"You'm a good boy, Tom, an' I thank you. Call that chap
there who's just had a drink in the river. I'll send him forward
with this here fish an' give him a pound of it for his trouble. He
knows the way."
Thomas obeyed, and in ten minutes a soldier had started off
with his sergeant's supper, while Putt professed great amazement.
"What power to put in one man's hands. You can order 'em
about seemingly like a shepherd orders his dog! In these parts,
of course, the name of Bradridge is a masterpiece. I lay they'll
all turn out at Buckfastleigh as you go marching through."
"'Tis right a man's native town should mark his fame," said the
soldier. "Of course my name be a household word there; and
for that very reason I'm going round by King's Wood and Bilberry
Hill, so as this poor chap shan't have all the eyes of the town upon
him.'"
"'Tis a rough road."
"Not to me. I've knowed the way ever since I was breeched."
"Well," said Putt, rising, "I wish you kindly, Uncle Sep, and
I hope you'll take it proper in me to have come. There's a chap
going up through Dean Wood with a cart in a minute and I'll get
a lift part o' the way to home."
"Well, I'm much obliged to you and I won't forget it. I've
often thought, Thomas, as my maid 'Liza wouldn't say 'no' to
you. Hast ever turned your mind to her?"
"Never reckoned I was good enough."
"Well, modesty's a very proper part of youth; but in love-making
it can be carried too far. Think of it. She'm homely,
but for that matter so be you. An' none the worse for that. Us
can't all have picture-book faces."
"Like that poor chap-fallen gallows man there. Well,
good-bye to 'e. An' my dooty."
Tom shook hands with his uncle, moved a step or two off and
glanced irresolutely where John Lee sat between the standing
soldiers. His hands were under his chin and his elbows on his
knees.
"Be damned if I can bring myself to do it!" said Putt aloud;
whereupon Sergeant Bradridge rose from the milestone and laid
a hand upon his nephew's shoulder.
"Don't harden your heart against him, my lad. He's in a
tight place, and no man can ever give him more than a handshake
and a 'God speed.' It won't hurt 'e to wish him better
luck in a better world; an', being your comrade, you ought to
do it."
Putt scowled in the direction of John Lee.
"If you say it's my dooty--you're such a masterful man. You
get my secrets out of me like a lawyer! To tell truth, I had a
dozen messages for the fellow from Fox Tor Farm. And a last
word from a maiden too. A good few tears have been shed for
the chap, as hadn't an enemy in the world an' scores o' friends.
'Twas Kekewich axed me to speak to him; an' I named you, an'
said as you'd never let me do it. And old Kek, he said, 'Your
Uncle Bradridge is a man of valour an' a man knowed for his
righteous character. Such as him,' Kek said, 'with a wife an'
children an' a good heart, ain't going to stand between an orphan
lad on his way to the gallows, and a last message from his
friends.' He said also, 'Give the sergeant this here token with an old
man's respects to a hero, an' ax him from me to let you just have
five minutes with poor Jack Lee out o' ear-shot o' the sojers. This
money, he says, 'ban't no more'n a sign of respect for his character
as a sojer and a Christian; an' if there wasn't such men as him in
the nation, us would have had Boney over long afore to-day,' says
Kekewich."
"An' you wasn't going to deliver the old man's message?"
"Didn't think 'twas worth while, for I never knowed, Uncle
Sep, that you was so powerful a sojer you could allow me to go
aside an' have a talk with the rascal. Not as I wants to, I'm sure.
'Why,' I said to Kek, 'a general couldn't do it, let alone my
Uncle Bradridge!' An' Kek, he says, 'Your uncle's every bit so
good as a general in this job. He've got sole command, and his
word's law. Sergeants be the very thews of an army,' said Kek,
an' I suppose I ought to have believed him."
"Certainly you did," declared the warrior. "Every word he
told you was truth. He'm a wise old man, and knows very well
what he'm talking about. But as to money--'tis a ticklish thing
to name it."
"So I told him, but he said you'd understand better'n a green
lad like me. 'Do 'e think I'd offer money to a great man like
Septimus Bradridge?' I asked him. An' he said, 'I've got far
too much respect for him to dream of such an insult; but I want
him to take this here twenty pound just as a token of admiration
from an old man who once had a son a sojer. And if he'll let
you have ten minutes with poor Jack, so as to cheer him up afore
he goes into the Valley of the Shadow--why, 'tis only a sign he's
as big in his heart as his valour, and nought to do at all with my
present to him.'"
Tom pulled out the money and handed it to Sergeant Bradridge.
"I'm glad you remembered your dooty," said his uncle sternly,
taking the notes and putting them into his breast. "An' 'tis lucky
that I'm a parent and a man above suspicion of a mean trick; so
I can take this here momentum just the same as I'd take a medal
for valour--in a big military spirit. You'll bear me witness I've
twice axed you to speak to the prisoner afore; an' now I ax you
to speak to him again."
"If as my Uncle Septimus you command me, I must obey,"
said Putt reluctantly; "but I vow I won't be left with him over
fifteen minutes. I can say all I've got to say inside that time.
An', though the sojers mus'n't listen, I'd rather for 'em not to be
too far off, for he might turn upon me."
"A handcuffed man! To think my sister's son be a coward!"
"He'm a desperate chap, an' us ban't all born with your great
courage. If I sit 'pon yonder bank with him above the bridge, us
won't be heard; an' if he sits 'pon top of the bank you can keep
your eye upon us. Out of your sight I will not trust myself with
that man."
"That's reasonable," admitted the sergeant; "let him keep
his head over the grass, so as I can see him all the while I smoke
my pipe."
He looked at his watch. "Fifteen minutes or so you shall
have--him being an orphan."
"Don't make it a minute longer, for 'tis a very nasty job for me.
An' if I call out, I pray you'll run an' save me," implored Putt.
With open contempt Sergeant Bradridge gave his order, and in
a few moments Tom found himself alone beside John Lee on a
shady bank above the stream. Some thirty yards and a hillock
of grass now separated him from the soldiers; while a little further
off, sitting on the milestone, Tom's uncle lighted his pipe, felt a
pleasant crispness at his breast, and kept his eyes firmly fixed
upon the back of John Lee's head.
CHAPTER XV
THE SALMON IS SPOILED
Sergeant Bradridge smoked his tobacco, thought of
his twenty pounds, of his salmon, and of his high position
in the world.
"Some," he reflected, "might say that Tom there would never
have seen yonder poor chap but for they two ten-pound notes.
But old Kekewich knowed better. 'Tis merely a momentum.
Give me an old man if you want an understanding man."
Nobody had ever before presented the soldier with twenty
pounds, and the sensation was not only pleasant, but tended to
the increase of self-respect. His days had been uneventful, and
albeit an admirable officer, accident kept him at home despite
the stirring times. He was a great recruiter, and had sent many
a lad to the wars, though never himself had he heard a shot fired
in anger. The hour was at hand when he would do so; and that
in his own mother-county of Devon. Now he thought upon his
wife and family, and then concerning the prisoner. Heartily he
regretted John Lee's fate, but knew no way to mend it.
Meantime the doomed man and Putt conversed with earnestness.
Their talk was of a practical nature, and they wasted not
a moment in vain sorrow.
Tom told his friend the news and the solemn promise that
Grace Malherb had given to Norcot.
"No man can save me if I won't be saved," said John. "It
only makes death easier to know what hangs upon it."
"We've got but minutes," answered the other; "an' 'tis a fool's
trick to die if you can live. Dead, you're no good to none but
worms and body-snatchers; alive, you can't tell what might come
along. You've got to get out of this coil without Norcot's help;
then she's free again. 'Twas only if he freed you--not if you
freed yourself."
"'Tis beyond human power."
"'Tis as easy as eating. D'you see that cart full of muck?
Behind the tail-board there's a place scraped out big enough to
hold you. An' there's a knot-hole in the bottom of the cart
where you can put your mouth so you won't be choked. 'Twill
be a thought foul, but better'n a rope. Here's a file for them
bracelets presently. Wait a moment and watch."
Putt went across to the cart and opened the tail-board, behind
which a space had been scooped in the farmyard stuff. Then he
took a bundle of the dirty straw, rolled it into a ball, and returned
to John Lee.
"'Tis a matter of moments now," he said. "Yonder chap,
pretending to be asleep under the trees, only waits for you to
slip in the cart; then he'll cover you up deep and set off through
Dean Wood."
While he spoke Tom rolled his ball of straw into the shape of
a head and stuck it upon his stick. Next he watched his uncle
through the grass, and when Bradridge had turned away for a
moment to speak to a soldier, John Lee's hat was thrust upon
the dummy, while John himself slipped down the bank. Tom
Putt's uncle, from his standpoint, still supposed that he saw the
condemned man's head, and his nephew talking earnestly beside
the prisoner; but in reality John was already under a mass of hot
ordure behind the tail-board of the cart; and a moment later the
vehicle took its lumbering way among the soldiers. It crept
through the little camp, then ascended a hill upon the driver's
left hand, and slowly disappeared from view in the direction of
Dean Wood.
Meantime Putt sat by John Lee's hat on the stick and watched
his uncle. The precious minutes passed until at last Sergeant
Bradridge looked at his watch again, rose, and knocked the
burning tobacco from his pipe.
Thereupon Thomas played his part. He removed Lee's hat
and flung it into the river, where it floated fast down stream; he
then struck himself a formidable blow on the side of the face
with his stick, and shouting with all his might, himself leapt
down into the water. It took him to his middle, and he waded
deeper.
"Help, help, Uncle Sep! Help, sojers! Help; you'll never
hang him, for he'll drown hisself, sure as death!"
A dozen redcoats answered Tom's bawling, and Sergeant
Bradridge also ran to the spot as fast as he was able.
"He's done for me--I shall die!" cried Putt, holding his face;
"I know'd how 'twould be. He leapt up like lightning, and then
struck me with his handcuffed hands. I'll swear my jaw's broke.
'Death by water's better'n hanging!' he says, an' flings hisself
into the river!"
"There's his hat," said a soldier; "but his head isn't under it."
"Get in the water! Get in the water!" shouted Sergeant
Bradridge. "With his hands fast together he'll be drownded
like a dog wi' a brick round his neck!"
"If he's carried under the bridge you'll lose him sure as
death. Oh, my head! an' I never said a hard word to the
man."
They waded in the rolling reaches of Dean Burn, but found
nothing; then, at the sergeant's direction, his men prepared to
make a drag that they might scrape the bottom of the river.
"There's scarce water to drown a sheep," said a soldier. "Are
you sure of this chap?" he added, and looked at Putt.
Tom, still nearly up to his waist in the river, took the insult ill.
"Sure o' me, you gert cock-eyed lobster! Sure o' me! Ban't
your officer my own uncle? Better you comed in the water to help
than talk against your betters. But you'm too frightened of
wetting your pipe-clay and getting more work! Do a man have his
jaw split for fun? I hope as you'll be shot first time ever you go
to war; an' a good riddance!"
"All the same," answered the soldier, "there was a cart full of
straw went by ten minutes agone. Might be wise to overtake it
and see that all's open and honest."
"I never took my eyes off the prisoner's head," declared Bradridge.
"I suppose you'll not call my sight in question, Private
Chugg?"
"No, sergeant; no man living's got a sharper eye; but there's
heads and there's hats. How if his head weren't under his hat
when you see'd it 'pon the mound there?"
"Three of you run up along after thicky cart, an' us'll scour the
river banks," said Bradridge; "an' if there's any hookem-snivey
dealings, Thomas Putt, 'tis you who will swing at Exeter, not
t'other."
"You'll be sorry for that speech, Uncle Sep, when us gets his
gashly carkiss out the water," answered Tom calmly. "He's
here, I tell you--sunk down into some hole at the bottom--and
dead as a hammer by now. An' if he ban't here, where is he?
Tell me that?"
The soldiers hunted and probed without success; then they
went down the stream and searched beneath the bridge and in
every place where a fugitive might lurk with his head above
water.
Meanwhile others, led by Private Chugg, ran fast, and soon
overtook the cart that had conveyed John Lee. It stood half-way
up a steep hill in the woods, with a stone stuck beneath one
wheel while the horse rested.
Without ceremony, and despite fierce protests from Tom Putt's
friend, the soldiers pitched the entire contents of this vehicle into
the road. But they found nothing. Their prisoner had left his
unpleasant quarters ten minutes before, and was now half a mile
away in the deep woods of Dean.
Throughout that night the screech owls heard a steady sound
like their own harsh voices, but subdued to a murmur. It was
John at his handcuffs. To separate them proved a difficult task,
even with Tom Putt's file; but that done, the man was quickly
free.
Far away, as evening fell, Mr. Norcot waited with admirable
patience for the arrival of Sergeant Bradridge and his prisoner;
while Mother Coaker of Westover Farm mourned a good fish
wasted. Tom Putt's salmon, despairing of being eaten, had
fallen to pieces in the pot.
BOOK IV
THE PEACE
CHAPTER I
HOPE WAKES AND DIES
On a day in late autumn, while sad winds whispered of
winter and the heather blossoms perished, Harvey Woodman
and Thomas Putt were setting up hurdles round about
a portion of a turnip field. Hard by Uncle Smallridge sat
upon a stone, chewed tobacco and watched them. This aged
man had made a close study of Providence's work at Fox Tor
Farm, and, finding that all the evils resulting from the
demolition of Childe's Tomb had fallen upon the head of Malherb, he
felt increased respect for the logic of Heaven. Now he
approached the labourers fearlessly, discussed the state of affairs
with relish, and threw his weight upon the side of justice. But
the household of Malherb showed an inclination to think the
farmer too hardly treated. According to their measure of
intelligence and gratitude, they mourned the master's evil fortune.
"He's changed under our living eyes," said Woodman.
"A scantle of his old self, an' goes heavily with backward
glances as though the wisht-hounds was arter him day an' night,"
declared Putt. "So meek as Moses now most times. I miss
the thunder of him. We'm so used to it that he seems like a
new man without his noise."
"Not but he flashes up, like a dying fire, now an' again,
however," added Woodman.
Uncle Smallridge chewed and nodded and uttered complacent
platitudes.
"What did I say? What a picture of the wrath of the loving
God! You won't find in all Scripture no case where the Lord
took a matter into His own hands quicker an' polished off a
sinner so sharp. First his son cut down; then his darter
undutiful; then that tantara to the War Prison; then Lovey Lee
carried away by the Devil, as I hopes an' believes; an' then Jack
Lee vanished like a cloud; an' a bad wool year; an' wages
coming by fits an' starts; an' doom writ upon the man's forehead.
'Tis all the hatched-out egg of the Lord. Full of meat--full of
meat are His ways."
"Hard enough to stomach all the same," said Woodman; and
Putt viewed the ancient with considerable disgust.
"You'm worse than Kekewich," he declared. "You fatten on
other folks' troubles, like a crow on offal. I'd blush to smack
my lips over a brave man's cares. Who gave 'e that tobacco
you'm chowing?"
"Mr. Malherb," confessed Uncle. "An open-handed gentleman
as need be, an' a good friend to me. An' why not? 'Tis
the duty of the gentlefolks to support such as me. I've growed
two-double working for 'em. An' now my balance of years be
their proper business. I've nought against him myself; I be
only pointing out how much the Lord had against him. We'm
all corn for the A'mighty's grindstones; an' a very comforting
thought that is for a common man. There's justice there." He
waved to the sky. "Us shan't be driven about to work for small
money an' bad masters in Eternity; but sit 'pon golden thrones
an' share the property with the best of 'em."
"You're a Whig," said Woodman. "They talk like that in
the Parliament."
"I be what I be. I know there won't be no squires an' ban-dogs
an' man-traps an' spring-guns to maim honest men up-along.
If us be all equal in Heaven, that should be the rule on earth,
same as the Lord prayed in His own Prayer."
"You'd better keep them ideas till you get to Heaven then,"
said Thomas Putt; "for they won't work on Dartymoor."
As he spoke Mr. Beer arrived, and with him he brought
interesting news.
"Leave that, souls," he said; "since the weather's lifted, us
have all got to go along with master to Hangman's Hollow 'bout
that job there was talk of a fortnight since. He's made up his
mind all on a sudden. Go back to the farm for ropes an' picks,
then come along."
"What's in the wind now, neighbour?" inquired Uncle
Smallridge, and Beer answered him.
"Why, 'tis the hole where Miss Grace was found. 'Tis said
'twas old Lovey Lee's den afore she bolted. Dinah heard a
whisper of treasures there, too. Anyway us have got to go an'
pull the place down an' let in light an' air, so as us can see if
there be aught worth fetching."
Uncle Smallridge went his way speculating as to what was the
next unpleasant surprise hidden for Malherb by the Lord of
Hosts; while Putt, Woodman and Beer returned home. They
collected their tools and set out soon afterwards with Mark
Bickford for Hangman's Hollow.
The first result of his present experiences and position had
been a development of astounding patience in Maurice Malherb.
Patient, indeed, he was not in any real sense; but a self-control
relatively wonderful marked his goings now. He waited for the
inevitable. Every instinct called out to him to hasten it, yet he
took no step. This personal attitude amazed him in secret.
Sometimes even a gleam of hope touched his darkness, and the
fact that no word had been heard of Lovey, and no report of her
death had reached mankind, awoke a shadowy thought that she
was not dead. But he knew right well that no human foot trod
the desert south of Cater's Beam once in a year. The dead might
there mingle with dust and never be discovered or recorded. He
did nothing from day to day for thinking of his wife and daughter.
They stood between him and open confession of the crime. Yet
each week of delay galled him worse than the last. Memory kept
such a vivid wakefulness as it only holds under conditions of
remorse. His sin coloured his life, and the hues of it faded neither
by day nor night. As the hideous incubus of a dream slowly crawls
upon us, to fasten its fangs in our bosom, so this horror nightly
destroyed sleep, and by day it rode abroad with him, ate with him,
thought with him, thrust its shadow between him and the few
things he still loved.
A thousand times his feet turned to Cater's Beam, a thousand
times he chose rather to live on and cherish the pallid hope that
his daughter and his wife were not for ever disgraced. For him
the events of that appalling dawn were neither gyves nor ropes
about his real nature. He had long since retraced all in spirit,
probed his act to the core, and even taken the consequences of it.
For no thought of self-destruction returned to him; but his women
came between and held his hand, and, though they knew it not,
played the first part in his hidden life, as they now stood openly
for all that he still held dear.
Yet at last, by an indirect road, he consented to satisfy himself,
and after countless petitions from Grace and from Annabel, he
gave way and abandoned what, from their standpoint, was a
senseless determination. His daughter finally prevailed with him.
"Lovey Lee fled to save her own life," declared Grace. "Perchance
she never returned to her hiding-place at all. There, then,
remain her treasures and the amphora that I saw with my own
eyes. Surely it is worth the trouble of a search?"
"'Twould be fifteen thousand pounds at least to us. Your
brother himself might purchase it," said Annabel.
"He at least never will," answered her husband. "Rather
would I grind it under my heel. 'Brother'! 'Tis too noble a
title for him. Norcot can offer to aid me in my extremity, yet he
whose duty it should be, and whose privilege--does he come
forward?"
"For the best of all reasons, dearest. You have not told him
a word of your circumstances."
"'Told him'! Do such things want telling to a brother? He
ought to feel it in his bones; he ought to dream that all is not
well with me; he ought to breathe it in with the air. If he were
in trouble, my blood would have beat it into my heart.
Nevertheless, no farthing of his would I take to keep my wife and
daughter from starving."
"Yet here's your own money as like as not hid within five
miles," said Grace. "How I've longed to go! Once I rode in
sight, and I never felt so tempted to break my word to you, dear
father. But I was glad afterwards, for, looking back, I marked a
man moving in the ruin. He saw me too and vanished."
The matter dropped then; yet, within a week Malherb resolved
to permit a search. To him the enterprise must be a crucial test
of matters more vital than the amphora. If it was there, then
Lovey indeed had perished; if it was not there, then she lived.
But the truth might still be buried in his own bosom. It was not
necessary that others should know of it; and, in any case, the
circumstances of his family must be ameliorated by recovery of
the treasure. That fact alone he strove to keep before him;
yet now, as he tramped over the Moor with his daughter, and
saw wan sunlight all soaked in moisture, spread great fleeting
vans along the way, he prayed very earnestly that his mission
might fail.
Grace was silent and busy with her own thoughts. That Lovey
Lee had long since escaped from Dartmoor and taken her treasure
with her, the girl felt certain; but that John Lee might be using
the cavern in Hangman's Hollow seemed likely enough. His
escape was a nine days' wonder, and some persons, Sergeant
Bradridge among the number, stoutly maintained that John must
have been born to drown and had met his destiny. The
sergeant was back at Prince Town; only Kekewich knew of
Putt's successful proceedings; while, as for Peter Norcot, he took
this further rebuff from fortune smiling, and absented himself
from Fox Tor Farm for a considerable time. For the present he
was reported to be very diligent about his own affairs.
"You dream," said Malherb. "Twice I have spoken and
received no answer, Grace."
"I did dream--of the blessedness of finding this treasure; yet
I am sure 'tis too late to hope."
Her father sighed.
"Who can tell?" he said.
Only the carrion crows, that croaked aloft out of the morning
air and flapped their sooty wings towards Cater's Beam, knew the
truth. Often with his eyes he followed them out of sight; with
his mind's eye he saw what they saw; and that was never out of
sight.
Presently the labourers drew up in Hangman's Hollow and
stood amazed at the secret which Grace revealed to them. From
the top, Beer and Woodman set to work; and Putt and Bickford
attacked the place beneath. They cut away the masses of briar
and undergrowth that bound the foundations of the old blowing-house,
forced a hole in the wall, and made entry from that point.
Malherb also toiled and wearied his body with great feats of
strength to distract his mind.
"If us should catch the old cat-a-mountain now!" said Woodman.
"My stars, she'd scratch our faces to the bone, I lay!"
But the treasure house was empty. They let in light from
every side, and after two hours' hard work had dismantled the
den. Sweet air searched its dark corners; day illuminated its
secrets.
Malherb's heart fell as Grace pointed to two great boxes of
plate and jewels; but it rose with a bound, for they proved to be
empty. Where Lovey's money-bags had stood and leered at
Grace out of the darkness, like a row of little pot-bellied fiends
roosting there, they found nothing. The ledges were bare.
Malherb made no attempt to conceal his exultation. Dissimulation
was impossible before his growing hope. He toiled like a
giant, tore his clothes and smothered himself in dust and dirt.
"Not a watch--not a coin--not a teaspoon!" he shouted.
"All gone--everything. But don't give up yet; seek and seek;
make very sure. Tear every stone from another; break every
stone in half. Dig up the floors; sound the nooks and crannies.
Let no shadow of doubt remain!"
The men spoke under their breath to one another.
"He'm going daft, or I am," said Putt. "The less we find,
the better he likes it!"
"'Tis his troubles have turned his head," answered Beer. "I've
knowed it happen so. Look at him--all in a muck o' sweat like
a common man."
Woodman, as he ripped up the floor, discovered a hole by
Lovey's stone altar.
"See here, your honour; I be much feared something's been
took out of this place. 'Tis lined wi' stone an' the cover lies
beside it. But 'tis empty."
Maurice Malherb smiled and approached eagerly.
"Yes, yes; even here might she have hidden her treasure--not
a doubt of it--not a doubt. Say!" he continued to Bickford,
who stood nearest to him, "don't stand like a clown carved in
wood. Speak. Tell me--is it not clear something has been
lifted up from here and carried off?"
"Clear enough," answered the man in a surly voice. "Us was
only wondering, begging your honour's pardon, why for you was
so mighty pleased to find your trouble wasted."
"Then take yourself and your insolent wonder from Fox Tor
Farm to-morrow at daybreak!" cried Malherb. The old flash
was in his eyes, the old deep thunder in his voice.
"Jimmery! he'm coming back to hisself!" murmured Putt.
Then Malherb spoke again.
"Wonder as you will. What are your thoughts to me? Work--work
on--all of you, and keep your wonder to yourselves."
His daughter, like the rest, felt upon the brink of mystery, yet
doubted not but that her father would presently explain. She
was bitterly disappointed yet not surprised.
At last Malherb flung down a pick and mopped his forehead.
"'Tis done--to the last corner!" he cried. "And what have
we found?"
"A dead dog, some old rotten boxes, some-candle-ends and
some crustes, your honour," said Mr. Beer.
"So be it. I thank God--before you all I thank God! And
let each man remember this day!"
He pulled off two heavy signet rings, the only adornments that
he wore, gave one to Beer and the other to Harvey Woodman.
"Keep them for a sign of your fruitless labour. And you
men, come to me to-morrow: I've a guinea for each of you.
Remember, all, that I'm your best friend for evermore. I'll
never forget one of ye! You stare, you good, worthy clods--well,
stare and wonder. It is your part to do so. Know at least
that my heart is light."
He turned, drew on his coat, then gave his daughter his arm.
He seemed to have shaken off a weight of years with his hard
work. His step was elastic, his head was thrown back.
"I cannot say that I am sorry any more when I see your joy,
dear father. Yet, like the men, I wonder too. But I will not
ask you why you are glad to have lost your treasure, or I may get
answered as Bickford was."
"The rascal had an impudent tone in his voice, though I'll
swear he meant no offence. But for you, indeed, do not ask, my
little maid. 'Tis enough that what looks evil news is not so.
This day, as the wrecked sailor, who, from his perilous spar
floating on ocean, sees suddenly a great ship at hand, and finds
salvation even in the grave of his hopes, even so am I. I--I
have been through dark waters--I have suffered to the very last
hiding-places of the heart. My life turned upon me and rent
me. My wrath roused up such a devil as I knew not man could
harbour. God hid His face and I was lost in the darkness. But
now--now my cup is full. He has spared me; He has lifted my
load. I must commune with Him. I cannot talk to mankind
until I have praised the name of the Lord. With David I could
dance before Him, because He has made my heart whole again
and lifted my head in my own sight."
"Then will I bless God too, dear father. Indeed, your face
says more to me than your words. You are grown young.
There is even laughter in your eyes again."
He held her hand and pressed it.
"Money's not everything--how well I know that," she said.
"'Tis nothing--less than nothing--glorified mould--scum--a
dirty mantle on the deep water of life--the poisonous berries we
children clutch at. I hate it. I scorn it. The gilded moss in
that hole there--the moss that will grow black and die in the
glare of day--that is money. Let in light and we see it as it is."
"You never cared for money."
"And now less than before. A man might live in that den
we've just torn down, and live happy, too, if he'd escaped from
such dreams as have of late tormented me. This hour, with my
own hands, would I build up a hut of stone and shaggy heath and
dwell therein for ever rather than go back to yesterday. But
yesterday is past, and to-morrow I shall make holiday and hold a
revel that all must share if they still want my friendship."
"You are your dear self again!"
"What is myself? What am I? I have been a storm-cloud
drifting over men's heads to burst in unseasonable hail. Now
will I be a sun to shine upon men's hearts and warm 'em. Oh,
I have learnt wisdom in a dreadful book; but leave that. Talk
about her--the old woman--so tough and so terrible in her ways.
She's far enough off now--in France, I'll wager."
"Indeed, she may be. I hope rather that poor John Lee is
safe. He haunted me to-day. It seemed so possible that he
might have chosen this place. Why, father, father! what has
happened? Forgive me; I should not have named him."
She stopped, for Malherb suddenly stood still and stared up
into the sky. The gladness fell away from his face like sunlight
suddenly shadowed. He struck one fist thrice into his open
palm, then dropped his hands again.
"Forgive me--I have hurt you cruelly," cried the girl. "I had
thought you quite pardoned John Lee."
"Yes," he said gently; "I had pardoned him and I had forgot
him too. Poor fool of one thought that I am! He knew--he
knew this secret place and the wealth stored in it! 'Tis
possible--nay, certain--that he rifled all. Who would blame him?
'Twas he whom you saw from far off in the ruins."
"Never! Had he found the amphora---- Is he not a
Malherb himself?"
"Hold your peace," her father answered, in a voice grown harsh
again. "That man has all, and who shall blame him? He may
well hold it his dead father's portion. I, that thought I had
awakened, only dreamed. Things are as they were."
"Oh, if I could understand! If I could help you in this
suffering that you hide from us!"
"It is impossible. A dream, I say. Things are as they were."
He turned to her and she heard his voice sink down into a
dreary lifeless monotone.
"The ship has passed by; but no man has seen the struggling
wretch in the water or heard him shout."
"Come home," she said. "This suffering will kill you. If
you would but let those who love you---- A great grief, though
nothing shared by three, may break the heart of one."
Next morning Putt and Bickford approached their master in
the farmyard and ventured to remind him of his promise. He
had forgotten it, and now turned upon them and cursed them for
a pair of greedy fools.
"Guineas--guineas! What have you to do with them?
Madmen! If you only knew. There--take them, and get out of
my sight. You can grin still. Gather enough of that and you'll
grin no more!"
He dashed down the money at their feet and turned his back
upon them.
CHAPTER II
ON CHRISTMAS DAY
Mr. Norcot invited himself to Fox Tor Farm for
Christmas, but Maurice Malherb begged him to change
his mind. Peter's generous offer of a loan had not been
accepted; but he knew that Fox Tor Farm was now mortgaged
to meet Malherb's demands.
Within the home circle a great difference of opinion obtained,
yet it was impossible to argue the matter out, because it referred
to Lovey Lee. Grace felt positive that the miser had returned
to her hiding-place; the master expressed an opinion equally
strong that John Lee had abstracted the fortune and hastened
with it for safety to the Continent. His reasons he would not
give; but that made no uncommon difficulty, for he was not used
to offer reasons. His daughter marvelled at his obstinacy, for
her heart well knew that John was incapable of such an act. He
understood the significance of the amphora, and would have
gloried to restore it at any personal risk. The matter slowly
ceased to be a subject of conversation, not that Malherb forbade it,
for he longed to discuss the possibility, and welcomed any shadow
of hope; but now rumours of peace had grown into a promise.
It seemed to Grace Malherb as though her ambitions for John
Lee and Cecil Stark were to be realised; because while peace
with America was soon to be declared, Bonaparte had left Elba,
and Europe awakened from her brief respite.
Malherb sank into a settled but a gentle melancholy. Gloom
folded him like a garment; yet he was kindly and even
considerate to all. He ceased to hunt, a circumstance that brought
more tears to his wife's eyes than any other, for she appreciated
its full force. A thousand times he had dreaded the day when
his passion for sport could be gratified no more. She had heard
him desire to die before infirmity should keep him from riding to
hounds. Now he abandoned his delight without a murmur; at
a wrench he tore twenty years out of his book of life and
performed the operation with indifference. In secret he marvelled
at himself and at the tremendous operations of chance that could
thus alter the whole ingrained tenour and bent of his existence.
Christmas came, and Grace with her mother rode to worship
at Holne. Harvey Woodman was responsible for Annabel's
safety, since she sat on a pillion behind him; while Grace rode
'Cæsar.'
"Peace comes to us through every sense," said Mrs. Malherb
as they returned homeward. "It is in the air to feel, on men's
tongues to hear, in their eyes to see. 'Peace on earth,' too, I
pray. Peace everywhere, but----"
She broke off with a sigh. To speak further was not possible
before Mr. Woodman. But now Harvey made a diversion. They
were at the top of Ter Hill, half a mile distant from home, when
his keen eyes caught sight of a small black object afar off on the
Moor. He watched a while, then spoke.
"If there ban't that baggering sow as got out a week ago an'
master thought was stolen! 'Tis her for sartain."
The wandering beast was a distinguished matron, and her loss
had caused annoyance.
"How glad the master will be!" cried Mrs. Malherb. "Don't
lose sight of her on any account, Woodman. Indeed, you will
do well to follow her at once. I can easily walk home from here."
She alighted, and Harvey galloped off to secure the pig.
"Send Bickford or one of 'em after me!" he shouted back to
the ladies.
The day was fine and the Moor dry and frozen, but Bickford
grumbled not a little at his duty, for the Christmas dinner only
waited to be eaten when Mrs. Malherb and her daughter returned.
The servants' hall was full of grateful savours; the peat blazed in
a pure, still heart of red-hot fire under a purple corona of flame;
the walls were decked with holly and fir; it was a scene painful
to leave. But the labourer soon returned, for he had not gone
far when he met Harvey riding homeward at a great pace.
"Where's the pig to?" he asked.
"'Twas no pig at all, but a message from Heaven," gasped
Mr. Woodman.
"If I didn't know, I should say you was drunk," answered
Bickford; "but you wouldn't have dared get in liquor, having to
ride back with missis. Be you mazed or pixy-led in daylight?"
"Mazed I be--to think--but five mile from our very doors--that
awful--my flesh be creaming to my bones with the sight, an'
my scalp's crawling down my back."
"You've catched the small-pox, I reckon. I'd best walk to
windward of 'e."
"I can say nought till I stand afore the company. Then I'll
properly terrify the whole pack of 'e."
As they entered the servants' hall Maurice Malherb was already
standing over a great sirloin at one end of the table, while
Mr. Beer carved two turkeys at the other. Threads of holly berries
glittered against the shining green. There was a smell of gravy
and evergreens in the air, and bright sunshine poured through
the windows. On Christmas Day the family dined with their men
and women, for it was an old custom of the Malherbs to do so.
Now appeared Harvey Woodman, and conscious that perhaps
the greatest moment of his life had come, he determined to make
the most of it.
"For the love of charity a drop of brandy, souls!" he cried.
"Oh, your honour's goodness--such a shock as I've had--such
a thing! I failed away in my middle when I seed it an' nigh
dropped off the hoss."
"Fegs!" said Bickford, "when I comed to un, the man looked
as if he'd been drawed through a brimble hedge backwards!"
Mrs. Woodman rushed to her husband's side, and Malherb,
putting down the carvers, also approached.
"Speak," he said. "What has happened? Are you ill?"
"The pig, the pig, your honour. To the Beam her went--straight
as any Christian; an' me after her. Then, far beyond, in
they gashly bogs where the Jacky-twoads dance on moony summer
nights, I seed the horridest sight ever these eyes rested on. I
knowed there was a dead thing there very soon, an' thought 'twas
a pony. But when I comed nearer--there--let me have another
drink--my inward organs turn to vinegar when I think upon it."
"Speak on," said Malherb. He stood before Mr. Woodman
with his eyes fixed upon him.
"First I seed a great patch of rotted turf; for a dead body
decays the grass under it, your honour; then I seed a litter of
bones lying on the stones around about, where the crows an'
buzzards had carried 'em for cleaner picking; an' then--lor-amercy! a
human face-bone staring at me with hollow eyes an'
grinning like Death! I plucked up courage, however, an' got
off my hoss an' went up to the rames of the poor soul. An' next
thing I knowed was that I'd found out the secret of that old
mullygrubs, Lovey Lee! To hell the old vixen went; not to
France as was thoughted, for there was an awful crack in her
skull upon the brow. All rags an' bones she was; an' I seed her
old petticoat made of stolen sacks, an' her sun-bonnet, catched
in a thorn bush an' black wi' blood yet; an' the long white hair
of her shed round about in locks hither an' thither, like the
cotton grass that waves on the bogs. Let me drink, for the
picture of that unholy masterpiece do cleave to my brain like
moss to a rock."
A great hum of excitement followed upon this news. Then
Malherb spoke.
"Let us eat our dinner with what appetite we may," he said, in
a dull and hollow voice. "Forget what we have heard until
to-morrow. Then we will go with a sledge and a pair of oxen and
gather up her dust and coffin it."
"Don't let the old varmint lie beside that American gentleman,
your honour's goodness," said Dinah Beer; "for 'twould be an
unseemly thing that such evil earth should rise, come Judgment,
so near his clay."
Malherb stared round the table and spoke again in the heavy
accents of one who talks in sleep.
"She shall lie at Widecombe in holy ground; and when we
bury her I will tell you something concerning her."
They supposed that he spoke of Lovey Lee's rumoured
treasures. Then the meal began, but no joy accompanied it.
The men whispered, and Woodman repeated his story again and
again, adding some particulars with each recital.
The banquet had turned into a funeral feast, whereat nobody
loved the dead. This tragedy, indeed, added a zest to their food;
they could not leave the subject, but returned to it between every
mouthful. Then, like thunder upon their whisperings and excited
speculations, burst the master's voice.
"Have done, ghouls! Cease to speak of this matter any more.
Do you not remember that the house honours your board to-day?
Sweeten your speech, I pray you."
Everybody lapsed into uneasy silence and soon afterwards
Malherb, his wife and daughter, rose and left the company.
Then the voices broke loose and this rare business was turned
and twisted and tasted by many tongues.
That night Maurice Malherb told his wife the thing he had
done; and she thrust her meek disposition behind her and
derided the crime as nothing, even while her teeth chattered with
terror to hear him tell it.
"We are the ministers of God," she said. "To you fell this
dreadful duty. It is well, because you had to do it. Forget
it--pray God to let you forget it. None else must know but your
wife."
"The sin--the sin. You are blind to that, or pretend to be.
Heaven forces no man into sin. To say so is to deny free will.
I have ever been on the side of freedom."
"She was doomed to die."
"Her death was the hangman's work--not mine. Murder!
A Malherb a common murderer."
"Sins are forgiven before they are committed. The Lord
was born and died to forgive this deed."
"Vain comfort. What is forgiveness to me? 'Tis a bribe for
women and children. Can it make a reasonable man easy?
God may forgive me; can I forgive myself? There lies the
poison of evil-doing. This awful climax to my life of wrath has
brought about such a thing as---- The Everlasting cannot give
me yesterday, or bridle the sun and lead it back into the East.
The thing done--the thing done--what will banish that? It lies
frozen in Time for all eternity. God's own voice is vain to heal;
His own hand powerless to take this sword from my heart--the
sword I have planted there myself. The thing done. Yesterday!
yesterday! That's the prayer that such as I am pray, and know,
even while we pray, that it is in vain. She was a woman with
hidden good in her, because she was human and made in the
image of God; and when we put those ashes under the earth--I
shall tell all that stand beside the pit that 'twas I slew her."
"You never shall!" she cried, leaping from her bed and striking
flint on steel. "I have not thwarted your life until this night. I
have yielded to every wish, trusted your wisdom in all things,
never rebelled even in unspoken thoughts--questioned nothing.
But upon this I'll speak, and struggle, and weary the air, and
weep till I madden you into sense. I've done your will for near
five-and-twenty years; and please God will do it for five-and-twenty
more; but to-night, I'm a maiden again--a maid of the
Carews; and you shall obey me, as you obeyed when you came
a-courting."
"Hide that light and come to bed. You will be cold. I have
spoken. At least let there be peace between us."
"There shall be no peace. You forget that you have a wife and
a daughter."
"'Tis the part of sin to make us egoists--as all suffering does.
And 'tis the part of sin not to stop at the sinner. God grants that
interest on wickedness to the devil: that the ill deed done should
strike more than he who does it."
But his wife poured out a flood of alternate entreaties and
commands; and he marvelled even in that hour that the helpmate
of many years had hidden so much from him.
"There is a greatness of purpose in you that I had not
guessed," he said. "Maybe no man knows all of his wife until
he comes before her a master sinner as I do now. She smiles on
his fair hour, content to see him happy; but with storm---- It
is my glory in this agony to know---- And yet no woman was
ever born to lead me. To bury the dead without confession
would be to act a lie. She shall have her rights and her revenge."
"We are not bound to trumpet our sins. And the rights of the
dead are in the hand of the Lord. If it is His will that you
suffer more than you have suffered, it will happen so. By making
this unhappy thing known, you throw all into disorder, and strew
many paths with difficult problems."
"What then? Difficulty is the road that every man walks."
Until dawn of day they spoke together; and then Maurice
Malherb fell asleep and his wife, fancying that she had conquered,
crept out of bed and knelt and thanked God for victory.
Yet her husband's waking words shattered Annabel's hope.
"I'm fixed and bate no jot of my intention," he said. "All
shall know the thing I have done. I clung to the shadow of
doubt like a coward. Now there is not even a shadow of doubt to
cling to. Come what may to me, I'll speak. And for you--you
who have shown what courage lies in you at a bad cause, now
let it be your part to support a good one."
CHAPTER III
BURNHAM AS LEADER
For Cecil Stark a matter greater far than his own failure and
the treachery that had ruined the tunnel plot centred in
thoughts of John Lee and the price that he must pay. Much the
American suffered before news reached him in his solitary
confinement, through a friendly turnkey who knew Tom Putt. And
then the prisoner heard that Grace Malherb was safe at home,
and John Lee had either escaped or been drowned in attempting
to do so.
As for the prisoners, like the sea after a storm, their passions
slowly stilled. Once only did they break into active rage, when,
upon the release of their leaders, David Leverett did not return,
and a soldier confessed that he had betrayed them for two
hundred pounds. Then the plot and its failure were dismissed
before rumours of peace. At first these woke and died again,
yet gradually a greater degree of truth characterised them, and
all men felt the music of freedom and of home playing at their
hearts.
But in Prince Town was witnessed the spectacle of a worthy
gentleman struggling with a task somewhat beyond his strength.
As Commandant of a War Prison, wherein were nearly six thousand
souls, now grown turbulent and reckless at rumours of approaching
liberation, Captain Short found himself involved in countless
difficulties.
After the discovery and defeat of their plot, the mass of prisoners
was removed and confined in Nos. 1 and 3; while, by way of
comprehensive punishment for their attempt, every man was
docked of one-third of his allowance for the space of ten days.
Grave friction resulted from this measure, and Short's officers
went in secret fear of a rising. To check the possibility of such
a disaster, he adopted stringent methods, and continual strife
between the turnkeys and prisoners was the result. Both sides
displayed passion, and many a sentry, for some disrespectful
word concerning Congress or the President of the United States,
had his head broken.
With the severe mid-winter weather, increased sickness fell
upon the War Prison, and the most popular man at Prince Town
in these days was Doctor Magrath, a surgeon whose humanity,
energy and skill made him the personal friend of every sufferer.
He struck up an acquaintance with Cecil Stark, and, at the
doctor's advice, the young American henceforth eschewed prison
politics and threw all his weight upon the side of law, order and
patience.
A partial exchange of prisoners had wakened general hopes,
but when it was found that nothing more in that sort would be
done, the Americans vented their annoyance by playing a
thousand pranks upon authority. On one occasion a man was
seen ostentatiously escaping out of a window by moonlight. When
challenged he refused to answer and continued to descend a rope.
The guard at Short's own order fired, rushed in as the figure fell
heavily to the earth, and found a dummy. Unfortunately, such
jests bred an evil temper, and once when certain soldiers
discovered a candle burning by night and ordered its extinction,
they fired a volley through the windows almost before it had
been possible to comply with their demand. By a miracle no
harm was done, but every prisoner knew next day how the watch
had fired upon sleeping men, and the soldiery justly suffered
under the lash of a thousand tongues.
William Burnham it was who suspected that the outbursts of
severity probably marked British reverses at sea; and the thing
became a jest, so that whenever a hard word was spoken, or a
harsh punishment ordered, the Americans shouted together and
cheered their country's successes.
Burnham, indeed, had come into distinction of late days.
Despite the advice of Stark and others, who now preached
patience and obedience while all waited for peace, Burnham,
ever jealous of his old messmate, and glad to find himself a
leader of men, stayed not to consider the manner of men he led,
but stood for a factious and unruly multitude, and promised to
support their fancied rights. Ira Anson joined this party also
and to him as much as Burnham belonged the discredit of various
ill-timed and vicious commotions. Their conduct maddened
Short, and finally they led him into tribulation and themselves
paid the penalty.
With the end of the year came a persistent rumour that the
crew of the _Marblehead_ was about to be exchanged, but this
hoped-for circumstance did not happen, and William Burnham,
with his faction, grew more desperate and more unwise.
Unfortunately, they numbered secret friends among the soldiers and
non-commissioned officers at the Prison, for not a few of the
baser sort were disaffected against their own superiors, and at
least pretended sympathy with the Americans. On the other
side laboured many more sensible men, and while each heart
throbbed for the news so long withheld, law and order were
re-established, and the schools, arranged for the young and
ignorant, were opened again. For two years these institutions
had done valuable work; it was only after the failure of the
great plot to burrow out of the Prison that they became
neglected.
There fell a memorable day at the year's end when news
reached Prince Town that the Commissioners at Ghent had
signed the Treaty of peace and that the sloop-of-war, _Favourite_,
would sail immediately with the document to the United States.
This occasion was seized for widespread rejoicings within the
Prison, and Captain Short felt as thankful at heart as any of his
charges. But while the day of thanksgiving drew to its close,
the tumult in the prisons drew deafening; great masses of men
stampeded from yard to yard; a mad spirit animated reckless
thousands; the air grew heavily charged with human passion;
and danger threatened in many shapes.
Burnham's party had obtained a quantity of gunpowder unknown
to their guards, and with this they manufactured bombs
which exploded with reports like cannon. Alarming rumours
followed these discharges; some said efforts were being made
to blow down the walls; many junior officers approached
Commandant Short with fear upon their faces.
At midday a pennant was seen to flutter out above each
division of the Prison, and on No. 3, styled "The Commodore,"
a huge white flag broke and revealed a legend printed upon it.
"Free Trade and Sailors' Rights." A salute of seventeen bombs
accompanied this display and the riot became deafening. Far
distant upon the Moor many a traveller heard the sound, as of
remote thunders grumbling under the horizon, and hastened upon
his journey in dread of approaching tempest.
At the Prison, as the flags flew out, and the multitudes roared,
Cecil Stark approached Burnham and prayed him to consider his
position.
"You are doing a mad thing," he said. "You know as well as
I that while a spark of reason lurked in efforts to escape authority,
I was eager as any man. Ay, and beyond reason too, for, looking
back, I see that the tunnel plot was folly. But now, to what
purpose is this frantic nonsense? We shall be free men in three
months. Then why make vexatious friction and lend the weight
of your support to so much brainless folly?"
Burnham had been drinking and he answered fiercely.
"Cease your preaching! I calculate things are just about
cooked now; and they'll have to be eaten. We know you, at
any rate--ever ready to make trouble when you had no temptation
to do otherwise. But now--you're an Englishman in disguise!"
"If you were not drunk, I'd thrash you before your bullies, for
that insult."
"Threats--threats and big words. We know you, I say; we see
through you. A place-seeker, who tried to lead that he might
gratify his own cursed vanity. Now you are a pious prig and
teach in the school and say your prayers, I dare say! Much
good your leadership did--you with big patriotic words on your
lips and an English girl in your mean heart!"
"Leave that, or I'll----"
"Do it--do it! D'you think I fear you? I'm leader now--leader
of braver men than ever listened to you. Touch me, and a
hundred men will break every bone in your body! A Yankee--you!
I'll swear, if the truth was known, we should find you were
leagued with Judas Leverett himself. Take that pill and swallow
it, you canting humbug!"
Stark fell back and stared at his old companion.
"You!" he cried. "Bill Burnham to say that to me!"
He was silent and the other repeated his charge.
"I'll speak with you when you're sober then."
"And what will you say?" began the younger; but Stark turned
from him; and at the same moment a peculiar whistle, used by
his gang as a signal, told Burnham that he was wanted. Captain
Short, with a bodyguard of armed troops, had appeared, and he
desired to speak with a representative of the prisoners.
Burnham, with Ira Anson, stepped forward, and the rest of the
mischief-makers stood in a group and watched them.
"Do you speak for these troublesome men?" asked the
Commandant.
"I do," answered the young American. "I lead them all;
and I'll not answer for them if any attempt is made to oppress
them to-day."
"At least their spokesman should not be drunk himself, whatever
his rag-tag and bob-tail are. You stand condemned, for you
know that liquor is forbidden."
"The lad's not drunk," said Anson; "or, if he is, it is only at
the same tap as all of us: the news from Ghent."
"I'll not argue it, sir. I'm only sorry you cannot receive the
news in a spirit more worthy. At least you'll oblige me by
striking that flag on Prison No. 3. It is an invitation to foolish
and ignorant sailors to mutiny, and I will not permit it to float
here while I'm in command."
"The word 'Rights' is a red rag to your Government," said
Anson insolently.
"Your rights at least have always been respected," answered
Short patiently. "I wish I could help you benighted fellows to
see reason and take juster views. Your conduct proceeds from
hatred of us and fear of us, instead of hatred of evil and fear of
God. But 'tis your nation that must answer for you. Believe
me, I shall be very well pleased to wash my hands of you."
Stark approached at this moment, and Captain Short turned to
him.
"You at least are intelligent; and you fought fair," said the
soldier. "Now I desire that yonder flag should be hauled down.
I ask politely; I sink authority and approach these foolish fellows
here as man to man. One is intoxicated; the other is, unfortunately,
not a gentleman. I desire that that offensive flag shall be
pulled down, and since we are in the atmosphere of peace, I will
hoist an American emblem at the Prison gate and let it wave
beside the Union Jack."
"You are generous," declared Cecil Stark. "Nothing could
be fairer."
"I say 'no,'" interposed Burnham doggedly. "My men will
have their flag; and if the motto stings--let it sting."
"In that case I order all flags down," answered Short, his neck
flushing crimson. "Since you are such an intractable ass, you
must be driven. Let every shred of bunting be down ere the sun
sets, or it shall be brought down. If you court hard knocks, you
may expect them."
He turned away in a rage, and Burnham whistled "Yankee
Doodle," while a few silly sailors who had overheard the conversation
cheered their representatives and hissed at Cecil Stark. But
later in the day Anson prevailed with his detachments, and at
sunset, rather than provoke an actual struggle, the flags came
down. To the end, however, they defied their guards. Captain
Short himself led three hundred men with fixed bayonets, and
Sergeant Bradridge, who was of the number, expected at last to
hear the sound of battle. But as the red winter sun sank behind
the Moor, every flag fluttered simultaneously to earth, and for
that time acute danger vanished with the daylight.
Many sailors were now arriving from the British battleships.
These men, on hearing of peace, claimed the rights of American
citizenship, and refused longer to fight against their fellow-countrymen.
Those guilty of such tergiversation met but a frosty welcome
at Prince Town, and new strifes followed upon their arrival.
Among these shifty mariners were six from H.M.S. _Pelican_, who
had fought in the action between that vessel and the United
States brig _Argus_. The crew of the captured brig had been
imprisoned at Prince Town; and after the _Pelican's_ men arrived,
such was the bitter animosity displayed against them that they
found their lives in danger. To Captain Short these people
appealed for protection, and another grave collision occurred
between Burnham's party and the Commandant, when a detachment
of soldiers entered the War Prison and rescued the six by
force of arms. Then came two more defaulters from an English
ship, and as both had actually volunteered for British service from
Prince Town a year before, they were received back again with
universal execration. A court convened by Ira Anson sat upon
these poor wretches, and while some cried for their instant death,
others proposed a flogging.
It was Mr. Knapps who hit upon an agreeable punishment to
meet their crime.
"Take the doodles and brand 'em," he said. "They've got
the name of a British ship tattooed over their dirty hearts, for I
seed it there; now put U.S.T. on their faces, so as they'll be
known evermore for United States Traitors."
The proposal was cheered and acted upon. To the hospital
the sufferers went after their punishment, and Doctor Macgrath
did what was possible to eradicate the damning letters; but they
had been bitten in too well. Captain Short took this matter
gravely, and the men responsible for the actual assault were thrust
into the cachots to stand their trial.
Another incident to illustrate the growing rancour and bitterness
may be given. A prisoner--one of four unfortunates who
had suffered six months in a cachot--watched his opportunity
when at exercise, and escaped from his yard to the next. He
was immediately surrounded by his countrymen, and when Short
demanded him back, the Americans refused to give him up.
Thereupon the Commandant appeared with fixed bayonets and
directed all prisoners to retire into their respective quarters, that
a strict search might be made for the escaped man. Burnham,
however, defied this order in the name of his comrades.
"This poor devil has suffered enough," he said. "His crime,
which was an alleged attempt to blow up a British schooner, was
never proved against him, and we will not restore him to renewed
tortures. I am master here, and we lack not for arms or skill to
use them. That you will learn to your cost, if you try force
against us. You forget that the war is ended now."
Captain Short perceived that with his small company he would
have little chance against the threatening hordes arrayed against
him; therefore, without answering Burnham, he gave the order
to retire, and left the prison amid wild and derisive shouts and
cat-calls.
But albeit defeated, the Commandant took a weak man's
revenge and shut up the Prison markets. Instantly Burnham
and his friends issued an order that no carpenter, mason nor
other mechanic should do any further work for the British
Government until the markets were re-opened. This 'strike'
caused such unexpected expense and inconvenience, that Captain
Short was constrained to yield again. The markets were set
going once more and the artificers promptly returned to their
labours. Thus the prisoners achieved their ends, and Burnham,
flushed with success, continued to take the side of lawlessness;
while Short, much embittered by his reverse and uneasily
conscious that his own officers were laughing at him, sank into
a brooding ferocity that darkened his face and boded ill for the
future.
An interval of calm succeeded; and then fell out those tragic
events that closed the history of the Prince Town War Prison.
CHAPTER IV
OUT OF NIGHT
Mr. Peter Norcot dwelt in one of the comfortable
border farmhouses that lie among the foothills of Dartmoor
near Chagford. It was an old Elizabethan domicile, and
with it the wool-stapler owned a hundred acres of forest and
three farms. His property adjoined the estates of the Manor of
Godleigh; but he was not upon genial terms with the lord of the
manor, one Sir Simon Yeoland. The knight had old-fashioned
ideas on the subject of trade and looked down upon Peter;
while Mr. Norcot for his part, held his neighbour a mere machine
for slaughter of game and oppression of the common people--a
bundle of hereditary and predatory instincts handed down from
the dark ages.
There came a night in early spring when Peter sat beside his
parlour fire, sipped his grog and read his Shakespeare. Gertrude
Norcot, a faded but still handsome woman of five-and-thirty,
kept him company until the clock chimed ten; then she stopped
her work, kissed her brother on the temple and retired.
Mr. Norcot sat on until midnight; after which he put up a guard
before the dying fire and was just about to go to bed when the
flame burst out anew and he delayed and spread his hands to
warm them. His thoughts were busy of late, for he matured
the next attempt to win Grace Malherb. Still there was but one
woman in the world for him, and his purpose towards her
remained unshaken. But the task grew difficult indeed, for now
Maurice Malherb was to be counted upon the side of his
daughter.
Alone, without need of any mask, Peter's countenance lacked
that geniality usually associated with it. To-night, in the
flickering fire-gleam, he looked as though his face was carved out of
yellow ivory. It revealed stern lines such as shall be seen in the
facial severity of the Red Man.
Now, upon his grim and midnight cogitations, there fell
suddenly a sound. The noise of tapping reached him from the
window; but supposing it to be but an ivy spray escaped from
the mullion and blown against the casement by nightly winds, he
paid no heed. Then the sound increased and became sharper;
so Norcot knew that some wanderer stood outside and
summoned him. Without hesitation he threw open the shutter,
pulled up the blind and looked out, to see a man with his face
close against the glass. An aged but virile countenance with
brilliant eyes peered in. The man beckoned, and Peter nodded
and prepared to unfasten the window. The face was not
unfamiliar to him, and he puzzled to recollect the person of his
visitor, but failed to do so.
"'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way
comes,'" said Mr. Norcot to himself as the stranger entered.
"Give 'e good even. I'll speak with you if you'm alone," he
began, and immediately approached the light.
"I know your face; yet I know it not. Who are you?" asked
Peter.
The wanderer uttered a sound that might have indicated
amusement.
"I've had a long journey and feared every moment to find my
feet in a man-trap."
"That you need not have done upon my land. The gorge of
humanity rises at such damnable contrivances. The ruffian
Yeoland, lord of the manor, has both traps and spring-guns in
his coverts--he showed them to me himself, cold-blooded devil.
Yes, he exhibited them with such pride as a mother might
display her first-born! Engines of hell! But they answer their
purpose; he does not lose a bird now."
"Since when was you so merciful? Your words is soft--your
eyes give 'em the lie."
Then Norcot, recognising his visitor, leapt from his seat and
stared with real amazement. For once he was startled into an
oath.
"Good God, it's Lovey Lee!"
The miser grinned.
"You was a long time finding out. Ess fay--poor old Lovey,
still in the land of the living."
"But your bones were found and buried! There was a most
dramatic scene, I hear. Malherb--he cried out before them all
in the churchyard at Widecombe that he had slain you, that your
blood was upon his head. It's eating his heart out, they say."
"Let it eat with poisoned teeth. No fault of his that I didn't
die. An' I've cussed heaven for two months because the law
haven't taken the man an' hanged him, as I meant it to. But
yet hanging's an easier death than what he's dying."
"Alive!" said Norcot. "Alive--very much alive. And turned
into a man. 'Doubtless a staunch and solid piece of framework,
as any January could freeze together!' And where learnt you
the trick of rising from the dead? What devil taught you that,
you 'ceaseless labourer in the work of shame'?"
"If you've only got hard words----"
"Nay, nay; I love you; you are the Queen of the Moor!"
"He left me for dead, and Lord knows how long I was dead.
He struck me down at dawn, and when I comed to my senses,
the moon was setting. I got back to my secret place somehow,
and found 'twas empty. So I seed that the Devil had helped him
to find his darter. Well for her he did!"
Norcot nodded.
"Not a doubt of it," he said.
"Be you still of a mind about the wench?"
He did not answer, but prepared to pour some spirits into a
glass for the old woman. Lovey, however, refused them.
"Be you still of a mind? That's my question."
"Maurice Malherb has changed his views. Your death has
done wonders and quite broke him. An ignoble type of man
"'We call a nettle but a nettle
And the faults of fools but folly.'
So Shakespeare dismisses Malherb. Now tell me about yourself;
then I'll answer your question."
"Soon told. After I seed my den was found out, bad as I was,
with my skull near split and scarce able to crawl, I dragged my
goods away an' carried 'em--every stick--two mile off. For
I knowed they'd come next day an' tear the place down an' pull
all abroad, like a boy pulls out a bird's nest. I reckoned the
bloodhounds was arter me, too, and might finish me any minute;
but nought happened and I got clear off. Then 'twas that two
nights after, seeking for another hiding-place where I could be
safe, I comed across a corpse. Never was a stranger sight seen.
A man wi' only one hand an' his throat cut from ear to ear. His
eyes glared through the dim fog of death upon 'em, an' the foxes
had found him. I be wearing his clothes now. They'm very
comfortable, an' 'tis a wonder I never took to man's garments
afore, for they'm always to be had where there's scarecrows.
I needn't tell 'e the rest, for you've guessed it by your grinning.
I seed how 'twould fall out, an' so it did. My white rags
of hair I cut off an' left beside his bald poll, an' my clothes
I put about his clay. His knife I took, an' what's more, I got
two hundred and eight pound by him, for there was gold pieces
covered with his blood all round him. More there might have
been, but the cursed greedy bogs had swallowed 'em, though
I raked elbow deep for 'em. Then I smashed in the man's head
an' left winter an' the crows an' wild beasts to do the rest. My
locks be growing again now."
She took off her close cap of rabbit's skin and revealed a tangle
of snow-white hair with evident satisfaction.
"What next?" asked Peter.
"That be all. I'm hid very snug just now, right up where the
river springs nigh the Grey Wethers on Sittaford Tor. Not a bee
gathers honey there; not a beast grazes that way. An' Jack Lee
be along wi' me; for us met by chance nigh Holne Wood in the
night, both hunting for food. 'Twas three days after he slipped
the sojers."
"A scurvy trick he served me. I'd got her promise to marry
me if I saved him."
"Well, I'll sell him to 'e if you wants to pay him out."
"A grand-dam to be proud of! And now, my old treasure,
what do you come to me for?"
"First I want you to change my money into paper an' buy my
snuff-boxes an' watches an' bits of plate. I be going to France."
"Going to leave us! You mustn't. We couldn't get on without
you. Damme, I'm in love with you myself. There's something
about those clothes----"
"Be you in love with that girl still? That's the question. If
so, us may do each other a service."
"Yes, she marries me sooner or later. I never change. The
good wife of Bath's motto is my own:
"'I followeth aye mine inclination
By vertue of my constellation."
My star is steadfastness--the fixed pole is not more stable. I'm
going to marry Grace Malherb."
"You'll ne'er get her by fair means."
"In love all is fair. 'Tis strange, but your gaunt presence
actually shattered thoughts of her. Things have now come to
a crisis and I must use the remarkable brains that Heaven has
given me. 'Nor do men light a candle and put it under a
bushel.' I've tried to marry her and failed utterly to do so upon
simple and conventional lines. Now I must be serious with
myself. 'The Destinies find the way,' if we only let them have
their heads."
He toyed with his watch-guard. The seals were fastened to a
piece of black silk.
"She wore that once about her waist," he said.
"Give me but what this ribband bound;
Take all the rest the sun goes round.'"
"I can help you."
"It's so difficult to realise that you are alive. The countryside
has quite settled it. All men believe you to be in another world.
Malherb's announcement was taken with wonderful self-control. I
don't want to hurt your delicate feelings, Lovey, but not a soul
went into mourning. In fact, only one man in all Devon felt
your taking off, and that was Maurice Malherb."
"You laugh at me. Well, here's a thing to make you laugh
again. I'll tell you how to get her without any more trouble."
"I had thought perhaps to approach the parent birds once
more. But what's the use? Her mother counts for nought.
Her father has got his head full of his own miseries. 'Doubtful
ills plague us worst,' as Seneca so justly observes. While he
hesitated as to whether you were really extinct, he must have
gone through hot fires. Now he knows the worst and waits to
suffer for it; but, what's interesting, not a soul moves against
him."
"That's where my plan comes in then. You lay a charge of
murder on him, an' the maid will marry you to shut your mouth."
"Worthy of you, but foreign to my genius. Besides, though I
blush to say it, everybody sympathises with him. It is always
very painful to hear the estimate of our fellow-creatures upon us;
but people who die and come to life again must expect to learn
some particularly painful facts. There's an Eastern proverb
apposite to that, 'Nobody knows how good we are except
ourselves'! No; for my part, since have this girl I must and will,
I'm inclined now to take her by main force--to do something
feudal and old-fashioned. Until she comes under my roof and
finds all that she is losing, she will never get sense. And
then--stolen fruit! Consider the charm of it to an epicure like myself."
"I'll do anything woman can do for money," answered Mrs. Lee.
"My grandson an' me bide in a ruined shepherd's cot
beyond Sittaford. Us have made it watertight; but 'tis plaguey
cold, an' I'm sick of it. Change my money an' add a bit to it,
an' I'll help 'e with that girl afore I go to France. I always
knowed 'twould be my lot to help you."
"We ought to use your nephew. She would trust him."
"Ess, she do. If you want her here, Jack Lee's the properest
tool to use. I can fox him with a word an' make him help us
without knowing what he's doing."
"Of course--of course. I'll not insult you by planning
details. The thing is obvious."
"Only one man knows where we be hidden, an' that's Leaman
Cloberry. He'll help 'e. He hates Malherb, 'cause he dusted
rat-catcher's mangy jacket for him long ago. 'Tis Cloberry keeps us
in food; an' a cruel lot of money he makes us pay for it."
They conversed for the space of another hour; then Norcot
directed the old woman to return to him in three weeks from that
night, and let her out of the window.
"An' you'll give me a clear hundred over what you change for
me, an' buy my trinkets?" she said.
"All that."
"An' help me to take ship at Dartmouth an' get out o' the
country?"
"It is agreed."
Lovey vanished and Peter watched her. The Malherb amphora
was for that moment uppermost in his mind, but he had
not mentioned it for fear of alarming her. His plot was
adumbrated and the details began to grow. He meant to marry Grace
after abducting her from her home; and he designed subsequently
to propitiate Malherb with the amphora.
"'Twill be a little surprise for our old lady to lose it after all,"
he thought.
Peter appeared at seven o'clock to take breakfast, as usual, and,
as Gertrude poured out coffee, he surprised his sister with an item
of intelligence.
"I go to London to-morrow," he said. "It is a bore to travel
just now, but the East India Company must be obeyed."
CHAPTER V
THE LEOPARD CHANGES HER SPOTS
John Lee had reached a supreme height of indifference to
fortune even before his capture, condemnation and sentence.
He awaited his end without concern, and only averted it at
the instance of Thomas Putt. Afterwards, for mingled reasons,
he carefully abstained from any intercourse with Fox Tor Farm.
And thus it happened that he knew nothing of the supposed
death and burial of his grandmother. The miser herself had
gloated over the success of her enterprise as related by
Mr. Cloberry, but Leaman was expressly directed by Lovey Lee to
keep the truth a secret; and this he did, being well paid for his
pains. Meantime the old woman's indignation grew that Maurice
Malherb was not arrested and hanged.
"'Tis a blackguard beast of a world," she told Leaman
Cloberry. "One law for rich an' one for poor; but if there's any
justice left stirring in the land, us may live to see him dancing in
the air outside of Exeter Gaol yet."
Now, after a period of most miserable seclusion in a shepherd's
ruined cot near the secret sources of Dart, John Lee was to find
himself again thrust into the affairs of Grace Malherb, and to
thank God that he had been spared to do her further service.
It was not until Peter Norcot had returned from London, after
a visit of three weeks' duration, that Lovey Lee opened the new
project to her grandson, and then, indeed, she approached it in a
fashion so remarkable that one might have been stirred to
admiration.
She returned late one night to their haunt, and plunged into a
startling narrative which quickly roused John Lee from sleep.
"The wickedness of this world! Oh, Jack, if ever you go out
among men again, an' get safe off to America, as you hope, try an'
keep straight."
He turned over in his bed of dry heath and stared while his
grandmother ate her supper. Only a streak of moonlight through
the roof lighted their forlorn hiding-place.
"That's strange advice from your lips," he said.
"I know I've been a bad old devil--nobody knows it better.
But whose fault? The world's, not mine. An' I'm white to
black compared to some of us."
"That's very comforting for you, I'll wager. But he must be
a night-black colour that makes you look fair. Yet since you can
mourn, 'tis well. Give back the Malherb amphora and I'll say
you're the best woman in England."
"All in good time. Have you thought what that bit of glass
has cost me? I can't change my god in a minute. For my god
it be. But I'm minded to alter my way of living--I swear
it--after what I've heard this night."
"Have you met the Devil himself then?"
"No--his right hand, Peter Norcot. I was just sitting by the
wayside, full of wonder how I could get out of this evil an' clear
the country, an' turn my fag end of life to good, when past he rode
'pon his great horse. ''Tis Lovey Lee!' he cries out, for his lynx
eyes remembered my face, even in moonlight. And the black
spleen of him! His first thought was you! He's hopeful to see
you hanged yet. 'Give him up an' I'll give 'e five hunderd
pound,' he said. But I ban't sunk so low as that, though by your
starting you seem to think so. I said I knowed nought about 'e.
'Leave that then,' says he. 'You can help me in another job,
and richly I'll reward you.'
"Then he fell to telling 'bout Malherb an' his darter. He'm
set there still--the black patience of him! An' now his plan be
to kindiddle her away altogether. He's plotting to get her under
his own roof; and once there--oh Lord! even I--stone-hearted
as I've been till now--felt my inwards curdle to hear him an' see
the moonlight in his steel eyes! But I was so cunning as a viper
an' promised to help him if he'd help me."
"What do you want of him?"
"He'm going to change all my gold money into paper, an' he'm
going to buy my watches an' snuff-boxes an' teaspoons, as I can't
take with me. Then, that done, I've promised to help with the
maiden. She'm to meet him 'pon Saturday week, an' if she do,
home she'll never go no more till her name be Grace Norcot."
"And you promised to help in that?"
"I didn't dare refuse; but I'm going to play him false. I've
done with wickedness. These latter days have drove the fear of
God into me. I wouldn't help that tiger, not for another amphora;
an' I be going to prove it by taking the side of right."
"She must be warned."
"I know it; an' that's your work. Us can't go to Fox Tor
Farm; but you've got to see her by hook or by crook, else 'tis all
over with her."
"I might write."
"You must write. 'Tis the only way. An' since she taught 'e
to write, she'll know your penmanship an' trust it. My only fear
was you'd had about enough of the girl an' wouldn't care to do no
more for her. But so it lies: if she's to be saved, you must do it.
I'm too old and weak to do anything. Besides, I'm feared of
Norcot."
"I must see her."
"You can't--not at Fox Tor Farm. He've got his spies set as
though he'd made war upon the house. His plot be deeper than
the sea. Go near an' you'm a dead man, for there's money on
your head. Us can only trust Leaman Cloberry to take a letter
for a reward; an' since he'll be sure to read what you say, 'twill
be well in the letter to do no more than ax the maid to come an'
see you."
"See me!"
"Why not? She's free; you ban't. You can slip down to
Cloberry's cot at Dartmeet by night, an' she can come next day
an' see you there an' get her warning."
Lee nodded.
"A written word will bring her, an' Cloberry would get it to her
for money. That I'll pay. He's as fond of gold as I was afore I
began to get sense. I'll give Leaman ten pounds if he does what
you want."
John Lee's simple heart was too concerned with Grace to reflect
upon his grandmother's attitude toward this business. Full of the
perils that lay in wait for her, and aware she was ignorant of them,
he thanked heaven that he was still alive and possessed power to
do her vital service. He did not weigh Lovey's words, but her
startling news; he did not question the probable veracity of her
present sentiments; but considered little more than her proposals
to assist him in a righteous cause. That he must now see Grace
was clear; and if, as had been declared, the plot against her only
wanted a week for its fulfilment, the event cried for instant action.
Since to approach Fox Tor Farm and pierce the cordon said to be
set around was doubtless impossible, John determined to follow
his grandmother's advice and write and bid Grace meet him at
Leaman Cloberry's cottage. To walk or ride thither was easy
for her and could rouse no suspicion. Then what he had to say
might be quickly said, though it could not safely be written.
"I'll go after nightfall to-morrow," he declared.
"And bid her come to see you on Friday, be it wet or fine,"
answered Lovey; "for after that date she'll be free no more. Her
father's hardened his heart like Pharaoh. He'll see that she don't
trick him again."
"Her father!"
"So Norcot told me--grinning like a rain-shoot. They'm
both against her. 'Tis two to one; and 'twould be three to one
if I'd done what they wanted. But I couldn't. I'm weary of
wickedness."
"After nightfall to-morrow, then," said the man.
Lovey spoke no more, and they retired into their respective
corners of the hut; but when, two hours later, John Lee's steady
breathing told his grandmother that he was unconscious, she rose,
left him asleep, and crept away into the Moor. Southward she
went, and then, near the tor called Hartland, heard a voice out
of the night--a cracked and ancient voice, that sang of the
owner's business and repeated its refrain with the monotony of a
bird.
"A ha'penny for a rook;
A penny for a jay;
A noble for a fox;
An' twelvepence for a gray!"
Soon Lovey found Leaman Cloberry, where he waited by
appointment in a cleft of the rocks, snugly clad as usual in the
raiment of dead beasts.
"'Tis all so easy as cursing," she said. "He'll come to you
to-morrow--poor sheep--an' write the letter. You'll get it to
her through Tom Putt, who won't know what he's doing; an'
she'll go to him Friday. Then he'll pour his nonsense into her
ears; and as she passes home, along by Whispering Wood, you
an' me will be waiting for her. She'll jump for joy and fear no
evil when she sees me alive; for it means that her father's guiltless
of blood."
"An' this here Mr. Norcot?" asked Cloberry. "A good
friend to me an' very generous in the past; but the money ought
to be big."
"So it will be. We take the maiden by night up to where the
springs of Dart break out; an' then he comes along by chance
and rescues her from us. 'Tis all planned. He'll seem in a
grand rage, an' may even fetch you a blow or two; but they'm
light at fifty pounds. Then off he goes with her to Chagford,
and not a living soul that cares for her will know where she be
hidden till it pleases him to tell."
"An' John Lee?" inquired the vermin-catcher.
"Well--what of him? Who troubles about the cheese when
the mouse is catched? He'll know nought till he hears she has
been caught. And she'll always think that 'twas his treachery
laid the trap for her!"
CHAPTER VI
THE BURNING OF BLAZEY
On the fourteenth day of March, 1815, came peace, borne
upon the white wings of the _Favourite_: for the President
of the United States had ratified the treaty.
But, unhappily, the history of the War Prison on Dartmoor was
not yet written, and the last bloody chapter still remained to tell.
Ignorant of the complicated task set for authority, the bulk of
the Americans instantly clamoured to be free; nor could the
better instructed among them induce patience at this juncture.
Letters from Mr. Blazey cooled enthusiasm; but these were
written in a callous spirit, and impatience quickly rose to anger.
Nothing had as yet been prepared for exodus, and the Agent not
only gave no promise of immediate liberation, but explained that
certain precautions, highly offensive to many of the Americans,
must first be taken before a man left Dartmoor.
"I am informed," he wrote, "that great numbers of you refuse
to be inoculated with the smallpox, which I hear has been very
mortal among you. I therefore acquaint you that it will be
impossible for me to send home any prisoners unless they have
gone through the same."
Later he wrote again concerning American prisoners taken
under the French flag; and then, as no further communication
was received for many days, the sailors, like schoolboys on the
verge of holiday, began mischievous pranks, flouted their guards
and planned all the trouble that ingenuity could devise. Many
escaped, for discipline was relaxed. Then Captain Short, from
carelessness, proceeded to the other extreme, until even those
who desired to assist him in the maintenance of order despaired.
The prisoners were out of hand, and their Commandant knew it.
He blamed them, not himself, for his heart would not accuse him,
though a soldier's conscience sometimes whispered censure.
One night a strange glare filled the courtyard of No. 4, and
lurid lights with inky shadows leapt and fell against the granite
walls. In the midst a great bonfire blazed, and round about it
thousands of wild figures ran, shouted and yelled. At the grilles
stood the officers of the prison, some fearful, some indifferent,
some enraged.
Sergeant Bradridge, off duty, was watching this scene, and
beside him stood his nephew, Mr. Putt.
"There'll be trouble yet," declared the sergeant gloomily, "for
they be bent on it. They're mad at the delay, and the party for
sense--Mr. Cecil Stark and a grey-head or two, and most of the
other gentlemen among 'em--count for nothing."
As he spoke a procession of prisoners appeared, carrying a
hurdle on which was seated the semblance of a man. The figure
wore a plum-coloured coat, had a scratch wig, a three-cornered
hat and knee breeches. Its face was red, its nose was scarlet, its
great eyes coal-black.
"'Tis meant for Agent Blazey," explained Putt's uncle.
"They've been playing the fool with that great doll all day. First
they tried it for bringing 'em to nakedness and starvation here;
then they found it guilty; then they made it confess all its sins,
which took a mighty long time; then they hanged it by the neck;
and now they'm going to burn it to ashes. So they'd treat the
real man if they could get at him. An' they'll break loose afore
long, so sure as my name's Bradridge, for the Devil's in 'em."
With songs and a wild war dance the effigy of Reuben Blazey
was flung upon the flames; then, while it burned, the prisoners
roared "Yankee Doodle" together until the walls vibrated.
Apart among them stood Burnham, and with him was Cecil
Stark. A sort of friendship still subsisted between them, for the
younger man had apologised after their last quarrel as soon as he
found himself sober again. Relations, however, were strained to
breaking, and to-night they broke for ever.
Stark, indeed, had lost interest in everything but his own
affairs now. He might have left the prison at any moment by the
expedient of a bribe to the guard; but, as before, the interests of
the great plot had kept him, so now the welfare of the mass of
prisoners held him still among them. There was little he could
do, for he represented patience, which was an unpopular virtue
after peace had been declared; but he saw the futility of this
behaviour, and tried as far as possible to make his fellows
reasonable. A few begged him to remain to the end, and, knowing
from letters pretty regularly received through Putt, that all was
well with Grace, he waited on.
His future line of action was difficult, but he had determined
upon it. Grace gave him to understand that Norcot troubled
her no more, and that her father, stricken by a terrible grief, was
changed and took a gentler view of life's many-sided problems.
Therefore, he proposed to return to Fox Tor Farm and attempt
a reconciliation between himself and the Malherbs. Great
personal circumstances armed him with strong arguments from a
worldly point of view, for his uncle in Vermont was dead, and he
now stood heir to a notable fortune.
"I wish to God 'twas the living man that roasted there!" cried
Burnham, pointing to the bonfire. "Of all devilish things in this
war, our treatment after peace is declared has been the most
devilish. 'Tis two weeks since we should have been set free, yet
here we still are."
"But they are active. Three ships have set sail from London
for Plymouth."
"D'you believe that yarn? Ask the soldiers and they'll tell
you the ships are held in the Downs by contrary winds; then
they turn aside and wink at each other."
"You take the conduct of these hirelings too seriously. It is
folly to let the vulgarity of turnkeys and guards anger you, or to
answer the indifference of the authorities with this buffoonery."
He pointed to the bonfire.
"You're a prig," said the other. "You can't help it, but an
infernal prig are you, Cecil Stark; and now every word you speak
shows that you've changed sides and are only an American in
name."
"Bad company has demoralised a good fellow," answered the
other. "You want the discipline of a ship-of-war and a whiff of
salt air to make you your own man again, Burnham. You pretend
it is a fine thing to lead these ignorant, silly fellows; but in your
heart you are ashamed, and that makes you break with an old
friend. 'Tis the same with Captain Short. He's been weak in
the past, and the weakest thing about him is that now he's looking
for gratitude for his former good nature. Gratitude's the rare
virtue of individuals--never of a mob."
"You prose and prose and blink at facts, like an owl blinks at
daylight. Why don't you escape and get out of it?"
"Because I reckon I'm more use here."
"I know better; you're frightened to do it. If you had the
pluck of a powder-monkey, and if your love for that girl over there
was worth a damn, you'd have vanished long ago; but you know
this cursed Government is letting us escape now, so that we may
fall into the hands of the press-gangs that are hunting all round
Dartmoor like packs of wolves--you know that, and you're
frightened they'll catch you too. Nothing makes a man such a
coward as coming into a fortune."
"See him--see him!" shouted Mr. Cuffee, who ran by at this
moment. "See him fizzle, gemmen! Marse Blazey blaze--him
blaze--him blaze like dat in hell!"
He rushed screaming past with the other black men, whose
rags, gleaming teeth and ferocious faces, suggested the demon
throng proper to Mr. Blazey's future environment.
"You will pick a quarrel, drunk or sober," said Stark, "though
of late you've sunk to be not worth kicking. As you like--but
even at the risk of more nonsense from you, I'd wish to explain
that I'm no Englishman, though it happens I'm not mad.
Consider how this nation stands. Hardly has it concluded peace
with us than comes the news that Bonaparte has left Elba, and is
now in Europe at the head of three hundred thousand men."
"Don't I know it? Doesn't every cur among them turn pale
and look over his shoulder like a frightened woman when you cry
'Boney is coming'?"
"They are busy and rather preoccupied. I had speech with
Short yesterday."
"What do I care with whom you had speech? I'm here for
nearly six thousand free men, who are shut up and still treated as
prisoners. Let them see to that. We want our liberty, and we'll
take it before many days are done. What do you suppose we are
made of?"
"The Lord knows," said Stark. "You are men no more, but
a horde of savage and silly monkeys. How can they get ships
to convey six thousand of us to America in a week? You, at
least, who pretend to some knowledge of warfare and seamanship,
should have patience and do your small part to help the British
Government, not hinder it."
"I'm not an Englishman."
"I wish you were. Unfortunately the fact remains that you're
an American; but your country's not likely to be proud of you if
ever this chapter in your career is written."
At this moment, as the ashes of Blazey sank into one glowing
mass, and the bonfire slowly died, the Americans burst into a
mournful dirge that had been written by Ira Anson the day
before, and committed to memory by a hundred men.
Stark left his old shipmate, not guessing that he would never
speak to him again; but he had caught sight of Putt with some
soldiers near the grille, and now he approached. They strolled
on different sides of the barrier into a dark corner under shadow
of a cachot wall. Then Putt spoke.
"A letter, your honour, an' I think 'tis important, for Miss
sent it by one of our women with urgent orders to get it to you
before to-morrow."
"Wait here," answered the other, and, taking the note, he
returned within the light of the waning fire and read it.
"Dear heart," wrote Grace. "Yesterday through a villager I
had a line from John Lee. He is near us, and I fear that he has
heard of evil. He sends but two lines: 'Meet me after noon
to-morrow at Leaman Cloberry's cot, where I shall lie hid till
you come. I must see you. Danger. John Lee.' I am going.
It is his writing, therefore I fear nothing. When are you coming
to me? The time of waiting is endless to your Grace."
Stark reflected rapidly. That Lee should not approach him
was easily understood; yet that some new danger threatened and
John had wind of it, filled him with alarm. He returned to
Putt, but made no mention of the letter, for Thomas was in
ignorance of all matters between Grace and the prisoner. He
glorified in his secret duties as messenger, and in the substantial
payment they received; but of John Lee he knew nothing, and
Stark, guessing at Lee's personal dangers, did not increase them
by whispering of his presence, even to his most faithful friend.
He wrote a few words on a leaf from his pocket-book. "My
life, trust him, of course; and write to me to-morrow what he
tells you. Within a week, if all be well, I may reach Fox Tor
Farm; but, if necessary, I can be there to-morrow. C."
"I be going to take supper with the soldiers an' my uncle,"
said Mr. Putt; "but I'll see Miss Grace gets this first thing
in the morning. Mrs. Beer will hand it to her at daylight."
The fire was nearly out now, and the great courts deserted.
Soon lights streamed from the windows of the prison; then they
too disappeared. Silence fell at last. Under night, in their long
rows of hammocks, men slept, or tossed and swore; while beneath
the stars, the sentries stood like ghosts upon the walls, or tramped
backwards and forwards within them.
CHAPTER VII
DEATH AT THE GATE
Fate, ordering that the War Prison should be for ever
remembered in the annals of Prince Town, now crowned
all horrors of the past with a supreme catastrophe before those
gloomy haunts of sorrow were deserted and echo reigned alone
in their courts and corridors. An accident fostered the turbulent
spirit that still animated these great companies, and daily infected
the minds of new subjects, even as smallpox gained power over
their bodies. Mr. Blazey thought it best to take no notice of the
insult to which he had been subjected, and soon after the event
wrote to his fellow-citizens in an amicable spirit. He explained
that to grant passports must not be expected save by those
who had friends and connections in England. For the rest, he
assured the prisoners that all possible despatch marked the
preparation of the cartel ships. "You are much wanted in the
United States," he wrote, "and the encouragement for seamen
there is very great."
The message soothed not a few impatient hearts, and many
of the wiser sailors used it to good purpose in allaying the
prevalent bitterness and disorder. But close upon it fell out an
unfortunate occurrence for which the prison contractors were
responsible. During a whole day the prisoners remained short
of bread, and they were called upon to subsist as best they
might on four and a half ounces of beef to each man. Captain
Short was away at the critical moment upon business in Plymouth,
and his subordinates refused to oblige the hungry hordes. A
pound and a half of soft bread by right belonged to every
prisoner, but the contractor's clerk lost his presence of mind and
refused to serve rations of any sort until the return of the
Commandant.
This accident was enough for William Burnham's hot-headed
faction. A bread riot became imminent, and the prisoners
threatened to force the prisons and break open the store-house.
Panic and terror swept through Prince Town; chaos fell upon
the gaol, and from all the surrounding neighbourhood the women
and children fled into the villages, for it was reported that the
prisoners were about to break loose and pour, like an angry sea,
over the countryside. Many, indeed, escaped before Captain
Short returned with a reinforcement of two hundred soldiers
from Plymouth; but in the meanwhile fresh supplies of bread
had reached the prison, and the bulk of the Americans, having
no desire to brave the unknown while liberty promised to be but
a thing of days, remained quiet and orderly. Their numbers
acted as a weight to render the more daring inert; the disturbance
passed and the Commandant expressed a frank and courteous
regret for the occasion of the trouble.
Yet alarm did not subside so quickly without the prison walls.
Rumours daily gained ground that the Americans contemplated a
desperate deed, and Captain Short began to credit these reports.
His suspicions and the folly of those in his charge precipitated a
conflict, and the innocent suffered for the guilty.
Upon the 6th day of April, towards a peaceful Spring twilight,
a large body of men, under Burnham's leadership, collected by
twos and threes in one place. The numbers increased, and began
ominously to swarm round about a great gate that led from the
exercise yards to the marketplace. Ordered by the turnkeys to
disperse, they refused; implored by some of their friends to
avoid risk of suspicion, Burnham himself bade these
peace-seekers go their way or join the party for freedom.
A subaltern, hearing the words, hastened to Captain Short.
"There's trouble brewing, sir. They're swarming like bees at
No. 1 gate from the yard, and it's only secured against 'em with a
chain. There's a breach, too, in the prison wall of No. 6. The
guards are frightened, and the turnkeys won't face the prisoners.
I fear that they only wait for darkness."
He came in an evil hour, because the Commandant had already
heard warnings of like character from one or two of the Americans
themselves. For their information they had received their
liberty.
Short started up.
"The dogs! Will nothing satisfy 'em? Must it come to
bayonets? Then, by God, it shall! I've done all living man
can do to tame these chattering hyaenas. I've endured enough
to make me stand self-condemned for a poltroon. More I'll
not endure. They are not to be tamed by kindness. The whip,
then!"
He raged and ordered that the alarm bells should be rung
immediately.
A brazen clangour echoed and re-echoed through Prince Town;
the walls of the prison flung it to the mountain-tops, and the great
tors resounded it, until, sunk to a mellow murmur, the bells were
heard afar off. Upon their clash followed the rattle and hubbub
of drums, for a tattoo broke out and beat the guard to quarters.
No more unfortunate act could have marked the moment. Thousands
of prisoners, just then turning in to their evening meal,
rushed back to the yards, and the group at the gate became a
centre of theatrical attraction. Upon one side of them advanced
the Commandant, his officers and the bulk of the garrison; on
the other their inquisitive and excited compatriots began to
crowd. The mass was augmented from the rear until it became
a moving force, impelled forward and powerless to take action
against itself. Thus, when bayonets were lowered, the unfortunate
van of this great movement found itself pushed remorselessly
upon them.
Captain Short, taking sole command at the fatal moment, when
his own self-command had vanished, drew up his force in position
to charge. Simultaneously a crash above the hubbub told that
the great chain at the gate was broken, and a hundred voices
were lifted to cheer Mr. Knapps, whose powerful arm, wielding a
sledge, had done the deed. Until now it is certain that any
design of escaping had but actuated a handful of the prisoners.
No concerted enterprise existed among them; but as the barrier
fell and the gate yawned open, others, seeing the opportunity,
crowded among Burnham's faction, and prepared to break out
under the eyes of their guardians. Captain Short understood
nothing more than what he saw, and the immediate danger
cooled his passion. But his hatred of this many-headed monster
was not cooled. Cries resounded, and behind the breaking gates
the civil guards were flying. Yet to the Commandant's credit it
may be recorded that he addressed the prisoners and called upon
them to yield and fall back. Only yells and laughter greeted
him; while at the portals themselves an energetic handful were
already forcing the great gates off their hinges.
Thereon the Commandant ordered fifteen file of the guard to
this barrier, and with lowered bayonets the men advanced.
Many fell back; many were driven on with curses and sharp
wounds; but the inert mass behind yielded slowly, while the
phalanx in front refused to yield. They kept their ground and
held the gate. They insulted the soldiers, and even dared Short
to fire upon them.
The first use of that awful word was in Burnham's mouth.
"We are free men!" he shouted; "and you have no jurisdiction
upon us, and no right to lift these bars between us and
liberty. You might as soon dare to fire upon us as order us to
bide here. This night we take our liberty, since you abuse your
trust and deny it to us in a country that is at peace with ours."
The mass who heard yelled and pressed forward; those who
heard not answered the yell, and guessing nothing of the bayonets
in front, fought to get there.
Short answered Burnham.
"Before God, they shall fire if----"
But his troops, now maddened with anger, and sore buffeted
by the foremost of the prisoners, heard the word "fire," and
waited for no context.
A crash and a vibrating roar followed, and Short's sentence was
never spoken. Into the waning light flashed the muskets, and
with the billowy smoke there rolled aloft a shriek of fear and of
agony where souls parted from life.
William Burnham fell shot through the head, and several
perished with him. About fifty men were wounded, and the great
yard ran blood. Many of the soldiers had fired reluctantly and
discharged their weapons over the heads of the prisoners; but
the cry of "Blank cartridge!" lifted in the rear had no power to
stay the awful panic that followed. A bellow went up from
thousands of throats, and the masses of men fell back and
poured like rivers into the gaols. It was then that certain knaves
among the soldiery, themselves secure on the wall of the prison,
opened a cross fire and slew not a few innocent men as they fled
to safety. None was brought to justice for this damnable deed,
because not one criminal could be discovered when the
catastrophe was investigated.
Chaos indescribable ruled that hour. Short toiled like a
madman to stay the mischief. He stood before his own men and
yelled himself hoarse with execration and command. But the
soldiers were out of hand. They had suffered much, and in
their base minds the hour of vengeance was come.
At length non-commissioned officers succeeded where their
superiors had failed. Sergeant Bradridge and others drew off
the garrison, and Doctor Macgrath, with his orderlies and many
recruits, hastened to the dead and dying. Not a few had already
perished; others were mortally wounded.
Recognising Cecil Stark, the doctor approached where he knelt
beside his old messmate; but a glance sufficed.
"That man is dead," he said, and hastened on to tend the
living.
Those few of this vast host with whom we have been concerned
had all gathered here. Knapps was down with a ball in his leg
and a bayonet wound in the arm. Mr. Cuffee, uninjured, howled
with sorrow beside one Haywood, a black from Virginia, who
had perished. The air stank with the smells of blood and smoke.
Voices and cries rang in it; deep groans, like the bass of an
organ, persisted beneath the high-pitched cries. As the doctors
turned or moved a sufferer, some, restored to consciousness,
shrieked till the walls rang out their exquisite grief; others sighed
and died under the gentle hands now stretching out to succour
them. Captain Short had withdrawn his men, and nearly all the
Americans were finally driven back to their respective prisons
and locked in; but the Commandant and his officers laboured
among the wounded and toiled on under torchlight until the last
fallen sufferer had been moved to the hospital or dead-house.
Seven ultimately deceased, and of those who recovered many lost
a limb. The Americans first responsible for the catastrophe
nearly all suffered. They were standing beside Burnham and
received a point-blank fire.
After the prisoners had been removed, Cecil Stark, who worked
with the English to aid them, prepared to return to his quarters
when he found himself accosted by a man with a swarthy face
and a black beard. Many Hebrew merchants from the surrounding
towns swarmed about the prison with garments to sell to the
prisoners at this season, and Stark, supposing the man to be a
Jew who had entered with hundreds of others after the catastrophe,
was turning from him, when the stranger spoke.
"A moment," he said. "'Tis a terrible hour in which I'm
come; but this ill wind will blow you good luck and perchance
one who's more to you than yourself."
"John Lee!"
"Ay!--I've come, for there was none else that I dared to
send. Evil has fallen out to Grace Malherb. This time there
must be nothing to keep you from her, or else the worst will
happen. Even as it is you may be too late."
"She sent your letter and I told her to fall in with any plan or
warning that you might have for her."
"Take this," said Lee, producing a handful of something dark.
"'Tis a beard made of sheep's wool. Wondering as I came how
I should hide my face, I saw a black sheep. For once 'twas not
a sign of ill-luck, but good. I cornered her, threw her, and cut
from her back enough wool for the purpose. I browned my face
by rubbing peat upon it. Now I am a Jew. Don this quickly
and follow the crowd that is now being thrust outside the walls.
The rest you shall know as we go on our way."
Stark adjusted the crisp wool about his chin, drew his hat over
his eyes, fetched the cloak about him, and passed unchallenged
out beside John Lee. It seemed the most natural and simple
matter thus to depart. The long months of suffering, the
privations, plots, excitements and disappointments did not return to
his mind for many a day. Henceforth, one solitary thought
informed him, and he hastened straightway forward into a trap
more cunning than any made with granite.
Lee explained what had happened as far as he knew it.
"To me she came two days ago in answer to my urgent
message. I had heard that Norcot meant to get her into his
personal power at any cost, for he told my grandmother that he
would do so. Weary of evil, or pretending so, the old woman
confessed to me, and I explained to Grace Malherb the threatened
danger. She promised that she would not stir abroad again, and
assured me that her father knew nothing. She could hardly stop
for joy when she heard that Lovey Lee was alive; for it seems
that Mr. Malherb, who struck her down upon Cater's Beam,
believed that he had slain her."
"But of Miss Malherb?"
"She left me and has not since been seen. This I have heard
to-day, for as my grandmother did not return, I grew fearful and
last night got to Fox Tor Farm. It was easy to lie in wait until I
could speak with Putt, for once more the place is disturbed and
they seek high and low for Miss Grace."
"You saved her from Norcot then, and some other ill has
overtaken her?"
"I do not know. It may be that in ignorance I only worked
for Norcot. I cannot question my grandmother, since she is still
absent from our hiding-place. Therefore, there was no course but
to come to you."
"Norcot may have used you after all through your grandmother?"
"I can only fear it."
"Then to him! I will not sleep until I have met that man."
"We are going there now. To-night you shall lie hid close to
Chagford, and to-morrow night--not sooner--you can tackle him.
I've been to Chagford, but I dared not go to him myself until I
had been to you, for his answer would be to arrest me. You've
got to show your quality now. If my grandmother is guilty of
this, you'll find the cleverest man and the wickedest woman on
Dartmoor against you."
Stark did not answer. His thoughts wandered backwards as it
seemed.