The Tory Lover 40

The Tory Lover 40

As this was finished there was another man waiting close by, who caught

impatiently at the thrice-watered ink, and looked suspiciously to see if

any still remained.

 

"Harbert said ’s how I should have it next," grumbled the fellow

prisoner, "if so be you ’ve left me any. Who ’ll car’ our letters to

the cartel? They want to send a list o’ those that’s dead out o’ the

Dolton, an’ I give my promise to draw up the names."

 

There were many faces missing now from the crew of the Dolton

brigantine, taken nearly a year and a half before, but there were still

a good number of her men left in the prison. Others had come from the

Blenheim or the Fancy; some from the Lexington; and the newest resident

was a man off The Yankee Hero, who had spent some time after his capture

as sailor on a British man-of-war. He was a friendly person, and had

brought much welcome news, being also so strong and well fed that he was

a pleasant sight to see. Just now he sat with Charles Herbert, of

Newbury, in Massachusetts, whom they all called the scribe. For once

this poor captive wore a bright, eager look on his scarred face, as he

listened to the newcomer’s talk of affairs; they had been near neighbors

at home. The younger man had been in prison these many months. He was

so lucky as to possess a clumsy knife, which was as great a treasure as

his cherished bottle of ink, and was busy making a little box of cedar

wood and fitting it neatly together with pegs. Since he had suffered

the terrible attack of small-pox which had left his face in ruins, and

given him a look of age at twenty, his eyesight had begun to fail; he

was even now groping over the ground, to find one of the tiny dowels

that belonged to his handiwork.

 

"’T is there by your knee; the rags of your trouser leg was over it,"

said Titcomb, the new man-of-war’s man, as he reached for the bit of

wood.

 

"Who ’s this new plant o’ grace, comin’ out o’ hospit’l?" he asked

suddenly, looking over Herbert’s shoulder, with the peg in his fingers.

"’T is a stranger to me, and with the air of a gentleman, though he lops

about trying his sea legs, like an eel on ’s tail."

 

"No place for gentlemen here, God help him!" said the young scribe

sadly, trying to clear his dull eyes with a ragged sleeve as he turned

to look. "No, I don’t know who it is. I did hear yisterday that there

was an officer fetched here in the night, from the nor’ard, under guard,

and like to be soon hanged. Some one off of a Yankee privateer, they

said, that went in and burnt the shipping of a port beyond Wales. I

overheared the sentinels havin’ some talk about him last night. I

expect ’t was that old business of the Ranger, and nothin’ new."

 

There was a rough scuffling game going on in the prison yard, which made

all the sick and disabled men shrink back against the walls, out of

danger. The stranger came feebly from point to point, as the game left

space, toward the sunny side where the two Newbury men were sitting. As

they made room for him, they saw that he was dressed in the remains of a

torn, weather-stained uniform; his arm was in a sling, and his shoulder

fast bound with dirty bandages.

 

"You ’re a new bird in this pretty cage," said poor Herbert, smiling

pleasantly. He was a fellow of sympathetic heart, and always very

friendly with new-comers.

 

The stranger returned his greeting, with a distressed glance toward

their noisy companions, and seated himself heavily on the ground,

leaning back against the palisade. The tumult and apparent danger of

finding himself trodden underfoot vexed and confused him in his

weakness; presently he grew faint, and his head dropped on his breast.

His last thought was a wish to be back in the wretched barracks, where

at least it was quiet. At that moment two men pushed their way out of

the middle of a quarreling group of playmates, and ran toward him.

 

"’Tain’t never you, sir!" cried one.

 

"’Tis Mr. Roger Wallingford, too! Don’t you think I ’ve got sense

enough to know?" scolded the other, both speaking at once, in tones

which conveyed much pity and astonishment to the Newbury men’s ears.

 

"By God! it is, an’ he ’s a dyin’ man!"

 

Gideon Warren was a Berwick sailor of the old stock, who had known the

lieutenant from a child, and was himself born and reared by the river.

"What ’ve them devils used him such a way for?" he demanded angrily.

"He looks as ancient as the old judge, his father, done, the week afore

he died. What sort of a uniform’s this he’s got on him?"

 

The other men looked on, and, any excitement being delightful in so dull

a place, a crowd gathered about them quickly, pushing and jostling, and

demanding to know what had happened. Warren, a heavily built,

kind-faced old mariner, had fallen on his knees and taken the sick man’s

head on his own ample shoulder, with all the gentleness of a woman.

There was more than one old Berwick neighbor standing near The general

racket of noise began to be hushed.

 

"Git him some water, can’t ye?" commanded Warren. "I misdoubt we ’ve

got no sperits for him. Stand to t’ other side, there, some on ye

caw-handed cutters, an’ keep the sun off’n him!"

 

"’T ain’t no British fightin’ gear, nor French neither, that’s on him,"

said Ichabod Lord, as he leaned forward to get a better view of the red

waistcoat, and, above all, the gilt buttons of the new prisoner’s coat.

 

"’T is an officer from one o’ our own Congress ships; they ’d keep such

news from us here, any way they could," said young Earl angrily.

 

"Looks to me different," said the Newbury man who was with Herbert.

"No, I ’ll begretch it’s anything more ’n some livery wear and relic o’

fashion. ’T is some poor chap they ’ve cotched out’n some lord’s house;

he mought be American-born, an’ they took him to be spyin’ on ’em."

 

"What d’ you know o’ them high affairs?" returned Warren with

indignation. "Livery wear? You ain’t never been situated where you’d

be like to see none! ’T is a proper uniform, or was one, leastways;

there’s a passel o’ anchors worked on him, and how he ever come here

ain’t for me to say, but ’tis our young Squire Wallin’ford, son an’ heir

o’ the best gentleman that was ever on the old Piscataqua River.

 

"When we come away, folks was all certain they had leanin’s to the wrong

side: his mother’s folks was high among the Boston Tories," explained

Ichabod Lord wonderingly. "Yet he must ha’ been doin’ some mischief

’long o’ the Patriots, or he’d never been sent here for no rebel,—no,

they’d never sent him here; this ain’t where they keep none o’ their

crown jew’ls! Lord! I hope he ain’t goin’ to die afore he tells some

news from the old Lower Landin’ an’ Pound Hill, an’ how things was goin’

forrard, when he left home, all up along the Witchtrot road!"

 

These last words came straight from the depths of an exile’s heart, and

nobody thought it worth while to smile at the names of his localities;

there was hardly a man who was not longing for home news in the same

desperate way. A jail was but a jail the world over, a place to crowd a

man lower down, soul and body, and England was not likely to be anxious

about luxuries for these ship’s companies of rebels and pirates, the

willful destroyers of her commerce; they were all thought guilty of

treason, and deserved the worst of punishment.

 

 

There was a faint flicker of color now on the stranger’s cheeks, and

Charles Herbert had brought some water, and was fanning him with a poor

fragment of headgear, while some one else rubbed his cold hands. They

were all well enough used to seeing men in a swoon; the custom was to

lay them close to the wall, if they were in the way, to recover

themselves as best they could, but this man with the stained red

waistcoat might have news to tell.

 

"I ’ll bate my head he ’s been on the Ranger with Paul Jones," announced

Ichabod Lord solemnly, as if he were ready to suffer for his opinions.

"That’s what ’t is; they may have all been taken, too, off the coast."

 

"Why, ’tis the uniform of our own Congress navy, then!" exclaimed young

Herbert, with his scarred cheeks gone bright crimson like a girl’s, and

a strange thrill in his voice. He sprang to his feet, and the men near

him gave the best cheer they could muster. Poor Wallingford heard it,

and stirred a little, and half opened his eyes.

 

"I’ve above two shillings here that I’ve airnt makin’ of my workboxes:

some o’ you fellows run to the gates and get a decent-looking body to

fetch us some brandy," begged Herbert hastily.

 

"I’m all right now," said Wallingford aloud; and then he saw whose stout

arms were holding him, and looked into a familiar face.

 

"Good God! we had news at home long ago that you were dead, Warren!" he

said with wide-eyed bewilderment.

 

"I bain’t then, so now," insisted the honest Gideon indignantly, which

amused the audience so that they fell to laughing and slapping one

another on the shoulder.

 

"Well, I bain’t," repeated Warren, as soon as he could be heard. "I ’ve

been here in this prison for seven months, and it’s a good deal worse ’n

layin’ at home in Old Fields bur’in’ ground, right in sight o’ the river

’n all’s a-goin’ on. Tell us where you come from, sir, as soon ’s you

feel able, and how long you are from Barvick! We get no sort of news

from the folks. I expect you can’t tell me whether my old mother ’s

livin’?" The poor man tried hard to master his feelings, but his face

began to twitch, and he burst out crying suddenly, like a child.

 

"Looks like they’ve all gone and forgot us," said a patient, pale-faced

fellow who stood near. Wallingford was himself again now, and looked

with dismay at those who looked at him. Their piteous pallor and

hungry-eyed misery of appearance could give but little sense of welcome

or comfortable reassurance to a new captive. He was as poor as they,

and as lacking in present resource, and, being weak and worn, the very

kindness and pity of the arms that held him only added to his pain.

 

"If I had not come the last of my way by sea," he told them, trying to

speak some cheerful hope to such hopeless souls, "I might have got word

to London or to Bristol, where I can count upon good friends," but some

of the listeners looked incredulous and shook their heads doubtfully,

while there were those who laughed bitterly as they strolled away.

 

"Have you any late news from Captain Paul Jones?" he asked, sitting

straight now, though Warren still kept a careful arm behind him. "I was

at Whitehaven with him; I belong on the frigate Ranger," and his eyes

grew bright and boyish.

 

"They say that one of her own officers tried to betray the ship,"

sneered a young man, a late comer to the Mill Prison, who stood looking

straight into poor Wallingford’s face.

 

"’T was true enough, too," said Roger Wallingford frankly; "it is by no

fault of mine that you see me here. God grant that such treachery made no other victim!"