straight to the
Widow Stubbs’ cottage, where he felt certain he would meet the three
persons he most desired to see there.
Sure enough, on opening the door he found the widow, Jack Bell, and the
boy Dicky sitting before a blazing hickory fire in the humble
living-room. The widow sat at her spinning wheel in one corner, and the
wheel hummed merrily. They were so poor they could not afford even a
tallow dip, but the fire made the tidy little place quite bright and
cheery. Jack Bell sat on the wooden settle, and curled up by him was
Dicky Stubbs.
Dicky had just been displaying his new accomplishments in the singing
line, and the Widow Stubbs had swelled with pride at the display of
Dicky’s talents. It was happiness enough to get him back alive and well,
but to find him so grown, so much improved from the ragged urchin who
had run away, and with such a wonderful new gift of singing, made the
Widow Stubbs an uncommonly happy woman.
They all rose as Captain Forrester entered, and the widow gave him her
only armchair.
“I have come to thank you all for my son’s life,” said Captain Forrester
as soon as he was seated, “but especially Jack Bell, here, who risked
his own life in jumping overboard among the rocks for my son. Of course
I never can pay you for it—but here is something that at least may give
you some comforts;” and the captain took from his breast a small package
made up of golden sovereigns banded together and held it toward Jack
Bell.
Jack, however, shook his head and folded his arms.
“I thank ’ee, sir, most respectful for ’em, and I don’t mean to hurt
your feelin’s by refusin’; but I can’t take money for savin’ anybody’s
life—and leastways from you, Cap’n Forrester—as was”— Jack Bell paused,
smiled knowingly, and then continued: “This ’ere boy sings a song called
‘Old Shipmates.’”
“Yes, I know,” answered the captain, smiling back and knowing that Jack
meant that he and the captain had been shipmates; “but think of the
pleasure you would give me to know that this little present would make
your old age comfortable.”
“True, sir,” answered Jack; “but I ain’t used to livin’ on my money, and
I’d be a sight happier if I had sumpin’ to do, like bein’ a night
watchman or some sich thing. You see, sir, I has had a watch now for
more ’n forty year, and it seems so ornnateral for me to git into a
standin’ bed place and know I ain’t got to hear the boatswain’s call
when it’s time to turn out, that I can’t sleep a wink. Now it seems to
me, sir, as if I had a watch on shore I could walk up and down this ’ere
town callin’ out the hours, and it would seem like I was standin’ my
reg’lar watch.”
“But couldn’t you stand watch on shore, as you call it, just as well if
you knew you had a little money put away?”
“Not for savin’ a life, sir,” answered Jack as politely as ever; but the
captain knew then there was no hope of his taking the money. “If you’d
be so kind, sir, as to git me the place as watchman, I wouldn’t ax no
better.”
“You shall certainly have a watchman’s place,” said the captain, who
mentally added, “if I have to pay your wages out of my own pocket.”
“It would seem mightily like the lookout,” continued Jack evidently
tickled with his new scheme. “I dessay I’d forgit and call out: ‘Eight
bells! Bright light, weather cathead!’ instid o’ ‘Twelve o’clock, and
all’s well!’”
The captain laughed at this and then turned to the Widow Stubbs:—
“And you, madam, and your son—will you not permit me to give you some
little token of gratitude for your help in restoring my son?”
The Widow Stubbs blushed at this, but, like Jack Bell, she had scruples
about taking any recompense for the saving of life, especially as she
was a woman of some education and stood a little higher in the world
than Jack Bell.
“No, sir, I thank you; but I could not accept money from anyone. What I
did was very little, and what my boy did was still less. I am glad,
though, we were able to do that little.”
The captain felt disappointed when he put his money back in his breast
pocket, but he was too much the gentleman to insist on these humble
people receiving what they felt themselves above taking.
“At all events,” he said, looking toward Dicky’s round, bright face, “I
might be able to do something for your boy.”
“I am afraid not,” answered the widow with a faint smile. “We are
patriots—my boy and I; my husband was killed only six months ago in the
Continental Army, and there is nothing that a British officer could do
for him, no matter how kindly meant.”
“What do you mean to do with him at present?” asked Captain Forrester.
The widow shook her head.
“I have just got him back after he ran away. I have not had time to
think; but there is always work hereabouts for a good strong boy like
Dicky.”
“Provided he does not run away again,” said Captain Forrester.
Dicky turned a rosy red at finding himself the subject of conversation
and astonished his mother by stuttering out,—
“P-p-please, sir, don’t the British ever give folks their parole? I—I
mean, let ’em—go—if they promise they won’t do so any more?”
The Widow Stubbs heard this with surprise and indignation. She had been
much distressed when Dicky had run away to join the Continental navy,
although he never got farther than the merchant ship Betsey; but his
apparent eagerness to promise he would not do so any more struck her as
a want of spirit in the boy that mortified her keenly.
“Why, Dicky Stubbs!” she exclaimed, and said no more for very shame of
him.
“Yes; we take paroles,” said Captain Forrester, supposing Dicky knew it
referred only to officers.
“Then, sir,” cried Dicky, whose ideas of a parole were very hazy, “all
I’ve got to say is that I don’t want no parole,—I wouldn’t take it if
you was to offer it to me,—and I ain’t going to give no promise about
not running away again. Just as soon as I am big enough to carry my
father’s musket I’m a-going to enlist in the ’Merican army under General
Washington, and it won’t be long before I do it, neither!”
This sudden outbreak was followed by the Widow Stubbs clasping Dicky in
her arms and crying,“That’s my own boy!” while Jack Bell said “Hooray!”
under his breath.
But Captain Forrester, instead of sternly calling upon Dicky to recant,
as Dicky hoped, who meant to hurl defiance at him, only laughed. Dicky
could have cried with rage and disappointment when the captain got up,
still laughing, and said:—
“General Washington will gain a valuable recruit, and King George a
dangerous enemy.”
“I hope you’ll excuse him,” said the widow, smiling, but a little
ashamed of Dicky’s forwardness; “he doesn’t mean to be impudent.”
“I know it,” said the captain. “He is a lad of spirit, and I like that
kind. I will now bid you good evening with a thousand thanks for your
kindness to my son; and if you get in any trouble with that youngster of
yours, write to General Prescott and mention my name; and as for you,
Bell, the less we say about the days on the Indomptable and the old
Colossus, the better, eh?”
Jack Bell grinned broadly at that and answered:—
“I knowed, sir, you wouldn’t blow the gaff on a old shipmate.”
“Good-by, then,” said Captain Forrester. “You shall be made a watchman;
and remember, if you get in any trouble you must manage to communicate
with me; but I hope that prosperity may attend all of you, whom I can
never forget and must always feel grateful to.”
The Widow Stubbs made a low bow, Jack Bell saluted, and Dicky, getting a
lantern, lighted the captain to his boat, which lay at the foot of the
cliff.
CHAPTER III.
DICKY’S PATRIOTISM.
Jack Bell very promptly got his appointment as a watchman, and soon
every night he paraded the streets of Newport with a stick and a
lantern, calling out the hours as the night slipped away. He never could
bring himself, though, to calling as the other watchmen did,—the hour,
and then, “All’s well!”—but sung out every half-hour the time according
to the ship’s bells, always adding what the weather was, and where the
wind lay, such as, “Six bells! Wind sou’-sou’-east!”
The townspeople soon got used to the old sailor’s way and he was not
molested in his peculiar ideas of the time. At all events, evil
characters who prowled by night had great respect for him after having
once felt the force of his stick, because in spite of his age Jack’s arm
was still stalwart, and he was not given to arguing with offenders.
At that time there was a large British fleet under Admiral Wallace lying
off Newport, besides a large land force under General Prescott. It was
impossible for Jack not to have a great many more acquaintances than he
desired among the sailors of the fleet. But although his true story was
more than suspected, it was perfectly well known that he had a powerful
protector in Captain Forrester. Jack’s bold dive into the icy water had
turned out a good thing for him. So Jack walked his beat all night, and
went back at daylight to the Widow Stubbs’ cottage where he slept in the
loft until midday, and was as little unhappy as he could be on shore.
The Widow Stubbs had spoken quite confidently to Captain Forrester of
Dicky’s capacity to make a living, but it turned out not so easy as she
fancied in spite of the fact that Dicky was strong and bright and
willing to work. But he was only a twelve-year-old boy, and the war
times made business of all sorts dull. Dicky worked around the wharves,
but there were scarcely any merchant vessels plying, and the waterfront
was almost deserted except by the British warships and crews.
The Americans held the opposite shore of Narragansett Bay, and Dicky
imagined that on fine days he could see the American flag flying there,
and the sight always made him feel very well disposed to run away again,
but he never did.
Dicky, however, discovered very unexpectedly that he possessed a means
of livelihood in his beautiful young voice, and in the songs that Jack
Bell had taught him. But the treasure of Dicky’s life was a little
dog’s-eared, ill-printed book of patriotic songs, all predicting the
speedy overthrow of John Bull, and the certainty that the patriots would
soon drive every British soldier and sailor off American soil. The book
had been smuggled over from the Narragansett side, and was rather a
dangerous possession. But as Dicky soon learned the songs all by heart,
it would not have mattered if it had been found and destroyed.
It was the dream of Dicky’s life though, as well as of Jack Bell’s, to
compose a song themselves. They had no scruples about adapting somebody
else’s music, but they burned with ambition to create a new set of words
which rhymed. Many a night before it was time for Jack’s watch to begin,
would he and Dicky struggle over a slate on which they had marked lines,
something like this:—
____sea
____be
____shore
____gore
____sail
____hail
But they never got any farther.
“Seems to me, young ’un,” said Jack, scratching his head, “we’re
beginnin’ at the wrong end. It’s stern foremost, d’ye see?”
“Yes, sir,” Dicky would reply, “but in poetry I believe you are obliged
to begin stern foremost—because if you begin at the beginning you never
get any poetry—just as if it was makin’ a song like this:—
“The ’Mericans are gallant lads; they’re bound to whip Johnny Bull. It
don’t make no matter if Johnny Bull has got more ships and soldiers.
We’re goin’ to whip him. Now that ain’t poetry, because I begun at the
beginning.”
“That’s so,” Jack would reluctantly admit; “but if it ain’t poetry, it’s
mighty good sense, and I hope it’ll all come true.”
In those days tavern kitchens were very respectable resorts of the
humbler classes of people and Jack Bell was very fond of the kitchen of
the Eagle Tavern. The proprietor, Jacob Dyer, was a patriot at heart;
but his house was so much the resort of British sailors and soldiers
that he dared not avow the full extent of his sympathies.
In the kitchen Dicky made most of his pennies—and he made so many that
they soon grew into shillings. It might have been rather a dangerous
place to trust a weak or a vicious boy; but Dicky was neither weak nor
vicious. He went to the tavern to sing his songs, and when he got
through he scampered off home to his mother with his money and was very
glad to get there. Besides, at the time when he usually turned up at the
tavern to sing, Jack Bell was comfortably established in the
chimney-corner and he kept a sharp eye on Dicky and promptly reported
any bad manners or other small offences to the Widow Stubbs, who upon
the few occasions that Dicky had transgressed always came down on him
with the heavy hand of justice armed with a good birch switch.
One afternoon Dicky turned up at the tavern, as usual, and found the
kitchen full of sailors from several cruisers of Lord Howe’s fleet that
had rendezvoused at Newport.
“Here you are, you young rapscallion!” called out one jolly
man-o’-war’s-man. “Come here and give us ‘Black-eyed Susan’ or I’ll give
you the cat.”
This being the usual form in which those requests were made, Dicky
nodded his head, grinned, and perched himself on the kitchen dresser to
be heard the better. Having trolled out “Black-eyed Susan,” “Strike
Eight Bells,” and other nautical ditties in his sweet boyish treble,
Dicky got down and began to hand his homespun hat around for pennies.
The sailors were liberal and Dicky was beginning to think how his mother
would smile as he upset the hat in her lap, when one of the sailors, a
fellow with a great voice, seized him and, holding up a glass of rum,
called out: “Here, you lubber! come and drink the king’s health.”
“Much obliged, sir,” answered Dicky readily; “but my mother don’t on no
account let me touch rum, and I’ve promised her I won’t.”
How glad was Dicky at that moment that he had made the promise! His
mother had asked him and he had done it without giving it any particular
thought; but when it came to saving him from drinking the king’s health,
Dicky’s patriotic soul rejoiced that he had so good an excuse.
The man, rough as he was, could not ask the boy to break his word, but
he was determined to get some British sentiment out of Dicky.
“Then you pipe up ‘God Save the King’ as loud as you can,” he cried.
“I c-c-can’t,” said Dicky, looking around at Jack Bell in the corner.
Jack gave him an almost imperceptible wink and nod, which meant: “You’re
right; stick to it.”
“But you shall!” roared the sailor.
“But I won’t!” shouted Dicky boldly, and making a dash for the
rolling-pin on the dresser, which he seized and flourished stoutly.
The sailor made a dash for Dicky, who, as alert as a monkey, pushed a
chair in front of him, over which the sailor fell sprawling. The next
minute Dicky gave the window a terrific whack that smashed sash and all,
and, scrambling through, took to his heels and was almost home by the
time the sailor had got through rubbing his bruised shins.
The Widow Stubbs was scrupulously honest, and her first comment after
she had praised Dicky for keeping his word about the rum and refusing to
sing “God Save the King” was:—
“But, son, we must pay for the window.”
“Yes, mammy,” said Dicky ruefully; “and I lost three shillings and my
hat too.”
That night when Jack Bell came in for his usual chat on the settle, he
told Dicky: “You’re right, boy, and if it’s too hard a pull for you and
your mammy to pay for the winder, why, Jack Bell has got some of the
rhino and you’re welcome to it, for I see how you stuck up to your
promise and to your country.”
Just at that minute a knock came at the door, and when Dicky opened it
Jacob Dyer walked in. Both the widow and Dicky thought he had come for
his money for the window, and the Widow Stubbs began: “Don’t you have
any fear, sir, that I won’t pay for what my boy did to-day, and pay it
cheerful, to know I’ve got a boy who can keep his word to me, and can’t
be frightened into singing ‘God Save the King.’”
“Widder,” said Jacob, “your boy is welcome to smash that winder. Maybe
he’s got more courage than Jacob Dyer; for although I can’t sing ‘God
Save the King,’ chiefly because I don’t know how to sing anything, I
feel sometimes as if I ought to be more outspoken than I am for my
country. But I have a wife and eight children to support, and if I got
the redcoats down on me, they’d close my tavern and then I’d be on the
town. But sometimes my blood biles when I hear ’em talk about lickin’
General Washington. I kem to-night to tell you that if I look cross at
your boy the next time he comes to the tavern he needn’t mind. You
sha’n’t pay a cent for the winder, and I’d be a good deal more of a
’Merican if my livin’ didn’t depend on the redcoats.”
The very next day Dicky showed up in the tavern kitchen. As usual,
redcoats were plenty. Jacob Dyer, in a huge white apron, was
superintending the turning of the spit. As soon as he caught sight of
Dicky he began to grumble.
“Here comes that Stubbs boy as cost me five shilling for a glazier’s
bill. If it warn’t that his mother’s a widder, I’d be after him, I can
tell you. But look out, you young scamp, if ever you get to wreckin’ my
premises again, I’ll get after you as sure as shootin’. Do you mind
that?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Dicky very meekly and not in the least alarmed.
CHAPTER IV.
AN IMPORTANT ERRAND.
Visitors were few at the widow’s cottage, but the very night after Jacob
Dyer had been there another knock at the door ushered in a very
different visitor. The widow had just trimmed the fire, swept the
hearth, and drawn up the settle, and was waiting for Jack and Dicky to
come in and get their supper of milk and porridge and potatoes, when a
thundering rat-tat-tat came at the door. When she opened it, there stood
an elderly gentleman in a cocked hat and handsome knee buckles and a
gold-headed cane. The widow knew him in a moment. He was Squire Stavers,
one of the richest citizens of Newport and a staunch patriot. The widow
was rather flustered by the importance of her caller, but invited him in
politely.
“I understand, madam,” began Squire Stavers, “that you have an
uncommonly reliable boy—a little fellow who goes about singing for his
living.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the widow, all in a flutter. “It mayn’t seem such a
steady business for a boy, but the times are so hard I can’t find
anything else for him to do, and he makes a very good living and brings
all his money to me.”
“His employment will answer very well for the present,” replied the
squire, “and when times become more settled no doubt you can find
honorable work for him. What I came to see you about to-night was in
connection with him. Is there any danger of being overheard?”
For answer the widow rose and bolted the door of the cottage and—rare
luxury!—lighted two tallow candles. Then the squire continued:
“I know, madam, that you are the widow of a Continental soldier and may
be depended upon to help your country.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the widow quite promptly.
“This, then, is what I wish to say. The patriots of Newport desire to
communicate with the Continental forces at Providence Plantations, and
if they can get a trusty messenger as far as Tiverton, there will be no
difficulty the rest of the way. We dare not employ a man on this service
as we are closely watched. But a boy would never be suspected, and our
communication would be in the form of a letter that would reveal nothing
in case it was found. Mr. James Barton, who has a gallant son in the
Continental Army, and myself are old friends, and we are supposed to be
corresponding for pleasure and profit. Mr. Barton, for example, has
beeves to sell, and writes me asking the price in the market. His
younger son has lately visited my house, and in my letter I speak of
him. Yet there is a hidden meaning in all this, and it would be of
substantial help to the cause if we could carry information in that
manner.”
“If you will wait a few moments, sir, I will ask Mr. Bell’s opinion.
He’s a steady, sensible man, and although I’m perfectly willing to let
my boy do all he can, I’d rather consult Mr. Bell.”
At that moment they both heard Dicky and Jack Bell fumbling at the
latch. The widow rose and let them in, then bolted the door again.
Jack Bell knew well enough who Squire Stavers was, and when Dicky heard
that he, Dicky Stubbs, was actually wanted for an important service, he
could scarcely forbear hurrahing and cutting the pigeon wing in his
delight.
“Now let me read you the letter I wish the lad to carry,” said the
Squire, putting on his great gold spectacles, and taking a letter from
his pocket. “Suppose your boy is stopped. Let him at once produce this
letter, and if the British can find out anything from it, they are
cleverer than I take it.”
_My dear Sir_,—
Your letter, enquiring what price beeves will fetch, is received, and
I made a note of the contents. No one can understand who has not been
here lately, the extremely low price that animal produce has fallen
to. But let me know in regard to the beeves, stating whether you wish
to sell them on the hoof or not, which is important. The lad who takes
this can bring a verbal message straight enough, but it would be
safest to write, as boys are but heedless creatures, and of their own
memory, they are overconfident. However, the bearer of this, may be
your son, as I am expecting him to return this way, and I may keep it
for him. The town is closely patrolled, and although the force here is
large, it is remarkably well disciplined. Your son was very popular
among the young ladies, who seemed determined to surround and capture
him. The place is not what it was in times of peace, as it is very
dull, the military being obliged to see an extremely strict watch
kept, and it would not be difficult in consideration of the unsettled
state of affairs to believe that we are in a state of siege, which is
a serious matter. There is but an indifferent interest taken in
welfare of the town, except by General Prescott commanding the land
forces. He is an able officer, and his loss would be very great should
he be transferred. I am thinking of taking up my residence at the
Eagle Tavern, or at the Overing House, on the outskirts of the town.
I should let my house to a staff officer of my acquaintance who wants
it for six months. General Prescott has taken up his quarters as if he
meant to stay, and it leads me to think that no change of commanders
is impending.
I am,
Your Friend and Obedient Servant,
WENTWORTH STAVERS.
Jack Bell listened with great solemnity to the reading of this letter,
and when the Squire finished reading and lay back in the chair with a
triumphant smile, Jack remarked with emphasis:—
“There ain’t nothin’ to hurt a babby in that ’ere letter. It’s all plain
sailin’, as fur as I can see.”
The Widow Stubbs agreed with him, and Dicky thought privately it was one
of the stupidest letters he had ever read.
“Well, now,” cried the Squire with a victorious air, “suppose you read
every third line, beginning at the third from the bottom. Here you are.
“General Prescott has taken up his quarters at the Overing House on the
outskirts of the town. He is an able officer and his loss would be a
serious matter. There is but an indifferent watch kept, and it would not
be difficult to surround and capture him. The place is not closely
patrolled, and, although the force here is large, they are
overconfident. The bearer of this can bring a verbal message straight
enough. But let me know in regard to the beeves; the contents no one can
understand.
“Now, what do you say to that?” inquired the Squire as he finished the
interpretation of the letter.
Jack Bell’s jaw dropped and Dicky almost rolled on the floor in his
surprise, while his mother took the letter and, counting the lines, saw
how the information conveyed in it was so different from what appeared
on the surface. Presently Jack Bell recovered himself enough to bring
his hand down on the table with a thwack that made the candles jump and
everybody in the room jump, too.
The Squire enjoyed the sensation he had given his simple audience and
looked around with an air of much satisfaction.
“Now,” said he, “I want this letter taken to Tiverton, ten miles up. If
the boy takes it, I will lend him a horse,”—here Dicky could not forbear
thrusting his tongue into his cheek and wagging his head with
rapture,—“and if he is stopped on the way, let him hand out the letter.
They will probably read it and pass him on. And one thing may be of use
to you—I will give you two shillings if you bring me an answer back; so,
if you are stopped, tell your captors that and they will probably let
you go.”
The Squire then rose to leave and, standing with his hand on his
gold-headed cane, spoke impressively:—
“I have confided in all of you to-night, and if one word from any of you
gives rise to suspicion, there will be deep and serious trouble for all
of us.”
“I can answer for me and my boy,” said the widow, while Jack Bell made
reply:—
“I can answer, sir, for Jack Bell, as who is a uneddicated man, but
ain’t a fool, nor yet a rascal.”
“I believe you, and good-by to all of you. The boy must be at my house
at sunrise to-morrow morning. He ought to be back by the early
afternoon, and if he is not, I myself will go and look for him.”
The Squire then went out and the widow and Jack Bell and Dicky sat and
looked at each other, the widow unmindful of the extravagance of burning
two candles when there was no distinguished company.
“Well,” said she after a pause, “the boy can’t come to harm just riding
between here and Tiverton—do you think so, Mr. Bell?”
Instead of the hearty assurance that the widow expected, Jack looked
quite solemn and seemed to avoid an answer. But the widow’s pleading
eyes forced a reply out of him.
“’Tain’t the distance, ma’am—that’s neither here nor there—and the boy
could leg it easy enough. But horses is ornnateral sort o’ beasts and
they’ve got a special spite ag’in sailor men and sailor boys too. I
never see a sailor man git on a horse that I didn’t see the four-legged
scoundrel kinder look around with a devilish grin, as much as to say:
‘Aha, I’ve got you now! You ain’t a-ridin’ the spanker boom, nor yet the
topsail yard, and I’ll bounce you off or bust’—and they most in gin’ally
don’t bust. I can’t help feelin’ oneasy about trustin’ him a horseback,
ma’am.”
The widow laughed at this and Dicky cried out indignantly:—
“Why, Mr. Bell, I’d just as lief ride anything from an elephant to a
goat. ’Tain’t any harder to stick on a horse than it is to hold on to
the topsail yard.”
“Yes, it is, boy,” answered Jack with much severity, “and a sight more
dangersome. Horses, I tell you, has a spite ag’in sailor men—and they’re
mighty cunnin’ in carryin’ out their ill-will. I wish you was goin’ to
leg it. That’s all.”
CHAPTER V.
AN ADVENTURE WITH THE REDCOATS.
Dicky was sent to bed early that night, so he could have a good sleep
before his journey. But he was so excited over the prospect of his
coming adventures that he scarcely closed his eyes. He was up and
dressed by daybreak, and his mother had hard work holding him until
sunrise before starting off.
As it was, he arrived at the Squire’s fine house in the town, before the
Squire was up. When the horse was led out for him to mount, Dicky made a
rush at him and scrambled up, beaming with delight. It was quite a sober
old cart horse, named Blackberry—but had he been the finest thoroughbred
in the world he could not have given Dicky more pleasure.
The Squire gave him the letter before several of the servants, without
any extraordinary charges of carefulness, merely telling him to deliver
it with his own hands to Mr. Josiah Barton, of Tiverton, and to return
as soon as possible, when he would receive two shillings—and not to ride
Blackberry too hard.
Dicky listened very respectfully, put the letter in the bosom of his
jacket and pinned it, and started off. He rode very slowly as long as he
was in sight of the Squire’s house, but it must be admitted that as soon
as he turned the first corner he gave old Blackberry a cut that started
him on a sharp trot. Blackberry, however, like the Squire himself, was
well fed, his load was light, the day was pleasant, and he was quite
willing to play the colt for a while, so he and Dicky got on
beautifully.
The morning was deliciously fresh, and Dicky, who had never been ten
miles from Newport in his life, except when he had run away on the
Betsey, was as happy as a bird and felt himself quite as much of a man
as Jack Bell. He was so happy that when he had gone two or three miles
he could not forbear breaking into song—and as galloping and singing are
somewhat incongruous he brought Blackberry down to a leisurely walk.
Then with his knee crossed on the saddle he began to sing some of his
favorite songs.
Unluckily though, he chose one of his rebel songs as they were called,
and he was trolling it out in his sweetest voice when presently looking
up, he found himself almost riding over a squad of redcoats marching
along the road with a sergeant at their head.
“Look out, you young rebel!” called out the sergeant, catching
Blackberry’s bridle; “what are you up to?”
“Nothing wrong,” answered Dicky boldly although he felt a slight tremor
at heart—but he knew the necessity of keeping a cool exterior. “I am on
my way to Tiverton on an errand for Squire Stavers.”
“And do you know this is the King’s highway, and you were singing a song
about,
‘At Bunker Hill, that glorious day,
The time the redcoats ran away.’”
Dicky remained prudently silent and wished he had not sung his Bunker
Hill song.
The sergeant, who was a powerful fellow with a good-natured face in
spite of his bluff words, reached up, and lifting Dicky off the horse as
if he were a baby, set him down on the ground and proceeded to search
him. The first thing he ran across was the letter. “Come now,” said the
sergeant, “the lieutenant must see this. From Squire Stavers to Josiah
Barton of Tiverton. Both of them out-and-out rebels. Young man, will you
please to ’bout face and march along, while I’ll ride your battle
horse?”
[Illustration: “‘LOOK OUT, YOU YOUNG REBEL,’ CALLED OUT THE SERGEANT.”]
This was an unkind slur on Blackberry, who was unmistakably a horse who
had spent his life in civil pursuits. The sergeant mounted him, and the
old horse, out of whom Dicky had taken most of the spirit, struck into a
slow and dejected trot.
Dicky went along silently, and appeared to be neither frightened or
discomposed. Indeed after a while he rather relished his adventure, and
anticipated the telling of it with the keenest pleasure, in which he
meant to do full justice to his own calmness under trying circumstances.
The whole party walked down the road about half a mile, when they came
to a deserted farmhouse. The sergeant, then dismounting, took Dicky by
the shoulder and shoved him into a room where a young officer sat at a
table writing. “If you please, sir,” said the sergeant, touching his
cap, “I found this boy riding along the road, singing rebel songs. I
thought I’d examine him to see if there was anything suspicious about
him, and I found this letter directed to Josiah Barton of Tiverton,—a
rank rebel,—and the boy says it is from Squire Stavers of Newport, who
is another rank rebel. So I thought it would be safer to bring him and
the letter to you.”
“Quite right,” said the young officer, and taking the letter he coolly
broke the seal. Both he and the sergeant were keeping half an eye on
Dicky, who was perfectly quiet and composed, and gave no indications of
fear.
“Do you know what is in this letter?” asked the lieutenant of Dicky
after glancing at it.
“Sir!” answered Dicky, suddenly recalled from a contemplation of old
Blackberry through the window.
“Do you know what is in this letter?” repeated the lieutenant sharply.
“Something about beef cattle, I believe, sir,” answered Dicky, returning
to the contemplation of his steed.
It was an ordinary letter enough, but still the lieutenant did not seem
able to persuade himself that it was exactly what it appeared to be. He
could scarcely imagine, though, that a compromising letter would be sent
by a boy, and, moreover, a boy who loitered by the road-side singing
songs. It occurred to him that he could find out something of the value
of the letter by the price that was paid Dicky for taking it.
“Look here, my lad,” he said suddenly; “how much are you to get if you
deliver this letter and bring a reply?”
“Two shillings, sir,” promptly replied Dicky; “but if I don’t deliver
it, I ain’t to get anything.”
“That settles it,” said the young officer more to himself than to Dicky.
“A two-shilling messenger is not likely to be charged with serious
undertakings. You may go, youngster.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And the next minute Dicky had darted out of the door and, seizing old
Blackberry, was off at a smarter trot than Blackberry had known for a
good many years.
Dicky arrived at Tiverton about nine o’clock and easily found the solid,
substantial Barton mansion.
Mr. Barton was standing on the broad brick porch when Dicky swung
himself off Blackberry and, holding his shabby cap in his hand,
presented the letter.
“The seal, sir, was broken by a redcoat officer a little way out from
Newport; but he didn’t understand the letter,” Dicky added
significantly.
“It is easily understood,” said Mr. Barton, looking up after he got to
the end.
Boylike, Dicky was charmed at being able to show the extent of his
knowledge and responsibilities. Coming up close to Mr. Barton, he
pointed out the third line from the bottom. Mr. Barton’s eyes followed
Dicky’s finger as it traveled upward over the page, and he grasped the
meaning immediately.
“Boy,” said he after a pause, “there are some things I want to ask you.
Come in the house with me and do exactly what I tell you.”
Dicky followed him in a small, dark room on the first floor, fitted up
as a library. Mr. Barton directed him to take a chair and then
disappeared behind him for a few moments. When he came back he said:—
“Now answer freely and to the best of your ability all the questions I
shall ask you, but remember not to turn your head to look on either side
or behind you.”
Dicky thought this strange, but he obeyed implicitly. Mr. Barton, then
taking out a quill pen and paper, began to ask him a series of questions
respecting the Overing House—its distance from the shore, the lay of the
land, and many other things of information. Dicky, not being one of
those boys who can spend a lifetime in a place without knowing anything
about it, was able to give a pretty accurate description of things in
and around Newport. Especially did he know where the British ships were
moored, the hours for the boats, and many other particulars about them.
While looking in front of him, as Mr. Barton carefully wrote down what
he said, Dicky observed a round mirror, and what he saw in it almost
made him drop off his chair in surprise. For there was a door behind him
slightly ajar, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of a young man
wearing a Continental uniform and listening intently to what was said.
Dicky felt an intense curiosity to know who it was, and, while
describing as well as he could a tortuous path that he knew leading from
the shore to a clump of woods behind the Overing House, he happened to
glance up at the mirror. The soldier behind him had become so interested
that he had poked his head completely outside the door.
One glance in the mirror showed Dicky that the young man was the son of
Mr. Barton, and he surmised shrewdly that it was the young Captain
Barton of the Continental Army who was his unseen listener. He was
plainly in hiding, and Dicky understood very well why the elder Barton
imposed cautions upon him.
Mr. Barton was very well pleased with Dicky’s sensible and
well-considered answers, and when he had got through he folded up the
memorandum he had made, wrote a few lines to Squire Stavers about the
beeves, and then handed Dicky two new shillings.
“Money is a scarce commodity about here,” he said, smiling, “but I think
you have earned this.”
Mr. Barton then asked him to stay until dinner was ready, but this Dicky
declined to do. He was very proud of the success of his errand so far
and wanted to return promptly, so that in a little while he was on his
way back to Newport.
Squire Stavers was not without his doubts concerning the time Dicky
would return. A boy trusted with a horse is extremely liable to overstay
his time; but before twelve o’clock Dicky turned up. The Squire looked
sharply at Blackberry, but, although the old horse had had a pretty good
morning’s work, he seemed to realize that he was bent upon a patriotic
errand and was as lively as a colt.
Dicky did not fail to do ample justice to his own coolness and composure
when nabbed by the redcoats, and his prompt surrendering of the letter.
The Squire chuckled when Dicky described how the young lieutenant
puzzled over it and handed Dicky out two shillings with great readiness,
saying,—
“And as you are such a good hand in the transaction of business, I will
employ you again.”
Dicky ran home as fast as his legs could carry him with his four
shillings clutched in his hands, and, throwing three of them in his
mother’s lap, held up the fourth, bawling,—
“I’m going to give Mr. Bell and me a treat with this, mammy, because I’m
a very bright boy, I am,—the Squire said so,—and a reliable one, too.
There’s a show in town of dancing bears and monkeys, and Mr. Bell and me
are going sure.”
When Jack came in that night Dicky recounted all of his adventures, even
to the seeing the officer behind him in the glass, which he had not
mentioned to Squire Stavers. The widow was immensely proud of Dicky’s
shrewdness and courage, and Jack Bell was perfectly delighted,
especially that Dicky had proved a match for old Blackberry.
“You’re doin’ a sight better sarvice for your country than if you was a
powder boy ’board ship,” he remarked; “and it’s a deal more riskier to
handle a horse than it is to handle gunpowder, and I’m a-thinkin’
sumpin’ will happen soon;” with which sententious remark Bell retired to
the loft to sleep, while Dicky tumbled into his flock bed—a very tired
but a very happy boy—and dreamed all night about dancing bears.
CHAPTER VI.
JACK BELL’S SECRET.
Three more trips did Dicky make to Tiverton, and each time, under the
cover of a transaction in beef cattle, carried important news. He was
rather puzzled, though, to know what the news was, as Squire Stavers did
not tell him the contents of any letters but the first. Neither the
Squire nor Mr. Barton ever mentioned General Prescott’s name before him.
Dicky rashly concluded that the scheme to capture the British general
had been abandoned.
He had never seen General Prescott to know him in his life. There were
crowds of British officers dashing about the town with orderlies
trotting after them; but which was the general he did not know. In fact,
after a while Dicky begun to suspect that his trips were for the sole
purpose of conveying news about the cattle after all, and felt a
distinct decrease in his own importance.
Jack Bell, too, seeing that everything appeared quiet and that the
British had lately had successes, especially in having captured
Major-General Henry Lee,—“Light Horse Harry,”—began to be very much
depressed. He and Dicky discussed affairs very often, and both of them
came to the melancholy conclusion that Newport would remain in the hands
of the British until the end of the war and that nothing would be
attempted in the way of a capture.
The Americans were anxious to make an exchange for General Lee, but had
no officer of rank high enough to offer for him. This was a mortifying
fact, and Jack Bell, commenting on it, wondered why the plan to kidnap
General Prescott had fallen through.
One night, though, Squire Stavers sent for him, and Jack came away from
the Squire’s house wearing a look of delighted expectancy.
About a week after that, one morning as soon as he wakened—which was
late, as he was out all night—he called Dicky, and the two strolled
together toward a lonely point of rocks some distance from any house and
where they were not likely to be disturbed by anyone.
The sun shone brightly, while a sharp wind ruffled the waters of
Narragansett Bay and gave a kick to the sterns of several vessels that
were rounding Point Judith.
It fluttered the pennants of a great British fleet that lay off Block
Island and dashed the steel blue water fiercely against the rocky shores
upon which the town of Newport is perched. So blue was the sky and so
blue was the sea that they came together invisibly on the far horizon,
and a fine English frigate which was sailing in under a huge spread of
canvas seemed to be suspended between the sky and the sea.