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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52957 ***

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      (Library of the University of Illinois)







THE LAND OF BONDAGE






ROMANCES BY THE SAME AUTHOR

   THE HISPANIOLA PLATE
   IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY
   SERVANTS OF SIN
   THE YEAR ONE
   THE FATE OF VALSE
   ACROSS THE SALT SEAS
   THE CLASH OF ARMS
   DENOUNCED
   THE SCOURGE OF GOD
   FORTUNES MY FOE
   A GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER
   THE INTRIGUER'S WAY
   THE DESERT SHIP






THE LAND OF BONDAGE
A ROMANCE



BY
JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON

AUTHOR OF
"THE HISPANIOLA PLATE"
"A DEAD RECKONING"
ETC., ETC.




LONDON
F. V. WHITE & CO., LIMITED
14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1905







CONTENTS


PART I


THE NARRATIVE OF GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE


CHAPTER
I.      FUNERAL.
II.     AN UNPEACEFUL PASSING.
III.    A BEGGAR AND AN OUTCAST.
IV.     INTO THE LAND OF BONDAGE.
V.      THE SPRINGE IS SET.
VI.     THE BIRD DRAWS NEAR.
VII.    TRAPPED.
VIII.   AND CAGED.
IX.     MY MOTHER.
X.      A NOBLE KINSMAN.
XI.     IMPRESSED.


PART II

THE NARRATIVE OF JOICE BAMPFYLD OF VIRGINIA

XII.    A COLONIAL PLANTATION.
XIII.   THE BOND SLAVE.
XIV.    A SLAVE'S GRATITUDE!
XV.     A VISITOR FROM ENGLAND.
XVI.    ANOTHER VISITOR.
XVII.   THE RED MAN.
XVIII.  BESIEGED.
XIX.    AT BAY.
XX.     THE GREAT MEDICINE CHIEF.
XXI.    IN CAPTIVITY.
XXII.   AMONGST THE SAVAGES.
XXIII.  DENOUNCED.
XXIV.   'TWIXT BEAR AND PANTHER.


PART III


THE NARRATIVE OF LORD ST. AMANDE CONTINUED

XXV.    THE SHAWNEE TRAIL.
XXVI.   AS FOEMEN FIGHT.
XXVII.  A LONG PEACE.
XXVIII. THE REWARD OF A TRAITOR.


PART IV


THE NARRATIVE OF JOICE BAMPFYLD CONTINUED

XXIX.   HOMEWARD BOUND.
XXX.    IN THE LAND WHERE THEIR FATHERS DWELT.
XXXI.   FACE TO FACE.
XXXII.  NEMESIS.

   THE NARRATIVE CONCLUDED BY GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE

       "AFTER THESE STORMS AT LAST A CALM"






PREFACE


The groundwork of the following narrative, accompanied by a vast
number of papers and documents bearing on the main facts, was related
to me by the late Mr. Clement Barclay of Philadelphia, the last
descendant of an old Virginian family. On reading over these papers
and documents, I was struck by the resemblance which the story bore to
the history of another unfortunate young Englishman whose case created
much sensation in the English Law Courts at about the same period,
_i.e_., that of the reign of King George II. Recognising, however,
that the adventures of Lord St. Amande were not only more romantic
than those of that other personage, while his character was of a far
more noble and interesting nature, I resolved to utilise them for the
purpose of romance in the following pages, which are now submitted to
the public. Except that in some few cases, and those the principal,
the names have been altered, the characters bear the same names as in
the documents, private papers, journals and news-letters handed to me
by Mr. Barclay.

J. B.-B.

_October_, 1904.







THE LAND OF BONDAGE





PART I


THE NARRATIVE OF
GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE




CHAPTER I

MY LORD'S FUNERAL


And this was the end of it. To be buried at the public expense!

To be buried at the public expense, although a Viscount in the Peerage
of Ireland and the heir to a Marquisate in the Peerage of England.

The pity of it, the pity that it should come to this!

A few years before, viz., in the fourth year of the reign of our late
Queen Anne, and the year of Our Lord, 1706, no one who had then known
Gerald, Lord Viscount St. Amande, would have ventured to foretell so
evil an ending for him, since he and life were well at evens with each
other. Ever to have his purse fairly well filled with crowns if not
guineas had been his lot in those days, as it had also been to have
good credit at the fashioners, to be able to treat his friends to a
fine turtle or a turbot at the coffee-houses he used, to take a hand
at ombra or at whisk, to play at pass-dice or at billiards, and to be
always carefully bedeck't in the best of satins and velvets and laces,
and to eat and drink of the best. For to eat and drink well was ever
his delight, as it was to frequent port clubs and Locketts or Rummers,
to empty his glass as soon as it was filled, to toss down beaker after
beaker, while, meantime, he would sing jovial chaunts and songs of
none too delicate a nature, fling a handful of loose silver to the
servers and waitresses, and ogle each of the latter who was comely or
buxom.

Yet now he was being buried at the public expense!

How had it come about? I must set it down so that you shall
understand. During this period of wassailing and carousing, of
ridottos at St. James's and dances at lower parts of the town, for he
affected even the haunts at Rotherhithe in his search for pleasure, as
he did those in the common parts of Dublin when he was in that, his
native, city--and during the time when he varied his pursuits by
sometimes frequenting the playhouses where he would regard fondly the
ladies at one moment and amuse himself by kicking a shop-boy or poor
clerk, or scrivener, at another, and by sometimes retiring into the
country for shooting, or hunting, or fighting a main, his heart had
become entendered towards a young and beautiful girl, one Louise
Sheffield.

He had met her in the best class of company which he frequented, for,
although bearing no rank herself, she was of the best blood and race,
being indeed a niece to the Duke of Walton. Later on you shall see
this girl, grown into a woman, full of sorrows and vexations and
despite, and judge of her for yourself by that which I narrate.
Suffice it, therefore, if I write down the fact that she repaid his
love with hers in return and that, although she knew this handsome
gallant, Gerald, Lord St. Amande to be no better than a wastrel, a
tosspot and a gamer, she was willing to become his wife and to endow
him with a small but comfortable fortune that she possessed. Alas!
that she should ever have done so, for from that marriage arose all
the calamities, the sufferings and the heartaches that are to be
chronicled in this narrative.

From the commencement all went awry. George, Marquis of Amesbury, to
whom this giddy, unthinking Lord St. Amande was kinsman and heir, did
hate with a most fervent hatred John, Duke of Walton, they having
quarrelled at the succession of the Queen, when the Marquis espoused
the cause of her Majesty, while the Duke was all for proclaiming the
Pretender; and thus the whole of Lord St. Amande's family was against
the match. The ladies, especially his mother and sister, threw their
most bitter rancour into the scales against the bride, they
endeavoured to poison his mind against her by insinuating evil conduct
on her part previous to her marriage, and they persuaded the Marquis
to threaten my lord with a total withdrawal of his favour, as well as
a handsome allowance that he made annually to his heir, if he did not
part from her.

At first he would not listen to one word against her--he had not owned
his bride long enough to tire of her; also some of her fortune was not
yet wasted. Yet gradually, as he continued in his evil courses,
becoming still fonder of his glass and rioting, and as her fortune
declined at the same time that he felt bitterly the pinch occasioned
by the withdrawal of the Marquis's allowance, he did begin to hearken
to the reports spread broadcast against his young wife.

She had borne him a child, dead, during his absence in Ireland, and it
was after this period that he began to give credence to the hints
against her; and thus it was that while he was still in that country
he sent to his mother a power of attorney, authorising her to sue to
the Lords for a divorce, as his representative. This petition,
however, their Lordships refused, dismissing the plea with costs
against him, saying that there was no truth in his allegations, and
stigmatising them as scandalous.

And then he learnt that he had indeed wronged her most bitterly and,
turning upon his mother and sister, went over to England where, upon
his knees, he besought his wife for her pardon, weeping many tears of
contrition as he did so, while she, loving him ever in spite of all,
forgave him as a woman will forgive. Then they passed back to Ireland
where, she being again about to become a mother, he cherished her with
great care and tenderness, and watched over her until she had
presented him with a son.

Yet, such was this man's sometime evil temper and brutality of nature
that, on the Duke of Walton refusing to add more money to the gift he
had already made her--the original fortune being now quite
dissipated--he banished her from his house and she, flying to England,
was forced to take refuge with the Duke and, worse still, to leave her
child behind.

Now, therefore, you shall see how it befell that, at last, he owed
even his coffin and his grave to charity.

When she was gone from him, he, loving the child in his strange way,
proclaimed it as his heir, put it to nurse in the neighbourhood, and
invariably spoke of it as the future Lord St. Amande and Marquis of
Amesbury. But, unfortunately for this poor offspring of his now dead
love, he became enamoured of a horrid woman, a German queen, who had
come over to England at the time of the succession of King George--for
over twenty years had now passed since his marriage with the Duke of
Walton's niece--a woman who had set up in Dublin as a court fashioner,
lace merchant and milliner. But she had no thought for him, being in
truth much smitten with his younger brother, Robert, and she persuaded
him that to relieve himself of the dire poverty into which he had
fallen, it would be best that he should give out that his son was dead
and secrete him, so that he and Robert, who would then be regarded by
all men as the heir, could proceed to dispose of the estate. And my
lord's intellects being now bemused with much drink and other
disordered methods of life, besides that he was in bitter poverty,
agreed to do this and gave out that the son was dead and that he and
his brother were about to break the entail.

And even this villainy, which might have seemed likely to ward off his
penury for at least some years, did nothing of the sort, but, indeed,
only brought him nearer to the pauper's grave to which he was
hurrying. So greedy was he for money--as also was his brother, who,
knowing that while the boy lived _he_ could never succeed to the
estates, was naturally very willing to dispose of them at any
price--that large properties were in very truth sold for not more
than, and indeed rarely exceeded, half a year's purchase! How long was
it to be imagined that the half of such sums would last this poor
spendthrift who no sooner felt his purse heavy with the guineas in it
than he made haste to lighten it by odious debaucheries and
wassailings and carousings? His clothes, his laces, nay, even his wigs,
his swords, and his general wearing apparel had long since gone to the
brokers, so that, at the time of selling the properties, he was to be
seen going about Dublin with a rusty cutbob upon his once handsome
head, a miserable ragged coat that had once been blue but had turned
to green with wear, ornamented with Brandenburgh buttons, upon his
back, and a common spadroon reposing on his thigh and sticking half a
foot out of its worn-out sheath, instead of the jewel-hilted swords he
had once used to carry.

To conclude, he fell sick about this time--sick of his debauches,
sick, it may be, from recollections of the evil he had done his
innocent wife and child, and sick, perhaps, from the remembrance of
how he had wasted his life and impaired the prospects of his rightful
heir. Ill and sick unto death, with not one loving hand to minister to
him, no loving voice to say a word of comfort to him, and dying in a
garret, to pay for which the woman who rented it to him had now taken
his last coat. His wife was in England, sick herself and living on a
small trifle left her by her uncle, now dead; his son, sixteen years
of age, had escaped from the custody of a ruffian named O'Rourke, by
whom he had been kept closely confined and reported dead, and, of all
men, most avoided his unnatural father. What time his brother Robert
would not have given him a crust to prolong his life and was indeed
looking forward to his death with glee and eager anticipation.

So he died, with none by his pallet but the hag who owned the garret
and who was waiting for the breath to be out of his body to send that
body to the parish mortuary. So he died, sometimes fancying that he
was back in the bagnios he had found so pleasant, sometimes weeping
for a sight of his child and for the wrongs he had done that child,
sometimes, in his delirium, bellowing forth the profligate songs that
such creatures as D'Urfey and Shadwell had made popular amongst the
depraved. And sometimes, also, moaning for his Louise to come back and
pity him, and forgive him once again in memory of the sweetness of
their early love.

Now, therefore, you see how this once handsome lordling--and handsome
as Apollo he was in his younger days, I have heard his wife say,
though wicked as Satan--was brought so low that, from ruffling it with
the best, he came to dying in a filthy garret and being buried at the
public expense. Alas, alas! who can help but weep and wring their
hands when they think on such a thing, and when they reflect on all
the evil that Gerald, Lord St. Amande, wrought in his life and the
bitter heritage of woe he left behind to those whom he should,
instead, have loved and cherished, and made good provision for.

'Twas a dull November day, in the year of our Lord, 1727, and the
first of the reign of our present King George II., that the funeral
procession--if so poor and mean an interment as this may be so
termed--passed over Essex Bridge on its way to the burying ground
where the body was to be deposited. Yet how think you a future peer of
the realm should be taken to his last home, how think you one of his
rank should be taken farewell of? This man had once held the King's
commission, he having carried the colours of his regiment at
Donauwerth and been present as a lieutenant at Tirlemont, at both of
which the great Marlborough had commanded--therefore upon his coffin
there should have been a sword and a sash at least, with, perhaps, a
flag. He stood near unto a marquisate, therefore his coffin should
have been covered with purple velvet and the plate upon it should have
been of silver. Yet there were no such things. His swords, you know by
now, were pawned; his sashes had gone the way of his laces, apparel
and handsome wigs. The bier on which he was drawn was, therefore, but
a common thing on which the bodies of beggars, of Liffey watermen and
of coach-drivers were often also drawn; the coffin was a poor, deal
encasement with, nailed roughly on it, some black cloth; the
name-plate bearing the description of his rank and standing--oh,
hollow mockery!--was of tin.

And yet even this was obtained but at the public expense!

A dull November day, with, rolling in from the Channel, great masses
of sea fog, damp and wet, that made the dogs in the street creep
closer to the house doors for shelter and warmth, and the swine in the
streets to huddle themselves together for greater comfort. A day on
which those who had no call to be out of doors warmed themselves over
fires, or gathered round tavern tables and drank drams of nantz and
usquebaugh; a day which no man would care to think should resemble the
day on which he would himself be put away into the earth for ever. But
the melancholy of the elements and the weather were the only part of
the wretched funeral of this man for which he had not been
responsible. The gloom and the fog and the damp he could not help,
since none, whether king or pauper, can fix the date of their death,
or choose to die and go to their last home amidst the shining of the
sun and the singing of the birds and the blooming of the flowers, in
preference to the miseries of the winter. But all else he might have
avoided had he so chosen.

For he might have been borne--not to a beggar's grave, but to the tomb
of his own illustrious family in England--amidst pomp and honour had
he so willed it; the pomp and honour of a Marquis's heir, the pomp and
honour of a gallant officer who had fought under the greatest general
that England had ever known, and for his mourners he might have had a
loving wife and child weeping for his loss.

Only he would not, and so there was not one that day to shed a tear
for him.




CHAPTER II

AN UNPEACEFUL PASSING


So the funeral passed over Essex Bridge and by the French Church, on
the steps of which there sat a boy who, on its approach, sprang to his
feet and, from behind a pillar of the porch, fixed his eyes firmly on
those who attended it.

A boy of between fifteen and sixteen years of age, tall and, thus,
looking older, and clad partly in rags and partly in clothes too big
for him. To be explicit, his hose was torn and mended and torn again,
his shoes were burst and broken and his coat which, though threadbare
was sound, hung down nearly to his feet and was roomy enough for a man
of twenty, to whom indeed it had once belonged till given in charity
to its present owner. By the boy's side there stood a big, burly man
with a red, kindly face and a great fell of brown hair, himself
dressed in the garb of a butcher, and with at the moment, as though he
had but just left the block, his sharpening steel hanging at his side.
Also, on the steps of the church were one or two gentlemen arrayed in
their college gowns and caps, as if they too had strolled forth at the
moment from Trinity and had happened upon the spot, while, around and
under the stoops of the neighbouring houses, were gathered together
several groups of beggars and ragamuffins and idle ne'er-do-wells.

And now you shall hear a strange thing, for, as the bier with its mean
burden came close, so that the features of those who accompanied it
might be plainly perceived through the fog, the butcher, turning to
the lad dressed as a scarecrow, said, "_My lord_, stand forth and show
thyself. Here come those who have put it about that you have been dead
these two years, and who, if they had their will, would soon have you
dead now. Show thyself therefore, I say, Lord St. Amande, and prove
that thou art alive."

"Ay, ay, do," one of the collegians added. "If the news from London be
true, thy uncle, Robert, has already proclaimed himself the new lord,
and it is as well that the contrary should be proved."

Thus solemnly adjured, the boy did stand forth and, figure of fun
though he looked, gazed fiercely on those who rode behind his father's
coffin.

There were but three mourners--if such these ghouls could be called
who followed the body to its last resting place, not with any desire
to pay a tribute to the dead, but rather with the desire of satisfying
themselves, and one other, their master, that it was indeed gone from
the world for ever--two men mounted and a woman in a one-horse hackney
coach.

All were evil-looking, yet she was the worst, and, as she peered forth
from the window, the beggars all about groaned at her while the
students regarded her with looks of contempt. She was the German woman
who had come to Dublin when the late King had come to London, and was
called Madame Baüer, and was now no longer young. That she may once
have been comely is to be supposed, since the late Herr Baüer was said
to have been a wealthy German gentleman who ruined himself for
her--if, indeed, he had ever existed, which many doubted--and also
since the dead man now going to his grave had formed a passion for
her, while his usurping brother was actually said to be privately
married to her. Yet of a certainty, she had no beauty now, her face
being of a fiery red, due, it was whispered, to her love of strong
waters; her great staring and protuberant eyes were of a watery
blue-green hue, and her teeth were too prominent and more like those
of an animal. And when the small crowd groaned at her and called her
"painted Jezebel"--though she needed no paint, in truth--she gnashed
those teeth at them as though she would have liked to tear and rend
them ere she sank back into the carriage.

Of the men who followed the bier one was a pale cadaverous-looking
person, with about him some remnants of good looks, his features being
not ill-formed, though on his face, too, there were the signs of
drinking and evil-living in the form of blotches and a red nose that
looked more conspicuous because of the lividness of his skin. This man
was Wolfe Considine, a gentleman by birth, and of an ancient Irish
family, yet now no better than a hanger-on to Robert St. Amande; a
creature who obeyed his orders as a dog obeys its master's orders, and
who was so vile and perjured a wretch that for many years, when out of
the reach of Lord St. Amande, he had allowed it to be hinted that he
was in truth the father of that lord's son, and, if not that, had at
least been much beloved by Lord St. Amande's wife. In obedience,
perhaps, to his master's orders he wore now no signs of mourning but,
instead, rode in a red coat much passemented with tarnished gold lace,
as was the case with his hat, and with his demi-peaked saddle quilted
with red plush, while the twitter-boned, broken-winded horse he
bestrode gave, as well as his apparel, but few signs that his employer
bestowed much care upon him. The man who paced beside him was liveried
as a servant and rode a better horse, and was doubtless there in
attendance on him and the woman in the coach.

Noticing the ominous and glowering looks of the beggars on the
sidewalk as well as the contemptuous glances of the students standing
by the steps of the French Church, Considine drew his horse nearer to
the coach and spoke to the inmate thereof, saying:--

"I' faith, my lady, they seem to bear no good will to us judging by
their booings and mutterings, for it cannot be to this poor dead thing
that their growls are directed--_he_ was beloved enough by them, at
any rate, so long as he had a stiver in his purse with which to treat
them to a bowl of hypsy or a mug of ale."

The woman in the hackney glanced at the beggars again with her cold,
cruel eyes as he spoke, but ere she could reply, if indeed she
intended to do so, she shrank back once more, seeing that from the
crowd there was emerging an old woman, a hideous creature bent double
with age, who leaned upon a stick and who shock as though with the
palsy.

"What want you, hag?" asked Considine, while as he spoke he pricked
the horse he rode with the spur, as though he would ride over her.

"To look upon the coffin of a gentleman," she answered, waving at the
same time her crutch, or stick, so near to the animal's nostrils that
it started back, almost unseating its rider. "To look upon the coffin
of a gentleman, and not upon such scum as you and that thing there,"
pointing to the woman who had been addressed as "my lady."

"Proceed," called out Considine to the driver of the bier. "Why tarry
you because of this woman. Proceed, I say."

But here a fresh interruption occurred, for, as he spoke, the butcher,
motioning to the lad with him to remain where he was, descended the
steps of the church and, coming forward, said in a masterful manner:--

"Nay! That shall you not do yet. Wolfe Considine, you must listen to
me."

"To thee, rapscallion," said the other, looking down on him, yet
noting his great frame as he did so. "To thee. Wherefore, pray, to
thee? If you endeavour to stop this funeral the watch shall lay you by
the heels, and my lady here shall hale you before a Justice for
endeavouring to prevent the interment of her brother-in-law."

"'My lady! Her brother-in-law!'" repeated the butcher contemptuously,
and glancing into the hackney carriage as he did so. "'My lady! Her
brother-in-law!' Why, how can she be either?" and he smiled at the
red-faced woman.

"You Irish dog," she said, now protruding her head from the window.
"The law shall teach you how I am both, at the same time that it
chastises you for your insolence. Let us pass, however."

"You shall not pass until you have heard me. Nay, Wolfe Considine,
put not thy hand upon thy sword. There is no courage in thy craven
heart to draw it. What! shall he who ran away from Oudenarde--thou
knowest 'tis truth; I fought, not ran away, as a corporal there
myself--threaten a brave and honest man with his sword? Nay, more, why
should he wear one--? I' faith, I have a mind to take it from thee.
Yet even that is not the worst, though the Duke did threaten to brand
thy back if ever he clapt eyes on thee again."

Here the collegians, in spite of the halted bier with the dreary
burden on it, burst into laughter, while Considine trembled with rage
and was now white as a corpse himself.

"That, I say, is scarce the worst. You speak of the watch to me--you!
Why! call them, call all the officers of the law and see which they
shall arrest first. An honest man or a thief. Ay, a thief! I say a
thief." He advanced closer to Considine as he spoke. "A thief, I say
again."

"Vile wretch! the law shall punish you."

"Summon it, I tell you. Summon it. Then shall we see."

And now, changing his address, which had been up to this moment made
to Considine alone, he turned half round to the crowd--which had much
augmented since the altercation began and the stopping of the funeral
had taken place--and addressing all assembled there, he said in a loud
voice so that none but those who were stone deaf could fail to hear
his words.

"Listen all you who to-day see the body of the late Lord St. Amande on
its way to the grave, listen I say to the villainy of this creature,
Wolfe Considine, the tool and minion of the man Robert St. Amande, who
now claims to have succeeded to his honours. Hear also how far
she,"---and he pointed his finger to the hackney carriage where the
woman glowered out at him--"has aided both these scoundrels."

"By heavens, you shall suffer for this," exclaimed Considine, "to
defame a peer is punishable with the hulks----"

"Tush," answered the other, "I defame no peer, for he is none. The
true peer is Gerald St. Amande, the younger, now the Lord Viscount St.
Amande since his father's death."

"Thou fool," bellowed Considine, "he is dead long since. 'Tis well
known."

"Is it so? Well, let us see. But first answer me, Wolfe Considine,
deserter from the colours of Her Majesty Queen Anne's 1st Royal Scots'
Regiment, panderer and creature of the usurper Robert St. Amande,
purloiner of the body of the present Lord St. Amande--said I not you
were a thief?--instigator of murder to the villain, O'Rourke, who
would have slain the child or, at least, have shipped him off a slave
to the Virginian plantations; traducer of an honest lady's fame who,
so far from favouring thee, would not have spat upon thee. Answer me,
I say, and tell me if you would know that dead child again were you to
set your eyes upon it?"

He hurled forth these accusations against the wretch shivering on his
horse with so terrible a voice, accompanied by fierce looks, that the
other could do naught but writhe under them and set to work to bawl
loudly for the watch as he did so, and to offer a gibing beggar who
stood near a crown to run and fetch them, which the beggar refused, so
that at last the servant started to find them. But, meanwhile, the
butcher again began:

"He is dead long since, is he? Well, we will see." Then beckoning to
the lad in rags still standing on the steps of the French Church, he
said, "Lord St. Amande, come hither and prove to this perjured villain
that thou art no more dead than he who would have had thee so."

Slowly, therefore, I descended--for I who write these lines was that
most unhappy child, Lord St. Amande, as perhaps you who read them may
have guessed--and slowly in my tatters I went down and stood by him
who had succoured me, and fixed my eyes on that most dreadful villain,
Wolfe Considine.

Now, the effect upon him was wonderful to witness, for verily I
thought he would have had a fit and fallen from his horse. His eyes
seemed to be starting forth from his head, his cadaverous face became
empurpled, his hands twitched, and all the while he muttered, "Alive!
Alive! yet O'Rourke swore that he was safe at the bottom of the
Liffey--the traitor! Alive!"

He spoke so low and muttered so hoarsely to himself that I have ever
doubted if any other but I and Oliver Quin, the butcher, heard his
self-condemnatory words--by which he most plainly acknowledged his
guilt and the part he had played in endeavouring to get me made away
with. But, ere he could say more, he received support from the woman,
Baüer, or "Madam," as she was generally called, who, descending now
from her hackney carriage, thrust aside the beggars around it and
advanced towards me.

That she was a woman of courage need not be doubted, for, although
these miserable gutter-birds had hitherto been jeering at her to even
such an extent as remarking on the redness of her face and the
probable cause thereof, she at this time awed them by her manner. Her
eyes flaming, her great white teeth gleaming like those of a hunted
wolf as it turns to tear its pursuers, she thrust them all aside (she
being big and of masculine proportions) and exclaiming, "Out you
wretches, away you kennel dogs, stand back, I say, you Irish curs,"
made her way to me.

"Let me see," she said, seizing me roughly by the collar, "the brat
who is to be palmed upon us as the dead child. Let me see him." And
then, as she gazed in my face, she burst into a loud, strident laugh,
while in her harsh voice and her German accent (which she had always)
she exclaimed, "So this is the beggar's brat who is to be thrust in
before us as a son of this dead lord," pointing to my father's
coffin--"this thing of rags and filth. Man," she said, turning
suddenly upon Quin, "man, know you the punishment awarded those who
falsely endeavour for their own evil ends to deprive rightful
inheritors of what is theirs? You shall so suffer for this vile
imposture that you had better have been slain at Oudenarde--of which
you boast so freely--than ever have lived to see to-day."

"With the respect due to such as you, Madam Baüer----"

"Fellow, I am the Viscountess St. Amande."

"Nay. Nay! Even though you be Robert St. Amande's wife--as most people
doubt"--she struck at him with her hand as he said this, which blow he
avoided easily, so that she over-reached herself and nearly fell, at
which the crowd jeered--"even then you are not Lady St. Amande. There
is but one, this poor lad's mother, now sick in England but safe from
your evil attempts. And, Madam Baüer, it is more meet that I should
ask if _you_ know what is the punishment of such malefactors as those
who endeavour for their own evil ends to deprive rightful inheritors
of what is theirs?"

"The imposition shall not go unpunished, this boy shall indeed be sent
to the plantations and, with him, you, you ruffian. I will myself seek
out the King sooner than he shall escape."

But here there stepped forth one of the collegians who had been near
me all through this most strange scene, a grave and pious youth of
twenty years of age--'twas his coat I was wearing--who said:

"By your favour, madam, it is impossible that the boy should be
punished. I am from New Ross in the County of Wexford myself,"---both
she and Considine started at this---"where his father dwelt much. I
have known the lad from his birth, as a child myself I took part in
the festivities--alas! terrible debaucheries and drinkings!--which
this poor dead lord caused to be made in honour of his birth. I have
known him all his life, and that he is the present Lord St. Amande
none can doubt. Added to which, madam, there must be fully five
hundred people in Ireland, including his pastors and teachers, to say
nothing of those in England, who can equally speak for him."

"It is a lie," Considine shouted, having now regained something of his
courage, "It is a lie. I, too, knew the lad who was son to Lord St.
Amande, and he is dead and this brat is not he."

"Mr. Considine," said the young student, his pale face reddening, "I
am intended for the Ministry, but being not yet ordained no man may
insult me with impunity, nor doubt my word. Much less such a foul
braggart as you, therefore, unless you ask my pardon on the moment I
will pull you down from off that horse and force you to beg it of me
in the mud at my feet." And he advanced towards Considine with his arm
outstretched to carry out his threat.

But that person being never disposed to fight with anyone, instantly
taking off his hat said:

"Sir, my words were ill chosen. I ask your pardon for them. I should
have said that I feared, as I still do, that you are grievously
mistaken."




CHAPTER III

A BEGGAR AND AN OUTCAST


And thus, in such a dreadful way and amidst such surroundings--with
brawling in the streets and insults hurled over his body from one to
another--was my father buried. Alas! unhappily such scenes and
terrifying episodes were but a fitting prologue to the stormy life
that was henceforth before me for many years; I say a fitting prologue
to the future.

When the craven Considine had made, or rather been compelled to make,
his amends to Mr. Jonathan Kinchella, the young student, my protector,
Quin, announced that, since he had produced the rightful Lord St.
Amande and exhibited him to the public at so fitting a moment as his
father's funeral procession (so that, henceforth, there were in
existence witnesses who could testify to the assertion of my claim),
he had no more to say, except that he hoped that the spirit of the
dead peer would forgive the interruption in consequence of the good
which he wished to do to his son. And he also announced with great
cheerfulness the pleasure which he had experienced in being able to
tell Mr. Wolfe Considine to his face his appreciation of his
character.

"So that," he said to that person, as once more the procession set
out, "if, henceforth, any one in Dublin shall be so demented as to
deem you an honest man and to be deceived by you, they owe thanks to
none but themselves."

"Ay, ruffian!" said Considine, brazening it out, however, "thou art
the cock o' the walk for the moment, yet think not to escape
punishment. Thou hast to-day threatened and reviled a gentleman of
birth and consideration, for which thou shalt clearly suffer; thou
hast insulted, slandered and abused a peer and a peeress of His
Majesty's realm, for which thou shalt lie in the bilboes and gemmaces.
Thou hast also endeavoured to usurp my lord's rightful rank and degree
by passing off a base counterfeit of his brother's dead child, for
which the punishment is death, or, at least, branding in the hand and
being sold to slavery in the plantations, all of which thou and thy
accomplice shall most surely receive ere many days are sped."

Then, turning to the driver of the bier, he ordered him to proceed.

"Tut, tut, tut," exclaimed Oliver. "Thou art but an empty windbag,
tho' 'tis well that thou hast an accurate knowledge of the law--yet, I
misdoubt if it will save thee when thy time comes. But, as thou
sayest, let the funeral proceed, and, for further assurance of thy
position, young sir," he said to me, "we will accompany it on foot.
Let us see who will prevent us."

Then, seizing me by the hand, we set out to follow my father's body.


And now you, my children, for whom I write this narrative (and your
children who in the fulness of time shall come after you), have seen
in how wretched a manner I, who should have been cradled in luxury,
began my existence at my father's death. Had that father been as he
should have been, or had even my uncle, Robert, been an honest man, or
had the head of our house, the Marquis of Amesbury, looked properly to
the rights of his lawful successor, Ulster King-at-Arms would have
enrolled me on the certificate of the late lord's death as Gerald St.
Amande, Viscount St. Amande, in the peerage of Ireland, and heir
apparent of the Marquisate of Amesbury in the peerage of England. Yet,
see what really happened. The King-at-Arms refused so to enrol me, on
the petition of my uncle--though this was somewhat later,--in spite of
much testimony on my behalf from countless people who had known me,
and, instead of enjoying luxury, I was a beggar. At the time when I
begin this history of my cares and sorrows, and of the wanderings
which will be set down in their due Order, and the hardships that I
have been forced to endure, I, a tender child, was dependent on
strangers for the bread I ate and the clothing I wore. Until I fell in
with honest Oliver Quin, himself a poor butcher, I had, after escaping
from O'Rourke, who endeavoured to drown me and then kept me in a
cellar, been lurking about Dublin, sleeping sometimes on a wharf,
sometimes in the many new houses then a-building (three thousand were
built in this great city between the accession of the late king and
the year of which I now write, viz., 1727), sometimes against a shop
bulk or a glass-house for warmth, and sometimes huddling with other
outcasts on the steps and in the stoops of houses and churches. Food I
had none but I could beg or wrest from the dogs, or the many swine
which then roamed about the streets like dogs themselves. And,
sometimes, I and my wretched companions would kill one of these latter
stealthily by night, and, having roasted parts of it in some empty
house, would regale ourselves thereby. My father I avoided as a
pestilence, for him I regarded as the unnatural author of all my
sufferings. I knew afterwards that I misjudged him, I knew that he had
never meant me to be harmed by O'Rourke, but only kept out of the way
so that he might get money for his evil doings, he feeling sure that,
when he should die, my succession to the rank, if not the estates
(which he had made away with) could not be disputed. But, as I say, I
regarded him as my worst enemy, and, when I saw him come reeling down
the street jovial with drink, or, on other occasions, morose and sour
from ungratified desire for it, I fled from him.

Then I, by great good chance, fell in with Quin, who was but a
journeyman butcher earning poor wages and much dissatisfied with his
lot, and who, coming from Wexford to Dublin to better that lot, had
recognised me at once as the boy who was always styled the Honourable
Gerald St. Amande in the county, and, out of the goodness of his
heart, succoured me. But what could he do? He himself dwelt near the
shambles, earning but eleven shillings a week, which had to suffice
for all his wants, so that, if sometimes as I passed his master's shop
he could toss me a scrag of mutton or a mouthful of beef--which I
found means to cook by some outcast's fire--it was as much assistance
as he could render. And from Mr. Jonathan Kinchella, himself but a
poor sizar, and, as he stated, also from my neighbourhood and
consequently willing to assist me, I could ask nothing. Beyond his
"size," which was an allowance of a farthing's worth of bread and beer
daily, he had but ten pounds a year from his father wherewithal to
clothe himself and find such necessaries as he required, above that
which he was entitled to as a servitor. Yet was he ever tender to me,
and would say when I crept into the college to see him:

"Here, Gerald, is the beer and here the bread. Drink and eat thy fill
to such extent as it will go, which is not much. However, for myself I
can get more. But I wish I could do more for thee than give thee these
poor victuals and cast-off garments. Yet, _tunica pallio propior_,
and, as I cannot give thee my skin, I will give thee the best coat I
can spare." Which he did, though, poor youth, it was little enough he
had for himself, let alone to give away.

From my mother I had, alas! long been parted, for though when I was in
my father's keeping, after she had fled from him, she had made many
attempts to wrest me from him and to get me away to England, she, too,
had come to believe that I had either died in the hands of, or been
killed by, the villain O'Rourke, so that of her I had now heard
nothing for more than two years. But as Mr. Kinchella had written her
informing her of her husband's impending death, of my safety for the
time being, and also of the probable usurpation by my uncle, we were
looking for some news of her by every English packet that came in. "If
her ladyship can compass it," this good and pious young man said on
the night after my father's burial, and when he and Oliver and I sat
in his room over the fire, "she should come to Dublin at once. There
is much to be done at which alone she can help, and it will want all
the assistance of her family to outwit thy uncle. Unfortunately my
lord did go about the city saying that you were dead and that,
therefore, he and his brother were at liberty to dispose of the
property, and, thus, there is a terrible amount of evidence to contend
against."

"With submission, sir," Oliver said, "surely all that should make in
the young lord's favour. For who shall doubt that his mother can swear
to him as their child? Then there are the peasants with whom he was
placed as an infant at New Ross, and, again, the tutors he was with,
both there and here and in England, to say nothing of many servants.
While, to add to all, his uncle has made himself a criminal by
seconding his father in the false reports of his death and obtaining
money thereby. With my lady's evidence and yours and mine alone, to
say nothing of aught else, we should surely be able to move the
King-at-Arms to enregister him as his father's heir."

Yet, oh, untoward fate! my mother could not come, but in her place
sent a letter which, being of much importance as affecting all that
afterwards occurred, I here set down, fairly copied.

_From the Viscountess St. Amande, at_ 5 _Denzil Street, Clare Market,
ye _29_th of November_, 1727.

_To Mr. Jonathan Kinchella,
         Student,
           Trinity College, Dublin_.

Honoured Sir,

My deepest gratitude is due to you for the pains you have been at to
write to me under the care of my late uncle's bankers, which
communication has safely reached me. Sir, I do most grievously note
that my lord and husband, the Viscount St. Amande lyeth sick unto
death--(Mr. Kinchella had written when Quin had learned from the woman
my father lodged with that there was no hope for him)--and also in
dire poverty; and, ill as he hath treated me, I do pray that his end
may be peace. Moreover, if you or any friend of yours should see him
and he should be able to comprehend your words, I do beseech you to
tell him that I forgive him all he has done to me and that, in another
and a better world, to which I believe myself to be also hastening, I
hope to meet him once more, though, whether he live or die, we can
never meet again upon this earth.

But, sir, if the news which you give me of the grievous state in which
my lord lies is enough to wring my heart, what comfort and joy shall
not that heart also receive in learning that my beloved child, whom I
thought dead and slain by his father's cruelty, is still alive, and
that he, whom I have mourned as gone from me for ever, should live to
be restored to his mother's arms? Yet, alas! I cannot come to him as I
fain would and fold him in my arms, for I am sorely stricken with the
palsy which creepeth ever on me, though, strange to relate, there are
moments, nay hours, when I am free from it, so that sometimes my
physician doth prophesy a recovery, which, however, I cannot bring
myself to hope or believe. And, moreover, honoured sir, I am without
the means to travel to Dublin. My uncle, when he rescued me from my
unhappy husband's hands, provided me with one hundred guineas a year,
which, at his death last year, he also willed, should be continued to
me while parted from my husband. But if he dies that ceases also,
since my uncle, the Duke, did naturally suppose that I by settlement
shall be well provided for, tho' now I doubt if such is likely to
prove the case.

Yet, though well I know my brother-in-law to be a most uncommon bad
man and one who will halt at nothing to further his own gains, I
cannot believe that the law will allow him to falsely possess himself
either of my child's rank and title, or of aught else that may be his
inheritance, though I fear there is but little property left, short of
his succession to the Marquisate of Amesbury. But, honoured sir, since
it is not possible that I can come to my boy, could he not come to me?
He would assuredly be as safe in London, if not safer, under the
protection of his mother, as in Dublin where, you say, he lurketh, and
where, I cannot doubt, his uncle will take steps to bring about harm
to him. Here he would be with me and, since my uncle is now dead, it
may be that the Marquis will be more kindly disposed towards him and,
even at the worst, he cannot refuse to recognise him. Therefore, sir,
if the wherewithal could be found for bringing or sending him to
London, I would see the cost defrayed out of my small means, on which
you may rely.

So, honoured sir, I now conclude, begging you to believe that I thank
you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done for my
child, and that also I thank the honest man, Mr. Quin, of whom you
speak, and I do most earnestly pray that the God of the fatherless and
the orphan may reward you for all. And, sir, with my greatest
consideration to you, and a mother's fondest love to my child, whom I
pray to see ere long, I remain your much obliged and grateful,

   Louise St. Amande.


"Gerald," said Mr. Kinchella, when he had concluded reading this
letter to me, over which, boy-like, I shed many tears, "her ladyship
speaks well. Dublin is no place for thee. If in his lordship's
lifetime you were not safe, how shall you be so when now you alone
stand between your uncle and two peerages?"

"Yet," I exclaimed, while in my heart there had arisen a wild desire
to once more see the dear mother from whom I had been so ruthlessly
torn, "yet how could it be accomplished? Surely the cost of a journey
to London would be great!"

"I have still a guinea or two in my locker," said Mr. Kinchella, "if
that would avail--though I misdoubt it."

"I have a better plan, sir," exclaimed Quin, who was also of the party
again on this occasion. "If his young lordship would not object to
voyaging to London entirely by sea, there are many cattle-ships pass
between that port and this by which he might proceed. Or, again, he
might pass from here to Chester, there being many boats to Park Gate,
or he might proceed to Milford."

"Yet he is over-young for such a journey," said kind Mr. Kinchella; he
being, as ever, thoughtful for me. But I replied:

"Sir, have I not had to endure worse when I was even younger? The deck
of a cattle-boat is of a certainty no worse than O'Rourke's cellar,
and, however long the passage, of a surety there will be as much
provision as was ever to be found in wandering about these streets ere
I fell in with you and Oliver. I pray you, therefore, assist me to
reach London if it be in your power."

"How much will it cost to defray the expense?" Mr. Kinchella asked of
Quin, "by one of these boats? I fear me I have not the wherewithal to
enable him to voyage by the packet."

"He can go for nothing, I think," replied the other, "if so be that I
speak with one of the drovers who pass over frequently; or at most for
a few shillings. He could go under the guise of that drover's boy, or
help, and at least he would be safe from danger in that condition. The
expense will be from Chester to London, if that is the route
observed."

So we discussed matters until it was time for us to quit the college
for the night, but, ere the time came for me to journey to England,
there occurred so many other things of stirring import that here I
must pause to narrate them in their due order, so that the narrative
which I have to tell shall be clear and understandable.




CHAPTER IV

INTO THE LAND OF BONDAGE


Quin had made shift to lodge me in his poor room for the last day or
so and, so great and kind was his heart, that he had now announced
that, henceforth, until I was fairly on my way to London, he would not
let me be without the shelter of his roof again.

"For," he said to me that night as we walked back to his abode, "be
sure that the chase will be hot after you directly your uncle arrives
in the packet. You are known to be once more at large and,
consequently, dangerous to his claims, therefore he must put you out
of his way somehow ere you can be seen by those who will swear to you
as being the rightful Lord St. Amande."

"But," I asked him, for my mind had been forced of late to devise so
many shifts that I had become, perhaps, sharper and more acute than
other lads of my age. "But what if I were to appear at the Courts, or
at the Office of the King-at-Arms, and, boldly stating who and what I
am, with witnesses for testimony thereto, claim protection. Would it
not be granted me?"

"Ay," replied Quin, thoughtfully. "I doubt not it would be granted
thee, and thy uncle would be restrained for a time at least from
falsely assuming that which is not his. But such a state of things
would not last long. Before many weeks had elapsed you would again be
missing, or perhaps not missing but, rather, found. Though I misdoubt
me but what, when found, you would not be alive."

I shuddered at this terrifying prospect as he spoke, though too well I
knew that what he said might very easily come to pass. O'Rourke had
attempted to kill me once before and would do so again if he were paid
for it; doubtless Considine would also take my life if he had but the
slightest opportunity offered him, and there would be many more who,
in such a city as Dublin, could be hired to assassinate me. For, poor
and wretched as I was, and roaming about the streets as I did, how
easily might I not fall a prey to my uncle's designs! On the other
hand, if I could but reach England I must surely be in far greater
safety. For though my mother was, as she wrote, in ill health, it was
not possible to believe that the Marquis would not extend me his
protection as his rightful heir against so wicked a wretch and knave
as my uncle, nor that the law would not exert itself more strongly
there on my behalf than here, where it was to almost every one's
advantage to have me dead. It was the lawyers who had bought up our
estates, _my estates_, from my father and uncle at so meagre a price,
believing, or pretending to believe, that I was in truth dead; it was
not therefore to their interests to have me alive, and to be forced to
disgorge those estates. Thus I should get no help from them. Again,
O'Rourke would, if he could be found, surely swear that the real Lord
St. Amande was dead--since to obtain his reward and also to enable my
father and uncle to get the money they wanted, he had in some way
obtained a certificate of my death (I learned afterwards that he had
palmed off the dead body of a boy resembling me, which had been found
in the Liffey, as mine).

I agreed with Oliver, therefore, and also with Mr. Kinchella, whose
counsel marched with that of my honest protector, that, at present,
Dublin was no place for me and that I must make for London to be safe.
Meanwhile I lay close in Quin's room until he should have found a
cattle-boat that was passing over to Chester, by which route it was
decided I should go, it being more expeditious and exposing me less to
the disagreeables of the sea. This was arrived at by my two friends
out of the goodness of their hearts, but, could they have foreseen
what storms and tempests were yet to be my portion both by sea and
land, I doubt if they would have thought it much worth their trouble
to secure me from a few hours more or less of discomfort on this
particular voyage.

But, at present, there was no such boat going, the cattle being sent
over to Park Gate (where all freight for Chester was landed) only
about once every two weeks, and thus, as I say, I lay close in Quin's
room until such time as he should advise me to be ready for my
departure.

During this time of idleness and waiting, there occurred, however,
many other things in connection with me, of which I heard from Oliver
whenever he came home at night. To wit, my uncle had arrived by the
packet and had at once proceeded to notify to the whole city, both by
his own and Considine's voice--whom he sent round to all the
coffee-houses and ordinaries, as well as to the wine clubs and
usquebaugh clubs--an errand I doubt not highly agreeable to that
creature!--as well as by advertisement in the new newsletter entitled
"Faulkner's Journal," which was just appearing, that my father had
died childless and that he had consequently assumed the rank and style
of Viscount St. Amande in the peerage of Ireland.

"Yet," said Oliver to me as I strolled by his side, for it was his
custom to take me out a-walking for my health's sake at night after he
returned home from his work; he holding me ever by the hand, while in
the other he carried a heavy Kerry blackthorn stick, and had a pair of
pistols in his pocket, "yet he succeeded not altogether to his
satisfaction, nor will he succeed as well as he hopes. The people hiss
and hoot at him and insult him as he passes by--Mike Finnigan flung a
dead dog, which he had dragged out of the gutter, into his coach but
yesterday--and they yell and howl at him to know where the real
lord--that's you--is?"

Then again, on another day, he told me that Mr. Kinchella had come to
his stall to tell him a brave piece of news, it being indeed no less
than the fact that the King-at-Arms had refused to enrol the
certificate of his brother having died without issue, while saying
also that, from what he gathered, he was by no means sure that such
was the case. This, Oliver said Mr. Kinchella told him, had led to a
great scene, in which my uncle had insulted the King-at-Arms, who had
had him removed from his presence in consequence, while he said even
more strongly than before that, from what was told him, he did firmly
believe that Mr. Robert St. Amande was endeavouring to bring about a
great fraud and to attempt a villainous usurpation of another's rights
to which he, at least, would be no party. Now, therefore, was my time,
we all agreed, for me to present myself and to claim my rights, and
Quin and Mr. Kinchella had even gone so far as to furbish me up in
some fitting apparel wherewith to make a more respectable appearance
in public, when everything was again thrown into disorder and my hopes
blighted by the arrival in Dublin of the new Lord Lieutenant and of
the Lord Chancellor Wyndham, than whom no one could have been worse
for my cause. He was then an utter stranger to Ireland (though
afterwards created Baron Wyndham of Finglass) in spite of having been
sent from England to be, at first, the Chief Justice of the Common
Pleas; he knew nothing of the descents of our ancient Irish families,
nor, indeed, the names of many of them, and what was worse than all,
he had known my uncle in England and was his friend.

"So, poor lad," said Oliver to me a few days later, "thy uncle has now
the first trick o' the game. The Lord Chancellor has taken counsel at
Mr. St. Amande's suggestion with several of the nobility of Wexford,
who have told him they never heard of thy father having had a son, as
well they may not, seeing he would associate with none of them but
only with the poorer sort. He has also questioned many of the
attorneys of this city, who find it to their interest, since they have
bought thy estates, to say that either you never lived or are dead
now, or else that you were born out of wedlock. And thus----"

"And thus?" I repeated, looking up wistfully at his kindly face.

"And thus--and thus--poor child! thy uncle is now enrolled as the
Viscount St. Amande. But courage, courage, my dear, thou shalt yet
succeed and prosper. Thy mother's family will surely see to thy
rights, and, if not, then will not the Lord raise up a champion for
thee?"

Long afterwards I remembered this pious aspiration of dear Oliver, who
was himself a most sincere Protestant, and when that champion had
appeared, though in how different a guise from what I should have ever
dreamed, I came to think that, for the time at least, my good, simple
friend had been granted the gift of prophecy.

So the days went on until at last the time drew near for the next
cattle-boat to pass over to Chester, and Quin was busily engaged in
making arrangements for me to go in it when there befel so strange a
thing that I must write it down in full.

Quin came home one night--and, ah! what a bitter December night it
was! I remember it now many, many years afterwards, and how the frost
stood upon the window panes of the garret and the cold air stole in
through those panes so that I was forced to throw on all the fuel he
could afford to keep myself from freezing. Well, I say, Quin came home
on this night in a different humour from any I had ever seen him in
before, laughing, chattering to himself, chuckling as he removed the
heavy frieze surtout he wore, and even snapping his fingers as again
and again he would burst out into his laughs. And he produced from
that surtout a bottle of nantz but three parts full, and, seizing the
kettle, filled it with water and placed it on the fire, saying that
ere we went to bed we would drink confusion to all the rascals
harbouring in Dublin that night. After which he again laughed and
grimaced.

"What ails thee, Oliver?" I asked, "or rather, what has given thee
such satisfaction to-night?"

He went on laughing for some time longer until I thought that I was to
be debarred from hearing what it was that amused him so much, but at
last he said: "I am rejoicing at the chance that has arisen of playing
a knave, or rather two knaves, ay, or even three, a trick. And such a
grand trick, too; a trick that shall make thy uncle curse the day he
ever heard the name of Oliver Quin."

"My uncle!" I exclaimed. "My uncle! Why, what have he and you to do
together, Oliver?"

"Listen," he said, and by this time the kettle was boiling and he was
making the hypsy, "listen. I have seen O'Rourke to-night and--and I
have promised, for the sum of one hundred guineas, to deliver thee
into his hands for transportation to the colonies, to Virginia. To
Virginia, my lad, thou art bound, so that thou shalt plague thy uncle
no more. To Virginia. Ha, ha, ha!" and he burst into so loud a laugh
that the rafters of the garret shook with it.

To be sure I understood that Oliver was but joking me--if I had not
known his honest nature, his equally honest laugh would have told me
so--yet I wondered what this strange discourse should mean! He had, I
think, been drinking ere he entered, though not more than enough to
excite him and make him merry, but still it was evident to see that,
over and above any potations he might have had, something had
happened. So I said:

"Go on, Oliver, and tell me about O'Rourke and the plantations, and
when I am to be sold into slavery."

"I met O'Rourke this evening," he said, "as I happened into a
hipping-hawd[1] on my way home. There the villain was, seated on a
cask and dressed as fine as fivepence. On his pate was a great ramilie
wig, so please you! clapped a-top of it, and with an evil cock to one
side of it, a gold laced hat. He wore a red plush coat--though I doubt
me if the fashioner ever made it for him! with, underneath, a blue
satin waistcoat embroidered; he had a solitaire stuck into his shirt,
gold garters to the knees of his breeches, and, in fine, looked for
all the world as if he had come into a fortune and had been spending
part of it in buying the cast-off wardrobe of a nobleman."

"But the Virginia plantations, Oliver!" I said; "the plantations!"

"I am coming to them--or, at least, thou art going to them! But first
let me tell thee of thy old friend and janitor, O'Rourke. When I
entered he was bawling for some sherris, but, on seeing me, he turned
away from his boon companions and exclaimed, 'What, my jolly butcher,
what my cock o' the walk, oh, oh! What, my gay protector of injured
youth and my palmer-off of boys for noble lords! How stands it with
thee? Art cold?--'tis a cold night--tho' thou wilt be in a colder
place if my Lord St. Amande catches holt on thee. But 'tis cold, I
say; you must drink, my noble slaughterer. What will you? A thimbleful
of sherris, maybe, or a glass of Rosa Solis? Here, Madge,' to the
waitress, 'give the gentleman to drink,' and he lugged out of his
pocket a great silk purse full of golden guineas and clinked it before
us.

"'You seem rich and merry, Mr. O'Rourke,' I said. 'Plenty of money
now, and brave apparel. Whence comes it all? Hast thou been smuggling
off more boys or dragging out some more dead bodies from the river? It
seems a thriving trade, at least!' This upset him, Gerald, so he said,
'Hark ye, Mr. Quin, this is no joking matter. When it comes to
smuggling boys, it seems to me you are the smuggler more than I. Yet,'
he went on, 'let me have a word with thee,' whereon he got off his
cask and came over to me. But as he did so he paused and turned round
on the men drinking with him, and said, 'Will you stay drinking all
night, you dogs? Get home, get home, I say. I will pay for no more
liquor to-night; be off, I say. Finish your drink and go,' which the
men did as obediently as though they were really dogs, touching their
caps and wishing the ruffian and myself and Madge--who was half asleep
beside her bottles--good-night.

"'Now, Quin,' said O'Rourke, drawing a chair up to where I was
sitting, and resting his hands on the handle of his sword, which he
stuck between his legs, 'listen to me, for I have matter of importance
to say to thee, which thy opportune appearance has put into my head!'

"'If 'tis any villainy,' I said, 'which, coming from you, is like
enough----'

"But he interrupted me with, 'Tush, tush! What you call villainy we
gentlemen call business. But interrupt no more; listen. Quin, you know
well enough that the lad you harbour is no more the Lord St. Amande
than I am. I say you know it,' and here he winked at me a devilish
wink, and put out his finger and touched me on the chest, while I,
waiting to see what was coming, nodded gravely. 'The young lord, I
tell you, is dead, drowned in the Liffey--have I not the certificate?
Therefore, Quin--drink, man, drink and warm thyself--his uncle is now
most undoubtedly, both by inheritance and the Lord Chancellor's
enrolment, the rightful lord. But,' and here he paused and looked at
me and, when he thought I was not observing, filled my glass again,
'his lordship wishes for peaceable possession of his rights and to
harm none, not even thee who hast so grievously slandered him and his.
Therefore, if you will do that which is right there is money for you,
Quin; money enough to set you up as a flesher on your own account, and
a trader in beasts; and, for the evil you have done, there shall be no
more thought of it.'

"'And what is it I am wanted to do?' I asked, while I made a pretence
of faltering, and said, 'If I were sure that the lad I have in keeping
were not truthfully the young lord----'

"'The young lord is dead, I tell thee--take some more drink, 'tis
parlous cold--the young lord is dead. I know it.'

"' And therefore you want me to----?'

"'Do this. My lord, by whom I mean his uncle, can now, by warrant of
the Lord Chancellor, assume his proper station, and hath done so.
Only, since he is a man of peace, he wisheth not to fall foul of the
young impostor, and would-be usurper, _as you know he is_, Quin,' and
again his evil eye drooped at me, 'nor to proceed either to punish him
for his cheat nor to have to defend himself from any attempts your lad
might make against him in the manner of impugning his title. And,
therefore--to use thy thoughts--what would be best is that he should
be got out of the way.'

"'By murder?' I asked him.

"'Nay, nay, never! The Lord forfend. We are gentlemen, not assassins,
and so that all should be done peaceably and quietly it would be best
to proceed as follows.'

"Here I again interrupted him, Gerald, by saying, 'If I were only
sure, if I could be but sure----'

"'Sure!' he exclaimed, rapping the table so loudly that the maid
started from her nodding to stare at us. 'Sure! Sure! Man, I tell
you the boy is dead.' Then, glancing suspiciously at the girl and
lowering his voice, he went on again, 'We will proceed as follows.
There is a friend of mine who maketh it his business to consign the
ne'er-do-wells and prison scourings of this city to Virginia, where he
sells them to the tobacco planters for what they will fetch over and
above what he has given for them. Now for a boy such as young
Gerald--pish! I mean him whom you _call_ young Gerald--he would give
as much as twenty guineas, especially on my description of him. But,'
he said, again touching me with his finger on the breast so that I
felt disposed to fell him to the floor, 'but that is not all. For so
that his lordship, who is a noble-minded gentleman if ever there was
one, may peaceably enter upon and enjoy his own, subject to no
disturbance nor thwarting, he will give two hundred guineas to me for
having him safely put aboard my friend's brig, the _Dove_, and shipped
to Newcastle, on the Delaware, where he trades.'

"'Two hundred guineas,' I said, appearing to dwell upon it; ''tis a
goodly sum, and the boy might do well in Virginia. He is a lad of
parts.'

"'Ay,' he replied, forgetting himself and that he pretended not to
know you, 'he is. Smart and brisk, and looking a good two years older
than his age. But of the two hundred guineas, all is not for you. I
must have my share.'

"'That being?' I asked.

"'One half,' he replied. 'And think on it, Quin. One hundred golden
guineas for thee and more, much more than that; for if you do this
service for my lord he will absolve thee from thy contumacy and thine
insults, both to his name and to the face of his wife--for his wife
she is--and also to Mr. Considine, who is a gay and lightsome blade as
ever strutted.'

"'That is something,' I said, giving now what appeared my adhesion to
his scheme. 'Perhaps I spoke too roughly to them, and I would not lie
in the clink for it. Yet to kidnap a boy--for such 'twill be at best,
and he, too, sheltering with me and trusting me--is a grave and
serious thing, which, if discovered, might send me to the plantations
also, if not the gibbet.'

"'Have no fear,' he said; 'my lord shall give you a quittance to hold
you harmless.'

"'He must,' I made answer, 'and more; I must have an earnest of my
payment. I will attempt nothing until I receive an earnest.'

"He looked round at the sleeping serving-maid as I spoke, and then he
drew forth his silk purse again and shook some guineas out into the
palm of his hand, and whispered to me, 'How much will serve, Quin? Eh?
Five guineas. Eh? What! More!'

"'Ay, more!' I said. 'Many more. That purse contains forty pieces if
one. Give me twenty-five as an earnest and twenty-five to-morrow when
we meet again and then, provided that I have the remainder an hour
before your friend's brig sails, the boy shall be hoisted on board
insensible, and the _Dove_ may take him to Virginia or the devil
either for aught I care.'

"And so," Oliver concluded, "he did it. He paid the guineas
down--there they are; look at them, lad! And thou art, therefore,
bound for Virginia, there to spend thy life, or at least a portion of
it, in slavery on the plantations. Ho, ho, ho!" and again he laughed
until the rafters rung once more.




CHAPTER V

THE SPRINGE IS SET


Thus Oliver concluded his narrative of his meeting with O'Rourke.

What came of that meeting you are now to see.

But first I must tell you what his own scheme was, and how he intended
to work out upon the head of Robert St. Amande the result of his own
villainy. My uncle had been married in early life to a young lady of
good family and some means--upon which latter he had more or less
managed to exist for several years--belonging to the South of
Scotland. She had, however, died in giving birth to a son ere they had
been married a twelvemonth, and it was as guardian of this son and
custodian of his late wife's property, which that son was to inherit
when he attained his twenty-first year, that he had, as I say,
principally existed. At least he had done so until he devised the
scheme of assisting my father to ease himself of the family property,
when, naturally, he found more money coming his way than he had
heretofore done, and so, perhaps, ceased his inroads on what remained
of that which was due to my cousin on reaching his majority.

Whether, however, Roderick St. Amande--who was named after his
grandfather, known as Rich Roderick of Dumfries---would ever live to
come into his patrimony, or what remained of it, was a very much
questioned subject. For the youth, who was some two years older than
I, though not a wit bigger, if so big, had already taken to the most
dreadful courses and, young as he was, might sometimes be seen reeling
tipsy about the streets of Dublin (in which city his father thought
fit to generally keep him); sometimes squabbling and rioting with
the watch at nights, and sometimes leering over the blinds of the
coffee-houses and wine clubs at any comely girl who happened to be
passing up or down the streets. Moreover, I suppose, because since my
birth he had always regarded me as an interloper who had come in
between him and the future peerages of St. Amande and Amesbury, as,
had I never been born, he must have eventually succeeded to them, he
had always treated me with great cruelty so long as it was in his
power to do so. When I was little better than a baby and he an urchin
he saw fit to purloin or destroy the toys given me by my mother and my
reckless and unhappy father; because I loved a terrier which a tenant
had given me as a pup, that unfortunate creature was found drowned in
a pool shortly after Roderick had been seen in the neighbourhood, and
there were countless other ill treatments which he pleased to practise
towards me. And at the time when I was consigned to O'Rourke by my
father, who, in his then bemused state, probably did think that he was
only secreting me for a while without dreaming of the harm to be
attempted on me, this young villain, as I afterwards knew, was one of
the prime instigators of that ruffian to make away with me. And, to
conclude, when it was known that I had escaped from O'Rourke's hands
he it was who, either on his own behalf or on that of his father,
raised the hue and cry upon me until, when my own father lay a-dying
in his garret, they saw fit to shift their tactics and give out that I
was dead, which both father and son would have been consumedly
rejoiced to have me.

Now, Oliver Quin knew all this and accordingly hated him as much as he
loved me, and he knew also of the young man's habits, of his love for
the bottle and for bottle-songs, of his revellings and reelings in the
streets by nights and in the early mornings, sometimes in the company
of Considine and sometimes in that of worse almost than he; and he
formed his plans accordingly when approached by O'Rourke. Those plans
were no less, as doubtless you have ere now perceived or guessed, than
to take a great revenge on this youth for all his and his father's
transgressions towards me, and, in fact, to ship him off to Virginia
in the Dove instead of me and in my place.

Such a scheme was easier to be accomplished than might at first be
supposed, for more reasons than one. To begin with, when O'Rourke met
Oliver on the second night to unfold his plans and concert measures
with him, one of the first things the vagabond told my friend was that
he must by no means appear to be concerned in my sending away. "It
will not do for me to be seen in the matter, Quin," he said on
that occasion, on which, because of its importance, they were now
closeted in a private room of the house where they had encountered
each other overnight; "it will not do. Fortune has caused me to be
mixed up before in one or two unpleasant jobs with the Lord Mayor's
myrmidons--the devil shoot them!--and I must keep quiet awhile. But
that matters not, if you are to be trusted. For see, now, see! The
_Dove_ saileth the instant the wind shifts into the east, which it
seems like enough to do at any moment. Therefore must you be ready
with the freight which we would have. The captain, a right honest man,
will send you word overnight at change of wind that he will up-anchor
at dawn, and that, as dawn breaks, you must be alongside of him. He
will see that the boy answers to my description--though I have said he
is a year or so older than he actually is, so as to make him appear
more worth the money--and, when he is aboard, you will receive the
payment. Thus, Quin, you will have pouched one hundred and twenty
guineas, and my lord will stand thy friend."

"Since the wind shifts, or seems like to shift ere long," Oliver
replied, fooling him to the end, "let us conclude. Pay me the
remaining seventy five pieces and I will have him ready at any
moment."

"Nay, nay, softly," the other answered. "Thou wouldst not trust me too
far, I guess, therefore neither must I be too confident. Yet listen! I
shall not be on the quay when you put off to the _Dove_, but one who
has served me before will be. An honest gentleman he is, too, just
back from England where he hath been employed nosing out a Jacobite
plot in the north, and to him you will show the lad, whereon he will
pay you the guerdon and give you also a letter from my lord which will
hold you harmless."

"Is he known to any of us, or to--to, well! to the law and its
officers?"

"To none. He hath but just arrived and knows not a soul in Dublin
except me and one or two of my friends."

"So be it," said Oliver, well enough pleased to think that this
"honest gentleman" would not know the difference between me and my
cousin. "So be it. Now, it will be best that the boy should be drugged
ere I set out with him--is it not so?--and wrapped in some long cloak
so that----"

"Ay, ay," replied the ruffian, "you are brisk. It shall be so. Get a
long frieze cloak such as that you wear--the guineas will indemnify
you for its cost and buy many another--and for the stupefying him,
why, either a dram well seasoned or a crack on the mazard will do his
business for him. Only, be sure not to kill him outright. For if you
do, you will be twenty guineas short of your count, since he will be
no use to the captain then, and you will be forced to fling him into
the Liffey for the prawns to make a meal of."

Thus the wretch, who had no more compunction for my life than that it
would be twenty guineas lost to him whom he now considered his
accomplice, arranged everything, and after a few more instructions to
Oliver as well as a further payment of twenty-five guineas as Oliver
insisted (two of which afterwards turned out to be Jacks, or bad ones)
they parted--the thing being, as O'Rourke remarked gleefully, now well
arranged and in train.

"But," he said for his last word, "keep thy eye on the weathercock and
be ready for the captain's hint, which he will send to this house. Let
not the _Dove_ sail without her best passenger."

"She shall not," answered Oliver. "Be sure of that."

"And now, Gerald, for so I shall call thee, lord though thou art,"
Oliver said to me that night, "we must think for the means for seizing
on thy cousin. I know enough of the weather and the many signs it
gives to feel sure that it is changing. It gets colder, which presages
a north easterly wind, and this will carry the _Dove_ out of the river
and to sea. Therefore, it behoves us to be busy. To-night is Monday,
by Wednesday at daybreak, if I mistake not, the brig will be away.
Therefore, to-morrow night we must have the young princock in our
hands. Now, how shall we proceed?"

"He is almost nightly at Macarthy's tavern--I have seen him in
passing, when I was hiding with the beggars. Yet," I said, breaking
off, "oh, think, Oliver, of what you are about! If you are made
accountable for this, you may be sent to prison or worse even."

"Tush, tush! lad!" he answered. "Have no fear for me. Yet it is kind
of thee to think of it. Still, there is nought to fear. He goes not on
board until I have thy uncle's quittance, though he may say little
enough, fearing to commit himself overmuch; and for the rest, when he
is gone, why we go, too--only another gait."

"We, too! Why, where shall we go?"

"Where? Why, to England, lad. To London. To thy mother. Shall we not
have the wherewithal? We have fifty guineas already; we shall have
more than double by Wednesday morning; and then away for Holyhead or
Liverpool by the first packet that sails, and so to London."

"But, Oliver, what will you do to live? The guineas will not last for
ever."

"No, that is true; but they will go far, and with them I can traffic
as a master and not a man. Or I can hoard them for thy use" (how
unselfish he was, I thought!) "and go back to work as a journeyman--they
say none need want for work in London--and so be ever near to watch and
ward over thee."

"Oliver," I exclaimed, "I think that even now the Lord has raised up
that champion for me of whom you spoke. It seems that you are mine."

"Nay, there will arise a better for thee than I can ever be; but until
he comes I must, perforce, do my best. Now let us make our plans."

And these are the plans we arranged. Knowing that there was no longer
any search likely to be made for me--since 'twas certain that those
who sought my ruin thought it was as good as accomplished--I was to
sally forth next night disguised, and was to prowl about Macarthy's
tavern and other haunts of my abandoned cousin until I had safely run
him to earth. After this Quin was to be summoned by me from the
hipping-hawd where he would be, and, presuming that the captain of the
_Dove_ had sent the expected word, he was then to keep Mr. Roderick
St. Amande in sight until we could secure him.

There was nought else to arrange, for if these plans but fell out as
we hoped all must go well; nothing could upset them.

And the next day, when it came, seemed to give promise of one thing at
least happening as we desired, the wind was blowing strong from the
N.N.E., a wind that would carry the _Dove_ well beyond Bray Head, did
it but hold for thirty-six hours.

At six o'clock that night, therefore, I, having made a slight meal of
some food Oliver had let in the garret for me, banked up the fire, put
out the light, and sallied forth to follow the instructions he had
given me to find our quarry. Of compunctions as to what I was about to
do I had none, as, perhaps, it was not to be expected I should have.
For, consider. That which was to happen to this cousin of mine was but
the portion which his father had endeavoured to deal out to me, and,
as I learnt an hour or so later, was a portion which Roderick knew was
intended for me and over which he gloated in his cups. Therefore, I
say, I felt no pity for him, and I set about to perform my part of the
task with determination to go through with it to the best of my power.
My rags were now discarded, and the clothes which I wore, and which
Oliver had purchased for me with some of O'Rourke's guineas, were in
themselves a disguise. To wit, I wore a fine silk drugget suit lined
with silk shagreen, for which he had given six of the pieces; my
muslin ruffles were of the best, a pair of long riding-boots covered
my stockings to the knees, and a handsome roquelaure enveloped me and
kept the cold out. To add to my disguise as well as my appearance, I
wore a bag wig, and at my side--Oliver said I might find some use for
it ere long--a good sound rapier. Who could have guessed that in the
youth thus handsomely apparelled, and looking any age near twenty-two
or three--the wig and boots giving me an appearance much above my
actual years--they saw the beggar who, a fortnight before, slunk about
the streets of Dublin dressed as a scarecrow!

The wind still blew from the same quarter as I passed down the street
in which Quin dwelt, while one or two passers-by turned to look at the
unaccustomed sight of a well-dressed young man in such a
neighbourhood, and as I went along I meditated on all that was before
me. Moreover, I could not but muse on how strange it was that such a
worldly-wise villain as O'Rourke, to say nothing of those others, my
uncle and Considine, could have fallen so easily into the trap of
Oliver and have been willing to believe in his turning against me thus
treacherously. Yet, I told myself, 'twas not so very strange after
all. They could never have dreamt, no mortal man could possibly have
dreamt, that he should have conceived so audacious and bold a scheme
of turning the tables on them so completely as to dare to kidnap his
very employer's own child in place of the one he wanted to have
transported to the colonies. And, when they trusted him, if they did
in very truth trust him, they only did so to a small extent, since, if
he failed to produce me and to yield me over to the tender clutches of
the captain of the _Dove_, they had but lost a handful of guineas and
could make a cast for me again. Lastly, as I learned more surely when
I grew older, when men are such uncommon rogues as these three were,
they are often bound, whether they will or no, to hope that others
with whom they have dealings are as great rogues as they themselves,
and to make their plans and rely upon that hope accordingly.

Thus meditating and resolving on what I had to do, I drew near to
Macarthy's tavern--then one of the most fashionable in the city--and,
raising myself on tiptoes, I peeped over the blind and saw my
gentleman within regaling himself on a fine turbot, with, to keep him
company, another youth and two young women, much bedizened and
bedeckt. These I knew, having seen them before, to belong to the
company of actors who had been engaged to play at the new theatre in
Aungier Street.




CHAPTER VI

THE BIRD DRAW'S NEAR


And now it behoved me to pause and consider as to what course it would
be best for me to follow. It was as yet but seven of the clock, and
Quin quitted not his stall until eight, so that it would be
impossible, or rather useless, to apprise him of my cousin's
whereabouts. Moreover, nothing could be done at this early hour of the
evening, while, on the other hand, when night came on and it grew late
it was almost a certainty that Roderick would be in his cups. Yet it
would not do to lose sight of him, for should he wander forth from
Macarthy's, as was like enough seeing the company he was in, we might
not find him again that night, in which case the _Dove_, if she sailed
at dawn, would have to go without my gentleman.

So I determined to enter the tavern. Of recognition from Roderick
there was but little likelihood--nay, there was none at all. It was
six years since he had seen me (though scarcely many more days since I
had seen him without his knowing it); six years since he had drowned
my pup, there recollection of which made my hatred of him now stir
afresh in me; years during which I had been at school in two or three
different towns in the country, and also had been in England; and
these years had made much difference between the child of ten and the
youth of sixteen. And, as I have written, what with my height, which
was considerable, and my dress, which was more suited to a young man
of twenty than to me, there was no possibility of Roderick knowing me.
So I determined to enter the tavern, I say, and to ensconce myself in
a box near where my cousin and the actresses sat, and which from the
window I could perceive was vacant, and thus glean what news I might
of his intended action that night. My entrance caused some little
attention, the room not being well filled as yet, and "What a pretty
fellow!" said one of the girls to the other in a very audible voice as
I took my seat in the place I had selected.

"I' faith!" replied the second, a painted minx, like her friend, with
half a score of patches on her face--"pretty enough, but too much like
a girl. For my part, I prefer to look upon a man. Now, Roddy, here,
hath none too much beauty yet enough, or will have when he is a man."

"When he is a man!" my cousin said, "when he is a man, indeed! Man
enough any way to find the wherewithal for giving you a good supper,
Mistress Doll, which it strikes me you would not get from your wages
nor from any of your 'manly' actors who strut about the booths with
you, nor from the half-starved looking playwrights I have seen lurking
about the theatre doors."

"There! there! Roddy!" said the one who had spoken last, swallowing
his abuse as best she might, "there, there! Take no offence where none
is meant, and, for the supper, 'tis most excellent. Yet the claret
runs low, my lad, and I am thirsty."

"Thirsty!" the gracious Roderick replied; "that you are always, Doll,
like all your crew. But claret is useless to such as thee! Here,
drawer, waiter, come here. Bring us some of the brandy punch that
Macarthy knows so well how to brew, and quick--dost hear?"

"The score, sir," I heard the man whisper, "is large already. And I
have to account to the master----"

"The devil take you, and the score, and your master, too! Is not my
father the Honourable Viscount St. Amande, thou rogue, and can he not
pay for all the liquor I drink as well as what my friends consume? Go,
fetch it, I say."

Meanwhile I sat in my box sipping a small measure of claret--which
stuff I wondered some could be found to approve so much of--and
regarding sideways the others. The punch being brought, my cousin,
with a lordly air, bade the other young man ladle it out, telling him
coarsely to keep the glasses of the girls well filled, since they were
capable of drinking the Liffey dry if 'twere full of liquor; and the
women, taking no notice of these remarks, to which and similar ones
they were probably well used, fell to discussing some play in which
they were shortly to appear.

"The lines are fair enough," said the elder of the two, whom Roderick
had fallen foul of, to the other; "yet there are too many of them, and
the action halts. Moreover, as for plot--why, there's none."

"'Tis the failing of our modern playwrights," said her companion,
"that there never seems to be any, so that the audiences soon weary of
us. Yet, if at Lincoln's Inn or Drury Lane they would try more for the
plot, I feel sure that----"

"Plot!" here, however, interrupted my well beloved cousin, who was by
this time approaching intoxication, and adding noise to his other
modes of entertaining his guests, "who's talking about plots? Plots,
forsooth!" And now he smiled feebly, and then hiccoughed, "Plots, eh?
I know a plot, and a good one, too."

"With submission, sir," said Doll, looking angrily at him--for she had
evidently not forgiven his remarks--"we were talking about the
difficulty that 'half-starved looking playwrights' found in imagining
new plots for the playhouses and our crew, the actors. It follows,
therefore, that even though the noble Mr. Roderick St. Amande should
know a good plot, as he says, it could avail us nothing. He surely
could not sink his nobility so low as to communicate such a thing to
the poor mummers."

"Ha, ha!" answered Roderick, "but couldn't he, though. I' faith, I'll
tell you a good plot--take some more drink, I say!--and when next some
snivel-nosed dramatist wants a--a--what d'ye call it, a--plot, tell
him this."

"We are all attention, sir. This is indeed an honour. We have of late
had more than one noble lord as patron and poetaster--it seems we have
another in store. Nell," to her companion, "listen carefully."

"Doll, thou art a fool and a vixen too, especially when thou hast
supped, as the black fellow calls it, not wisely but too well. Yet,
listen. Thou hast heard of my uncle's death----"

"Verily we have," interrupted Doll again. "All Dublin has. A noble
lord buried by charity, and that not the charity of his relatives; a
doubtful succession, an impugned title--ha! ha!--who has not heard of
that! Yet, if this is the plot, 'tis useless for us. It may do in
absolute real life, but not upon our boards. 'Twould be thought so
unnatural and inhuman that, if we endeavoured to represent the thing,
we should be hissed or worse."

"In truth, I have a mind to beat you," the now drunken youth roared
out, "yet I will not. Gim'-me some drink. A plot, I said. Well, now,
hear. There is a beggar's brat whom others are endeavouring to foist
on us as my uncle's child--thus commenceth the plot--but they will not
succeed. Not succeed? you ask. I will tell you. And there's the
continuation of the plot. No, they will not succeed. To-morrow, early,
that beggar's brat pays the penalty of his attempted cheat--he passes
away, disappears for ever. Where to? No, not to the grave, though I
trust he may find it ere long, but to the plantations. What! the bowl
is empty? Thy throat's a lime-kiln, Doll. To the plantations, I say,
to the plantations. That should kill the dog, if aught will. If the
work and the fever and the beatings, to say nothing of the bad food,
will not do it, why, perhaps the Indians will, and so we shall have no
more disputed successions nor impugned titles. Now, say, is it not a
good plot? Let's have more drink!" And he sank back into his chair.

The woman Doll regarded him for a moment with her steely blue eyes,
what time he shut his own and seemed about to slumber--the other youth
had long since gone off into a drowsy and, I suppose, tipsy nap. And
then she whispered to her companion, "I wish I did but know where that
beggar's brat he speaks of were to be found. I would mar his plot for
him." And the companion nodded and said she too wished they had never
consented to come with him to supper.

Meanwhile, I, who had also feigned sleep so that, if they should look
at me, they would not think I had overheard them--though in truth I
think they had forgotten my presence, since I was shielded from their
sight by the box sides--called for my reckoning, and, paying it, rose
to depart. For it was time now that I should go and seek Oliver. As I
passed down the room the girls looked at me and then at each other,
but said nothing; and so I went swiftly out and to the place appointed
to meet Quin.

"Come quickly," I said to Oliver, who was on the watch for me and came
out directly I put my head in the door, "come quickly. He is drunk now
in the company of another youth who is as bad or worse than he, and of
two actresses, neither of whom would, I believe, raise a finger to
help him even though we slew him. He has insulted them and they will
do nothing."

Therefore we hurried along, but as we went Quin told me we must be
careful. First, the streets were full of people as yet, so that, if we
endeavoured to carry him off, we should of a certainty arouse
attention; and, next, the people at Macarthy's would be sure to keep
an eye to him, more especially as he owed them a reckoning. And he
told me that the captain of the _Dove_ had sent to say he sailed at
daybreak; "so that," he said, "if nought mars our scheme--which heaven
forfend may not happen--we have the bird in the springe, and then for
London to your lady mother by the packet boat which sails, I hear,
to-morrow, at noon. And, Gerald, thou look'st every inch a young lord
in thy brave apparel--she will scarce believe you have been hiding
amongst the beggars of Dublin."

By now we had returned to the outside of Macarthy's and, again peering
over the blind of the bow-window, we saw that Roderick and his boon
companions were still there. He and the young man with him were,
however, by now fast asleep, and the two girls were talking together
we could see; while, from the far end of the room, the waiter who had
served me and them was seated on a chair yawning lustily, and every
now and then regarding the party with his half open eye. Of others
present there were none, perhaps because it was a cold, inclement
night, though one or two of the boxes seemed to have been recently
occupied, as did some of the tables in the middle of the room--near
one of which our party sat judging by the disarranged napery and empty
dishes left upon them.

But, as we gazed, we observed that the actresses appeared to have
grown tired of the company they were in, and, softly rising, they went
over to the hangers and took down their camlet cloaks and hoods and
prepared to depart. The one called Doll took from her purse a piece of
silver which she flung to the waiter, and said some words to him
accompanied by a gesture towards my cousin and the other youth and
also by a laugh--perhaps she said that 'twas all the vail he would get
that night!--and then without more ado she passed with her friend out
into the street. But they came forth so swiftly that Oliver and I had
no time to do more than withdraw our eyes from the window and appear
to be talking, as though we were acquaintances met in the street,
before they were both upon us, and, fixing her eye upon me, Doll
recognised me again in a moment. "Why," she said to her friend, with
her saucy laugh, "'tis the pretty youth who was in the tavern but an
hour ago." And then, turning to me, she went on, "Young sir, you
should be a-bed by now. The night air is bad for--for young gentlemen.
Yet, perhaps, you have a tryst here with some maid, or"--but now she
halted in her speech and, bending her brows upon me, said--"or, no, it
cannot be that you are concerned in the foul plot Mr. St. Amande spoke
of within. No, no! That cannot be. You did not appear to know him, nor
he you. Yet, again, that might be part of the plot, too." And once
more she looked steadfastly at me.

I would have answered her but Oliver took the word now, and speaking
up boldly to her, said:

"Madam, if my young master be concerned at all in the plot of which
you speak it is to thwart it, as, by good chance, he most assuredly
will do. Therefore, since you say it is 'foul,' by which I gather that
you do not approve of it, I pray you pass on and leave us to do our
best."

She looked at his great form and at me, her friend standing always
close by her side, and then she said to me:

"Who are you? No friend of his, assuredly. And if such be the case, as
it seems, then I heartily wish that your attempts to thwart his villainy
may be successful. Oh! 'tis a shame--a shame."

"I guessed you thought as much," I answered in reply to her, "from
what I overheard you say within. Therefore, I make bold to tell you
that he will doubtless be so thwarted. And, if you would hear the
ending of the plot which he described to you to-night, and which I
assure you was incomplete, you will have to wait a little longer.
Then, if I have the honour to encounter you again, it shall be told.
Meanwhile, if you wish us well, I beg of you to leave us. He may come
out at any moment when your presence would interfere with our plans."

"So be it," she replied, "and so farewell, and fortune go with you.
And--stay--I should like to hear the ending of that gallant and
courteous young gentleman's plot; a line to Mistress Doll Morris at
the New Theatre in Aungier Street will reach me. Farewell."

"Farewell, my pretty page," said the other saucily, and so they passed
down the street, I telling them as they went that, doubtless, they
would hear something ere long.

And now the evening was gone, the passers-by were getting fewer, the
shops were all shut; soon Macarthy's would shut too. The time for
action was at hand.




CHAPTER VII

TRAPPED


And still the night drew on and we waited outside, sheltering
ourselves in the stoop of an empty house opposite Macarthy's, or
walking up and down the street to keep ourselves warm as well as not
to attract observation to our loitering. Yet, indeed, there was but
little fear that we should be observed, since there were but few
people in the streets. A coach or hackney carriage would now and again
rumble past; once the watch went by; two of his Majesty's sailors
passed down singing a jovial chaunt about the West Indies and the
girls and the drinking there--but that was all. The city was fast
going to bed.

Knowing that my hopeful cousin was intoxicated by now, we had somewhat
altered our plans, and we had determined that, directly we could seize
him, we would carry him down to the boat which we had ready for us at
Essex Stairs. Once there, we would await the arrival of O'Rourke's
"honest gentleman" with the remaining hundred guineas and my uncle's
acquittal, the form of which was already arranged; after which we
would pull off to the _Dove_, which lay below Dublin in mid stream,
and deposit our cargo with the captain, and take his guineas too.
Resistance from our prize we had no fear of. I could myself have
easily mastered him in the state he now was, while for any noise he
might make--why, a gag would stop that and would be perfectly
understood and approved of by the captain, should Roderick go aboard
thus muzzled. It would, doubtless, not be the first victim he had
shipped for Virginia in such a condition.

Yet there was no necessity for even this, as you shall now see, since
my cousin's own actions, and his love for the bottle, led him to fall
into our hands as easily as the leaf falls from the tree when autumn
winds are blowing.

As we stood in the street waiting for him and his friend to come
forth--who we hoped would soon part from him and seek his own home--we
heard a hubbub and loud noises in Macarthy's, as well as
expostulations in the drawer's voice, and then, suddenly, the door was
flung open and out into the street there came, as though they had both
been thrust forth together by strong hands, my cousin and his guest.

"Now what may this mean?" whispered Oliver, while, as he spoke, he
drew me further within the porch, or stoop, so that we were quite
invisible behind its thick pillars.

It took not long to learn. My cousin was mightily flustered as 'twas
easy to see; his hat was awry as also was his steinkirk, his face was
flushed and he breathed forth most dreadful execrations against the
tavern first, and then his companion, who, perhaps because of his
longer sleep within, seemed more cool and calm.

"I tell thee 'tis a scurvy trick, Garrett," bawled Roderick, after he
had finished kicking at the tavern door, which was now fast closed,
while the lights within were extinguished; and after he had yelled
through the keyhole at them that "they should be indicted on the
morrow." "A scurvy trick, and worst of all from a guest as thou art.
But it shall not pass, and I will have satisfaction." And he began
tugging at the sword by his side, though he lurched a good deal as he
did so.

"Mr. St. Amande," replied the other, "satisfaction you shall indeed
have, as I will for the blow you dealt me in there, which led to our
ignominious expulsion. And you may have it now, or in the park
to-morrow morning, or when and where you will. But, previously, let me
tell you, sir, that when you say that I am any party to the departure
of the young ladies, or that I know where they are, or am about to
rejoin them, you lie. Now, sir, shall we draw?"

"Where are they then? I did but doze, yet when I opened my eyes they
were gone," but he made no attempt further to unsheath his weapon.

"As I have now told you twice, I know not. But I cannot stay parleying
here with you all night. A friend will wait upon you to-morrow. Frank
Garrett must wipe out that blow. I trust my friend's visit will be
agreeable. Sir, I wish you a good night," and he took off his richly
gold laced hat with great ceremony and, bowing solemnly, withdrew. My
cousin gazed with drunken gravity after him and hiccoughed more than
once, and muttered, "A nice ending truly to a supper party. The girls
gone, insulted by landlord and--and the reckoning to pay and fight
to-morrow--Garrett knows every passado to be learnt at the fence
school. I must see to it. And there is no more to drink." Here he
reeled over to the tavern again from the middle of the road, and,
beating on the door, called out to, them to come down and give him
another draught and he would forget their treatment of him while the
reckoning should be paid in the morning. But his noise produced no
other reply than the opening of a window upstairs, from which a man
thrust forth his head covered with a nightcap and bade him begone or
the watch should be summoned. While for the reckoning, the man said,
his honour might be sure that that would have to be paid since he knew
his honour's father well. After which the window was closed.

But now, when once more all was still, Oliver and I stepped forth, and
the former taking off his hat with great civility and bowing, said,
"Sir, we have been witnesses of how ill you have been treated, both by
your friend and the tavern-keeper. And 'tis a sin to thrust forth so
gallant a gentle man when he wishes another cup."

"I do, plaguily," muttered Roderick.

"Therefore, young sir, if you require another draught I can show you
where it may be obtained."

"Can you? Then you are a right good fellow, though who and what you
are I know not from Adam. Some city put, I suppose, who wishes to be
seen in company with a gentleman!"--'twas ever my cousin's habit to
make such amiable speeches as these, and thereby to encounter the ill
will of those whom he addressed. "But, however, I care not whom I am
seen in company with. I'll go along with you." Then, suddenly, his eye
lighted on me, whereon he exclaimed, "What, my gentleman! Why, 'twas
you who were in Macarthy's earlier in the evening. I suppose you left
ere I awoke from my doze. Are you, too, stranded for a draught and
obliged to be indebted to this good--humph!--person for procuring you
one?"

"Even so," I answered, thinking it best to fall in with his
supposition, whereon Oliver said:

"Come on then, young sirs, or all the taverns will be closed. Yet,
stay, will you have a sup ere we set forth. I have the wherewithal in
my pocket," and he thrust his hand in his coat and pulled out a great
flask he had provided to keep out the morning air from our lungs when
we should be on the river.

"First come, first served," he said, winking at me, which action being
under an oil lamp I could well perceive, and he handed me the flask
which I put to my mouth and pretended to drink from, though not a drop
did I let pass my lips. "And you, sir," he went on, turning to my
cousin, "will you try a draught? 'Tis of the right kind--and--hush! a
word--the gauger has never taken duty on it."

"So much the better. Hand over," said Roderick, "the night air is raw.
Ah!" He placed the bottle to his lips as he uttered this grunt of
satisfaction and took a long deep draught, and then returned the flask
enviously to Oliver and bade him lead to the tavern he knew of, where
he promised he would treat us both to a bowl of punch ere the night
was done.

But Oliver (as he told me afterwards) not thinking it advisable to be
seen in more public houses than necessary--considering the business we
were on--purposely led the way to one near the river of which he knew,
by as circuitous a route as possible, so that, ere we had gone half a
mile, Roderick called a halt for another refresher. All the way we had
come he had been maundering about the treatment he had received at the
tavern, about the desertion of him by the actresses, and about his
friend's treachery, mixed up with boastings of his father's standing,
his speech being very thick and his gait unsteady. So that the same
hope was in Oliver's mind as in mine, namely that another attack upon
the bottle might do his business for him. Yet, when he had taken it,
he was not quite finished--though nearly so, since he would once or
twice have fallen had we not held him up between us as we went
along,--and we were fain at last to suggest a third pull at the flask.
And shortly after he had taken that he could go no farther but, after
hiccoughing out some unintelligible words, sank helpless on the
stones.

"Caught in their own toils!" exclaimed Oliver, as he bent over him,
"caught in their own toils! Gerald, already the spell begins to work
that shall undo your uncle. Yet, if this were not the son of a
villain, and a villain himself in the future if he be not one now, as
by his rejoicing over the plot in the tavern he seems to be, I would
never have taken part in such a snare as this. But," he continued,
"they would have sent you, poor lad, to where he is going, and he
would have gloated over it. Let us, therefore, harden our hearts and
continue what we have begun."

He stooped over Roderick as he spoke and gazed at him as he lay there
insensible, and said, "We must remove from him his lace and ruffles;
they are too fine. His hat with its lacings is easily disposed of,"
saying which he tossed it on a heap of refuse such as was then to be
found in every street in Dublin. "His clothes," he continued, "are,
however, none too sumptuous, and they are soiled with mud where he has
fallen. His sword he must not have however," with which words he
unloosed it as well as the sash and placed the former against a
doorway and the latter in his pocket. "Now," he said, "let us carry
him to the stairs," and he forthwith hoisted him on his back as easily
as he had hundreds of times hoisted a sheep in a similar manner.

We passed scarcely any persons on our road, and, when we did, they
seemed to think little enough of such a sight as a man who looked like
a porter carrying another who was overcome by drink on his back, while
a third, probably, as they supposed, the drunken man's friend, walked
by their side. Such sights were common enough in the days when I was
young and George II. had just ascended the throne, and not only in
Dublin but in England and all over his dominions. Nay, in those days
things were even worse than this; men went to taverns to pass their
evenings, leaving word with others, to whom they paid a regular wage,
to come and fetch them at a certain hour, by which time they would be
drunk. Noblemen's servants came for them on the same errand to their
wine clubs and the ordinaries, and even many divines thought it no sin
to be seen reeling home tipsy through the streets at night, or being
led off by their children who had sought them out at their houses of
use.

So, I say, we passed unheeded by those few we encountered, and in this
manner we came to Essex Stairs, where Oliver deposited his burden upon
the shingle under a dry arch and went to fetch the boat.

"I know not," he said, "whether 'tis best to put him in the boat at
once and so to row about the river, or whether to let him lie here
until O'Rourke's friend comes to see that the scheme is accomplished.
He is to wear a red cockade by which we shall know him."

"I imagine 'twould be best to take to the boat," I said. "Any one may
come down to the river shore at any moment, but the river is as still
as death. And we could lie under yon vessel that is listed over by the
tide, and so see those on shore without being seen."

"Thou art right, Gerald; thou art right. No thing could be better.
Wilt lend a hand to carry him in? And then we will shove off."

We bent over the prostrate form enveloped now in Oliver's frieze coat,
when, as we did so, we heard behind us a voice--a voice that terrified
me so that I felt as though paralysed, or as if the marrow were
freezing in my bones--a voice that said, "Softly, softly! What!
Would'st put off without the other guineas and the acquittance?" And,
starting to our feet, we saw behind us O'Rourke regarding us with a
dreadful smile.

"So, Mr. Quin," he went on, "thou would'st have tricked me, eh! and
hast found some other youth to send to the plantations in place of
this young sprig here--who, in spite of his gay apparel and his smart
wig, I recognise as the brat who was not long ago in my custody, and
shall be again. A pretty trick in faith! a pretty trick to try on me
who, in my time, have served the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender,
and hoodwinked the whole joyous three. Why, Quin," he went on
banteringly, "you are not so clever as I took you for."

"I may outwit you yet, O'Rourke," replied Oliver, "in spite of your
cleverness. But," he continued, in a peculiar voice that I could not
understand, and, indeed, I felt now so miserable and wretched at the
failure of our undertaking that I paid but little heed to what they
said, "I suppose you, too, were tricking me. If we had got down the
river we should have found no _Dove_ there to take our cargo on
board."

"Nay, nay, Quin," continued the other, "for what then think you I have
paid you the guineas, which now you must return or I will blow your
brains out? The _Dove_ is there fast enough, though she is anchor
a-peak now and ready to sail. And in my pocket, too, are the remaining
pieces--for I am an honest man, Quin, and keep my word--and with a
line from my lord absolving thee, which now thou must forego." Here he
burst into another laugh such as he had once or twice given before,
and went on, "Yet I cannot but smile at your simplicity. What! pay
thee twenty-five guineas for nothing, and entrust an honest gentleman
with a red cockade in his hat--ha, ha!--to look after my affairs when
I can look after them myself. 'Tis not thus that I have prospered and
made my way. Now, Quin, give back my guineas to me."

"Nay," said Oliver, "that will never be. We have the guineas and we
mean to keep them."

"I am armed," said O'Rourke, "and I will have them; yet, ere I take
them from you or shoot you like a dog, let's see what creature, what
scaramouch or scarecrow thou hast picked out of the gutter to send to
Virginia in place of this boy, Gerald," and, stooping down, he bent on
his knee and flung Oliver's cloak off my cousin's form till it lay
there as it had fallen, and with a ray from the oil lamp of the
archway glistening on his face.

"What!" he exclaimed, "what! nay, 'tis impossible--yet, yet, oh! oh!
Quin, thou damnable, thou double-dyed scoundrel; why--why--thou
wretch, thou execrable wretch, had this happened, had this wicked plot
been put in practice, my lord would have slain me. Oh! thou villain. I
should have been ruined for ever."

"As so you shall be yet," said Oliver springing at him as he spoke,
"as you shall be if I myself do not slay you first."

In a moment he had seized the ruffian by the throat with his great
strong hands while he called to me to secure his pistols, which I did
without loss of time; and he so pressed upon his windpipe that
O'Rourke's face became almost black. Yet he struggled, too, being, as
I think, no coward, and dealt out buffets and blows right and left,
some falling on Oliver's face and some on his body. But gradually
these blows relaxed in strength and fell harmless on his more brawny
antagonist, who never loosed the hold upon his throat, so that 'twas
easy to perceive, even in the dark of the archway with its one faint
illumination, he must in a few moments be choked to death.

"Do not kill him, Oliver," I whispered, "do not kill him. Spare him
now; he is harmless."

Whether it was my words or his own merciful nature I know not, but, at
any rate, Oliver did at last relax his hold on the other, who, when he
had done so, fell to the earth and, after writhing there for a moment,
lay perfectly still.

"We must be speedy," said Oliver, "and lose no time. Look! towards the
east the light is coming. Quick. Do you rifle his pockets for the
money and the paper--above all, the paper; do not overlook that! while
I lift the other into the boat. And gag him with this sash," taking
Roderick's sword sash out of his pocket and tossing it to me; "gag him
tightly, but leave him room to breathe. I have not killed him, though
I came near doing so."

As he spoke, he snatched up my cousin as easily as though he had been
a valise, and went down with him to the boat, throwing him lightly
into the stern sheets, and then pushed the boat off by the bow so that
she should be ready to float the moment we were in.

As for me, I went through O'Rourke's pockets hurriedly, finding in
them the bag with the remainder of the guineas (in which we discovered
afterwards three more jacks, so that we were led to think that he
followed, amongst other pursuits, that of passing bad coin whenever it
was possible) and also the paper--a scrawl in my uncle's hand writing
saying that "he thanked Mr. Quin for what he had done in ridding
Ireland of an atrocious young villain and impostor falsely calling
himself a member of a noble family, to wit, his own"--and pledging
himself to hold Mr. Quin harmless of any proceedings on that account.

Then, tying Roderick's sash in O'Rourke's mouth, I ran down to the
boat, and, jumping into it, rolled up my cloak and coat and took the
bow oar.

Half-an-hour later the dawn was come; already there was stealing over
the river that faint light which, even on a winter morning, tells that
the day is at hand, and our oars were keeping time well together as we
drew near to the ship that was to carry my wretched cousin far away to
the Virginia plantations--the plantations to which he and his father
fondly hoped they would have consigned me.




CHAPTER VIII

AND CAGED


As we thus drew near to what Oliver said was the _Dove_--he having
been down to reconnoitre her the day before from the shore--our burden
gave some signs of coming to, or rather of awakening from his drunken
slumbers. First he rolled his head about under the cloak, then he got
it free from the folds, and, when he had done this, he opened his
bloodshot eyes and stared at us with a look of tipsy amazement. Yet,
so strong was the unhappy youth's ruling passion, that he exclaimed:

"If you have a taste of that spirit left in the flask, I pray you give
it me."

"Feel in the pocket over by your left shoulder," replied Quin, "and
you may yet find a drop or so--'twill warm you." Then, turning to me
as the wretched Roderick did as he was bidden, Quin said over his
shoulder, in a whisper, "'Tis a charity to give it him. It is the last
he will taste for many a day. The skippers do not give their prisoners
aught else but water on these cruises, and as for the planters--if all
accounts be true!---they treat their white slaves no better." After
saying which he bent to his oar again.

For a moment the draught seemed to arouse Roderick and even to put
sense into his muddled pate, since, as he gazed on the shore on either
side, he muttered, "This is not the way home. Not the way I know of";
but, even as he did so, the fumes of the overnight's liquor, stirred
up perhaps by the new accession of drink, got the better of him again
and once more he closed his eyes.

"'Tis thy way home at any rate," I heard Oliver mutter; "the way to
the only home you will know of for some years. And may it be as happy
a one to thee as thou destined it for thy cousin." Then turning
swiftly to me, he said, "Pull two strokes, Gerald; we are alongside
the _Dove_."

As we slewed round to run alongside the gangway, there stood at the
top of it as villainous a looking old man as ever it was my lot to
see. An old man clad in a dirty plush suit with, on his head, a hat
covered with tarnished, or rather blackened, silver lace; one who
squinted hideously down at us.

"Whence come you, friends?" he asked. "From the noble Captain
O'Rourke," replied Oliver, "and we bring you his parting gift. The
youth is not well, having partaken freely over night, doubting,
perhaps, of your hospitality. Now, sir, if you will produce the price
named to the Captain and send down a man or so to haul him on board,
he is very much at your service."

"Ay, ay," said the captain, "let's see him though, first. I don't want
to buy a dead man--as I did up at Glasgow not long ago--or one who has
lost his limbs. Here, Jabez, and you, Peter, jump down and haul him
up," while, as he spoke, he produced a filthy skin bag from his pocket
and began counting out some guineas into his palm.

Those called Jabez and Peter--one of whom was a negro--did as they
were bidden, and, shoving our boat a little forward so as to bring the
stern, where Roderick lay, up to the platform of the gangway, they
quickly threw off the cloak, and, seizing his limbs, began to lift
them up and let them fall, to see that they were not broken nor he
dead. But such treatment even this poor bemused and sodden creature
could not bear without protest, so, as the men seized him and swiftly
bore him up the gangway until he stood upon the deck of the _Dove_--a
filthy, dirty-looking craft, with, however, a great, high poop much
ornamented with brass and gilding--he began to strike out right and
left, and to scream and ejaculate.

"Hands off, you ruffians, hands off you wretches, I say! What! do you
know who I am; do you know that I am the son of the Viscount St.
Amande and his heir? Let me go, you dogs!" and putting his hand to
where his sword should have been and not finding it there, he struck
at the negro, who, instantly striking back at him, fetched him such a
blow on the cheek as sent him reeling against the rough-tree rail,
where he glowered and muttered at all around.

"Hark ye, young sir," said the villainous looking skipper, "we have
been informed before this by the gallant Captain O'Rourke that it
pleases you to style yourself a son of Lord St. Amande." Here Quin
nodded up to the speaker, saying, "'Tis so, I have even at this moment
a paper in my pocket saying that he does so claim that position." "But
let me tell you," the captain went on, "'twill avail you nothing on
board this craft. I am, like the honest man in the boat below, in
possession of a paper from his lordship saying you will try this tack
with me, and, as I tell you, 'twill profit you nothing. You may call
yourself what you will but you must accustom yourself to this ship for
some weeks, at least, and take your part with these your companions
till you reach your destination. While, if you do not do so, I will
have you brained with a marling-spike or flung into the sea, or, since
I cannot afford to lose you, have you put in irons in the hold," after
which he turned away from Roderick, handed the twenty guineas to
Oliver, and bellowed out his orders for getting the ship under weigh
at once.

But now, as I glanced at those whom the man spoke of as his
companions, my heart went out to my cousin, and, cruelly as he had
ever used me, and even remembering that he had chuckled over the doom
which now was his having been planned for me, I could not but pity
him. Nay, I think, had it been possible, that I would have saved him,
would have had him set on shore free again, and would have trusted to
Heaven to soften his heart and make him grow into a better man. His
companions! The creatures with whom he was to live and herd until he
reached Virginia, and even afterwards, maybe. Oh! 'twas dreadful to
reflect upon. They stood upon the deck of that horrid-looking craft,
surrounding him, jeering at him, mocking at him, but not one with a
look of pity in his or her face--as, indeed, 'twas not likely they
should have since his fate was theirs. Amongst them there were
convicted felons with chains to their legs and arms, who were being
sent out so as to ease the jails which were always full to
overflowing; there were women who were coin clippers and coiners, and
some who--for I learnt their histories afterwards--had been
traffickers in their own sex, or ensnarers of drunken men, or even
murderesses--though some of them were fair enough in looks and some,
also, quite young. And there were youths, nay, lads, younger than I
was, who had been sold to the captain (to be again re-sold by him at
the end of his voyage) by their own unnatural parents, so that, as
they became lost, the parents' shame might become forgotten. There,
too, lying about, were drunken lads and girls who had been picked up
in the streets and brought on board and kept drunk until the ship
should sail; there were some who looked like peasants who had been
enticed in from the country, since they wore scarce any clothes,
and--horror of horrors!--sitting weeping on a cask was a clergyman,
still with his cassock on and with a red blotchy face. He--I
afterwards learnt also--had forged to obtain money for drink, and this
was his doom. And those who were not drunk, or sleeping off the
effects of drink, came near that other drunkard, my cousin, and,
approaching as close as possible to him until the mate and sailors
kicked them, men and women, indiscriminately away, jeered at and
derided him and made him welcome, and asked him if he had any money,
or what he thought of the prospects of a sea voyage, and with what
feelings he looked forward to a sojourn in Virginia as a slave.

"As a slave! In Virginia!" he screamed, taking in his situation at
last. "As a slave in Virginia! Oh, God! spare me, spare me! 'Tis a
mistake, I tell you. A mistake. Another one was meant, not I. 'Tis he
who should go. 'Tis he! Send for him and set me free!"

And then they all laughed again, while the captain, seizing him
roughly by the collar, threw him amidst the others, telling him he
would do very well for him; and then they hauled up the gangway and
gradually the ship wore round.

She had commenced her voyage.

So he went forth a slave and, as he went, the pity that had welled up
into my heart for him became stifled and I felt it no more. For,
think! As he screamed in his desperation for mercy he asked for it
only for himself, he would at that moment, in spite of the horrors
which he saw, have cheerfully sent me in his place. Nay, in his place
or not, he had meant that I should go. Why, I asked myself, should I
pity him?

The _Dove_ had quickly caught the north wind that was blowing now; she
had slipped away so easily from us when once her anchor was up and her
sails set, that, as she went heeling over down the river, we saw but
little of her but her stern and her poop lantern swinging aft. And so
we turned our boat's nose back to the city and prepared to return.

Oliver was himself silent; I think because in his noble heart there
was the same conflict going on that there was in mine--the regret for
having been concerned in such a deed fighting with the pleasant
conviction that he had foiled a most wicked plot against me and thus
defeated two utter villains, my uncle and Considine, while, on a third
one, the punishment had fallen. And now that years have passed it
pleasures me to think that it was so with him, and that that brave
heart of his could, even at this moment of triumph, feel sorrow for
what he had thought it best to do. A brave heart, I have called it; a
noble heart--and so it was. A heart ever entendered to me from the
first when, God He knows, there was none else to show me kindness; a
heart that so long as it beat was ever loyal, good, and true.

"Will you put back to the bridge?" I asked him, seeing that he still
kept the boat's course headed up river. "Surely it would be best to
make straight for the packet and go on board at once. Suppose O'Rourke
has recovered by now and informed my uncle. What may he not do to us?"

"Nothing," replied Oliver, as he still set a fast stroke, "nothing. To
begin with--which is the most important thing--he cannot catch the
_Dove_, no, not even if he could persuade the captain of one of His
Majesty's sloops now lying in the river to put out in chase of
her,--such vessels as she is can show their heels to anything they
have a few hours' start of. And as for what he can do to us--why, what
can he attempt? We have been employed on his service, I hold in my
pocket a letter from him justifying me in kidnapping the youth who
claims to be Lord St. Amande. Well! that is what thy cousin claims to
be in succession, and, even if he did not do so, how can thy uncle
make any stir, or announce himself, as he needs must do if he blows on
me; he, a participator in what I have done? While for O'Rourke--the
noble Captain O'Rourke, Hanoverian spy, Jacobite plotter, white or
black cockade wearer as the time serves and the wind shifts, crimp and
bully,--think you he will come within a hundred leagues of Mr. Robert
St. Amande after having failed so damnably? Nay! more likely are we to
meet him in the streets of London when we get there than in those of
Dublin! So bend thy back to it, Gerald, and pull hard for Essex
Bridge. The tide runs out apace."

As we passed up through the shipping lying in the river and on to our
destination, Quin did utter one more remark to the effect that, if he
had in very fact slain O'Rourke, or injured him so badly that he could
not rise from the spot where he fell, it was possible we might still
find him there, but that he did not think such a thing was very likely
to come about.

"The fellow has as many lives as a cat," he said,--"he was nigh hanged
at Carlisle for a Jacobite in the last rising, and almost shot at St.
Germain for a Hanoverian, yet he escaped these and countless other
dangers somehow--and he has also as many holes as a rat in this city
into which he can creep and lie hid, to say nought of his den farther
up the river, of which you know well, since you escaped from it. 'Tis
not like we shall find him when we land."

To land it was now time since we had reached the bridge, though by
this the river had run so low that we were forced to get out and drag
the boat up through the slime and ooze of the bank to get her high and
dry. And as we were doing so, I, who was lifting her with my face
turned towards the shore, saw a sight that had quite as terrible an
effect on me as the sight of O'Rourke standing over us a couple of
hours before had had. For, wrapped in long horsemen's cloaks and with
their hats pulled down well over their eyes, I observed upon the
river's brink my uncle and his friend and creature, Wolfe Considine,
both of whom were regarding us fixedly. But, when I whispered this
news to Oliver as I bent over the bows of the boat, he whispered back
to me, "No matter; fear nothing. Courage. Courage!"

"Well, fellow," said my uncle to Quin, as we approached them, I
walking behind my companion and with my own hat drawn down as low as
possible so as to evade observation if I could do so. "Well, fellow,
so thou hast determined to change thy song and serve Lord St. Amande,
instead of vomiting forth abuse on him and doing thy best to thwart
him. Is't not so?" and he let his cloak fall so that his features were
visible, and his fierce, piercing eyes shone forth.

"To serve Lord St. Amande is my wish," Quin replied gruffly, returning
his glance boldly.

"And have done so this morning, as I understand, though where that
tosspot, O'Rourke, is, who should be here to settle matters, I know
not."

"Ay," Quin replied in the same tone as before, "I have done good
service to his lordship this morning."

"And the fellow is away to sea? The _Dove_ has sailed?"

"Ay, away to sea on the road to Virginia! The _Dove_ has sailed."

But while this discourse was taking place I was trembling in my wet
boots--remember, I was still but a youth to whom tremblings and fears
may be forgiven--for fixed on me were the eyes of Considine, and I
knew that, disguised as I was in handsome apparel, if he had not yet
recognised me he would do so ere long.

"Yet," my uncle went on, "I should have thought you would have chosen
a somewhat different style of companion for a helpmate in the affair
than such a dandy youth as this. Wigs and laces and riding-boots, to
say nought of roquelaures and swords by the side, are scarcely the kit
of those who assist in carrying youths off for shipment to the King's
colonies!" and he bent those piercing eyes on me while I saw that
other pair, those of Considine, looking me through and through.

"But," went on my uncle, "doubtless you know your own business best,
and I suppose the youth is some young cogger, or decoy, whom thou
can'st trust and who finds his account in the affair."

"Nay," said Considine, springing at me, "'tis the whelp himself, and
we are undone; some other has gone to sea, if any, in his place. Look!
Look, my lord, you should know him well," and, tearing off my wig, he
left me standing exposed to my uncle's regard and that of a few
shore-side denizens who had been idly gazing upon us, and who now
testified great interest in what was taking place.

"What!" exclaimed my uncle, rushing forward. "What! 'Tis Gerald, as I
live, and still safe on shore. Thou villain!" he said, turning to
Oliver, "what hast thou done?"

"The duty I was paid for and the duty I love. My duty to Lord St.
Amande."

"Scoundrel," the other said, lugging out his rapier, "this is too
much. I will slay you and the boy as you stand here. Considine, draw."

"Ay," exclaimed Oliver, "Considine draw--though you could not have
bade him do an thing he fears more. But so will I. Let's see whether
steel or a blue plum shall get the best of this fray"; with which he
produced his two great pistols and pointed one at each of his
opponents, while the knot of people who had now gathered together on
the bank cheered him to the echo. And especially they did so when they
learnt the circumstances of the dispute, and that, in me, they beheld
the real Lord St. Amande, the youth deprived of his rights, and, in
Robert St. Amande, the usurper whose misdeeds were now the talk of the
lower parts of Dublin, if no other.

"Bah!" the latter exclaimed, thrusting his rapier back into the
scabbard with a clash, "put up thy pistols, fellow. This is no
place for such an encounter. Nor will I stain my sword with thy base
blood. But remember," he said, coming a pace or two closer, as he saw
Oliver return the pistols to his belt, "remember, you shall not
escape. You have my writing in your pocket to hold you free of this
morning's work, but"--and he looked terrible as he hissed forth the
words--"think not that I will fail to yet be avenged. Even though you
should go to the other end of the known world I will follow you or
have you followed, while as for you," turning to me, "I will never
know peace night nor day till I have blotted your life out of
existence. And if you have not gone forth to the plantations this
morning, 'tis but a short reprieve. If I do not have thy life, as I
will, as I will"--and here he opened and clenched both his hands as he
repeated himself, so that he looked as though trying to clutch at me
and tear me to pieces--"as I will, why then still shalt thou be
transported to the colonies, thou devil's brat!"

"Ay to the colonies," struck in Quin, "to the colonies, whereunto now
the _Dove_ is taking the false usurper, or the future false usurper of
the title of St. Amande, while the real owner remains here safe and
sound for the present at least. To the colonies. Right!"

"The _Dove_. The false usurper," exclaimed Considine and my uncle
together, while their faces became blanched with fear and rising
apprehension. "The _Dove_ taking the false usurper. Villain!" said my
uncle, "what mean you? Speak!"

"I mean, _villain_," replied Oliver, "that on board the _Dove_, now
well out to sea, is one of the false claimants of the title of St.
Amande, one of those who were concerned in the plot to ship this, the
rightful lord, off to Virginia. I mean that, amongst the convicts and
the scum of Dublin who have been bought for slavery, there goes
Roderick St. Amande, your son, sold also into slavery like the rest."

From my uncle's lips there came a cry terrible to hear, a cry which
mingled with the shouts of those who could catch Oliver's words; then
with another and a shorter cry, more resembling a gasp, he fell
fainting into the arms of Considine.




CHAPTER IX

MY MOTHER


That afternoon we took the first packet boat for Holyhead, where,
being favoured by fortune, we found a fast coach about to start for
London which, in spite of its rapidity and in consequence of the
badness of the roads and some falls of snow in the West, took
five days in reaching the Metropolis. Yet, long as the journey
was--though rendered easier by the quality of the inns at which we
halted and the excellence of the provisions, to which, in my youth,
there was nothing to compare in Ireland--yet, I say, long as the
journey was and tedious, I was happy to find myself once more in
London--in which I had not been since I was a child of six years of
age, when my father and mother were then living happily together in a
house in the new Hanover Square. Nay, I was more than happy at the
thought that I was about so soon to see my dear and honoured mother
again, so that, as the coach neared London, I almost sang with joy at
the thought of all my troubles being over, and of how we should surely
live together in peace and happiness now until my rights were made
good.

Oliver had rid himself of his occupation by a simple method; he had
merely abstained from going to his work at the butcher's any more, and
had sent round to say he had found other and more suitable employment,
and, as a slight recompense to his master for any loss he might
suppose himself to sustain, had bidden him keep the few shillings of
wage due to him. So that he felt himself, as he said, now entirely
free to look after and protect me.

"For look after you I always shall," he said, "So long as it is in my
power and until I see you accorded your own. Then, when that happens,
you may send me about my business as soon as you will, and I will
shift for myself."

"It can never happen," I replied, "that the time will come when you
and I must part,"--alas! I spake as what I was, a child who knew not
and could not foresee the stirring events that were to be my portion
for many years to come, nor how the seas were to roll between me and
that honest creature for many of those years,--"nor can the time ever
come when I shall fail in my gratitude to you or to Mr. Kinchella.
You! my only friends."

Then Oliver's face lighted up with pleasure as I spoke, and he grasped
my hand and said that if Providence would only allow it we would never
part.

To Mr. Kinchella I had gone between the time of the affray with my
uncle--of whom the last I saw was his being half-led and half-carried
to a coach by Considine, after he had learnt who it was who had gone
to Virginia in my place--and the sailing of the packet, and I had
found him busy making his preparations for departing for his vacation,
the Michaelmas term being now nearly at its end. He was astonished at
my appearance, as he might well be, and muttered, as he looked
smilingly down at me, "_Quantum mutatus ab illo!_ Have you come in for
your fortune and proved your right to your title, my lord?"

But when I had sat me down and told him the whole of my story and of
the strange things that had happened during the last two days, he
seemed as though thunderstruck and mused deeply ere he spoke.

"'Tis a strong blow, a brave blow," he exclaimed at last, "and boldly
planned. Moreover, I see not how your uncle can proceed against you or
Quin for your parts in it. If he goes against Quin, there is the paper
showing that he was willing that you should be sold into slavery.
Therefore he dare not move in that quarter. Then, as for you, if he
proceeds against you he acknowledges your existence and so stultifies
his own claim. And, again, he cannot move because witnesses could be
brought against him to show that the scheme was his, though the
carrying out of it was different from his hopes--those player wenches
could also testify, though I know not whether a court of law would
admit, or receive, the evidence of such as they."

"There are others besides," I said. "Mr. Garrett, with whom Roderick
quarrelled, and who seemed to be of a good position; he, too, heard
it. Also, there were several by the river this morning who witnessed
the fit into which my uncle fell when he found how his wicked plot had
recoiled on his own head----"

"Ay, hoist with his own petard! Well, I am honestly glad of it. And,
moreover, 'tis something different from the musty old story told by
the romancers and the playwrights. With these gentry 'tis ever the
rightful heir who goes to the wall and is the sufferer, but here in
this, a real matter, 'tis the heir who--up to now at least--is
triumphant and the villains who are outwitted. Gerald, when you
get to London, you should make your way to the coffee-houses--there is
the 'Rose'; also 'Button's' still exists, I think, besides many
others--and offer thy story to the gentlemen who write. It might make
the fortune of a play, if not of the author."

"'Tis as yet not ripe," I replied, though I could not but laugh at
good Mr. Kinchella's homely jokes; "the first act is hardly over. Let
us wait and see what the result may be."

"Prosperity to you, at least," he said, gravely now, "and success in
all that you desire. For that I will ever pray, as well as for a happy
issue for you and your mother out of all your afflictions," and here
he bent his head as he recited those solemn and beautiful words. "And
now, farewell, Gerald, farewell, Lord St. Amande. Any letter sent to
me here at the College must ever find me, and it will pleasure me to
have news of you, and more especially so if that news is good. Fare ye
well."

And so, after my thanks had been again and again tendered to him, we
parted, and I, making my way swiftly to the quay was soon on board the
packet. But I thought much of him for many a long day after, and when,
at last, Providence once more, in its strange and mysterious
visitations, brought me face to face with him again and I saw him well
and happy and prosperous, I did indeed rejoice.

And now the coach was rolling rapidly over Hadley Heath, that dreaded
spot where so many travellers had met with robbery, and sometimes
death, from highwaymen (one of whom and the most notorious, one
Richard Turpin, was hanged at York a little more than a year after we
passed over it); and the passengers began to point out to each other
the bodies of three malefactors swinging in chains as a warning to
others. Yet, it being daytime as we crossed the heath, I took very
little heed of their stories and legends, but peered out of the window
and told Oliver that this place was not many miles from London, and
that we should soon be there now. As, indeed, he could see for
himself, for soon the villages came thicker and thicker together;
between Whetstone and Highgate we passed many beautiful seats,
doubtless the suburban retreats of noblemen and gentry, while, at
Highgate itself, so close were the dwellings together that, had we not
met a party of huntsmen with their horns and hounds, who, the guard
told us, were returning from hunting, we should have supposed we were
already in London instead of being still four miles from it. But those
four miles passed quickly and soon we arrived.

So now we had come to the inn whence the north-western coaches
departed, and at which they arrived three times a week with a
regularity that seems incredible, since, even in the worst of wintry
weather, they were scarce ever more than a day behind in their time.
And here amongst all the bustle of our arrival, of the shouts of the
hackney coachmen to those whom they would have as fares, and of the
porters with their knots, Oliver and I engaged a coach, had our
necessaries put on it, and gave directions to be driven to my mother's
abode.

The house in Denzil Street, to which we soon arrived, presented but a
sordid appearance such as made me feel a pang to think that my dear
mother should be forced to live in such a place when, had she but
possessed all that should have been hers, her lot would have been far
different. The street had once been, I have since heard, the abode of
fashion--indeed 'twas a connection of my mother's house, one William
Holles, a relative of that Denzil Holles who had been, as many even
now recall, one of the members impeached of high treason by King
Charles, who built it,--but certainly 'twas no longer so. Many of the
houses seemed to be occupied by persons of no better condition than
musicians and music-teachers; a laundry-woman had a shop at one end in
which might be seen the girls at work as we passed by; there were
notices of rooms to be let in several of the houses, and there was
much garbage in the streets. Heaven knows I had seen so much squalor
and wretchedness in Dublin, and especially in the places where I had
lain hid, that I, of all others, should have felt but little distaste
for even such a place as this, nor should I have done so in this case
had it not been that it seemed so ill-fitting a spot for my mother,
with her high birth and early surroundings, to be now harbouring in.

Nor did the maid who opened the door to us present a more favourable
appearance than the street itself, she being a dirty, slatternly
creature who looked as if the pots and pans of the kitchen were her
constant companions. Neither was she of an overwhelming civility,
since, when she stood before us, her remark was:

"What want you?" and, seeing our necessaries on the hackney coach,
added, "There are no spare rooms here."

"We wish to see the Lady St. Amande," I said, assuming as much
sternness as a youth of my age could do. "Tell her----"

"She is sick," the servant replied, "and can see none but her
physician."

"Tell her," I went on, "that her son, Lord St. Amande, with his
companion, Mr. Quin, has arrived from Ireland. Tell her, if you
please, at once."

Whether the creature had heard something of my untoward affairs I know
not, but, anyway, she glanced at me more favourably on receipt of this
intelligence, and, gruffly still, bade us wait in the passage while
she went to speak to her ladyship. But I could not do that, and so,
springing up the stairs after her, was into the room as soon as she,
and, almost ere she had announced my arrival, I was enfolded in my
mother's arms.

She was at this time not more than thirty-five years of age, having
been married at eighteen to my father, yet, already, pain and sickness
had laid its hand heavily upon her, and, along with trouble, had
saddened, though they could not mar, her sweet face. The brow that, as
a still younger woman I remembered so soft and smooth, and over which
I had loved to pass my hands, was now lined and had a wrinkle or so
across it; the deep chestnut hair had threads of silver in it, the
soft blue eyes looked worn and weary and had lost their sparkle. For
sorrow and tribulation had been her lot since first my unhappy father
had crossed her path, and to that sorrow there had come ill health in
the form of a palsy, that, as she had written Mr. Kinchella, sometimes
left her free but mostly kept her fast confined to the house.

And now, the servant having quitted us, she drew me to her closer
still as I knelt beside her, and removing my wig which, she said
through her tears and smiles, made me look too old, she fondled and
caressed me and whispered her happiness.

"Oh, my child, my sweet," she said, "how it joys me to hold thee to my
heart again after I had thought thee dead and gone from me. My dear,
my dear, my loved one, 'tis as June to my heart after a long and cruel
winter to have thee by me once again; my child, my child of many tears
and longings. And how handsome thou art," pushing back my hair with
her thin white hand, "even after all thy sufferings, how beautiful,
how like--Ah! how like _him_," and here she shuddered as she recalled
my father, though she drew me nearer to her as she did so and took my
head upon her breast. Then she wept a little, silently, so that I
could feel her tears falling upon my face and wetting my collar, and
whispered half to herself and half to me, "So like him, who was as
handsome as an angel when first I saw him, yet so vile--so vile." And
then, bending her head even nearer to me so that her lips touched my
ear, she murmured, "Is't true? was it as that gentleman, your friend,
wrote me? Did he die alone and unbefriended? Were there none by him to
succour him? None to pity him? Oh! Gerald, Gerald, my husband that
once was," she moaned, "oh! Gerald, Gerald, how different it might all
have been if thou would'st have had it so."

We stayed locked in each other's arms I know not how long, while she
wept and smiled over me and wept again over my dead father. After
which, calming herself somewhat, she bade me go and fetch Oliver of
whom I had whispered something to her in the time, since she would see
and thank him for all that he had done.

So Oliver came up from the passage where he had been sitting patiently
enough while whistling softly to himself, and stood before her as she
spoke gratefully as well as graciously to him.

"Sir," she said after she had given him her hand, which Oliver bent
over and kissed as a gentleman might have done, and with a grace
which, I think, he must have acquired when he followed the great Duke
twenty years before and was himself a gallant young soldier of
eighteen years of age. "Sir, how shall a poor widow thank you for all
that you have done for her son and your friend?"--here Oliver smiled
pleasedly at my being termed his friend, but disclaimed having done
aught of much weight for me. "Nay, nay," she went on, "do not say
that. Why! you have brought him forth from the jaws of death, you have
saved him from those scheming villains to place him in his mother's
arms again, you have risked your own safety to do so--shall I not
thank you deeply, tenderly, for all that?"

"Madam," Oliver said, "my lady, I could not see the poor youth so set
and put upon and stand idly by without so much as lending him a hand.
And, my lady, if there was any reason necessary for helping him beyond
that of mercy towards one so sorely afflicted as he was, I had it in
the fact that I had known him long before at New Ross."

"At New Ross!" my mother exclaimed. "At New Ross! Is that your part of
the country?"

"It is, my lady, and there, after quitting the army, I lived for many
years working at my trade. And it was there that I have often seen
Gerald--as I have come to call him, madam, since we have been drawn so
close together, tho' I am not forgetful of his rank nor of the respect
due to it--with you and with his late lordship, more especially when
you all drove into New Ross in the light chaise my lord brought from
London, or when Gerald would ride into the town on his pony with his
groom."

These recollections, more especially that of the light chaise which
had been a new toy, or gift, from my father to his wife at the time
they were living happily together and he still had some means,
disturbed my dear mother so much that the tears sprang to her eyes.
And Oliver, who was tender as a child in spite of his determination
and great fierceness when about any business which demanded such
qualities, desisted at once and, turning his remarks into such a
channel as he doubtless thought more acceptable, went on to say:

"And, my lady, none who ever saw his present lordship then--and there
are scores still alive who have done so--but would testify to him. So
it cannot be but that his uncle must ere long desist from the wicked
and iniquitous claims he has put forward and be utterly routed and
defeated, when my lord here shall enjoy his own."

"I pray so. I pray so," said my mother. "And, moreover, his kinsman
the Marquis now seems, since my husband's death, to veer more to our
side than to Robert's. So we may hope."

But now the slatternly servant came in bearing upon a tray some
refreshments that my mother had bade her fetch, there being some good
salted beef, a stew and some vegetables, a bottle of Madeira and two
fair-sized pots of London ale. And being by now well hunger-stung, for
we had eaten nought since the early morning, we fell to and made a
good meal while my mother, sitting by my side and ministering to both
our wants, listened to all we had to tell her. Wherefore, you may be
sure, when she heard of the wicked plot which my uncle had conceived
for shipping me off as a redemptioner, or an indented servant, to
Virginia, and of how it had failed and the biter had himself been bit
through the astuteness of Oliver as well as his manfulness in carrying
out the plans he conceived, she again poured out her gratitude to him
and told him that never could she forget all that he had done for her
and her child.




CHAPTER X

A NOBLE KINSMAN


As the evening drew on Oliver retired, accompanied by the
maid-servant, to seek a room in one of the neighbouring houses which
advertised that they had these commodities at the service of those who
required them; and on the latter returning to say that Mr. Quin had
found a room hard by which he considered suitable, my mother and I sat
over the fire discussing the past, the present, and the future.

"Something," she said, "must be done for Mr. Quin, and that at once.
For his kindness we may well be indebted to him, nay, must, since he
seems of so noble a nature that he would be wounded at any repayment
being offered. But for the money which he has spent--that must
instantly be returned."

"I doubt his taking it," I said. "He regards it as mine since he has
come by it entirely through saving me from my uncle's evil designs.
And, indeed, if you do but consider, dear mother, so it is."

"Nay," she said. "Nay. He would have earned the money easily enough
had he been false to you and put you in that dreadful ship the
_Dove_--gracious Heavens, that such a vile craft should have so fair a
name!--surely we must not let him lose any of that money by being true
and staunch to you."

"Give it back to him, then," I exclaimed with a laugh, "if you can
persuade him to take it. Of which, however, as I said before, I doubt
me much."

"Alas!" she replied, "I cannot give it back to him, but interest must
be made with the Marquis to take up your cause and help you, as he
seems well disposed to do now. For myself, until the villain, Robert,
is defeated, I have but the hundred guineas a year left me by my
uncle--a bare pittance only sufficing to pay for these rooms, the
physician's account and my food."

"Shall I not see the Marquis?" I asked; "surely I should go to him and
tell him all."

"Thou shalt see him soon enough," she said. "I have acquainted him
with the fact of all I knew--no human creature could have guessed or
thought how much more there is to tell, nor how wicked can be the
heart of man, ay! even though that man be one's own flesh and
blood--and also that you might soon be expected to reach London. And
he has sent two or three times a week to know if you had yet arrived:
doubtless he will send again to-morrow. He lives but a stone's throw
from here, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, on the north side."

At ten o'clock my mother told me she must go to her bed for she was
tired and never sat up later, and she rang for Molly, the maid, to ask
if the small room in which she kept her dresses and other apparel had
been prepared for me as she desired. Hearing that it was in readiness,
she told me that a good night's rest would do me good also, and
prepared to retire. And now for the first time, as she rose to depart,
I saw what inroads her disease had made upon her and that she who,
when I first remember her, stood up a straight, erect young woman, was
much bent and walked by the aid of a crutch-stick, and that one of her
hands shook and quivered always.

"Yet strange it is," she said, observing my glance, "that there come
moments when I am free from all suffering and affliction, when I can
stand as straight as I stood at the altar on my wedding day, and when
this hand is as steady as your own. Nay, I can almost will it to be
so. See!" and she held it out before me and it did not quiver, while
next, seizing a huge brass candelabra that stood upon the table, she
lifted that and held it at arm's-length, and neither did that quiver
nor was any of the hot wax from the lighted candles spilt.

"Ah! courage, mother," I said, "courage! You have but to will it and
you are strong. There is enough strength in that arm, which can lift a
candlestick as heavy as this, to do anything it needs. You could hold
a runaway horse with it, or keep off a dog flying at your throat,
or---or--" I went on with a laugh at my silly thoughts, "thrust a
sword through a man's body if you desired to do so."

She was bending to kiss me for the last time that night while I spoke,
but as I uttered the final words of my boyish speech she stopped and
drew herself up so that she was now erect, and then, in a voice that
seemed altered somewhat, she said:

"'Thrust a sword through a man's body if I desired to do so! Thrust a
sword through a man's body!' My sweet, such deeds ill befit a woman.
Yet there are two men in this world through whose bodies I would
willingly thrust a sword if they stood before me and I had one to my
hand. I mean thy uncle Robert, the false-faced, black-avised villain,
and that other and most despicable liar, his friend and creature,
Wolfe Considine."

Yet, even as she spoke, her hand fell powerless by her side and
commenced to shake and quiver once more, when, putting her other upon
my arm, she bade me Good Night and blessed and kissed me and went to
her room.

I lay awake some time in my own bed thinking on what she had said, for
well I knew what had prompted her to speak as she had done. I knew
that, outside the evil and the wrongs that my uncle had testified to
me, there was that other far greater wrong to her which no honest
woman could bear; the base insinuations that Considine had uttered
about his intimacy with her, insinuations partly made to gratify his
own vanity, and partly, as I judged, to enable Robert St. Amande to
cast doubt upon my birth. And I thought that, knowing as she did know,
of these horrid villainies, it was not strange she should feel and
speak so bitterly. These my musings, with some sounds of revellers
passing by outside singing and hooting ribald songs--though one
with a sweet voice sang the old song "Ianthe the Lovely," most
bewitchingly--kept me awake, as I say, some time, but at last I
slumbered in peace within my mother's shelter. Yet not without
disturbance through the night either, for once on turning in my bed I
heard her call to me to know if all was well, and once I heard her
murmur, "The villains, oh! the villains," and still once more I heard
her sob, "Oh! Gerald, Gerald, if thou would'st but have had it so!" by
which I knew that she was thinking of my misguided father and not of
me.

In the morning as we sat at our breakfast of chocolate and
bread--with, for me, another plate of the corned beef which, my mother
told me, the landlady put up in great pickling tubs when the winter
was approaching and, with her family, lived upon for many months,
serving out to the lodgers who wished for them fair-sized platesful at
two pence each--there came a demure gentleman who asked of Molly if
the young lord had yet arrived, or if news had been heard of him.

"It is the Marquis's gentleman," my mother whispered to me, "and,
observe, dear one, he speaks of you as 'the young lord.'" Then,
raising her voice a little, she bade Molly show him in as his lordship
had arrived.

When he had entered the room and made a profound obeisance to her and
another to me, he said that, since I was now in London, he had orders
to carry me to the Marquis in a coach which he had outside, for he was
ready to receive me, being always in his library by eleven o'clock to
grant interviews to those who had business With him.

"We will attend his lordship," my mother said. "I presume, Mr. Horton,
there can be no objection to my going too. And I feel well this
morning; a sight of my child's dear face has benefited me much; I am
quite capable of reaching the coach."

Mr. Horton replied that he knew of no reason whatever why her ladyship
should not go too, and so, when my mother had put on a heavy cloak and
riding hood, for the morning was cold and frosty, we set forth. But,
previous to starting, I ran to the house where Oliver had got a room
and, finding him sitting in a parlour eating his breakfast, I told him
where we were bound.

He rejoiced to hear the news I brought him and offered his escort,
saying he would go on the box of the coach; but I told him this was
unnecessary, and so I left, promising him that, when I returned, I
would come and fetch him and we would sally forth to see some of the
sights of the town. Yet, so faithful was he, that, although he
complied with my desire that he should not accompany us, I found out
in the course of the morning that he followed the coach to the
Marquis's house and there kept guard outside while we were within.

My kinsman's library, to which we were shown by several bowing
footmen to whom Mr. Horton had consigned us, plainly testified that we
were in a room which was used for the purpose from which it took its
name--that it was indeed a library and was so considered. Around the
apartment on great shelves were books upon books of all subjects and
all dates, and of all classes of binding. Some there were bound in
velvet, some in silk as well as vellum, leather and paper: some were
so large that a woman could scarce have lifted them, and some so small
that they would easily have fitted into a waistcoat pocket. And then,
too, there were maps and charts hanging on the walls of counties and
countries, and one of London alone--a marvellous thing showing all
the streets and fields as well as principal buildings of this great
city!--while, when I saw another stretched on a folder and designated,
"A chart of all the known possessions of His Majesty's Colonies of
America," you may be sure my eye sought out, and my finger traced, the
spot where Virginia stood.

"Tell him everything, my dear," said my mother, "as you have told it
to me, and fear nothing. He is just if stern, and, above all, hates
fraud and trickery. Moreover, he has forgiven me for being of those
who espoused, and still espouse, the fallen house of Stuart, and is
not unfriendly to me. Also, remember, he must now be our only hope and
trust on earth, so do thy best to impress him favourably with thee."

I promised her that I would indeed do all she bade me and, then, while
I was turning over a most beautiful book called "Sylva, or a Discourse
concerning Forest Trees," by a gentleman named Evelyn, a footman
opened the door and the Marquis of Amesbury stood before us.

"Louise," he said, going up to her and taking her hand, while, at the
same time, he kissed her slightly on the cheek, "I am glad to see that
you can come forth again. I trust you are more at ease." Then, turning
to me, he gazed down and said, "So, this is your child," and he placed
his hand upon my head. As he did so, and after I had made my bow, I
gazed at him and saw a tall gentleman of over sixty years of age, I
should suppose, very lean and very pale, clad in a complete suit of
black velvet and with but little lace at either breast or wrists. The
gravity of his face was extreme, though he looked not unkind; and,
truly, his manner had not been so up to now.

"Well," he said, when he had motioned me to a seat and was himself
standing before us with his back to the huge fire that roared up the
chimney, "well, so you claim to be the present Viscount St. Amande and
my heir when it pleases God to take me. And you, Louise," turning to
her, "proclaim that he is so?"

"Can a mother not know her own child, Charles, or have so hard a heart
as not to wish to see him enjoy his own?"

"Humph! It hath been done. My Lady Macclesfield, though 'tis true she
earned the contempt of all, ever called her son, the wretched man,
Savage, an impostor; and endeavoured to work his ruin, in which desire
she came at last near to success, since this very month he has stood
at the Old Bailey on a charge of murder. Yet, Louise, thou art not as
she was."

"Nay, God forbid! The wicked wanton! Yet I know not--there are those
who have vilified me for their own wicked ends and said the worst that
scoundrels can say of any woman. But, Charles, you are honest and have
ever held a character for justice amongst men, and, although you loved
not my uncle nor my kin, you would not think evil of me. You could
not, oh! you could not!"

He looked down gravely at her, but still again with kindness in his
eyes, and then he said: "No, no. Never, Louise, never. You were always
too good and true, too fond of the unhappy man to have been aught but
faithful. And, although I opposed his marriage with you, it was never
because of your own self but because of your uncle's principles. Had
he had his way, which I thank God was not permitted, he would have
brought back the false-hearted, grieving Stuarts to the throne; he
would have cursed his country and its laws and religion. But for you,
Louise, for you, child, I never had aught of distrust, but only pity
deep and infinite that you should wed with such a poor thing as my own
dead kinsman and heir, this lad's father."

"God bless you," said she, seizing his hand with her well one and
kissing it ere he could draw it away, "God bless you for your words as
I bless Him for having raised you up to be even as a father to the
fatherless--to my poor fatherless boy. And, Charles, if those whom you
loved so well, your own wife and child, had not been taken from you, I
would pray night and day for them as I pray for you."

He turned away and passed his hand swiftly across his eyes as she
mentioned those whom he had once loved so dearly and who, as all the
world knows, were both torn from him in one short week! 'Twas by one
of those dreadful visitations of smallpox which carries off kings and
queens impartially with their humbler subjects, as was the case
fifteen or sixteen years before, when it swept away the Emperor of
Germany and the Dauphin and Dauphiness of France as well as their
child, and also ravaged both those great countries.

Then, turning back to us, he said:

"But now, ere anything else can be done, I must know all that has
occurred since your husband's death. Something I have heard from you,
Louise, and something from other sources yet there is much I cannot
comprehend. Nay, more, there are some things that seem incredible. It
is said he was buried by the subscription of a few friends--many of
them the lowest of the low, with whom he in life wassailed and
caroused--yet, how could it be?"

"He was penniless, Charles," my mother sobbed; "penniless. He had
nothing."

"Penniless! Penniless! Nay. Nay. His brother was here in London at the
time and I bade him let Gerald have all necessaries in reason, and I
dispatched to Mr. Considine a hundred guineas for his funeral by a
sure hand. I could not let the heir to my title----"

"What!" rang out my mother's voice clear and distinct, while I stared
at the Marquis as though doubting whether he were bereft of his senses
or I of my hearing. "What, you sent money by and to them for him? Oh!
Charles, never did he receive one farthing of it."

"So I have cause to fear. And I know not what is to be done with thy
brother-in-law. He seems to be a rogue of the worst degree."

But now she fixed her eyes upon him and exclaimed:

"You say so, knowing only the little that you do know, that he and his
base servant, Considine--Considine," she, repeated, "Considine, the
traducer of my fame whom yet, if God spares me, I will have a heavy
reckoning with; you know only that they have conspired to defraud my
child of his rights, nay, more, of his honest name. That they have
stolen the money you sent to succour my wretched husband in his last
days and to bury him as he should be buried according to his rank and
fashion when he was dead. That you know, Charles, Marquis of Amesbury,
kinsman of this my child, but you do not know all. Will you hear their
further villainies, will you know all that they have attempted on him;
will you do this, you who are powerful and great, and then will you
stretch forth your right hand and crush, as you can crush, these
wretches to the earth while, at the same time, you also stretch forth
that hand to shelter and protect this innocent child, your heir?"

She had spoken as one inspired by her wrongs; her eyes had flashed and
her frame had quivered as might have quivered that of a pythoness as
she denounced some creature who had outraged her gods, but the effort
had been too much for her weak frame--she could sustain it no further,
and, sinking back into her chair, she was but able to gasp out in
conclusion, "For his sake, Charles, for the sake of an innocent child.
For his sake."

Upon which the Marquis, after trying to calm her, said gently:

"If there are other villainies to hear, I will hear them, yet it seems
impossible that more can remain behind. And, Louise," continued the
old man, touching her arm very gently, "dry your tears. I cannot bear
to see you shed them. Nor have you need. The boy shall be righted. I
promise  you."

"Tell him all, Gerald; tell him all," my mother sobbed. "Oh! it would
be enough to melt a heart of stone, let alone one so kind as his."

So I told the Marquis everything that has here been set down.




CHAPTER XI

IMPRESSED


"Many as are the villainies which I have known of in my life," said
the Marquis, when the tale was told, "never have I known aught such as
this. It appears incredible. Incredible that such things can be, and
in these days. Heavens and earth!---in the days of King George the
Second, when law and order are firmly established." Then he fell
a-musing and lay back in the deep chair before the fire in which he
had sat during the whole of my recitation, and nodded his head once or
twice, and muttered to himself. After which he spake aloud and said,
"And the hundred guineas that I sent to bury Gerald; they were those,
I imagine, which the villain O'Rourke paid to your protector, Quin.
Humph! 'Tis well they have fallen into the hands of an honest man
again."

It was at the collation which he offered to my mother and me, for it
was now nearly two o'clock, that he once more took up the subject and
spake out his heart to us, but before he did so he bade the footmen
who had waited at table begone and leave us alone. And, in truth, I
was glad enough to see these immense creatures leave the room and
cease their ministrations to our wants, for they had wearied me, and,
I think, my mother too. All our hopes were centred in what the Marquis
would do to espouse my cause, so you may well imagine that the roasts
appealed not to us nor did the sweetmeats and iced froth and fruit,
nor the wines which they pressed upon us. But when these menials were
gone, he, as I say, again went on with the subject that engrossed all
our thoughts.

"The first thing to do is," he said, "to obtain the certificate of the
child's birth--of that of course there can be no difficulty; then
proof must be forthcoming that this lad is that child--that, I
imagine, can also be obtained?"

"There are hundreds who can testify to it," my mother answered. "The
boy's nurse still lives; he had many tutors both in Ireland and in
London; Mr. Quin, his benefactor, remembers when his father and I used
to drive into New Ross with him; and Mr. Kinchella, a gentleman at
Dublin University, does the same. Charles, there can be no doubt of
many witnesses being able to testify."

"That is well. Then the next most important thing is that I should
acknowledge him as my heir, which I will publicly do----"

"Again I say--God bless you, Charles. God ever bless you!"

"----and," he went on, "in this my house. Next week I have a gathering
here of many of the peers who affect our interests,"--he was speaking
of the Whig party. "Sir Robert sits firm now, and may do so for years
to come. Yet 'tis ever wise to guard against aught the Tories may
attempt. And I expect him to come as well as the Duke of Devonshire,
and Lord Trevor--to them all you shall be presented. And 'tis well
that Mr. Robert St. Amande affects not our side, he will be easier to
deal with."

"What will you do to frustrate him?" my mother asked.

"Do?" the Marquis replied. "Why, first I will proclaim him to all as
an utter villain who has falsely assumed a title to which he has no
claim. Next, the new Irish Lord Chancellor, Wyndham,--who is indebted
somewhat to me for his appointment--must be told to reverse his
favours to the scoundrel, and this boy's name must be entered in his
place. But next week when he has met my friends we can do more."

"And for that other unhappy one--that wretched Roderick?" said my
mother, whose woman's heart could not but feel pity for the miseries
to which he was now subjected, to which he must be subjected, "can
naught be done for him? Could he not be rescued from the dreadful fate
into which he has been plunged?"

"Doubtless," the Marquis replied. "Doubtless. Those who are sold to
the planters, as distinguished from those who are convicts, can easily
be bought back. Only it must be those of his own kind who do it. His
worthy father seems to have some choice spirits in his pay; he may
easily send out Mr. Considine or Mr. O'Rourke with a bagful of guineas
to purchase him back again. For our side,"--and my mother and I told
each other that night how good it was to hear our powerful relative
identify himself with us as he did--"for our side we cannot do
anything. Moreover, we are supposed to know nothing."

"Yet, my lord," I replied, "we _do_ know, and they know we do. Ere my
uncle fainted in Considine's arms he had heard and knew all."

"Yes," the Marquis replied, "yes. But he also knew that your friend,
Quin, held his indemnity for what was done. So, rely upon it, he will,
nay, he must, hold his peace. Kidnapping, or authorising kidnapping,
is punished, and righteously punished, for 'tis a fearful crime, so
heavily by our laws that your uncle stands in imminent deadly peril
for what he has done. And, remember, he is not a peer, therefore he
has no benefit to claim. Rest assured that though he has lost his son
he will never proclaim what has happened nor divulge a word on the
subject. Though, that he may send agents to Virginia to endeavour to
obtain his recall is most probable, since, wretch as he is, there must
be some heart in his bosom for his own child."

So thus, as you may now observe, that great man, my relative, was won
over to my cause, and already it seemed as though the champion whom
dear Oliver had prayed that the Lord might raise up for me had been
discovered. And vastly happy were all of us, my mother, myself, and
that faithful friend, at thinking such was the case. So happy indeed
were we that we made a little feast to celebrate the Marquis's
goodness, and, as he had given my mother a purse with a hundred
guineas in it to be spent on anything I should need, we had ample
means for doing so. We decorated her humble parlour with gay flowers
from the market hard by, we provided a choice meal or so to which we
three sat down merrily, all of us drinking the Marquis's health in
champaign; we even persuaded my mother to be carried to the theatre in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, close to Denzil Street, where from a box we
witnessed Mr. Congreve's affecting play, "The Mourning Bride," at
which my mother wept much.

Unfortunately, as I have now to tell, these joys were to be of but
short duration; the time had not yet arrived for our happiness to be
complete and on a sure foundation; both of us were still to be
trouble-haunted and I to be tossed about by Fate, and, as it seemed,
never to know peace.

Oliver had a friend and countryman who lived on Tower Hill in a
considerable way of business in the cattle trading line, and he, being
desirous of seeing this friend so that he might thereby, perhaps, be
put into some way of earning a livelihood in the trade he understood,
made up his mind to go and visit him. That I should go too was a
natural conclusion, and, indeed, had we not gone about together I
should have got no necessary exercise at all, since my mother was so
confined to the house, while, on his part, he knew little of the
town--nay, nothing--so that I was really a guide to him. Thus together
we trudged about, looking for all the world like some young gentleman
and his governor, since I was generally dressed in my fine clothes
bought in Dublin, while Quin wore a sober suit of black which he, too,
had purchased. Many a sight did we see in company in this manner, for
both of us were curious as children and revelled much in all the
doings of the wondrous great city--we went together to the Abbey, we
walked to Execution Dock and Kennington Common to witness men hanged,
or hanging, or, as the mob then called such things, "the step and
string dance"; to see where the noblemen play bowls at Mary-le-bone
Gardens in the summer and frequent the gaming tables in the winter; to
the Spring Garden at Knightsbridge; and countless other places too
numerous to write down.

But amongst all these our walks and excursions it befell, as I have
said, that one fine frosty day Oliver and I decided to go into the
city to Tower Hill, there to see his friend, the dealer. We set out
therefore along Fleet Street, that wondrous place where the writers
for the news-sheets and letters dwell, and where we could not but
laugh at the other strange characters we encountered. First there flew
out a fellow, whom I have since learnt they call a "plyer," who bawled
at us to know if either of us wanted a wife, since they had blooming
virgins to dispose of or rich widows with jointures. Then a woman
screamed to us from the brandy-shop, "We keeps a parson here who'll do
your business for you," while, dreadful to narrate, as all this was
going on, there reeled by a drunken divine swearing that he would have
more drink at the "Bishop Blaize's Head," since he had married three
couples that day at five shillings a brace and had more to tie up on
the morrow.

Resisting, however, all these importunities, though we could not
resist glancing at the advertisements of such things in the windows,
such as, "Without Imposition. Weddings performed cheap here"; or, "The
Old and True Register. Without Imposition. Weddings performed by a
clergyman educated at the University of Oxford, chaplain to a
nobleman," we went along and so, at last, we came to Tower Hill.

"And now," said Oliver, "let's see for the abode. The number is
twenty-seven, this is fourteen--it cannot be afar. Wil't come in
Gerald and show thyself to my friend, who will surely gape for wonder
at seeing a real lord; or go into the tavern? Or, stay, yonder seems a
decent coffeehouse where, doubtless, you may read a journal or so; or
what?"

I was about to say I would go with him and, because I was in a merry
mood, exclaimed that I would treat his friend to so gay a sight as a
real Irish lord when, alas! my boyish attention was attracted by a
raree-show fellow who came along, followed by a mob of children of all
ages, many grown-up men and women, and his servant or assistant. This
latter bore upon his back the long box in which his master kept his
stock-in-trade and apparatus, and, as they drew near, was cursing
vehemently the crowd who wished them to exhibit their tricks and
wonders. "What," he muttered, "show you the fleas that run at tilt
when there is not so much as a groat amongst you all, or the hedgehog
that can divine the stars, or the wonderful snake, for which we paid
twenty Dutch ducatoons at Antwerp--and without payment, the devil take
you all!"

But here, while still the children screamed at him and his master and
the elders jeered, his eyes fell on me standing at the hither end of
the street after Oliver had gone in to the house he wanted, and,
advancing down it, he said: "Now here is a young gentleman of quality
or I ne'er saw one, whose purse is lined with many a fat piece I
warrant. Noble, sir," addressing me, and speaking most volubly, "will
you not pay to see our show? We can exhibit you the wonderful snake
and divining hedgehog, the five-legged sheep and six-clawed lobster,
the dolls who dance to the bagpipes' merry squeak and the ape who
scratched the Cardinal's nose in Rome. Or my master will knock you a
knife in at one cheek and out at t'other without pain or bleeding,
swallow dull cotton and blow out fire or make a meal of burning coals,
or by dexterity of hand fill your hat full of guineas from an empty
bottle. And then again, noble sir, we have pills that are good against
an earthquake, so that the worst cannot disturb you; or, again, an
elixir which shall prevent the lightning from harming you even tho' it
strike you fair, or still again----"

But here I interrupted him, crying, "Nay! nay! I want not your pills
or elixir, but I have ten minutes to await a friend, so show me your
curious beasts and I will give you a shilling."

"And let us see, too," the mob cried. "We must see, too."

"Ay," said the master of the raree-show taking the word up while he
opened his box to earn my shilling, "Ay, you must see, too, though
devil a fadge have you got to pay. Yet, ere long, will I hire a booth
where none can see who pay not. I'll lead this dog's out-o'-door life
no longer."

Yet neither was it foredoomed for me or any of the vagrant crew around
to see the mountebank's treasures. For as he produced his snake, a
poor huddled up little thing that looked as though it had neither life
nor venom in it, we heard a shouting and bawling at the top end of the
street and the screams of women; and presently saw advancing down it
about fifteen sailors fighting their way along, while still the women
howled at them and they endeavoured to secure all the men around them.

"The Press! The Press!" called out the raree men and our crowd
together, while all fled helter-skelter, leaving me the only one
standing there all by myself, so that, in a moment, I was surrounded
by the press-gang, for such I soon knew it to be. "Your age, name and
calling," said a man to me who seemed to be the leader and was, as I
later learned, the lieutenant in command. He was a poor-looking fellow
very much unlike all ideas I had conceived of His Majesty's naval
officers, and, unlike the officers of the army, had no uniform to
wear. Therefore, since he was one of those poor creatures who are
officers in the navy without money or interest and with mighty little
pay, it was not strange that his clothes were shabby, his boots burst
out, and his hat a thing that would not have done credit to a
scarecrow, though it had a gold cockade, much tarnished, in it.

"That is my affair," I retorted, "and none of yours. Pass on and leave
me."

For a moment he seemed astonished at my reply as did his men, but then
he said: "Young man, insolence will avail you nothing. I am lieutenant
of His Majesty's ship _Namur_, on shore for the purpose of
impressment, and you must go with me unless either you have a
protection ticket, are under eighteen, or are a Thames waterman
belonging to an insurance company."

"I am neither of these things and have no ticket," I replied; "yet I
warn you touch me not. I am the Viscount St. Amande and future Marquis
of Amesbury, and if you assault me it shall go hard with you."

"Shall it?" he replied, though he seemed staggered for a moment. "We
will see. And for your viscounts and marquises, well! this is not the
part of the town for such goods. However, lord or no lord, you must
come with me, and, if you are one, doubtless you can explain all to
the Admiral. I must do my duty." Then, turning to his followers, he
cried, "Seize upon him."

This they at once proceeded to do, or attempt to do, though I resisted
manfully. I whipped out my hanger and stood on the defence while I
shouted lustily for Oliver, hoping he might hear me; and I found some
able auxiliaries in the screaming rabble of women who had been
watching the scene. For no sooner did they see me attacked than they
swooped down upon the press-gang; they belaboured the members of it
with their fists and did much execution on them with their nails,
while all the while they shouted and bawled at them and berated them
for taking honest men and fathers of families away from their homes.
But 'twas all of no avail. The lieutenant knocked my sword out of my
hand with his cutlass, a sailor felled me with a blow of his fist, and
two or three of them drove off the women, so that, in five minutes, I
was secured. And never a sign of Oliver appeared while this was going
on, so that I pictured the dismay of that loyal friend when he should
come forth from the house he was visiting at, and learn the news of
what had befallen me from the viragoes who had taken my part.

They carried, or rather dragged, me to a boat lying off the stairs
near the Tower and flung me into it, fastening me to a thwart by one
hand and by the other to a miserable-looking wretch who, with some
more, had been impressed as I had. And so the sailors bent to their
oars while the lieutenant took the rudder lines, and rowed swiftly
down the river on a quick ebbing tide. In this way it was not long ere
we reached the neighbourhood of Woolwich, and I saw before me a
stately man-o'-war with an Admiral's flag flying from her foretopmast
head.

That ship was the _Namur_ under orders for the West Indies and North
America, and was to be my home for many a day. Yet I knew it not then,
nor, indeed, could I think aught of my future. My heart was sad and
sorry within me, and, when I thought at all, it was of a far different
home; the home in which my poor sick mother was sitting even now
awaiting my return.





PART II

THE NARRATIVE OF
JOICE BAMPFYLD OF VIRGINIA




CHAPTER XII

A COLONIAL PLANTATION


'Tis with no very willing heart that I sit down to write, as best I
may, the account of the vastly strange and remarkable occurrences that
took place in and about my home when I was but a girl of eighteen
years of age, it being then the year of our Lord 1728. Yet, since it
has to be done, let me address myself to the task as ably as I can,
and pray that strength and lucidity may be accorded to me, so that
those who, in days to come, shall read that which I set down, may be
easily led to understand what I now attempt.

I, Joice Bampfyld, was, as I say, at the period at which I take up my
pen, nearing eighteen years of age, and I dwelt at Pomfret Manor,
situated, on the southern bank of the James River, in His Majesty's
state of Virginia, the estate being some fifty miles inland from the
mouth of Chesapeake Bay, and some ten miles south-west of the township
of Richmond. On this manor, which had passed into my hands two years
before at the decease of my dear and lamented father, who was of the
third generation of the Bampfylds settled there, we raised tobacco and
corn in large quantities and had good horned cattle and many sheep,
while for the fruits of the earth there was no lack, so that my life
from the first had ever been one of ease and comfort, and, even in
Virginia, we of Pomfret Manor were accounted well-to-do folk. Yet,
comfortable as was the existence here, there was still much in our
surroundings that disturbed that comfort, as it disturbed the comfort
of all our neighbours. Thus, our negro servants were now-a-days not
always to be depended on for their fidelity; sometimes they would
project insurrections and revolts which, when put into practice,
could only be subdued by bloodshed, while our indented or convict
servants--I mean the whites--were even still more troublesome, what
with their runnings away, their constant endeavours to seduce the
blacks from their allegiance, their drunkenness when they could get at
drink, and their general depravity. For depraved they were beyond all
thought, being most of them convicts from the jails in England who had
saved their necks by praying to be sent to Virginia to be sold as
plantation-hands, while the remainder were as often as not criminals
evading justice, who, in England, had cheerfully sold themselves into
four years' slavery (four years being the limit here, though much
longer in the sugar-producing islands of the West Indies) so as to
escape from the eye of justice and begin a new life in a new land.
And, also, amongst them there were defaulting debtors and bankrupts,
men who were flying from their wives and children, women who were
deserting their husbands, and, sometimes, wretches who, when drunk in
the seaport towns at home, had been carried on board and brought to
the colonies, where, although they at first resented their kidnapping,
they soon settled down to be as great villains as their fellows. Yet,
had it not been for these dreadful people, one knows not how the
plantations could have been kept prosperous, since certain it is that
no free-born Englishman in Virginia, or any other of the colonies,
would consent to toil in the fields, while the negroes were so lazy,
and, in many cases, so sullen, that little hard work could be got out
of them. Indoors the blacks would do their duties cheerfully enough;
they loved cooking and nursing; they took pride in polishing and
keeping in order the beautiful furniture which our fathers and
grandfathers had imported from England, and in looking to the silver
and the brasses. They did not even make objection to gardening,
keeping our walks and grass plots in excellent order and our rose
vines well trained against the walls, but that, with their delight of
fiddling at dances and singing of songs, was all that they would do
willingly.

Yet these minor troubles were but little and sank into nothingness
beside the one great trouble, nay, the awful horror, that was always
near us. I mean the Indians. Earlier, in the first Colonial days, the
red men had dwelt in some semblance of friendship with our
forerunners; they would live in peace with them, sleep by their
firesides, eat from their platters, and teach them how to capture all
the game of the forests and the fish of the waters. Yet, even then,
all this harmony would be occasionally disturbed by a sudden outbreak
on their part resulting in a dreadful massacre which, in its turn,
resulted in a massacre on the part of the colonists in retaliation.
So, as time went on, these two races, the white and red, which had
once dwelt as friends together drew away from one another; the Indians
retired further into the Alleghany mountains or even crossed them into
the unknown land lying west of them, while the colonists made good
their holdings on the eastern side of those mountains and defied the
red men. But, still, the state of things was most dreadful--most
horrible. For though the Indians had withdrawn, and, of late years,
had made no great raid on the settlements in our part, one never knew
when they were not meditating an attack upon some quiet manor like my
own, or some peaceful village consisting of a few scattered houses, or
even upon some small town. Men went armed always--at church every
man's loaded firelock, or gun, reposed against the side of the pew in
which he worshipped--no woman thought of going a mile away from home
without an escort, and children who wandered into the woods would
often disappear and never be heard of again. So that one would meet
weeping mothers and sad-faced looking fathers who mourned their
children as dead, nay, who would rather have mourned them as dead than
have had to bow to the living fate that had o'ertaken them. For they
never came back, or, if they came, 'twas in such a shape that they had
better have died than have been taken. One, the child of John Trueby
of Whitefountain, did indeed come back fifteen years after he had been
stolen by the Shawnees, dressed and painted as an Indian of that
tribe, but only to slay his own father with a tomahawk at the
direction of those with whom he had become allied. Another, who had
been stolen by the Doeg Indians, returned only to his native hamlet to
set fire to it, beginning with the wooden frame-house in which his
mother and sisters had mourned him for years. Who, therefore, should
not tremble at the very name of Indian? Who that had a child should
not kneel down and pray to God to take that child's life rather than
let it fall into the hands of the savages, where its nature would
undergo so awful a change, and amongst whom it would develope into a
fiend? For those who once dwelt with the Indians in the mountains, and
adopted their customs and habits, became fiends, 'twas said, and
nothing else.

This horror, as well as the dread of being surprised and having our
houses burnt over our heads, we had always with us, always, always; as
well also as the fear of being carried into captivity and tortured;
or, in the case of girls like myself, of being subjected to worse than
torture. When we lay down to sleep at night we knew not whether we
should be awakened ere morning by some one knocking at our door and
calling, "The Indians! The Indians!" If we looked forth on to our
garden to observe its beauties as it lay in the moonlight, we deemed
ourselves fortunate if we did not, some time or other, see the hideous
painted face of a savage and his snake-like eyes gleaming at us from
behind a tree or bush. Sometimes, also, floating down the river at
night, when there was no moon, would be discerned by those who had
sharp eyes the canoes of our dreaded foes bent on some awful errand,
and full of painted, crouching savages. And then, through the still
night air, would ring the ping of bullets discharged from the shore by
some of the men who were always on the watch for such visitations; a
canoe, or perhaps two, would be sunk, and a day or so afterwards there
would be washed ashore the naked bodies of some horrid dyed Indians
who had been drowned, or shot, as they were surprised. I do not say
'twas always so, but it was so very frequently, and scarce a summer
passed by that we did not have some visits from them, while we ever
lived in dread of a determined onslaught from a whole tribe in which
not only our farm, plantations, homesteads, or manors should be
surrounded by hundreds of our foe, but also entire villages or towns.

Pomfret Manor--named after the village of Pomfret in Dorsetshire, from
which my great-grandfather, Simon Bampfyld, had removed to Virginia in
the days of King Charles the Second--was the principal house in the
lordship or hundred of Pomfret, as 'twas called in English fashion (of
which fashions we colonists were always very tenacious), and, as we
had thriven exceedingly since first we came, it also gave its name to
the village hard by. Now, my great-grandfather having brought
considerable money with him from home, had soon become one of the
leading colonists, as well as one of the richest, in the
neighbourhood. The house itself had once stood in Dorsetshire, and had
been taken to pieces there and removed bit by bit to Virginia, as is
the case with many other mansions to be found in the colonies. So the
dear place in which I was born had seen the birth of many other
Bampfylds before me when it existed in England, and was consequently
much beloved by us. Constructed of the old red English bricks, with,
for its front, a vast portico with columns of white stone, it made a
pleasant feature in the landscape, while, with careful training, we
had produced a smooth lawn which ran down almost to the banks of the
river, and, on either side of it, we had contrived a sweet pleasaunce,
or garden. Here there grew amidst the rich Virginian vegetation such
flowers--recalling my ancestor's earlier house across the seas--as
roses of all kinds, including the Syrian damask and the white alba;
here, too, sparkled the calendula, or marigold, and there the
wall-flower; while beds of pinks, or, as the flower was called in old
days, the Dianthus, added to the patches of colour. Over our big
porch, so cool to sit in on the hot days, there grew also the native
creepers mingling with the yellow jasmine--a world of gorgeous flowers
in the summer and of warm red leaves in the autumn--in which the
oriole, or golden thrush, would nestle and rear its young. In the rear
of the house was yet another lawn, or plantation, whereon we sat in
the summer under the catalpa trees when 'twas too hot to be in the
front; where the pigeons cooed from their cote and the cattle munched
the soft grass, while, from their kennels, the mastiffs, used for
fighting, or, better still, frightening the Indians who could not face
them, and for tracing runaway negroes, would be heard baying. Around
the grounds came next the belts of pines which were cultivated
largely, both for firing and for the making of much household
furniture; beyond them were the plantations of tobacco and of rice,
which latter had by so fortunate a chance been introduced to our
immediate colonies some thirty years ago.

Such was the house in which I was born and reared, such the place in
which occurred the stirring incidents which now I have to record.
These incidents brought me and mine near unto death; they dealt out
suffering and pain to many and punishment and retribution to one
villain at least. But, also, they brought to my heart so tender and so
sweet a joy, and to him whom I afterwards came to love so deep and
cherished a happiness--as he has since many times told me--that on my
knees nightly I thank my God that He saw fit in His great goodness to
let those incidents take place.

And now I will address myself to all I have to tell.

When my dear father was within two years of his death, though neither
he nor any other dreamed of it, so hale and strong did he seem, he and
my cousin, Gregory Haller of Whitefountain, set out for Norfolk town
one May morning intending to ride there that day, put up for the
night, and, on the following day, purchase many things that were
wanted for our respective homes; and so back again. Such journeyings
were necessary periodically, and took place usually some six or
eight times a year, I sometimes riding with them also, if I wanted
a new gown or some ribbons imported from England, or a pair of
silver-fringed gloves, or, may be, any pretty nick-nack that I should
happen to set eyes upon which might grace our saloon or living-room.
At other periods, as now, I would be left at home with my companion
and tutoress, Miss Mills, a young English lady who had dwelt with us
for some two years. She had come to the colonies from Bristol, of
which she was a native, in search of employment as a teacher, and with
high recommendations, one being from the Bishop of Bath and Wells, a
most goodly man as all accounts declared. She liked but little our
being left alone without my father, as may well be understood, and
having around us nothing but negroes and bought, or indented, white
servants; yet, whether we liked it or not it had to be borne as best
might be. Both of us could handle pistols, in the use of which my
father had perfected us, as was necessary, or might at any instant be
necessary; and there were about the house one or two men who could
perhaps be relied upon. Such was Mungo, our old negro butler, who,
like myself, was of the fourth generation of his race settled in
Virginia, since his great-grandfather was brought a slave from Africa
and sold to my Lord Baltimore; and there were one or two others of his
colour. Yet, as I say, we liked not being alone and, even on the
hottest summer nights, would have all the great house carefully closed
and barred and shuttered, and would pass our time as best we might by
playing and singing at the spinet, or playing at such games as ombre
or shove-groat. And Mary Mills and I would huddle ourselves together
in my great bed at night for company, and, as we sillily said, for
safety, and shiver and shake over every mouse that ran behind the
wainscot or at every sound we heard without, dreading that it meant
the Indians or a revolt amongst the plantation hands.

Therefore you may be sure that whenever my father and cousin, or my
father alone, returned from Norfolk or from Jamestown, we were right
glad to see them, and to know that our loneliness as well as our
unprotectedness was over for the time; and so 'twas now. They rode in
as we were sitting down to our midday meal and, after my father and
Gregory had each drunk a good stoup of rum (which we exchange largely
for our tobacco with our brother colonists in Jamaica, the men finding
it a pleasant, wholesome drink, when mixed with water) the former
said:

"So my chicks have not been harried by the Indian foxes this time
neither. 'Tis well. And see, now, there are some ships in from home.
His Majesty's sloop _Terrific_ is in the Bay, and the girls of
Richmond are preparing to give a dance to the officers--thou should'st
be there, Joice!---and there is a merchantman from London full of
precious stuffs and toys. Yet, since I have no money, I could bring
thee nought, my dear."

Here we laughed, for my father ever made this joke preparatory to
producing his presents, and I said:

"What have you brought?"

"What have I brought? Well, let me consider. What say you now to a new
horloge for the saloon? our old one is getting crazy in its works, as
well it may be, since my grandfather brought it from home with him.
This one hath Berthould and Mudges' 'scapements, so the captain of the
ship told me," my father went on, reading from a piece of paper, "or
rather wrote it down, and he guarantees it will be going a hundred
years hence. Then, for a silk gown, I have purchased thee some
pieces--our own early ventures in Virginian silk were none too
successful!--which will become thy fair complexion well, and I have an
odd piece of lace or two for a hood. While for you, Miss Mills," with
an old-fashioned bow, which I think he must have learnt when young and
used to attend Governor Spotswood's receptions, "as you are a dark
beauty I have brought also a lace hood, and a new book since you love
verse. 'Tis by one Mr. Thomson, and seems to describe the seasons
prettily. The captain tells me it has ever a ready sale at home."

Then we thanked him as best we knew how, after which Gregory--who was
ever timid and retiring before women, though like a lion, as I have
heard others say, when chasing the Indians or a bear or wolf--stepped
forward and said:

"And I, too, have brought thee a present, Joice, if thou wilt take it
from my hands."

He spoke this way because his heart was sore that I could not love him
and would not promise to be his wife, often as he had asked me. Tho',
indeed, I did love him as a cousin, nay, as a brother, only he always
said it was not that he wanted but a love sweeter and dearer than a
sister's.

"I have brought you," he went on, "a filagree bracelet for your arms,
tho'," in a lower voice, "they need no adornment. And for thy head a
philomot-coloured hood, different in shape from the one uncle has
brought. And its russet hue should well become thy golden hair, that
looks like the wheat when 'tis a-ripening."

But here I bade him pay me no more compliments lest I should become
vain, and then we all sat down to our meal together.




CHAPTER XIII

THE BOND SLAVE


"And now," said my father, after he and Gregory had eaten well of what
was on the table, such as most excellent fish from the river, one of
our baked hams, potatoes, sweet potatoes, pones and wheaten bread, as
well as puddings of papaw, or custard apples.

"And now we have a strange recital to make to you young ladies, the
like of which is not often heard, or if heard--for the convict
villains and bought servants are capable of any lies--not much
believed in."

"What is it?" Mary Mills and I both asked in the same breath. "Tho',"
she went on, "perhaps I can guess. Is't some young princess who has
come out as a 'convict villain?'" and here she laughed. "Nay, 'twould
not be so wonderful. From Bristol in my time there were many went
forth who, when they reached here, or the Islands, told marvellous
strange stories of their real position--sometimes imposing so much
upon the planters that there would come letters home asking if such
and such a woman could indeed be the Lady This, or if such and such a
man could be the Lord That? Yet they never could procure proofs that
such was the case."

My father and Gregory exchanged glances at her words, and then the
former said:

"And such a letter I think I must send home. For I have bought to-day
a young fellow--as much out of pity as for any use he is like to be,
such a poor, starved radish of a young man is he--who protests and
swears that 'tis all a mistake his being here, and that some dreadful
villainy has been practised on him. For he says that, though not a
lord himself, he is the son and heir of one, ay! and of a marquis,
too, in the future."

I cried out at this, for my girl's curiosity was aroused, and Miss
Mills exclaimed, "'Tis ever the old story. They have talents, these
servants, tho' they apply them but ill. They should turn romancers
when I warrant that they would outdo such stories as 'Polyxander,' or
'L'Illustre Bassa,' or 'Le Grand Cyrus,' or even the wanderings of
Mendes Pinto."

"Yet," said Gregory, "there seems a strain of truth in his words. He
speaks like a gentleman,"--Gregory had been educated at Harvard, so he
was a fitting judge, independently of being a gentleman himself--"and,
undoubtedly, no convict from home or rapscallion fleeing from justice
would talk as assuredly as he does of his father's anger on those who
kidnapped him, or of the certainty of his being sent for by the first
ship from Ireland--whence he has come--if he had not some grounds to
go upon."

"From whom did you purchase this youth, Mr. Bampfyld?" asked Mary, who
herself seemed now to be impressed by what they said.

"From the most villainous-looking captain I ever set my eyes on,"
replied my father; "a fellow who could look no one straight in the
face, but who sold off his cargo as quickly as he could, took the
money, and, with a fine breeze, departed from the Bay last evening,
having taken in some fresh water. His papers were for Newcastle, on
the Delaware, but he said he could make as good a market in Virginia
as there--if not better. I gave," went on my father, "a bond of twelve
hundred pounds of tobacco for this fellow, which I borrowed of Roger
Cliborne, and so miserable did he look that I gave it out of
compassion. Whether he will ever be worth the money is doubtful, but
Heaven send that he, at least, involves us in no trouble."

He spake meaning that he trusted the youth would involve us in no
trouble with the Government at home, nor with the Lords of Trade and
Plantations who, since many people had wrongfully been sent out to the
colonies of late years--in spite of Mary Mills' banter---had caused
much investigation to take place recently into such cases, and had,
thereby, created much discomfort and annoyance as well as loss of
money to those into whose hands such people had fallen. Alas! had this
wretched young man caused us no worse trouble than this in the future
we could have borne it well enough. What he did bring upon us was so
terrible that, Christian tho' I trust I am, I cannot refrain from
saying it would have been better that he should have been drowned from
the vessel that brought him over than ever to have been able to curse
Pomfret with his presence.

The sun was dipping towards the Alleghanies by now, so that, at the
back of the house, it was getting cool and pleasant, and Gregory said
that if the ladies so chose we might go down and see the young
gentleman, who was, doubtless, by this time duly placed among the
other convicts, bought-servants and redemptioners. Wherefore, putting
on our sun-hoods, Mary and I went forth with them--who by now had
finished not only their dinner but their beloved pipes and
rum-sangaree--and down to where those poor creatures abode.

We had some eighty such, including negroes, at this moment on our
plantation, an a motley collection they were, as I have already told.
Those who came under the name of "redemptioners" were the best workers
as well as the most trustworthy, because, having an object before
them, namely, to establish themselves in the colonies when the service
into which they had sold themselves for four years to pay their
passage out, was over, they worked hard and lived orderly and
respectably, and were generally promoted to be overseers above the
others. Two or three of them were married, their wives having either
come with them or been selected from among the female redemptioners,
and all of them knew either a good trade or were skilful mechanics, so
that they were doubly useful. Then there were the "bought" servants,
as distinguished from the redemptioners, who consisted generally of
the wretched creatures who had been made drunk at home and smuggled on
board when in that state, or who, being beggars in the streets of
Bristol, London, Leith, or Dublin, were but too glad to exchange
their cold and hunger for the prospect of warmth and food in the
colonies--the description of which latter places lost nothing in the
telling by those who shipped them at, you may be sure, a profit. These
were called the "kids," because of having been kidnapped, and also
because most of them were very young. Next, there were the convicts,
the worst of all as a rule to deal with, since many of them were
hardened criminals at home who had been spared hanging and cast for
transportation instead, and had become no better men or women under
the colonial rule. Even in my short life we had had some dreadful
beings amongst these servants, one having been a highwayman at home,
another a coiner and clipper, a third a footpad and a cutthroat, a
fourth a robber of drunken men, and so on, while there were women
whose mode of life in England I may not name nor think of. All were
not, however, equally bad, nor had all been such sinners in England.
One had done no more than steal a loaf when starving, another had
hoaxed a greenhorn with pinchbeck watches; one, when drunk, had
shouted for James Sheppard, a poor lunatic, who had thought to
assassinate the late King, another had been mixed up with Councillor
Layer's silly attempt to bring in the Pretender. Yet all had stood
their trials and had been sentenced to death, but had afterwards had
that sentence commuted. And in every plantation in all the colonies
much the same thing prevailed. The treatment of these bond servants
varied not so much according to the laws of the different countries or
states, as according to the tempers and feelings of their different
owners for the time being. If a man was merciful he treated them well
and fed them well; if he was cruel he beat them and starved them,
whipped both white men and women, when they were naked, with hickory
rods steeped in brine, and, when they were sick, let them die because,
since they were his only for four years, their lives were not worth
preserving. And, although he might not kill them by law, as he might a
negro or a dog, if he did kill them it was unknown for notice to be
taken of it. And sometimes, too, dissipated planters would gamble for
their white men and women as they would for bales of tobacco or bags
of Virginia shillings, so that those who had a hard master one day
exchanged him for a good one on the next, or the case might be exactly
reversed. My father, though firm, could not be considered aught else
but a good master to both his black and white servants. Indian meal
was allowed them in large quantities, while pork--though true it is
that our swine were so numerous that they were accounted almost
valueless--was served out to them regularly. Moreover, those who did
well were given small rewards, even if only a Rosa Americana farthing
now and again, while for floggings, none received them but those who
stole, or ran away and were recaptured, or misbehaved themselves
grossly. But each, on being purchased on to our estate, had read to
him a dreadful list of punishments which he would surely receive if he
did aught to merit them. It was thought well by my father that the
fear of such punishments should be kept ever before their eyes, even
if those punishments were but rarely dealt out.

We heard much laughing and many derisive shouts as we drew near the
white servants' quarters, nor had we long to wait or far to go before
we discovered the cause of it, which was our new purchase telling the
others of his miseries and dreadful lot, as he termed it. Through the
breaks in the trees we perceived him seated on a pork barrel--a
miserable-looking figure, unkempt and dirty. His long straight hair,
like a New England Puritan's or a Quaker's, was hanging down his
shoulders; he had no shoes upon his feet, and thus he was holding
forth to his new acquaintances.

"So consider," we heard him say, as we drew near, "consider what I, a
gentleman, the Honourable Roderick St. Amande, have suffered. Near
five months at sea, nearly drowned and shipwrecked, with our ship
driven out of her course, then chased by pirates who knew the cargo
there was on board; beaten, ill-used, cuffed and ill-treated by
all--and all of it a mistake."

"Ay," exclaimed the man who had been, it was said, a housebreaker, and
was a rough, coarse fellow, "and so was my affair all a mistake. 'Twas
friend Jonathan--Jonathan Wild who hath now himself been hanged, as I
have since heard--who pinched me falsely, but the Government,
recognising my merits more than my lord on the bench, who was asleep
when he tried me, sent me out here where I fell into the hands of old
Nick."

Thus the wretch presumed to speak of my father, whose Christian name
was Nicholas, and his remarks were received with laughter; upon which
he went on, "Yet, take heart of grace, my young Irish cock-sparrow.
Thou art in good hands. Nick is a good man and will not over-work
thee; and he will feed thee, which is more than thy beggarly country
could well do. Moreover, when thou hast done thy four years' service,
thou canst palm off thy pretended lordship on some young colonial girl
who will doubtless be glad enough to wed thee; if thou makest thy
story plausible. Nay, there is one at hand; Nick hath a daughter fair
as a lily, with lips like roses----"

"Silence, villain," said my father in a voice of thunder, as he strode
forth from under the trees, his eyes flashing fiercely. "Thou hound!"
he went on, addressing the man. "Is it thus you dare to speak of me
and mine! Overseer," calling to one who was seated in his hut, and who
came forth at once, "see this man has nought but Indian meal served
out to him during the remainder of his service. How much longer is
that service?"

"About four months, your honour," the overseer replied.

"So be it. Nothing but meal for him, and where there is any one labour
harder than another, set him to it. And, hark ye," he said, turning to
the convict. "If in those four months I find my daughter's name has
been on your foul lips again, you shall be flogged till you are
dead--even though I have to answer for it to the Lords of Trades and
Plantations myself. Go."

The fellow slunk away cowed and followed by the overseer who drove him
to the shed he inhabited with the other convicts, and, although it was
their hour of relaxation previous to their last work in the evening,
he ordered him to remain there under pain of flogging. Then my father,
turning to his new purchase, bade him get off the barrel and come
forth under the shade of the trees to where we were.

He did so, looking, as I thought, with some awe upon him who could
speak so fiercely and have his orders at once obeyed. Also, we all
observed that when he drew near to us and saw ladies, he took off the
ragged, filthy cap he wore with a polite bow though an easy one, and
with the air of one who is being presented to those with whom he is on
a perfect equality. My father's face relaxed into a slight smile at
this, while Mary whispered to me, "Faith! 'tis becoming vastly
interesting. The creature is, I believe, in very truth, a gentleman."

"Now, young man," my father said, "you harp well upon this story of
your being a nobleman's son---the Honourable Roderick St. Amande, you
say you are? What proofs have you of this?"

The youth looked at him, frankly enough as we thought, and then he
replied, "None here, because of the wicked scheme that has been
practised on me instead of on--but no matter. Yet I have told you the
truth of how I was kidnapped by two ruffians, a man and a youth--when
I was dr--when I had been entertaining my friends in Dublin."

This part of his story he had, indeed, told my father and Gregory on
the journey back from Norfolk where he was bought, and they had
already repeated it to us, as you have heard.

"But," he continued, "'tis capable enough of proof, if you will prove
it. Write to Dublin, write to the Viscount St. Amande, my father, or
to the King-at-Arms, who hath enrolled him successor to my uncle,
Gerald, the late Lord, or, if you will, write to the Marquis of
Amesbury, whose kinsman and successor, after my father, I am."

"Humph!" said my father, "the name of the Marquis is known to me.
'Twas once thought he should have been sent Governor of Maryland, only
he would not. He thought himself too great a man."

"Young man," said Mary Mills, "since you say you are heir to the
Marquis of Amesbury, doubtless you can tell us his lordship's country
seat?"

"Young lady," he replied, looking at her in so strange a way that, as
she said later that night, she should dread him ever after, "'twere
best to say his 'seats.' One he has near Richmond, in Surrey, a pretty
place; another is in Essex, but the greatest of all is Amesbury Court,
near Bristol--" Mary started at this, for she knew it to be
true--"though in his town house, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, he has some
choice curiosities, to say nothing of some most excellent wine. I
would I had a draught of it now--your infernal American sun burns me
to pieces, and the cruel voyage has nigh killed me."

"Young man," said Gregory, "remember that, whomsoever you be, you are
here a slave, and not free to express your thoughts either on our
climate or aught else."

"May be," replied the youth, "but it cannot be for long, if
this--this--per--gentleman will but make enquiries. A letter may go
from here to Ireland, if the vessel has not such cursed winds as the
slave-ship had that brought me, and a reply come back, within three
months. And if you neither beat nor kill me, but treat me fair, you
shall be well rewarded----"

"Stay," said my father, "on this, my estate, it is best for you not to
speak of reward to me. Where rewards are given in Virginia they are
given by the masters, not by the slaves. But, since you keep to your
story and do challenge me to make enquiries as to its veracity, I have
determined to act as a Christian to you. You shall neither be beaten
nor hurt on my plantations--none are who behave well--and, pending the
time that an answer may come as to the letter I shall write, you shall
be fairly treated. If your narrative is true, you shall be free to go
by the next ship that sails for England. If it is false, or it
appeareth that you have used your knowledge of the noble families you
have mentioned to impose on us, you shall be whipped and kept to the
hardest work on the plantations till your time is served."

"I am obliged to you," the other answered. "And you may be assured
that you will receive confirmation of the truth of all I have told
you. Meanwhile, what is to be my lot until that confirmation comes?"

"I will consider. Can you keep accounts and reckonings?"

The young man, perhaps because he felt that was assured of easy
treatment for some space of time at least, gave a laugh at this and
cut a kind of caper, so that we ourselves were almost forced to laugh
outright; and then he said:

"The devil an account--saving the young women's pardon--have I ever
kept except to try and check the swindling rogues at the taverns who
were ever for adding on to the scores I owed them, and inserting in
the list bowls of punch and flasks of sherris I had never drunk. And
the fashioners would ever insert charges for hoods for the girls, or
laces for Doll----"

"Your recollections are scarcely seemly before these ladies," my
father again interrupted sternly. "My nephew and I have had already
twice to bid you mind your expressions. Now, sir, hear me and remember
what I say. If I treat you well you must behave yourself as becomes a
gentleman, and use neither strong language nor introduce unseemly
stories into your talk. For, if you do not conform to these orders of
mine, you will be sent back to dwell among the bond-servants to whom
doubtless your language and narratives will be acceptable."

"I ask pardon," the other said, though by no means graciously, and
speaking rather as one who was forced by an inferior to do that which
he disliked. "I will offend the ladies' delicacy no more."

Then, without hesitation, he changed the subject and said, "And when,
sir, may I expect to get some proper food? I have neither eaten nor
drunk since you brought me from the coast this morning."

"You shall have food," my father replied. "Come with us"; while, as we
all went back to the house, he said to Gregory, "'Tis the coolest
rascal that was ever sold as a slave into the colonies. It seems
impossible to doubt but that his story must be true."




CHAPTER XIV

A SLAVE'S GRATITUDE!


And now I have to tell, as briefly as may be, of how the Honourable
Roderick St. Amande--as he said he was, and as we all came to believe
he was in very truth--who had come as a bought slave and bond-servant
to our house, became ere long almost one of us, mixing on the same
footing with us and, indeed, living almost the life of a member of my
father's family. To listen to his discourse was, indeed, to be forced
to believe in him, for while he had ceased to insist upon the truth of
his position, as though 'twas no longer necessary, every word he
uttered showed that he must have held that position at home and had,
at least, mixed amongst those with whom he claimed to be on an
equality. He spoke of other lords and ladies with such easy freedom as
no impostor could have assumed who had only known them by sight or
hearsay; he described London and Dublin, and the Courts of both, in a
manner which other Virginians, who were in the habit of paying
frequent visits home, acknowledged was perfectly just and accurate,
and, above all, his easy assumption of familiarity, if not
superiority, to those whom he designated as "colonials" and
"emigrants," impressed everyone. To my father, whose bread he ate in
easy servitude, he behaved with a not disrespectful freedom; Gregory
he treated as a sort of provincial acquaintance; and to Mary Mills and
myself he assumed an easy degree of intercourse which was at once
amusing and galling. And that he was a bought slave who might be
starved or flogged, and possibly killed if his master were cruelly
disposed, he seemed to have entirely forgotten.

Yet--bitter as is the confession, knowing now how this wretch repaid
at last that which was done for him--all of us came to regard him as
an intimate, and, if the truth must be told, to take some amusement in
his society. To my father he could tell many interesting stories,
young as he was, of men moving in the gay world at home, of whom the
former had heard, or with whose forerunners he had been acquainted. To
Gregory he described the hunting of the fox in England and Ireland;
racing which he had seen at Newmarket and on Hampstead Heath and
Southsea Common, new guns that were invented for the chase, and the
improved breeds of harriers that were trained in Wiltshire. To Mary
and myself--shame on us that we loved to hear such things!--he would
tell of the ladies of the Court and their love affairs and
intriguings; of the women of the theatres and their great appetites
and revellings, and of the balls and ridottos and "hops," as he termed
them, which took place. Of books, though he had been at school at
Harrow, he seemed to know nothing, though he had little scraps of
Latin which he would lug into his conversation as suitable to the
subject. Yet to us, to Mary who had never been allowed to go to a
theatre in England, or to me who dwelt in a land where such a thing
had never at this time been heard of, and where an exhibition of a
polar bear, or a lion, or a camel in a barn was a marvel that drew
crowds from miles around, his talk was agreeable.

Unfortunately, however, there was that about him which led us two
women--though I was scarce a woman then--to keep him at his distance.
Being made free of the rum and the sangaree as well as, sometimes, the
imported brandy, and being often with the young gentlemen of other
plantations, whom he soon came to know, he was frequently inebriated,
and, when in this state, was not fit to be encountered. My white
bondmaid, Christian Lamb (who as a girl of fourteen had been sentenced
to death in London for stealing a bottle of sweetmeats, but was
afterwards cast for transportation) was one of the objects of his
passion until her brother, a convict, threatened to have revenge if he
did not desist. Of this brother so strange a thing was related that I
must here repeat it. Going to bid farewell to his sister, Christian,
in the transport at Woolwich, near London, he begged the captain to
take him, too, as a foremast man, but this the other refused, bidding
him brutally to wait but a little while and he would doubtless come
soon "in the proper way," namely, as a convict himself. Enraged, he
went ashore and picked a gentleman's pocket of a handkerchief, when,
sure enough, he came out in the next transport to Virginia, and,
enquiring for his sister, had the extreme good fortune to attract my
father's notice and to be bought by him.

To Mary and to me Mr. St. Amande ever used the language of his class,
as, I suppose, in England, and would exclaim:

"How beautiful you both are. You, Miss Mills, are dark as the Queen of
Night, as the fellow saith in the play, while you Miss Bampfyld are
like unto the lilies of the field. 'Tis well I have not to stay here
long or my heart would be irremediably gone--split in twain, one half
labelled 'Mary,' t'other 'Joice.' Nay, I know not that I do not love
you both now."

"Best keep your love, sir," Mary would reply, "for those who wish it,
as doubtless there are many. 'Tis said you admire many of the
bond-women below; why not offer your love to them as well as your
pretty speeches?"

Whereon he would flush up and reply, "Madam, my love is for my equals.
You forget I am a peer in the future."

"And a slave in the present," she would retort, as it seemed to me
then, cruelly. "Therefore are the bond-women your equals."

His drunkenness angered my father so, that, sometimes, he would order
him out of the great saloon, where he would unconcernedly sprawl
about, soiling our imported Smyrna and Segodia carpets, disarranging
our old English furniture we prized so much, and rumpling the silk
and satin covers on the couches. Then, when ordered forth, he would
often disappear for a day or so, to be heard of next as being at a
cock-fight at some neighbouring hamlet; or in a drinking bout with our
clergyman, a most depraved divine who was only kept in his position
till a more decorous person could be obtained; or herding down with
the bond-servants and negroes till driven away by the overseers.

"In truth," my father would at these times exclaim, "I wish heartily a
letter would come from the Marquis." He had written to him in
preference to Lord St. Amande, reflecting that if, after all, the
fellow was not what he seemed to be, the Marquis must be the man to
set things right, while Lord St. Amande might, in such a case, be an
impostor himself. Yet it grew more and more difficult to suppose this,
since the youth himself had once or twice sent off letters addressed
to "The Right Hon., The Viscount St. Amande," at Grafton Street,
Dublin; to another gentleman addressed as "Wolfe Considine, Esquire,"
and to still another addressed as "Lord Charles Garrett, at The
Castle, Dublin."

"'Tis a plaguey fellow this," he said to us of his lordship one day
with a laugh, as he closed the latter up, "to whom I was engaged, as I
seem to remember, to fight a duel on the morning the ruffians
kidnapped me. A son of the Marquis of Tullamore, and a fire-eater,
because his father had got him a pair of colours in Dunmore's
regiment. He will swear I ran away for fear of him, till he gets this
letter telling him I will meet him directly I set foot in Ireland
again."

"What," said my father one night to me as we sat in the porch, "does
he mean when he mutters something about an impostor who claims his
father's title? I have heard him speak on the subject to you and Miss
Mills, though, since I can not abide the youth, I have paid but little
heed."

"He says," I replied, while my father smoked his great pipe and
listened lazily, "that there is some youth in Ireland who claims to be
the rightful lord, being the son of his uncle, the late Viscount. Yet
he is not his son, he says, being in truth the son of that lord's wife
who lived not with her husband."

"Humph!" exclaimed my father, "then 'tis strange he should be here
sold into bond-service while the other is free at home. 'Tis common
enough for such poor lads as that other to get sent away, but peers'
true sons not often. Perhaps," he went on, "it is this gracious youth
who is the impostor and not that other."

"I know not," I replied, "but from what Mary and I can gather--and he
speaks more freely in his cups than ordinarily--there seems to have
been some plot devised for shipping off that other, but some springe
having been set this one was sent instead. Yet, he says, he cannot
himself comprehend it, since the other was a beggar dwelling with
beggars, while he was amongst the best, so that no confusion should
have arisen."

"Does he say that his father, Lord St. Amande, entered into so foul a
plot as that?"

"Nay, he says the youth was a young criminal cast for transportation
for robbery, but that he escaped from jail and, in the hunt after him,
they secured the wrong one, which he accounts for by both bearing the
same name."

Again my father said "Humph!" and pondered awhile, and then, as he
rose to seek his bed, he continued, "We shall know the truth some day,
may be. The Marquis of Amesbury will surely answer my letter, and,
indeed, if this young tosspot be what he says he is, there should
already be some on their way to Virginia to seek for him. He cannot
have been smuggled off without some talk arising about the affair,
and, even if that should not be so, the letters he has sent by the
couriers to his father should bring forth some response--if his tale
is true."

So the time went on and the period drew near when news might be
expected from Ireland. As it so went on and that intelligence might be
looked for, we grew more and more sure that Mr. St. Amande's story
must be true. For so certain did he seem of the fact that letters
would come from his father--he knowing not that mine had written to
the Marquis of Amesbury--requiring his release and paying, as the
young man was courteous enough to term it, "my father's charges," that
he threw off any restraint he might previously have had, and treated
us all with even greater freedom than before. Yet, as you shall hear,
he went too far.

He would not, however, have gone as far as he did if, at this time, my
father had not fallen into a sickness which obliged him to keep his
bed--alas! it was to bring him to his end!--so that there was none to
control this young man. Gregory, who had his own plantation where he
lived with his widowed mother, and their joint interests to look
after, could not be always at our place, and thus the marvellous thing
came about that Mr. St. Amande, though our bond-servant in actual
fact, did in our house almost what he pleased. He came and went as he
chose, he rode my father's horses, he drank rum morning, noon and
night, and he even brought his degraded friend, the clergyman, into
the house to drink with him under the excuse of that wicked old man
being necessary for my father's spiritual needs. But the latter
ordered that degraded man from the room where he lay sick, and bade
him begone, and, later on, at night, when these two began singing and
bawling in their cups--so that some of the negroes and servants
outside thought the Indians had at last surrounded us!--he staggered
forth from his chamber, and, from the landing, swore he would go down
and shoot them if they did not desist.

But now came the time when all this turmoil and this disgrace to our
house was to cease.

I was passing one night through the saloon, having, indeed, come in
from the porch where I had been advising with Gregory, who had ridden
over to see us, as to what was to be done if my father remained much
longer sick and we still had this dreadful infliction upon our house,
when to my surprise--for I thought him away cockfighting--I saw him
reel into the hall, and, perceiving me, direct his steps into the room
where I was.

"Ha! ha! my pretty Joice!" he exclaimed, as he did so; "ha! ha! my
Virginian beauty. So thou art here! How sweet, too, thou look'st
to-night with thy bare white arms and rosy lips and golden hair.
Faith, Joice! colonist girl though thou art, thou are fit to be
beloved of any," and he hiccoughed loudly.

"If Gregory had not but gone this instant," I exclaimed, "he should
whip you, you ill-mannered dog, for daring to speak to me thus in my
father's own house. Get you to bed, sir, and disturb not the place."

"To bed! Not I! 'Tis not yet ten o' the clock and I am not accustomed
to such hours. Nay, Joice, think on't, my dear. Five months at sea,
kicked and cuffed and starved, and now in the land of plenty--plenty
to eat and drink. And to spend, too! See here, my Joice," and he
pulled out a handful of English guineas from his pocket. "Won 'em all
at the match from that put Pringle, who, colonist though he is, hath
impudently been sent to Oxford and is now back. Won't go to bed,
Joice, for hours," he hiccoughed. "No! Fetch me bottle brandy. We'll
sit up together and I'll tell you how I love you."

"Let me pass, _slave_," I exclaimed in my anger, while he still stood
barring my way. "Let me pass."

"Hoity-toity. Slave, eh? Slave! And for how long, think you, my
pretty? Ships are due in the bay even now, and then I can pay off thy
father and go home. Yet I know not that I will go home. I have
conceived a fancy for Virginia and Virginian girls. Above all for
thee, Joice. I love thy golden head and blue eyes and rosy lips--what
said the actor fellow in the play of old Bess's day, of lips like
roses filled with snow? He must have dreamt of such as thine!--I love
them, I say. And, Joice, I do love thee."

I was trembling with anger all the while he spoke, and now I said:

"While my father lies sick I rule in this house, and to-morrow that
rule shall see you punished. To-morrow you shall go amongst the
convicts and the bond-servants, and do slaves' work. You tipsy dog,
this house is no place for you!"

He took no notice of my words beyond a drunken grin, and then, because
he was a cowardly ruffian who thought he could safely assault a young
girl who was alone and defenceless while her father lay ill upstairs,
he sprang towards me and seized me in his arms exclaiming: "Roses
filled with snow! And I will have a kiss from them. I will, I say, I
will. Thy charms madden me, Joice."

But now, while I struggled with him and beat his face with my clenched
hands, I sent shriek upon shriek forth, and I screamed to my father
and Mary to come and save me from the monster.

"Ssh-ssh!" he said, while still he endeavoured to kiss me. "Hush,
you pretty fool, hush! You will arouse the house, and kisses cost
nothing--ha, the devil!"

He broke off his speech and released me, for now he saw a sight that
struck fear to his craven heart. Standing in the open doorway, his
face as white as the long dressing robe he wore, was my father with
his drawn hanger in his hand, and, behind him, Mary Mills and one or
two negroes.

"God!" he exclaimed, "my daughter assaulted by my own bought servant.
You villain! your life alone can atone for this." Then, with one step,
his strength returning to him for a moment, he came within distance of
the ruffian, and, reaching his sword on high, struck full at his head.
Fortunately for the other, but unfortunately for future events, his
feebleness made that sword shake in his hand so that it missed the
wretch's head--though only by a hair's breadth--and, descending,
struck off one of his ears so that it fell upon the polished floor of
the saloon, while the weapon cut into his shoulder as it continued its
course.

"This time I will make more sure," my father exclaimed, raising the
sword again, but, ere he could renew the attack, with one bound
accompanied by a hideous yell of pain, the villain Roderick St. Amande
had leapt out on to the porch and fled down the steps--his track being
marked by a line of blood. While my poor father, overcome by his
exertions, and seeing that the wretch had escaped, fell back fainting
into the arms of Mary Mills.




CHAPTER XV

A VISITOR FROM ENGLAND


Five years have passed away since then and now, when I again begin the
recitation of the strange events of which my house was the centre, and
I, who was then scarcely more than a child, have to record all that
happened around me when I had developed into a woman.

By this period my dearly loved father had been long dead; had been,
indeed, borne to his grave nearly four years ago, accompanied by all
that ceremony with which a Virginian gentleman is always interred; and
I ruled in his stead. Thus, you will comprehend, he had lived for some
months after he had endeavoured to slay Mr. St. Amande for his assault
upon me, and during those months we had received information about who
and what he was, though there was still more to be learnt later on.

Indeed, he had not fled our house a week ere the courier brought a
letter which had arrived from home; a letter sealed with a great seal
as big as that of the Governor of Virginia, and addressed with much
formal courtesy to "Nicholas Bampfyld, Esquire, Gentleman and Planter,
of Pomfret Manor, on the James River, partly in King and Queen, and
partly in King County, Virginia, etc." And when it was perused we
found it did indeed contain strange matter, though, strange as it was,
not difficult of understanding.

The Marquis, who wrote in his own hand, began by stating that, since
all who bore the name of St. Amande were immediate kin of his, he
thanked Mr. Bampfyld for in any way having shown kindness, which he
was not called upon to show, to the youth, Roderick St. Amande. Yet,
he proceeded to state, Mr. Bampfyld had in part been imposed upon by
that young man, since, while he was in truth an heir of the title, he
was by no means an immediate one, nor was his father really the
Viscount St. Amande. The actual possessor of that title, his lordship
said, was Gerald St. Amande, son of the late lord, his heir being
(while Gerald was unmarried and without a son) his uncle Robert,
falsely, at present, terming himself Lord St. Amande, and then, in
succession to him, Roderick St. Amande.

"But," continued the Marquis, "it was indeed most remarkable that Mr.
Bampfyld's letter should have arrived at the moment it did, for, while
he stated that he had purchased Roderick St. Amande from the captain
of a slave-trading vessel, they at home were under very grave fears
that some similar disaster had befallen Gerald, the real lord, since
he too was missing and no tidings could be gleaned of him. He had,
however, disappeared from London and not from Dublin while left alone
but a little while by a most faithful friend and companion of his (who
was now as one distracted by his loss), and they could only conjecture
that the young lord had either been stolen by kidnappers and sent to
the West Indian or the American plantations, or else impressed for
service in one of His Majesty's vessels, the press having been very
hot of late."

The Marquis added that he felt little alarm at the young lord's
future, since he knew it could only be a matter Of time as to his
release, no matter where he had been taken to, while as to Mr.
Roderick St. Amande he trusted Mr. Bampfyld would continue his
kindness to him, put him in the way of returning to his family, and
let him have what was necessary of money, for all of which he begged
Mr. Bampfyld to draw upon him as he saw fit, and the drafts should be
instantly honoured.

So, with profuse and reiterated thanks, this nobleman concluded his
letter, and at the same time stated that Mr. Roderick St. Amande might
not intentionally have intended to deceive Mr. Bampfyld as to his
proper position, since, doubtless, his own father--who was a most
unworthy and wicked person--had really fed the youth's mind with the
idea that he was the heir-apparent to the peerage.

My father never did draw on the Marquis of Amesbury for the money he
had expended, nor, indeed, would he have any mention ever made of
Roderick St. Amande, though be commissioned Gregory to sit down and
write to his lordship a full account of all the doings of that young
libertine from the time he came to us until he left, and also bade my
cousin not to omit how he had struck off his ear when he would, had he
been able, have slain him. This letter of Gregory's was not answered
until after my father had passed away, when we received another from
the Marquis full of expressions of regret for the misbehaviour of his
relative, and stating that, henceforth, he neither intended to
acknowledge Roderick nor his father as kinsmen of his. Also, he
remarked, that had Mr. Bampfyld killed the profligate he would have
only accorded him his deserts, and could have merited no blame from
honest men for doing so. Likewise, he told us that news had been heard
of the real lord, Gerald, Viscount St. Amande, who had indeed been
impressed for a seaman on board His Majesty's ship _Namur_, in which
Admiral Sir Chaloner Ogle had hoisted his flag, and that, on the
vessel having sailed the same night and he making known his condition
to the Admiral, that illustrious officer had taken him under his
charge and promised to treat him as a petty officer and promote him to
better things should his command be a long one.

This was the last letter we had from home touching this strange
matter--excepting a letter from the Marquis's secretary stating that
his lordship had not as yet been called on to honour any draft of Mr.
Bampfyld's, which he would very willingly do. Yet of the matter itself
there was now to be more trouble, ay! more dreadful, horrid trouble
than had happened up to now. This you shall see later. Meanwhile, our
life went on very peacefully at the Manor, and, when I had reconciled
myself to my dear father's loss, was not an unhappy one. Mary remained
with me ever as my friend and companion, helping me to direct the
household duties, singing and playing with me upon the spinet and the
harpsichord, riding with me sometimes to Richmond, or Norfolk, or
Williamsburg, sometimes called Middle Plantation, and assisting me in
my garden, for which she constantly obtained from her friends in
Bristol many of the dear old English plants and seeds. Yet I feared
that the day must come ere long when she would cease to be an inmate
of my house, tho' still a neighbour. For it was very evident that she
had formed an affection, which was warmly returned, for the young
Irish clergyman whom our neighbour, Mr. Cliborne, had brought out from
England on his return from his last visit there, to replace the
dissolute old man who had been Mr. St. Amande's friend and brother
carouser. This young divine was a very different kind of man from
that other, being most attentive in his duties and expounding the
Word--according to the forms of the Established Church--most
beautifully, and was, withal, a cheerful companion. He could also
write sweet verses--whereby he partly gained, I think, Mary's
heart--and he could take part in a catch or a glee admirably, so that,
when in the evening we all sang together in the saloon, the blacks
would gather round outside to hear and, sometimes, to hum in concert
with us. To add to which his learning was profound.

But what interested me more than all was that Mr. Jonathan
Kinchella--such being his name--was able to throw a thoroughly clear
light upon the whole of the transactions connected with the St. Amande
family; he could explain all that you, yourselves, know as to how the
scapegrace, Roderick, came out to Virginia, and he told us of all the
sufferings of that poor young man whom he always spoke of as Gerald,
so that we could not but weep at their recountal. For what woman's
heart, nay, what human heart, would not be touched by the
description of that poor child torn from his mother's arms, living the
life of a beggar in rags, and witnessing the funeral of his father
conducted by charity? Oh! it was pitiful, we said to one another,
pitiful; and when we knelt down to pray at night we besought a
blessing on Mr. Kinchella and on that other good Christian, Quin, the
butcher, for all that they had done for that unhappy young outcast.

But, previous to the arrival of this gentleman, I received a visit, of
which I must speak, from another person, who also seemed much
interested in those two cousins, and who, at the time when he came, I
regarded as a most kind, benevolent gentleman.

Mary and I were seated one morning in our dining-saloon, it being then
some months after my father's death, when Mungo entered the room and
said that there was, without, a gentleman on his road to the proposed
new settlement of Georgia. One who, the black added, would be very
glad if I could accord him a moment's reception, since he was a friend
of the St. Amande family, and that his name was Captain O'Rourke.

Bidding him be shown into the great saloon--for even now our curiosity
was great to hear any news about this strange family, one of whose
members, and he, doubtless, the worst, had dwelt with us--we entered
that apartment shortly afterwards, and perceived our visitor standing
at the long windows gazing down across the plantations to where the
river ran. As he turned and made us a deep and most courtly bow, we
observed that he was a gentleman of perhaps something more than
middle age, with dark rolling eyes and a somewhat rosy face, and also
that he was of large bulk. He was handsomely dressed in a dark blue
riding-frock, gold laced; with, underneath, a crimson waistcoat, and
his hat was also laced with gold.

"Ladies," he said, advancing with still another bow, "I know not which
is Mistress Bampfyld, but I thank her for her courtesy in receiving
me." Here I indicated that I was that person and that Mary was my
friend, whereon he continued:

"Therefore, madam, I thank you. As I have told your domestic, I am a
friend of the house of St. Amande, whereon, being on my way to Georgia
on a mission concerning my friend, Mr. James Oglethorpe, member of
Parliament for Haslemere in Surrey, I made bold to ride this way. For,
madam, we have heard in England that it was under your hospitable
roof, or your respected father's, that the Honourable Roderick found
shelter."

"And have you heard, sir, how he repaid that shelter?" I asked.

"I have heard nothing, madam, of that, but I trust it was as became a
gentleman."

"It was as became a villain!" exclaimed Mary.

"Heavens! madam," said the captain to her, looking most deeply
shocked. "You pain as well as surprise me. As a villain! How we must
all have been deceived in him. As a villain! Tut, tut!"

"But, sir," I asked, "you speak of him as the Honourable Roderick St.
Amande. Yet the Marquis of Amesbury has written us that he is nothing
of the sort, at present at least."

"Does he so? Does he, indeed? The Marquis! Ah! a noble gentleman and
of great friendship with Sir Robert Walpole. And on what grounds,
madam, does the Marquis write thus?"

"On the grounds that Mr. St. Amande's cousin, Gerald, is the present
Viscount St. Amande--and that consequently----"

"Ha! ha!" he interrupted me, joyfully as it seemed, "so the Marquis
does recognise Gerald! 'Tis well, very well." And here he nodded as
though pleased. "Gerald was ever my favourite. A dear lad!"

"You knew him, sir?"

"Knew him, madam!" he exclaimed; "knew him! Why, he was my tenderest
care. I was his governor for some time, and watched over him as though
he had been my son."

At this moment Mungo brought in the refreshments which in Virginia are
always offered to a caller, and the captain, seeing the various flasks
of wine and the bottles, shook his head somewhat dubiously at them,
saying he never drank till after the noon. Yet, upon persuasion, he
was induced to try a little of the rum, which he pronounced to be
excellent, and, doubtless, much relished by those who could stomach
spirits, which he could rarely do.

As for Mary and myself we were determined to gather as much
information as we could from this gallant gentleman who knew the St.
Amande family so well (never suspecting, until later, how much he was
gathering from us), so we continued our questions to him, asking him
among others if Lord Gerald, as we termed him, was handsome.

"He was a most beautiful lad," said the captain, perceiving that our
interests turned more to him than to his wretched cousin, "with
exquisite features like his sweet mother, a much injured lady. But,"
changing the subject back again, "what has become of Roderick, for, in
truth, I come more to seek after him than for aught else? His poor
father has had no news of him now for some long time; not since he
first arrived here and wrote home of all that had befallen him."

This astonished us greatly, for we had always figured to ourselves,
when talking the matter over, that Mr. St. Amande must have somehow
made his way back to Ireland in safety. So we told Captain O'Rourke of
our surprise at his information.

"When he fled," I said, "he went first to an evil-living old man, our
clergyman, now lying sick unto death from his debaucheries,"--the
captain shook his head mournfully here--"who, however, beyond giving
him a balsamic styptic for his ear would do no more, saying that he
feared my father's wrath too much. Then we learnt afterwards that he
went to the Pringle Manor, where he had become on terms of intimacy
with the young men of the family, but they, on gathering what had
happened, refused also to give him shelter, calling him vile and
ungrateful. So he went forth and has never since been heard of, tho',
indeed, sir, I do trust no ill has befallen him. Bad and wicked as he
was, we would not have him fall into the hands of the Indians, as he
might well have done."

"The Indians, madam!" exclaimed the captain, while I thought he grew
pale as he spoke. "The Indians! Would that be possible here?"

"They are ever about," I replied; "sometimes in large bodies,
sometimes creeping through the grass and the woods like snakes. When
they are together they will attack villages and townships, and when
alone, will carry off children or girls--there are many of both, who
have been carried away, living amongst them now, and have themselves
become savages--or they will steal cattle or shoot a solitary man for
his pistol or his sword."

"Faith," said the captain, "a pleasant part of the world to reside in!
Yet 'tis indeed a noble estate you have here--it reminds me somewhat
of my own in the Wicklow Mountains."

"But, sir," said Mary, "what are the chances of Lord St. Amande
obtaining his rights, now that the Marquis has declared for him?
Surely his uncle can do nothing against the truth!"

The captain mused a moment, shaking his head meditatively and as
though pondering sadly on all the wickedness that had been wrought
against that poor youth, and then he said:

"'Tis hard to tell. I fear me his uncle is a bad man--he has, indeed,
deceived me who trusted and believed in him, for he has over and over
again sworn that Gerald was not his brother's child. And I trusted
him, I say, tho' now I begin to doubt. Yet 'tis ever so in this world.
We who are of an innocent and confiding nature are made the sport of
the unscrupulous and designing."

"But," I exclaimed, "surely there is law and justice at home, and
upright judges, especially with so good a king as ours on the throne,
tho', under the wicked Stuarts, it might have been different. And the
judges of England and Ireland, with whom you doubtless are well
acquainted, would not let so base a villain as his uncle prevail."

The captain nodded and said he did indeed know many of the judges of
both countries (we learnt afterwards that he spake perfect truth), yet
he doubted. Their judgments and decisions were not always those which
he thought right nor worthy of approval; but still, with so strong a
champion as the Marquis of Amesbury at his back (who could influence
Sir Robert) he must hope that the young man would come by his own. We
pressed him to stay to dinner, to which he consented and did full
justice to our viands, praising them in a hearty, jolly fashion, and
consenting more readily than before to attempt the wines and spirits.
He also expressed much curiosity as to our convict and bond-servant
labour, taking great interest in the various characters described by
us. Indeed, at one time he testified a desire to walk down and inspect
them and their dwellings, but desisted at last, saying we had given
him such excellent accounts that he felt as if he had seen these
creatures with his own eyes. Of them all, the case of Peter Buck, a
highwayman, seemed to interest him the most, and he asked many
questions about him; as to when he had come out, what his appearance
was, and so forth. But, still, he finally decided not to go down to
the plantation and see him or the others, saying he was bound to join
a company of gentlemen at Albemarle Sound that night if possible, who
had a vessel full of Saltzburghers to be conveyed to Savannah.

"But," said he with a laugh, "I do trust, ladies, I shall meet with
none of your Indians on my ride. In battle, or with highwaymen, I know
how to comport myself, and so long as my sword is true and my pistols
well primed can hold my own. But with savages I know not what I should
do, unless it were to cut and run."

So he mounted his horse having first bade his hired guide do the same,
while we told him that his road ran too far south-east towards the
coast for him to encounter any savages; and then, having paid
courteous farewells to Mary and me, and having tossed an English gold
coin to Mungo, he saluted us once more most gracefully and rode away.




CHAPTER XVI

ANOTHER VISITOR


Now, when Mr. Kinchella had been brought from England by Mr.
Cliborne--his maintenance--to be supplied amongst us--being fifteen
thousand pounds of tobacco annually and the frame-house built for the
minister--it was not long ere we learnt the true history of Captain
O'Rourke. Nay, it was so soon as we began to speak of the St. Amande
family, and Mr. Kinchella could not but laugh softly when we related
to him the conversation we had had with our visitor.

"The rogue! The adventurer!" he exclaimed. "And acquainted with the
judges, too. I' faith, he is. With everyone in the land, I should
warrant. Yet, naturally, he might say what he would here; tell his own
tale, chaunt his own song. How was he to suppose any poor student of
Trinity should ever wander to Virginia who knew his history?"

Then after a little further talk he fell meditating aloud again,
saying:

"He may be in truth in the service of Mr. Oglethorpe--a gallant
gentleman who served under Prince Eugene, and is, they say,
recommended for a Generalship--yet how can he have obtained such
service? He has been highwayman, if all told of him is true--perhaps,
for that reason he wished not to encounter Mr. Peter Buck--guinea
dropper and kidnapper--as with Gerald. Nay, Heaven only knows what he
has not been, to say nothing of 'political agent' on both sides. Well.
Well. Let us hope he has turned honest at last. Let us hope so."

That an intimacy should spring up between us and Mr. Kinchella was not
to be wondered at, nor, indeed, that he also became popular among many
other families in the counties before mentioned. For, independently of
his own merits, the case of Mr. Roderick St. Amande and our charity
and friendliness to him, as well as his base repayment of them, had
made much talk in all the country round, not only with the gentry but
among others. Even the convicts, we knew, talked about it, as did the
bond-servants; and Christian Lamb, my maid, told me that her brother
had often seen the late lord who died in such poverty ruffling it in
London, where he was well known in gay circles. Indeed, Mr. Kinchella
became mightily liked everywhere and was always welcome at the houses
of his flock. For, besides his gifts of writing-verses and playing the
fiddle and singing agreeably--which, simple accomplishments as they
were, proved mighty acceptable in a community like ours, where we
found the winter evenings long, and the summer ones, too, for the
matter of that--besides all these, I say, and far above them, was his
real goodness as well as sound piety. His sermons were easy and
flowing, suitable alike to the educated and the simple; he expounded
the Word most truthfully, and he never failed to exhort us to remember
that we were Christian English folk, although in a new land, and that
we owed it as a duty to our ancestors to remain such and to be a
credit to the country which had sent us forth. Thus he struck a note
that found an echo in all our hearts, since nothing was felt more
strongly in Virginia than the sense of loyalty to our old home and
home-government. 'Tis true that, in other states farther north, there
were to be found those who talked wildly, and as though their minds
must be distraught, of forming what they termed an American Union
which should cast off the rule of our mother country; but their words
were as idle breath and not to be regarded nor considered seriously.
King George II. was firmly seated on his throne--as anyone might see
who read the beautiful odes and other things written by Mr. Cibber,
which were printed in the London news-journals, and, so, occasionally
reached us--and all Virginians who went to and fro betwixt here and
London spake highly of that great monarch, and of how he received the
colonists graciously and spoke them fair.

For the ruse which had been played on Roderick St. Amande and his
father, whereby the young lord had been saved from kidnapping and his
miserable cousin sent in his place, there was little condemnation, but
rather approval amongst our friends and neighbours; and, had it been
possible for Mr. Quin to find his way amongst us, it would have been
easy for him to establish himself comfortably in our colony.

"Although," said Mr. Kinchella, "that it was a wrong thing to do
nobody can deny; yet, when Gerald came and told me of it, I could not
find it in my heart to chide him or his friend, Quin, and so I let him
go without a word of reproof. Yet now he is gone, too, and I know not
where he may be. Sir Chaloner Ogle has the reputation of a fighting
sailor, and, once his flag is hoisted at the main topmast-head, he may
take his fleet around the world in search of adventure, and poor
Gerald with it."

And now have I arrived at the year 1732, when I was twenty-three years
of age--the year which was to be, perhaps, the most important in my
life, and after which, when I have related all that occurred in it, I
shall have but little more to tell.

In the early months of that year nothing happened worthy of record,
except that our mastiffs were found poisoned in February in their
kennels, as well as were those of Mr. Cliborne. This led us to fear
the Indians might be meditating an attack on us, since they dreaded
these animals more than anything else, and would, by hook or crook,
invariably get them destroyed if possible before making a raid. Their
method was for one of them to creep into the settlements and approach
the kennels, when the poison could be easily cast in on some tempting
pieces of meat. Then, the time of year when the nights were dark and
long was that generally selected, as leaving them less open to
observation. On such nights as these all the colonists would be
huddled round their respective hearths, the convicts and bond-servants
having great fires made for them in their outhouses, and the negroes
still greater ones in their quarters. Amongst the gentry, too, the
cold was also combated as best might be; huge wood fires blazed in
every room, while, in the saloons, to add to the warmth and induce
forgetfulness of the winter, games of all descriptions, as well as
dances, would be indulged in. The Virginia reel shared with "Wooing a
Widow," "Grind the Bottle," and "Brother, I am bobbed," the task of
passing the long evenings, and those evenings were generally brought
to a conclusion by hearty suppers, and, for the gentlemen, plentiful
libations of brandy, rum from the West Indies, old Mountain wine
imported from England, to which place it was sent from Malaga,
tobacco, and so on. While such jollities as these prevailed indoors an
Indian might easily creep about the plantations, survey the houses
from the outside, and destroy or steal the live-stock.

The poisoning of our hounds led, however, to no further trouble at the
time, and so the winter slipt away, and, at last, we burst into the
glorious Virginian spring, a season when all Nature awakes and breaks
into golden luxuriance. Then the pines begin to put on their fresh
green cones and the gum-trees their leaves, the flowers spring forth
as though born in a night, the creepers clothe themselves in tender
green, and all the woods become gay with the songs of birds--the
golden oriole, the mock-bird, and the whip-poor-will. And over and
around all is the balmy warmth of a southern spring, the brightness of
a southern sun, and the clear, blue atmosphere of a southern sky.

It was on such a day as this, in the afternoon, that I going down to
see if my roses, which grew on that side of the lawn by which the road
passed, were budding, observed a gentleman ride up the road, and,
dismounting from his horse, take off his hat and advance to me.

"Madam," he said, "I think, from what I gathered in your village, that
I am not mistaken. This is Pomfret Manor, is it not?"

This young gentleman--for I guessed he was but little older
than I--was so handsome and bewitching to look upon, that, as I
answered him, I could but gaze at him. His face, from which shone
forth two eyes that to my foolish fancy seemed like stars, was oval,
and his complexion, though much browned, very clear, while his other
features were most shapely. He wore no wig--which seemed strange to a
Virginian, where the wig is considered the certain mark, or necessary
accompaniment, of a gentleman--yet he did well not to do so, for,
besides considering the warmth of the day, his hair was most beautiful
to see, since it hung down in dark brown curls to his shoulders where
it reposed in a great mass. His apparel was plain, being a dark green
riding-suit trimmed with silver lace, and he wore riding-boots of a
handsome shape, while by his side he carried a small sword.

"It is Pomfret Manor, sir," I replied, noticing all these things. "May
I ask what is your will?"

"I come, madam," he said, "first with the desire to renew a friendship
with one for whom I cherish the warmest recollections; ay! for one who
was my friend when I had scarce another, or only one other, in the
world; and secondly, to pay my respects to Mr. Nicholas Bampfyld, to
whom my family owe a debt."

"Sir," I said, "whatever your debt may be to Mr. Bampfyld it can never
be paid now. My father has been dead these three years."

He looked surprised, and then said, "Dead! Madam, I grieve to hear it.
I had hoped to see him. And Mr. Kinchella, the friend I seek, he, I
hope and trust, is well."

"He is very well," I answered, "and is now in my house with my friend,
Miss Mills, to whom he is under engagement to be shortly married."

"To be married," he said, with a smile, tho' a grave one; "to be
married! This is indeed good news. He should make a worthy husband if
ever man did."

As he had been speaking there had come across my mind a sudden
thought--a wonderment! And--why, I have never known even to this
day!--I fell a-trembling at that wonderment as to whom he should be.
Was he, I asked myself,--he--was he----?

"Sir," I said, "you shall be brought to Mr. Kinchella. What name shall
be announced to him?"

"I am called Lord St. Amande," he said quietly, while it seemed to me
that he sighed as he spake.

"Called Lord St. Amande," I repeated in my surprise. "Lord Gerald St.
Amande."

Once again he smiled, saying, "Not Lord Gerald St. Amande, though my
name is Gerald. But I perceive Mr. Kinchella has been talking to you
about me. Perhaps telling you my history. Well!" to himself, "heaven
knows it has been common talk enough."

I think--looking back as I do now to those far-off years and to that
happy, sunny day when first he came among us--that, in my heart, there
was some little disappointment at seeing him whom we had pitied so
looking thus prosperous. For although we knew that his great relative,
the Marquis, had espoused his cause and taken him by the hand, it was
ever as the poor outcast youth that we had thought of him. Yes, as an
outcast roaming the streets of Dublin, or as a poor wandering sailor
tossed on stormy seas, our hearts had gone out to him--and now, to see
him standing before me, bravely apparelled and looking, indeed, as I
thought, an English lord should look (for I had never before seen
one), caused me, as I say, a disappointment. It may be that it did so
because it seemed as though our pity was not needed. But, even as this
passed through my mind, I reflected that it was no true Virginian
hospitality to let him stand there holding his horse's bridle and
waiting to see what welcome he might expect, so, calling to the negro
gardener who was busy amongst the vines to take his steed, I bade him
follow me. As we went to the great steps of the porch I laughed with
joy at thinking what a pleasant surprise this would be for his friend,
and felt glad, I knew not why, that it had fallen to my lot to be the
first to see him and to bring those two together; therefore I said to
him:

"I will not have you announced, but, if it pleases you, will bring you
straight into the saloon. It will be good to see Mr. Kinchella's
pleasure when you stand before him. It was but recently he wondered if
he should ever see you again, and now you are here close to him."

"Do with me as you will," he said, "and I thank you for doing so
much."

So we went up the steps together, when, drawing him behind the blue
tatula bush that was now coming into flower with the warm spring, I
bade him look within and he should see his friend. Seated by the
harpsichord he saw him, his sweetheart sitting by his side, and he
looking brave and happy, and dressed in his black silk coat and scarf.

"I should scarce have known him," whispered my lord, "he has changed
so. His pallor is gone--it may be love has made him rosy--and he is
fuller and plumper. It seems a crying shame to disturb him when he has
so sweet a companion."

I laughed and said, "You will be easily absolved. To see you again is
always his most earnest desire, while, for Mary, you are a hero of
romance of whom she dreams often."

He looked at me from behind the bush, so that I thought he was
wondering if it was to Mary alone such dreams came; and then, saying:

"Madam, I fear I shall be made vain here," he begged me to permit him
to enter and greet his friend.

That greeting it was good to see. Mr. Kinchella gazed for a moment at
the stranger entering so abruptly and then, springing to his feet,
exclaimed, "Gerald! Gerald!" and folded him in his arms, while Mary,
who had also risen hastily, repeated him, crying, "'Gerald!' Is this
indeed Lord St. Amande?"

"Dear lad, dear heart!" said Mr. Kinchella, who, after his embrace,
held the other at arm's length so as to survey him. "It is indeed you!
And how you are grown; a man and a handsome one. But how you came here
passes my understanding. Yet how I rejoice. How I do rejoice. Oh!
Gerald! Gerald! this is a day of days." Then he went on, "Mistress
Bampfyld, I see already you know; this other lady is my future wife,
Miss Mills," whereon his lordship bowed with most stately grace while
Mary curtsied low.

"But tell me, tell us," continued her lover, "what brings you here. We
knew not, I knew not where you were. The last heard of you was that
you had been impressed for the sea and had sailed under Sir Chaloner
Ogle, who had testified a kindly disposition to you. But to what part
of the world you had sailed, we did not know. Papers reach here but
fitfully, and, though a friend of mine does sometimes send me _The
London Journal_, owned by that sturdy writer, Mr. Osborne, I have seen
nothing that told me of your fleet."

"'Tis not so far off now," said his lordship, with his grave smile, "I
being at the moment on leave from it. I have adopted the calling of a
sailor--what use to haunt the streets of London idly waiting until the
House of Lords shall do me justice, if ever?"---there was a bitterness
in his tone as he spake that we all well understood--"and I am now
master's-mate in the _Namur_, with promise of a lieutenancy from Sir
Chaloner. As for the fleet itself, a portion of it is at Halifax and a
portion off Boston, while the _Namur_ is at the mouth of the James
River waiting to capture some of the pirates that still haunt the
spot."

"You have a long leave, I hope, Lord St. Amande," I said, though I
knew that I blushed, as I did so. "You must not quit Mr. Kinchella for
some time, and, in Virginia, we love to show hospitality to our
friends or friends' friends."

He bowed graciously to me and told me he was entitled to many days'
leave of absence, since he had had none in their long cruise, except
now and then a day or so ashore; and then Mary, whose vivacity I
always envied, asked him why the House of Lords behaved so ill to him
and did not put him in possession of his rights.

"For," said she, "it would be the most idle affectation to pretend
that here, far away as we are from England, we do not take the deepest
interest in your affairs. Virginia has, and this portion of it
particularly, been so much mixed up with your family and so interested
in it by the fact of your friend, Mr. Kinchella, coming here, that it
seems as though we, too, had some concern in those affairs."

"The House of Lords in Ireland has done me justice," he replied, "as I
learnt but recently, since they had pronounced me to be what in very
truth I am, my father's son. In England the House will not yet,
however, decide that I am heir to the Marquis of Amesbury--though he
hesitates not to acknowledge me--and it may not do so for years. Yet
even my present title is disputed by my villainous uncle, Robert, who
now has another son by his second wife, whom he proclaims as heir.
For," addressing us all, "that the wretch, Roderick, is dead there can
be, I imagine, no doubt; and his father amongst others believes so."

"'Tis thought so," we answered, while Mr. Kinchella added that many
enquiries had been made for, him, not only in Virginia but in other
colonies, and no word could be heard of him. "So that," he continued,
"there can be no further thought but that he is dead."

"Even so," said my lord, "'twere best. For a wretch such as he death
alone is fitting. And, madam, from the Marquis I have heard by letter
of all the villainies he committed here, and, as one of his blood and
race, I now tender you my apologies for his sins and wickedness."

"Oh, sir," I cried out with emotion, "I pray you do not so. He is gone
and I have forgotten him; since he must surely be dead I have also
forgiven him. I beg of you not to sully your fair fame by associating
your name with his, nor your honour by deeming yourself accountable
for his misdeeds."

Whereon, as I spake, his lordship, taking my hand in his, raised it to
his lips and said he thanked me for my gracious goodness.




CHAPTER XVII

THE RED MAN


"How easily," said Lord St. Amande to me one summer night, two months
later, as we sat upon the porch outside the saloon, "how easily may
one be inspired with the gift of prophecy! Who, looking in at those
two and knowing their characters, could not predict their future?"

He spake of Mr. Kinchella and Mary who were within, she sitting at the
spinet while he, bending over her, was humming the air of a song he
had lately written preparatory to her singing it.

"One can see," went on my lord, "all that that future shall be. They
have told their love to one another, soon that love will blossom into
marriage, even as I have seen your daturas and your roses blossom
forth since first I came amongst you--that marriage will bring
happiness of days and years to them, in which in honour and peaceful
joys they will go on until life's close. Happy, happy pair--happy
Kinchella to love and be beloved, to love and dare to tell his love."

And my lord sighed as he spoke.

"All men may tell their love, surely," I said. "Why should they not?"

"All men may not tell their love, Mistress Joice," he replied; "all
men may not ask for love in return. Over some men's lives there is so
deep a shadow that it precludes them from asking any woman to share
their lot--sometimes it is best that those men go through life alone,
unloved and with no other's lot bound up with theirs. But, hark, she
is going to sing that song he wrote for her."

Through the warm air Mary's voice arose as he stood by her; through
the quiet of the night when nought was heard but the distant barking
of the dogs, which were strangely restless this evening, and nought
seen but the fireflies, she sang his little song:


    "If we should part--some day of days
     We might stand face to face again,
     And, dear, my eyes I scarce could raise
     To yours without a bitter pain.
     For memory then must backward turn
     To all the love that went before,
     While thoughts our hearts would sear and burn
     Making our meeting still more sore.
            So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no.
            Or shall we stay and still be true,
            Shall one remain--the other go,
            Or shall I still rest close to you?

    "If we should part--could I rejoice
     If by some chance I saw your face?
     Or if you, too, should hear my voice
     Cold and without one plea for grace.
     Such as in days agone I sought
     Craving one whispered word from you;
     Would not your heart with grief be fraught
     Recalling all the love we slew.
            So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no.
            Or shall we stay and still be true,
            Shall one remain--the other go,
            Or shall I still rest close to you?

    "Ah! best it is we never part,
     Better by far that we keep true,
     Clasp hand to hand, bind heart to heart,
     As in the past we used to do.
     So murmur, sweet, the words once more,
     Breathe them to me again, again,
     Whisper you love me as before,
     Proclaim Love's victory over pain.
            And we'll not part. Ah. No, Love, no.
            'Tis best to stay for ever true.
            Since you remain, I cannot go,
            But ever must rest close to you."


Her voice ceased and we could see her fond face turned up to his and
observe the look of love in her dark eyes. And my lord, sitting in the
deep chair which had been my father's in other days, murmured to
himself, "'If we should part! If we should part!' Ah, well! they need
never part. Never, never."

I know not why, that evening, all our thoughts and talk had been upon
that silly theme, Love. It had begun at supper--which, in Virginia, we
generally took at seven in the evening--and had been continued
afterwards in the garden and on the porch, and came, I think, from the
fact that Lord St. Amande and Mr. Kinchella had that day been to see a
ship which had come from England laden with furniture. His lordship
lived with Mr. Kinchella in his minister's house in the village, and,
although he generally spent his days with many of the other gentry
dwelling around, amongst whom he was very welcome, he could sometimes
induce his friend to give up one day to him when they would go off
together for rides and walks, as they had done on this occasion when
they had ridden to Norfolk. Their evenings they spent almost
invariably at Pomfret Manor, as they were doing on this night. But, as
I say, at supper this evening there had been much talk of what Mr.
Kinchella had purchased from the trader for beautifying his house,
such as a beautiful Smyrna carpet, some tapestry hangings, chimney
glasses and sconces, a stone-grate and some walnut-tree chairs and
East Indian screens, all of which were to be shown to us when they
arrived by the waggon and were placed in his home. For their
marriage-day was drawing near now, and was, indeed, settled for the
beginning of September.

"So that," said his lordship, "when that time arrives, Mistress
Joice," as he had come to call me, "must be left all alone in her
great house."

"'Tis her own fault," exclaimed Mary; "many are the excellent offers
she has had, yet she will take none. Her cousin Gregory has over and
over again told her she should wed with him, their interests being
similar and their estates adjoining, and two of the Pringles have
asked her for wife. But, although in Virginia a maiden who is not
married by twenty is deemed to have passed her day, she will not look
at them. Oh! 'tis a shame. A Shame."

I had blushed at all this and reproved Mary for telling my lord my
secrets; but now, on the porch, he referred to the subject again and
asked why none of these gentlemen found favour in my eyes. "Only," I
replied, "because in my heart there is no love for them. Surely no
girl should wed with one she cannot love?"

"'Tis true," he answered, gravely, as he always spake; "'tis true. And
the day will come when you will love someone. It must needs come."

Alas! I wonder that he did not know that already it had come. I should
have thought, indeed, did often think, that I had betrayed myself and
shown him that the love he spoke of had grown up in my heart for him.
He must have seen that which I could not hide, try as I would; my
eager looking for his coming in those soft summer evenings, my great
joy in his company, my sympathy with him in all that he had known and
suffered, and my tell-tale blushes whenever his eyes fell on me. Yet
if he knew he gave no sign of knowing, and, although he ever sought my
side and passed the hours with me, as those others passed theirs
together, he said no word.

But now, as we sat there on the porch silent though, sometimes, our
eyes would meet in the glow of the lamp from within, there fell upon
the silence of the night the clatter of a horse's hoofs up the road,
of a horse coming on at a great pace as though ridden by one who
spurred it to its best efforts and sought its greater speed.

"Who can ride here at such a pace to-night?" I said, as still the
clatter drew nearer and we heard the horse turn off from the road into
our plantations, and so into the stables at the back, while a moment
later a voice was heard demanding to see Mistress Bampfyld.

"That voice!" exclaimed Lord St. Amande, springing from his chair and
reaching for his sword, which stood in a corner of the balcony. "That
voice! Though I have not heard it for years I should know it in a
thousand. 'Tis the villain, O'Rourke. Heaven hath delivered him into
my hands at last. Now will I have a full revenge on him."

"Oh sir," I said, as he drew his blade, "Oh! sir, oh! my lord, take no
revenge on him here, I beseech you. Stain not this house with his
blood. No life has ever yet been taken in it since it was brought
over. And, oh! remember, he came here before and was well received and
hospitably treated--he cannot know that you should also have found
your way here--he may well expect to receive the same treatment, the
same hospitality again."

"It must be as you command in your house," my lord replied, "yet he
shall not escape me, and, when he leaves this place, his punishment
shall be well assured." Then he called softly to Kinchella, and, in a
few hurried words, told him of who was without. But, ere the latter
could express his astonishment--as, indeed, it was astonishing that
these three should now be come together!--we heard O'Rourke's voice
exclaiming:

"Lead me to her at once, I say. There is no moment to be lost. They
may be here at any moment of the night. I have seen them, nay, barely
escaped from them; they are on their way--hundreds of them."

"Great God!" exclaimed Mary, who had now come forth with her lover and
heard his words, "'tis the Indians he speaks of. It can be no others."

"Indeed it must be," I answered. "Heaven grant that the village is
well prepared. For ourselves we must take immediate steps. We must
apprise the overseers below and bid them arm the servants and
convicts--they will fight for us against the Indians, hate us though
they may."

"First," said my lord, who was very cool, "let us hear the ruffian
himself, the gallant 'captain.' But, since our presence might somewhat
disturb his narrative, let him not see us yet, Kinchella," and as he
spake he drew his friend back behind the shutters of the windows while
we two went into the saloon.

And now the adventurer came into the apartment once again, though not
as he had come before, his manner being very flustered and uneasy, his
face covered with perspiration from hard riding on a summer night, and
with his wig gone. While, without stopping for any salutation he, on
seeing me, began at once:

"Madam, I have ridden hot haste to apprise you of a terrible fact
which has come to my knowledge, and to offer you, if you will have
them, my services. The Indians are out, madam; they are coming this
way; I have seen them. Heavens and earth! 'twas an awful sight to
observe the painted devils creeping through the woods, ay! and a thing
to freeze one's blood, even on such a night as this, to hear them yell
as they saw me. But, fortunately, they are not mounted, and thus I
out-distanced their arrows and musket balls which they sent after me.
And therefore am I here to warn you, and, since I know you have no men
about but your bond-servants and negroes, to help you if I may."

"You mistake, sir," said his lordship, quietly, coming forward into
the room with his drawn sword glistening in his hand, while behind him
stepped Mr. Kinchella. "You mistake, sir. There are others besides
yourself."

If a spectre had arisen before O'Rourke I know not if it could have
produced a more terrifying effect on him. For a moment he gazed at his
lordship, his lips parted and one hand raised to shield his eyes, as
though that way they might see clearer, while on his face there came
fresh drops of perspiration. And then he muttered hoarsely:

"Gerald St. Amande! Gerald here! Here! Here in Virginia!"

"Ay," said my lord, confronting him and with the point of his sword
lowered to the ground. "Ay! Gerald St. Amande, none other. You
execrable villain, we stand face to face at last as man to man, not
man to boy as it once was. And what villainy are you upon now in this
land? Answer me ere I slay you, as I intend to do ere long."

For reply the other said:

"'Tis so. We stand face to face at last. And the hour is yours. Your
sword is drawn, mine is in its sheath, my pistols are unloaded since I
fired them at the savages who pursued me. So be it. As well die by the
hand of him I injured as by the torture or the weapons of those
howling wolves who are on their way here----"

He paused a moment and then, loosening the cross-belt or scarf in
which were two great pistols, he flung it and them at his lordship's
feet, while at the same time he opened his waistcoat and tore aside
his muslin ruffles.

"Now, Gerald St. Amande," he said, "as we stand face to face--'tis
your own word--do your worst. If I have been a villain I am at least
no coward. Do your worst."

'Twas indeed a strange scene--a fitting prelude to others still more
strange that were to follow. This man, this robber--who when he first
came among us we had deemed a courtly gentleman--stood there, tall and
erect, with no muscle quivering, nay, almost with a look of scorn upon
his face. In front of him, his sword still lowered, stood the other
whom he invited to be his executioner, his eyes no longer flashing
fire but dwelling upon his old enemy as though in wonder. Behind were
Mary and myself trembling with apprehension and Mr. Kinchella
whispering to his friend, "Gerald, forbear, forbear. Remember,
vengeance is to the Lord. He will repay."

Though I felt no fear--since he had given me his promise--that his
lordship would do justice upon O'Rourke now, I also took heart to
whisper to him, "Is he beyond forgiveness, or at least so bad that he
may not go in peace?"

But then Lord St. Amande spoke, saying: "That I should slay you now is
impossible. In this house your life is sacred--at her prayer," and he
pointed to me. "And, Since you are so bold a man, why such a villain?
O'Rourke, seeing you as you are to-night I do believe you might have
been worthy of better things. What had I, a helpless child, ever done
to you that you should have sought my death as you did?"

"You had done nothing," the other replied, still standing in the same
position as when he last spoke, "but your father was always my enemy,
while your uncle was my friend. And I wanted money--when was there
ever the time I did not want it until now, when I have taken honest
service under Mr. Oglethorpe!--money for my sick daughter who is now
dead so that I care not if I die too. Your uncle gave it to me largely
to remove you."

"You swear that? If we should both live to reach England again would
you swear that?"

"Both of us will never reach England again. I have said farewell to
that country and to the old world for ever. Yet--yet--if it might be
so done that I could keep my credit in Georgia and with my employers,
if I might end my days there under the garb of an honest man, I could
tell much that would help you to your rights."

"In return for your life being spared?" his lordship asked.

"No. I have not asked you to spare my life. Not in return for that,
but as some mitigation of my past. But, come, we trifle time," and he
picked up his cross-belt, and, adjusting it, drew forth his pistols
and primed and loaded them. "You have had your opportunity of slaying
me--that opportunity is past. Henceforth, except for the wrong I did
you, we are equal. Now, madam," he said, turning to me, "I am at your
disposal and ready to help you defend your house should it be
surrounded. You received me as a gentleman when I first came to
you";--he put a bitter emphasis on the word "gentleman";--"as a
gentleman I will do my best to repay your courtesy."

"If you are a villain you are a bold one," said Lord St. Amande. "Ill
luck take you for not being a better man."

"It would be best," said O'Rourke to me, ignoring his lordship, "to go
call up the convicts, I think. There is one down there who, if he has
not forgotten me--the man Peter Buck of whom you spoke once--will
stand side by side with me whatever may happen. I knew him well in the
past. And then, madam, the windows should be shuttered----"

"By your leave, sir," Lord St. Amande exclaimed now, "I purpose to
undertake the defence of this house for----"

But, ere he could finish his speech, from Mary there came the most
agonising scream while, with her eyes almost starting from her head
she shrunk back to Mr. Kinchella, and, pointing with her hand to the
lower part of the window, she shrieked, "Look! Look!"

And following the direction she indicated we saw the cause of her
horror. For there, its almond-shaped eyelids half closed, though still
enough open to show the glittering eyes within, its face hideously
painted with white and red streaks, and its hair twisted into a knot
on the top of its head, we saw the form of a savage crouched down on
the porch and peering into the saloon.

In a moment O'Rourke had seen it, too, as she screamed and pointed,
for, an instant later, there rang through the room the report of one
of the pistols he had loaded, and, when the smoke cleared away, we saw
the savage writhing on the porch while from his head gushed a great
stream of blood.

"A fair hit," called out O'Rourke. "A fair hit. Od's bobs, my right
hand has not forgot its cunning after all."




CHAPTER XVIII

BESIEGED


Three hours later our house, barricaded in every way possible, was in
a state of siege and around it lay a band of Shawnee and Doeg Indians,
some hundreds strong.

Nay, more, we knew from various signs that the whole village, or
hamlet, of Pomfret was in the same condition, and that, indeed, the
surrounding locality was attacked by the savages. From the church
below our plantations there came at intervals of a few moments a
flash, succeeded by a dull booming, which told us that the cannon that
had stood on its tower for many years was being fired, and thereby put
at last to the use for which it had been originally placed there. The
ping of bullets from flint-locks, and muskets, and fuzees, as well as
the more dead, hard sounds of musquetoons, were continuous also; the
yells of the Indians rose sometimes high above the cheers of the white
folks, and, to add to all, from every manor around was heard the
ringing of the great bells in their cupolas, while the burning of
beacons was to be seen. In our house we had taken every precaution
that time would allow us, and, to all the ideas which our ancestors in
the colonies had conceived for defending their homes and families
against attack, we had added some more modern ones. Thus the ancient
device of laying down on the lawns and paddock--across which the
Indians must pass when they left the plantations and copses in which,
at present, they remained--old doors with long nails thrust through
them was carried out, in the hopes of maiming some of our aggressors.
Broken glass was also plentifully strewn about, while, indoors, water
was being boiled and kept to boiling heat, so as to be ready to empty
on them if they approached us. Then, too, we had rapidly erected
stockades and palisadoes which must check any onward rush; the
mastiffs which had replaced those poor beasts that had been poisoned
were brought up to the house by the bondsmen, whose duty it was to
attend to them. The convicts and bondsmen themselves were now all
aroused, and every door, shutter, and window was fast closed, so that
the heat inside on this July night was scarcely to be endured.

It was inside the house that the greatest resistance--which, if it
came to that, must be the last--would have to be made; and the saloon,
as being the biggest apartment in the manor, as well as because it had
windows looking on to both the back and the front of the house, was
selected as our principal point of defence; and here we four--Lord St.
Amande, Mr. Kinchella, Mary and myself--were assembled. Upstairs, in
every room, were told off certain of the white servants, most of the
blacks having hidden in the cellars where they shrieked and howled
dreadfully; so that, if the enemy did force an entrance, they must
undoubtedly soon be discovered; while the rest had run away. Of these
white servants, Buck, the man who had been a highwayman, had command,
with, under him, Lamb, the brother of my maid. And certainly, judging
from the sounds we heard above, these men seemed to have thrown
themselves into work of this nature with far more ardour than they
ever did into their duties in the fields, for we could hear them
laughing and talking, and even singing at such a dreadful time as
this. "Ha, ha," we heard Buck roar.

"Ha, ha! This is indeed work fit for a gentleman to do; as good, i'
faith, as a canter across Bagshot or Hounslow Heath, with the coach
coming up well laden. Look now, look, Lamb, lad; look. Do'st see that
red devil crawling up from out the plantation; at him, aim low and
steady. So-so, wait till he cometh into the moonlight. Ha! now,
steady, let go." Then there was a ping heard, a yell from outside, and
next, above that, the voice of Buck again. "Fair! Fairly hit. Look how
he kicks. So did I once shoot one of the Bow Street catchers who
thought to take me at Fulham. Load, lad, load, though the next shot is
mine," whereon the desperado fell to singing:


     Oh, three jolly rogues, three jolly rogues,
         Three jolly rogues are we
     As ever did swing in a hempen string
         Under the gallow's tree.


In the saloon where we were, we had laid out upon a table the arms and
ammunition we were using, or might have to use. My lord had no pistol
with him since he carried always his sword, but Mr. Kinchella
possessed one as, since the practice of carrying arm's had long since
become universal in the colonies, not even clergymen went now without
them--the Indians being no respecters of persons. Then there were my
pistol and Mary's, which Gregory and my father had taught us to use
and grow accustomed to, so that we could shoot a pear hanging on a
tree--though now our tremblings and excitement were so great that
'twas doubtful if we could hit a man's body; and, for the rest, we had
gathered together all the firearms in the house. To wit, there were my
father's birding pieces as well as muskets for large balls, several
blunderbusses and musquetoons, and some brass horse-pistols. Yet, as
we asked each other, of what avail would these or, indeed, any defence
be which we could make if once the Indians advanced to our doors in
large numbers.

Outside--the place he had selected, leaving Lord St. Amande and Mr.
Kinchella to be our immediate bodyguard--was O'Rourke in command of
the overseers (who supposed him to be either a friend of the family or
of one of the two gentlemen) and of some of the other bondsmen, and he
was indefatigable in his exertions. He and they kept up a continual
fire on the foe from their positions behind trees or under the porch,
or from the stables in the rear, while, horrible to relate, as each
shot was seen to be successful it was greeted by oaths of delight and
dreadful cries; and, besides their shooting, they had also laid mines
of gunpowder which would be exploded when the Indians advanced.
Indeed, as Lord St. Amande remarked as he noticed this through the
light-holes of the shutters, or went out himself to assist the others
from time to time, whatever O'Rourke's past villainies had been he was
this night going far towards effacing them.

"The fellow," he said, coming back to us after one of these visits
outside, when I nearly fainted at seeing blood trickling down his
forehead--he having been grazed by a bullet--"the fellow spoke truly
when he said he was no coward at least. He exposes his burly body
everywhere fearlessly, though these savages have learned to use their
weapons with marvellous precision and scarcely miss a shot. But just
now he caught one of them creeping through the grass to get nearer us,
and, wrenching his tomahawk from him, beat out his brains."

Meanwhile the night grew late, and I, who had heard so many stories of
how the Indians pursued their attack, though, heaven be praised, this
was the first experience I had ever had of so dreadful a thing, knew
very well that, if they meant to besiege the house itself, the time
must now be drawing nigh. At this period of the year it was full
daylight by four o'clock, when, if they were not first driven off and
routed, the Indians would withdraw into the woods, and there
sheltering themselves renew their attack at nightfall. But as to
driving them off, it was, we deemed, not to be hope for. Outside
assistance we could not expect. The booming of the church-roof cannon
that still went on, the ringing of bells from neighbouring plantations
with--worst of all! the lurid light in the sky that told of some other
manor, or perhaps village, in flames, forbade us to think that. So we
had none to depend on but ourselves--a handful of brave men and a
number of almost useless, timorous women. And thus, knowing what must
come, we waited for the worst.

"Promise me," I whispered to my lord at this moment, "promise me that,
as the first Indian crosses the threshold and if all hope is gone, you
will never leave me, or that, if you must do so, you will slay me
first. To fall into their hands would be more bitter than death or the
grave itself." And unwittingly, for I was sore distraught, I laid my
hand upon his arm and gazed up into his eyes.

His eyes, glancing down, met mine as he said, "Joice, my dear, I shall
never leave you now. Oh! sweetheart, in this hour of peril I may tell
you what I might never have told you else, being smirched and
blemished from my birth as I am. My dear, my sweet, I do love you so
that never will I leave you if it rests with me, and if you die then
will I die too."

After which, drawing me to him, he folded me in his arms and kissed me
again and again, and stroked my hair and whispered, "My pretty Joice,
I have loved you always; aye, from the very first time when I saw your
golden head bending over your flowers in the garden."

Thus in this black hour our love was told, and he whom I have called
"my lord" was so in very truth. Yet how dreadful was it to reflect,
how dreadful now to look back upon even after long years, that this
love, which surely should have been whispered in some soft tranquil
hour, was told amid such surroundings. Outside was a host of savages
thirsting for our blood, and, in the case of the women, worse than
their blood; while our defenders, with but two exceptions, were all
men who had been malefactors punished by their country's laws. Yet it
cannot but be acknowledged that these men, sinners as they had been,
were as brave as lions in our cause, and, had they been the greatest
Christian heroes that ever lived, could not have striven more manfully
against great odds. From Peter Buck upstairs still came the roars of
encouragement to those whom he commanded, mixed with his ribald and
profane snatches of verse, while, without, O'Rourke's voice was heard
also encouraging and animating those who fought by his side. As for my
lover, not even our new pledged vows could keep him by me; ever and
again he plunged forth into the night, coming back sometimes with his
sword dripping with blood, sometimes with a smoking pistol with which
he had gone forth in his hand, and once bearing in his hand--oh!
horror of horrors!--an Indian's head-band made of human fingers and
toes, which he had wrenched away from a savage he had slain. As for
Mr. Kinchella, never have I seen mortal man look more calm or more
firm than he, as, sometimes supporting Mary with loving words,
sometimes with kisses, he bade her trust in God that all might yet be
well.

So we waited for the end that was to come.

"Bravo! bravo!" roared Buck from upstairs, evidently in praise of some
shot that had just been fired. "Bravo, our battalion! Faith! if our
lily mistress gives us not our freedom after this she's not the lass I
take her for. Stop those women squealing in there," he continued,
calling into another room where some of the white servant-women were
huddled together; "one would think the devil or the Indians were
amongst them already, or that the former had got them before their
time. And Lamb, my lad, go down and ask the gentlefolks for some drink
for us; 'tis as hot as Tyburn on a bright summer morning, and my
thirst as great as that of any gallant gentleman riding there in the
cart."

Lamb came down a moment afterwards, a smart, bright-looking young
man--though now begrimed with much burnt powder--and was sent back
with a great jar of rum and water, while, ere he went, I whispered to
him:

"Tell Buck that I have heard his words about your freedom, and that
'tis granted. From to-night all who have defended my house are free,
and shall have their note of discharge and can remain and work for me
for a wage, or go where they list."

"Thank you, lady," said the young man. "I'll tell him," with which he
darted out and up the stairs with the drink, and a moment afterwards
we heard Buck crying for a cheer for Mistress Joice.

But now I heard my lord's voice call out, "Stand by to fire the train.
Wait; don't hurry. Stop until they pass the palisadoes. See, now.
Now!"

Then, as there came a fearful glare from outside, accompanied by a
dull concussion or noise like the roaring of flames up a great
chimney, and by horrid screams of agony, we knew that the powder on
the lawn was fired and that many of the foe had been blown to pieces
or dreadfully injured.

Yet, above all this, there pealed loud the horrid yell of all the
Shawnee warriors and their allies, the Doegs--and the yell was nearer
now than it had hitherto been. 'Twas answered, however, by a ringing
British cheer from those outside and those in the rooms above, while
still Buck was heard inspiring the latter to take cool aim and shoot
slow.

But to defend the house from the outside was now no longer possible;
our gallant little band was driven back, and so my lord, O'Rourke, and
the overseers came all in, and rapidly the last door that had been
left open was barred tight, every shutter closed even more fast than
before, every loophole secured except those from which we could shoot
at the oncoming enemy. And against windows and doors the heavy
furniture was piled, both with a view to resist their being forced
open and to stop any bullets that might come through, while the order
was sent upstairs to have the boiling water ready to empty on the
heads of the besiegers as they neared the house.

To Mary and me, who had never seen aught of bloodshed before, and
whose lives had been so peaceful and calm in this my old home, you may
feel sure that the dreadful scenes we were passing through were most
terrifying and appalling. For, not to calculate the ruin to my house
and its surroundings, to my trodden-down plantations and devastated
furniture, who could tell what would be the result of the night's
work? That the manor would be burnt to the ground was the least to be
expected, and what might follow was too awful to consider. That all
the men in the house would be put to death, or taken away to be
tortured, was a certainty, we thought, once the Indians had gained the
victory and forced an entrance. As to the women's fate, that was not
to be dwelt upon. Happily, we had our lovers to slay us at the last
moment, or, even should they themselves be slain, and so fail us,
there were the weapons to our hands with which to bring about our
doom, if necessary.

O'Rourke was wounded badly already, his arm being now roughly
bandaged. Yet, beyond begging for some drink, he desisted not in his
efforts but instantly took up his place in the hall, on which an
attack might at once be anticipated and from which he could easily
reach us should he be required in the saloon. And with him went the
overseers. From above, we knew that Buck and his party were still
firing on the advancing foe--who were now on the lawn and close on the
porch--and once he called out to us that the "niggers" were bringing
up small trees and brushwood, evidently with the intention of firing
the house. But that which warned us more surely than all that our
bitterest hour was at hand, was the sound we heard at the shutters of
the saloon window.

That sound was the sharp clicking noise made by the tomahawks of the
Indians on the wood of those shutters and on the iron bars.

They were cutting away the last defence between us and them!

My lord advanced to the table on which were all the pistols primed
and loaded--for Mary and I had attended to each one as it had been
emptied--and bade Kinchella stand behind him. Then he drew me to him,
and folded me once more in his arms and kissed me, saying:

"My dearest one, my heart's only love, here we stand together for,
perhaps, the last time. If I can shield you with my life I will, if I
should lose that life I pray God to bless you ever. Now, Kinchella,"
turning to him, "stand you also by my side as you once stood by it
when I wanted a friend badly enough, God He knows; and, as you
befriended me in those days, so will I befriend you now if 'tis in my
power. Kiss your girl, Kinchella, as I have kissed mine, and then
forget for the time being that you are a clergyman and remember
nothing but that you are a man fighting for her you love."

And, even as he spoke, still louder grew the clicking of the tomahawks
outside.




CHAPTER XIX

AT BAY


My lord's pistol was raised, ready. The first hand or arm that
appeared through the shutters would be shattered as it came. Yet, even
as he stood there waiting to see the woodwork forced in, he altered
his tactics somewhat. The table was too full in front of the windows,
too much exposed to any missile that might be directed into the room.
It would be better, he said, at the side.

"And, Kinchella," he exclaimed as thus they altered it, "keep you on
one side the window while I take the other. With a pistol in each hand
you can shoot them one by one, while I, on this, can do the same; or,
better still, we can fire alternately. Unless they can force in the
whole front and enter in a mass, we should be able to hold the place
for hours."

Even as he spoke, we heard the cracking and splintering of wood, we
saw a strip of the massive pine-wood shutters forced in and a huge red
hand and tattooed arm protruded through the opening, while the former,
seizing the shutter, tore at it to wrench it apart.

"Hist!" said my lover, making a sign to the other to do nothing, "the
first blood is mine," and, grasping his sword, he swung it over his
head and, a moment later, the hand and forearm were lying at our feet.
But no shriek from outside the window was heard, only, in the place of
the bleeding stump that had been there, there came four large fingers
of another hand that endeavoured to wrench away the wood as the other
had done; fingers that met the same fate. Then for a moment there was
silence outside--silence that was broken by renewed hammering from the
tomahawks on all parts of the shutters.

But now there came a fearful howl from beyond the porch which was only
explained to us by hearing the cry of Buck upstairs. "Good! Good! Give
'em another bath. 'Twill do 'em good. Their dirty skins h'aint been
washed for a long while. Bring more hot water along quick, I say."

Unfortunately for us, those who were endeavouring to force their entry
into the room where we stood, were sheltered from the boiling water by
the roof of the porch (a solid stone one which served also as a
balcony to the rooms above) as also were those attacking the main
front entrance.

At the back of the house, however, on which a party of Indians were
engaged in endeavouring to also force their way in, there was no
porch, nor was there any to the sides of the building; and it was from
these that we had heard the screams as the contents of Buck's great
barrels had reached them.

It took, however, but little time for the water to become exhausted,
and then we knew that the conflict must resolve itself into a
hand-to-hand one. We might keep the savages at bay for some time, it
was true, so long as they could enter the house by one door only, but
how long, we had to ask ourselves, could such as that be the case? In
a short time one of the windows of the saloon must go, or one of the
great doors, of which there were two, or one of the side doors; and
then the Indians would pour through the opening thus made and the
massacre begin. Even with those men under O'Rourke and Buck we were
not twenty-five strong, the cowardly negroes who were left being, as I
have said, all huddled together in the vaults and cellars below, where
they had locked themselves in--so that, since there must be two or
three hundred Indians outside at least, the resistance could not
continue long.

Alas! as it was, our front window giving on to the porch already
showed signs of yielding to the attack from without, though now there
was a fresh barricade offered to the incoming foe by a heap of their
own slain who lay outside and also partly within the room. Already, my
lord had shot several on the outside, taking deadly aim as their
hideous faces appeared at the orifice, but the breach had widened so
that two or three had crawled into the room to be, however, despatched
at once by him or Mr. Kinchella.

And now, since, of all else, this window showed to those outside that
it would yield more easily than any other spot, the attack was
entirely directed towards it; the Indians were thundering against what
remained of the iron-bound shutters with rams made of small trees that
they had uprooted, as well as cutting away the lighter woodwork with
their weapons.

"Another half hour more," said my lord, "will see the end. God He
knows what it will be. Yet, dearest, since it is to come I am happy
that I shall die in your sweet company. But, oh! Joice, Joice, if we
might have lived how happy our future would have been."

"Must we die?" I wailed, woman-like, "must we die? And now when our
love has not been told more than a few hours. Oh! Gerald."

"We can hope," he said, "but that is all. And, sweetheart, best it is
to look things straight in the face." Then, even as he spoke, he fired
again at a horrid savage who had half forced his body through the
aperture--getting larger every moment--and added one more to the list
of slain.

Now all the others were called for to come into the saloon and help in
the resistance there, where the attack was principally directed; which
call they instantly answered abandoning their previous posts. And, bad
man as I at last knew O'Rourke to have been, I could not but respect
him for what he had done on my behalf this night, nor could I but
mourn for his evident sufferings. His bandaged arm, being helpless,
hung by his side, his close cropped iron-grey hair was matted with
blood from a wound in his head, and his face which had once been so
purple was now as white as marble from his loss of blood.

"Oh! sir," I exclaimed, as I tried to still my shaking limbs as best I
might, while I raised my head from Mary's breast on which it had been
lying, she comforting me like an elder sister with soft words, "oh!
sir, my heart bleeds for you. You have been indeed a true hero
to-night in my cause, and I thank you."

"Madam," he said, speaking faintly, "I came here to do my best for you
because--because--well--well, because you and this other lady received
me as a gentleman; treatment that I have not been much accustomed to
since I was a boy; though I was one once. No matter. The end is at
hand, I imagine--ah! well hit, my lord, well hit, but it will avail us
nothing now--I am glad that Patrick O'Rourke is making a good one."

The hit he spoke of was one directed by Gerald at yet another Indian
who had just succeeded in crawling into the room as far as his head
and shoulders; after which Gerald himself came back, and, standing by
the others, said:

"All our partings have to be made now. See how they bulge that shutter
inwards. There will be a score of savages in the room in a moment!
Farewell, Joice, my darling; farewell, Miss Mills. Old friend," and he
put his hand lovingly on Kinchella's shoulder; "farewell. And for you,
O'Rourke," looking round at him, "well, tonight's work--especially
your night's work--wipes all the past out of my mind for ever.
O'Rourke," and he held out his hand, "let us part in peace."

At first O'Rourke made no reply but stood regarding the other as
though dazed, and then raised his hand to his head, so that my lover
exclaimed, "You are badly hurt. Is that wound in your head worse than
it appears?"

"No, no," O'Rourke answered, speaking slowly, though he kept his eye
ever fixed on the window, waiting for the inrush that was now at hand;
"but it seems to me that the end--my end--is near. I have had these
presentiments come over me often of late--it may be to-night, now in a
moment--God He knows! And when Gerald St. Amande holds out his hand in
forgiveness to me, it must be---- Ah, well, at least you shall see I
will die fighting--yes, die fighting"; and, as he spoke, he clasped
Gerald's hand in his and thanked God that he had lived to have it
extended to him. Then, once again, he asked his pardon for all the
evil he had wrought him.

And now there came in Buck and Lamb and the other bondsmen and
convicts--though no longer either bondsmen or convict-servants if they
could live through this dreadful night--for they were useless upstairs
any longer. With them came the mastiffs who had replaced those
poisoned; fierce beasts, who seemed to scent the Indians they were
trained to fight and whose eyes glared savagely at the windows to
which they ran, while they stooped their great heads to the bodies of
the dead ones lying inside the sill and sniffed at their already fast
congealing blood.[2] And the deep bays that they sent up, and which
rang through the beleaguered house, seemed for the moment to have had
its effect outside. For, during that moment, the yells of the foe
ceased and the rushes against the iron-bound shutters ceased also, but
only for a moment.

"What!" exclaimed Buck, catching some of O'Rourke's words, "die
fighting, my noble captain! Ay, so I should say; or rather, fight and
live. What! We have seen fighting in our day before," whereon he
winked at the other, "but never in so good a cause as this for our
gentle mistress. And if we do die fighting," he went on, as coolly as
though death was not within an ace of us all now, "why, dam'me, 'tis
better than the cart and a merry dance in the chains afterwards on a
breezy common. So cheer up, my noble, and let's at 'em. Ha, ha! here
they come!"

As he spoke, with a crash the shutters came in at last and, through
the open space they left in their fall, there swarmed the hideous foe,
while with a scream Mary and I flung ourselves into each other's arms.

Oh! how shall I write down the sight we saw? Naked from their waists
upwards, their bodies painted and tattooed with rings and circles,
bars and hoops; their faces coloured partly vermilion, partly white
and partly black; their long coarse hair streaming behind them, their
hands brandishing tomahawks or grasping guns and pistols, which they
discharged into the room, they rushed in, while when they saw our
white faces their demoniacal howls and yells were awful to hear. Yet,
at first, all was not to succumb to them. Of those who first entered,
four were instantly torn to the ground by the mastiffs who seized each
a savage, and, having pulled them down, pinned them there as they
gored their throats. Also, of those who came on behind these, many
were shot or cut down ere they could leap over their prostrate
comrades' forms. My lord and Mr. Kinchella by a hasty arrangement made
with the others, fired only to the left of the window, Lamb and Buck
taking those who came in on the right side, while O'Rourke, his sword
flashing unceasingly through the smoke and the light of the room,
fought hand to hand with those Indians who passed between the shots of
the others, he being ably backed up by the remainder of the bondsmen
and convicts.

"Steady! steady!" called out my lord. "Easy. Not too fast. Ere long
there will be a barricade of their dead carcasses so that none can
leap over them. Joice, my darling, shelter yourself behind the spinet;
so, 'tis well. Miss Mills, how goes it with you."

"Give it to 'em, noble captain," roared Buck as, firing at a savage
who came near him, he brought him down, exclaiming, "fair between the
eyes. Fair." Then again, "At 'em, captain, at 'em, skin 'em alive;
lord! this beats the best fight we ever had with any of the Bow Street
crew; at 'em, lop 'em down, captain; ah, would you!" to an Indian who
had advanced near enough to aim a blow at him with his tomahawk which
would have brained him had it reached its mark, "would you!" and with
that he felled the other with the butt end of his gun. "Heavens," he
cried, "how I wish one of these redskins was the judge who sentenced
me!"

It had become a mêlée now, in which all were fighting hand to
hand--O'Rourke was down, lying prone, yet still grasping his sword;
Mr. Kinchella standing before me and Mary still kept off those who
endeavoured to seize us; my lord, Buck, and Lamb, side by side, fought
yet unharmed; and of the others some were slain, some wounded, and
some still able to render assistance.

And now, oh! dreadful sight! I saw the blood spurt from my beloved
one's forehead; I saw him reel and stagger, and, with a shriek, I
rushed forth and caught him in my arms as he fell; his blood dyeing my
white satin evening dress and mantua.

Then, mad with grief and frenzy, I cared no longer what the end of
this night's work might be. He whom I loved so fondly lay with his
head upon my breast, while I knew not whether he was yet dead or still
dying. My home was wrecked; all the light of my life was gone out, as
I deemed, for ever. Nothing mattered now--nothing; the sooner the
howling savages around me slew us all the better. So, through my
tears, I looked on at the scene of carnage, praying that some bullet
might crash through my brain or some tomahawk scatter my brains upon
the floor where I sat with him in my arms.

What the end of this night's work might be! Alas, alas! the end was at
hand!

The fighting had ceased at last. On our side there were no longer any
to continue it; on the Indians' side there was nothing to be done but
to bind and secure their prisoners. The ammunition had given out,
after which Buck and Lamb were soon made fast and their hands tied
behind them. Mr. Kinchella and the other men were treated in the same
way and now came our turn; the turn of the two unhappy women who had
fallen into the power of these human fiends. Yet, savages as they
were, they offered us, at present at least, no violence, while one who
had fought in the van ever since they had entered the saloon came
forward and, standing before Mary and me, said in good English (many
of the Shawnees and Doegs having learnt our language when they dwelt
in peace with the colonists, and retained it and taught it to their
descendants): "White women--children of those who drove us forth from
them when we would have remained their friends, children of those who
stole our lands under the guise of what they called fair barter and
traffic--the fortune of the night's fight has gone against you and you
are in our power."

"What do you intend to do with us?" I stammered, looking up at the
great Indian who towered above all others. "I, at least, and those of
my generation have never harmed you, yet now you have attacked my
house like this."

"It is known to us, white woman," answered the chief, as I deemed him
to be, "that you, the English woman ruling here, have harmed none,
therefore you are unharmed now, you and this other. But it is the
order of our great medicine chief, whose works are more wonderful than
the works of any other man who dwells upon the earth, that you be kept
prisoners until he comes; both you and this other with the dark eyes
and skin."

"And who," exclaimed Mary, her eyes flashing angrily at the superbly
handsome chief who stood before her, "who is your great medicine chief
of whom we know nothing, yet who knows us?"

"He knows you as he knows everything that takes place from the rising
of the sun until its setting, and who he is you soon will learn. Even
now he comes from the destruction of other white men's houses like
unto yours, he comes to claim you as his squaws who shall abide with
him for ever."

I shrieked as he spoke, for I knew from tales and narratives told over
many a winter's fire in Virginia what was the fate of those women who
were borne away to be the squaws of these Indian chiefs; but, even as
I did so, we heard shouts without as though those savages who had not
entered the house were hailing some new arrival.

"Hark, hark!" exclaimed the chief. "He comes--he comes to claim you at
last, as he has promised himself for many moons he would claim you.
Hark, it is the great medicine man himself."




CHAPTER XX

THE GREAT MEDICINE CHIEF


"Hark," the Indian said again, "the great medicine chief comes to
claim the white women."

Since they had offered us no violence, nor indeed had they exerted any
towards their other prisoners after the fight was over and they were
bound, Mary and I had scarcely changed our position from the time the
fray ceased. I still sat on the floor with my darling's head upon my
breast, Mary stood by Kinchella, his bound hands clasped in hers, and
sometimes kissing him as, over and over again, I also kissed my lord's
dear lips while attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his head.
The other prisoners all bound together looked forth into the night,
waiting to see what the great personage whose arrival was now welcomed
might be like. On the floor O'Rourke still lay where he had fallen,
and I feared that surely he must be dead. Yet when I thought of him
and how bravely he had fought this night, I could not but hope, even
though plunged in my own misery, that much of his past wickedness
would be forgiven him in consequence of his repentance.

"The great medicine chief, eh?" said Buck to Lamb, not even troubling
to lower his voice for fear it should offend our captor or any other
of the Indians around us who might understand his words--and seeming
as cool and reckless now as though he were one of the victors instead
of the vanquished. "The great medicine chief, eh? I wonder what he's
like, though we shall see soon enough. Some mean mountebank I'll bet a
crown--if ever I get hold of one again--who finds hocus-pocussing
these red devils a good deal easier than fighting alongside of 'em.
Knows everything that happens on earth, does he? Ay! just as much as a
gipsy in a booth can tell when a gentleman of the road is going to be
hanged, or is able to prophecy that the mother of a dozen shall never
have a child. How they howl for him, though, rot 'em, if they had any
sense they'd see he had enough of his own to keep out of the way while
the bustle was going on."

"He comes. He comes," again exclaimed the chief, and, even in my
trouble, I could not but marvel much at seeing so powerful looking a
warrior prostrate himself with such great humility upon the floor,
while all the other Indians did the same.

For now, escorted by several savages who marched in front of him, and
a like number behind him, this person strode into the room and stood
before us. His face was not visible, excepting only the eyes which
twinkled behind the light silken cloth he wore around it, but his form
presented the appearance of litheness and activity, and gave the idea
that, however wonderful his arts might be, he had at least acquired
them young, since he was undoubtedly not even yet arrived at middle
age. He was clad in a tight-fitting tunic of tanned deer skin, over
which fell the long Indian blanket with devices worked on it of skulls
and snakes as well as of a flaming sun and many stars, and his
leggings and moccasins were stained red. His head-dress was the
ordinary Indian cap, or coronet, into which was thrust a number of
eagles' feathers, while on his breast he bore, hanging on to a chain
of shells, a human hand dried and mummified so that the tips of the
finger-bones could be seen protruding through the shrivelled flesh,
and, equally dreadful sight, some _ears_ strung together!

Those twinkling eyes wandered round the wrecked saloon, taking in at
one glance, as it seemed to me, the dead forms of Indians and white
men, the broken furniture and the prostrate figures of the other
Indians who knelt before him; and then they fixed themselves on Mary
and me, while from behind the silken mask--for such indeed it
was--there came a cruel, gurgling laugh. And I, driven to desperation
by that sound, which augured even worse for me than what I had yet
endured, softly placed my dear one's head upon the floor and, leaving
him there, cast myself before the medicine chief and, at his knees and
with my hands uplifted, besought his mercy.

"Oh!" I cried between my sobs, "if you can speak my tongue, as so many
of your race are able to do, hear my prayer, I beseech you; the prayer
of a broken-hearted, ruined woman who has never injured you or yours
till driven to it in self-defence; a woman at whose people's hearths
you and yours have warmed yourselves and been welcome, at whose table
you and yours were once fed and treated well. Oh! what have I, a
defenceless girl, done that this my home should be sacked by your
warriors, my loved one slain? See, see! he who lies there was to
have been my husband--these brave men around me, living and dead,
would have done nought to you had you left us in peace. What,
what," I continued, "have I done that you come as a conqueror to my
house--what?----"

He raised his hand as thus I knelt before him, and held it up as
though bidding me be silent; then, in a hollow, muffled voice, he
said, speaking low: "You are Joice Bampfyld. That alone is enough,"
and again his cruel laugh grated on my ears.

But at that voice, muffled as it was, I sprang to my feet as did Mary,
while even Buck looked startled and Mr. Kinchella amazed, and Mary
exclaimed passionately:

"_You! You!_ It is you. And she has pleaded on her knees for mercy to
such a thing as you. Oh! the infamy of it, the infamy for such as she
is to plead to such, as you!"

The prostrate Indians raised their heads in astonishment at her words
of scorn--doubtless it was incredible to them that any mortal should
so dare to address their great medicine man and wonder-worker--while
he, with his glittering eyes fixed on his followers, bade them at once
begone and leave him alone with their captives. Alone, he said, so
that he might awe these women into submission. And they, obedient to
him, withdrew at his command, though still with the look of
astonishment on their faces that any should have ventured to so speak
to him and still live.

"Yes," he said when they had retired; and, unwrapping the silken folds
from his face so that in a moment, all painted and tattooed though he
was, that most unutterable villain, Roderick St. Amande, stood
revealed before us, "yes, it is I. Returned at last to Pomfret Manor
to repay in full all the treatment I received, and to give to all and
every one in the village of Pomfret a just requital of their kindness
in driving me forth, wounded and bleeding, to the savages who proved
more kind than they. God! if I had had my will the whole place should
have been put to slaughter long ago, and there should have been no
reprieve lasting for five years."

I have said that the Indians who had captured us had left Mary and me
free and untouched, so that, with the exception that there was no
chance of escape, we were under no restraint. And now that freedom was
seized upon by Mary, who, becoming wrought upon by the fiendish
cruelty of this creature's words, seized up a pistol lying on the
spinet by her side and snapped it at him--but vainly, as, since its
last discharge, it had not been reloaded.

"You dog," she said as she did so, "you base dog. It can be but a
righteous act to slay such as you." But, when she found that the
weapon was harmless, she flung it to the floor with violence while she
exclaimed that even heaven seemed against us now.

But to this Mr. Kinchella raised a protest, telling her that even in
the troubles which now surrounded us it was impossible for any
Christian to believe such a thing, and pointing out to her--with what
I have ever since thought was unconscious scorn--that, since heaven
had not seen fit even to desert one so evil as the creature before us,
it would be impossible for it to do so to those who, righteously and
God-fearingly, worshipped it and its ruler.

"I know not," said Roderick St. Amande, "who this fellow is, though by
his garb he is a minister; but amongst the tribe to which I now belong
the Christian minister, as he is termed, is ever regarded as the worst
of white men, and as the one, above all, who makes the best bargain
for robbing the native. The one who teaches him to drink deeper than
any other white man teaches him, and who has less respect for their
squaws' fidelity and their daughters' honour.[3] So, good sir, when we
have safely conveyed you to our home in the mountains, I will promise
you that you will have full need of the intercession of that heaven of
which you speak ere you can escape torture and death."

"I shall doubtless have strength granted to endure both," the other
replied calmly. "And I will, at least, undertake one thing, which is
that no cowardice shall prompt me to embrace the life of a savage and
a heathen to save my skin."

The villain scowled at him as he spoke these bitter words, but
answered him no more; then, glancing down at some of the prostrate
bodies lying at his feet, he exclaimed, "I trust all these carrion are
still alive. They will be wanted for the rejoicings. Let's see for
myself," while, kicking O'Rourke's body with his foot, he turned it
over until it was face upwards. Then, for a moment, even he seemed
appalled, recoiling from it--yet an instant afterwards bending down to
gaze into the features of the unhappy adventurer.

"What!" he exclaimed, "what, O'Rourke here? O'Rourke, the clumsy fool
who, when he should have shipped off my beggarly cousin shipped me in
his place? O'Rourke. O'Rourke! Oh! if he but lives, how I will repay
him for his folly. What a dainty dish he shall make for the torturers!
How his fat body shall feed the flames! For, even though his mistake
has made me a greater man than ever I could have been at home--ay, one
before whom these credulous red fools bow as to a god--there is much
suffering to be atoned for; the awful suffering of the passage in the
_Dove_; your father's insults, my dearest Joice, and his blows; and
also much else. But for that latter, you, my dear one, will repay me
when you are mine and mine alone, with no rival in my heart but our
haughty Mary, who shall be my dark love as you shall be my fair one."

As the wretch spoke, however, there were two things happened that he
saw not, in spite of the all-seeing eyes with which he was credited by
the tribe he dwelt with. He did not see that, as he turned to insult
Mary and me, O'Rourke first opened his own eyes and gazed on him and
then raised his head to stare at him; he did not see that, from where
the window had been, the Indian chief heard all he said, and stared in
amazement and looked strangely at him as he spoke of the "credulous
red fools."

But Mary and Mr. Kinchella and I saw it all, as well as did Buck and
Lamb. Nay, we saw more; we saw the Indian's hand feel for the hilt of
his dagger and half draw it from his wampum belt, and then return it
to its place while he smoothed his features to the usual impenetrable
Indian calm.

"And," went on Roderick St. Amande, as he drew near to my beloved
one, who still lay as I had placed him, "who is this spruce and
well-dressed gentleman who was to have been the husband of my Joice.
Some Virginian dandy, I presume, who, not good enough for England, is
yet a provincial magnate here. Ay, it must be so"--stooping down to
gaze into my lord's face--"it must be so, for I have seen those very
features when in a more boyish form. Possibly he is one of the young
Pringles, or Byrds, or Clibornes, whom I knew five years ago. Is't not
so, Joice, my beloved Joice, my future queen of squaws?"

That he should not recognise Gerald for his own cousin, for the man
who held the rank he had once falsely said would some day be his, was
the first moment of happiness I had known through this dreadful night,
since the fact of his not so recognising him might, I thought, save my
lover from instant death, if he were not dead already. For, if that
villain could but guess who he really was, I did not doubt but that he
would sheath his knife in the other's heart, all helpless as he lay.
This being so, I answered:

"He is a gentleman and, I fear, is dead. Is that not enough for you?"

"Nay, too much. I would not have one Virginian dead; yet, I would not
have one die so easily as he is dying now, for he is not at present
dead. No, no; the dead are no good to us when we return from a
successful attack such as this of Pomfret; it is the living we want;
the quick not the dead. For see, my Joice, and you, too, my black but
bonny Mary, the dead cannot feel! Their nerves and sinews have no
longer the power of suffering, their flesh is cold, their tongues
paralysed, so that they can neither shriek with pain nor cry for
mercy--but, with the living, how different it is! They can feel all
that is done upon them, they can feel limbs twisted off, and burnings,
and loppings off of--of--of, why, say of ears," and here he grinned so
demoniacally while he fingered the clusters of human ears that hung on
his own breast, that all of white blood in the room shuddered but
himself. "Yes, all these things they can feel. And, my sweethearts,"
he went on, gloatingly over our horror and his own foul and devilish
picturings, "shall I tell you what the Indian tortures are, what you
will see--when you sit by my side, my best beloved of wives--done upon
these men here. On him," pointing to Mr. Kinchella, "and him," with
his finger directed to my lord, "and this old blunderer," indicating
O'Rourke, "and these scum and rakings of the London gutters?" sweeping
his arm round so as to denominate all the convicts and bondsmen who
had fought so well for us this night, though without avail. "Shall I
tell you that? 'Twill be pretty hearing."

For myself I could but sob and moan and say, "No, no. Tell us no more!
Spare them, oh, spare them!" But Mary, whose spirit was of so much
firmer mould than mine, and who was no more cowed by him than was Buck
himself--who, indeed, had interrupted his remarks with many
contemptuous and disdainful snorts and "pishes" and "pahs" and with,
once, a scornful laugh--answered him in very different fashion.

"Tell us nothing, you murderous, cowardly wolf," she said, while she
extended her hand defiantly at him as though she forbade him to dare
to speak again, "tell us nothing, since we should not believe you. We
know--God help us! we all in Virginia know--that the Indian exacts a
fearful reckoning from all who have once wronged him, but we know,
too, that that exactment is made upon the actual persons who have done
the wrong, and not on those who have never raised hand against him, as
none in this house to-night have done except in their own defence. As
for you, you cowardly, crawling dog, who think you can egg on the
Indians to gratify your petty spite and cruelty, what, what, think
you, will they do for the gratification of your thirst for innocent
blood when I, tell them who and what their great wonderworking,
miracle-making medicine chief is?" and I saw her dark eyes steal into
the obscurity of the ruined window frame to observe if the chief out
there heard her words. But he only drew a little more in the shadow as
she did so.

"Silence, woman," said Roderick St. Amande, advancing threateningly
towards her. "Silence, I say, or it shall be the worse for you."

"Silence," she repeated, "silence! And why? So as to shield you from
their wrath if they should know who you are? Silence! Nay, I tell you
Roderick St. Amande, that when you have taken us away to wherever you
herd now, I will speak out loudly and tell them all. All, all,
as to what their great medicine man--their great _impostor_ is. A
wonder-worker, a magician!" And she laughed long and bitterly as she
spoke, so that his face became so distorted with anger that I feared
he would rush at her and slay her. Yet, as she did so, and still spake
further, I saw the Indian chief's eyes steal round the corner while he
listened to her every word. "A wonder-worker! a magician!" she went
on. "Ay! a pretty one forsooth. A magician who could not save his ear
from a righteous vengeance; a bond-slave to an English colonist; a
poor, pitiful drunkard! What a thing for a red man who cannot live in
slavery, and who hates in his heart the fire-water he has learnt to
drink, to worship! A magician who knows all. Ha! ha! A wonder-worker!
who stole from out his owner's bookshelves a 'British Merlin' and a
calendar because, perhaps, he knew the credulous creatures with whom
he would ere long dwell."

"Ay," exclaimed Buck, "and a book of how to do tricks with cards from
me, with many recipes for palming and counterfeiting. A magician, ha!
ha! ha!"

And of all that was said the Indian chief had heard every word.




CHAPTER XXI

IN CAPTIVITY


Although the villain knew not that the chief--whose name I learnt
hereafter was Anuza, signifying in the Shawnee and Doeg tongue, the
Bear--had heard all, his rage was terrible. He gesticulated so before
Mary that again I feared for her, he struck at Buck, calling him thief
and other opprobrious names, and he kicked at O'Rourke's body as
though he would kick in his ribs. Then, swearing and vowing that if
Mary spoke before his followers--for so he called them--as she had
spoken now he would, instead of taking her for one of his squaws, have
her tongue cut out of her mouth so that she should never speak again,
he called for the Indians to enter from without. And they, coming in a
moment or so afterwards, showed no signs upon their impassive faces of
having overheard, or understood, one word that had been uttered.

The dawn had come now, and the light as it crept in to my ruined
saloon served but to increase my sense of the horrors of the night. At
the side of the window to which they had been pushed by Anuza and the
others, so as to allow for easy ingress and exit, lay huddled together
numberless dead Indians, two or three of my poor servants, and the
bodies of the mastiffs, all of which had been slain after a fierce
resistance. The carpets and rugs for which my father had sent to
London were torn and slit and drenched with blood, the spinet and the
harpsichord were both ruined, ornaments were broken, and the pictures
splashed with blood. Oh, what a scene of horror for the sun to rise
upon!

"Let all the prisoners who are alive be taken to the woods at once,"
exclaimed Roderick to Anuza; "to-night we start back to the mountains.
Our work is done. Pomfret is destroyed, or destroyed so much that
years shall not see it again as it was."

Once more, as at his coming, Anuza and his followers prostrated
themselves low before him, whereby I feared that, after all Mary's
denunciations, they still might not have understood how vile a
creature was this whom they worshipped--and then, addressing us, the
impostor said:

"My loves that shall be--my sweet ones of the Wigwam, I leave you now
while I go to seek others to accompany you to our homes. For your
friends shall be with you, I promise you. You shall, I hope, see
cousin Gregory from whom I was once threatened a beating, and Roger
Cliborne, who was to have been married a week hence. Ha! ha! And
Bertram Pringle; he, too, shall ride with us and we will see if his
courage is as great as that of his vaunted fighting cocks. All, all,
my fair Joice and you, my Mary, shall you see, and"--coming close to
us, while he hissed out the words with incredible fury--"you shall see
them all die a hideous, lingering death by tortures such as even no
saint in the calendar ever devised for his enemies. Farewell until
tonight." After which, calling to his guards, he strode forth into the
morning air accompanied by them.

For a moment Anuza the Bear stood where the window once had been while
gazing after him, his huge form filling up half the vacant space as he
did so. Then slowly, and with that stately grace which the Indian
never lacks, he returned to where we were--I being again crouched on
the floor with my beloved one's head in my arms--and standing before
Mary, he said:

"White woman, were the words that fell from your lips to him the words
of truth? Is he all that you have said?"

"He is all that I have said," she answered, "ay, and a thousand times
worse. Why do you ask?"

Yet she told me afterwards that she already guessed the reason of his
question.

He made no reply but still stood gazing down at her from his great
height, while she returned his glance fearlessly; then he turned to
one of his warriors behind him and spoke to him in their own tongue,
whereon the man vanished and came back a moment afterwards bearing in
his hand one of my great bowls full of water.

"Drink," he said to her, "and refresh yourself." When she had done so
he passed the bowl to me, bidding me drink also. Likewise he let me
bathe my darling's lips with the cool water and lave his temples, and
he permitted Mr. Kinchella to drink; while, on Buck and Lamb making
signs that they too were thirsty, water was fetched for them by
another savage.

Next, he sat himself down upon a couch that stood against the wall
opposite to us and, with his chin in his hand, sat meditating long,
while we could form no guess as to what shape those meditations were
taking. Then once more, when our suspense was intense, he spake again,
addressing me this time:

"White maiden, you who rule as mistress of this abode, you and she
spoke to him as one whom you had known before. Answer me, and answer
truly, what know you of him? And has this, your sister," for so he
seemed to deem Mary, "also spoken truly?"

"Alas! alas!" I replied, "only too truly. He came to my father's house
a slave bought with his money," here the Bear started and clenched his
great hands; "yet was he not made a slave because of our pity for him.
He ate my father's bread and, in return, he sought the dishonour of
his daughter." Then, being sadly wrought upon by all the misery that
had come upon us, I threw myself upon my knees before him as I had
done to that other, and, lifting up my hands in supplication, I cried
again, "Oh chief of the Shawnee warriors, if in your heart there is
any of that noble spirit with which your race is credited, pity me and
mine; pity us, pity us! Your fathers, as I have said, ate once of our
bread, this house which you have to-night made desolate sheltered them
once. Will you show us no more gratitude than that craven whom you, in
your delusion, worship as a great medicine chief?"

He bade me rise, even assisting me to do so, and motioned to one of
the braves to wheel up another couch on which to seat myself, and all
the time he muttered to himself, "A slave! a slave! a drunkard! a
cheat!" and his eyes glistened fiercely.

But at last he rose to his feet again, and said with the calm that
distinguished all his actions:

"The time has come to set forth to the mountains---"

"No, no!" Mary and I shrieked together, "No! no! Spare us, oh! spare
us. Nay, rather slay us here on the spot than let us fall into his
hands."

"If," he replied, looking down imperturbably upon us, "you have spoken
truth, as from his own manner I deem it to be, no woman will ever fall
into his hands again. If he has deceived us as you have said, no
punishment he promised for the prisoners of Pomfret will equal that
which he himself will endure. I have spoken."

"And our dear ones," I said, "what, what shall become of them? Oh! do
not tear us from those we love," while, even as I spoke, I flung
myself on Gerald's body and kissed his lips and wept over him. "Those
who are alive must journey with us into the forests and towards the
mountains--those who are gone to their fathers we war not with. This
one," he said, stooping over Gerald, "this one, who was you say to
have been your mate, is not dead, but--he will die."

Again I shrieked at his words, though as I did so I saw so strange a
look in the chief's eye that the shriek died upon my lips. It was a
look I could not understand.

"He will die," he went on, "he will die. Yet he was a brave man; of
all white men in this house none last night fought more fiercely. And
this other," turning to the body of O'Rourke, "he too still lives, and
he too will die. Let him lie here."

His glance rested next on Mr. Kinchella, and, in the same soft
impassive voice--the voice in which there was no variance of tone--he
said, "You are unharmed?"

"Yes," the other replied, "I am unharmed."

"And you," exclaimed the Bear, striding to where all the others stood
bound, "you, too, have escaped our weapons; the great War God has
spared you?"

"Ay, noble chief," exclaimed Buck, as though addressing a comrade,
"the great War God, as you call him, generally does spare Peter Buck.
I was born to good luck, and, noble chief, being so spared I'm going
to give you a few revelations about your great medicine man who's just
gone out."

"Silence," exclaimed Anuza, "not now; not now. But come, the day has
arrived. We must go forth." Then turning to me he said, "Take your
last farewell of him you love."

Oh! how I kissed my darling again and again, how I whispered in his
ears my love for him in those sad moments of parting, while Mary knelt
by my side and comforted me and Mr. Kinchella stood by gazing down on
to Gerald's white face. To think that I should have to leave him lying
thus, to think that this was our parting when our love was but so
newly told!

They took us away very gently, it is true, from my old house, now so
wrecked and battered; they let me go back once more to press my lips
to his; they even let Mary and me go to our rooms, escorted by a
guard, to fetch our cloaks and hoods. But, gentle as these savages
were now--far, far more so, indeed, than could ever have been
believed, remembering all the stories of their cruelty that we had
listened to--their firmness and determination never varied and we were
as much prisoners as though we had been shut up in a fortress.

Yet, at that last parting to which I was allowed to run back ere we
left the room, there happened a thing that brought some joy to my poor
bruised heart. For, as once more I stooped over Gerald to take, or
rather give, my last kiss, I heard O'Rourke whisper low--his body
lying close to my lord's: "Fear not to leave him. I was but stunned,
and I doubt if he is much worse. And believe in me. He shall be my
care. As soon as may be, we will follow you. Fear not."

And so I went forth with them, and there was greater peace at my heart
than I had dared to hope would ever come again.

All that day we rode towards the forests that lie at the foot of the
mountains and, there having been enough horses in my stables, as well
as that of O'Rourke, none of us were without one. Ahead of all went
Anuza--the Indians themselves being all mounted on horses they had
obtained from the village--speaking no word to any one, but shrouded
in his impenetrable Indian calm; behind him followed a score or so of
his warriors, then we, the prisoners, came, and then the remainder of
the band. Speech was not forbidden us--indeed, there was no enemy for
our captors to fear if Pomfret was destroyed and all the dwellers
thereabouts either driven forth or massacred--and so we conversed in
whispers with each other and discussed in melancholy the sad fate that
had befallen us all.

"Yet," said Mr. Kinchella who rode by Mary and me, "I cannot fear the
worst. The chief's behaviour is not that of the Indian who is taking
his victims to a dreadful death. The denunciation of that scoundrel by
Mary has caused a terrible revolution in his mind; he seems, indeed,
more like one who is carrying witnesses against another than one who
is leading forth prisoners."

"And, reverend sir," said Buck, who rode close by, "what's more is
that the chief doesn't stomach the business he is about. He knew well
enough that neither his lordship nor the captain was badly wounded,
and he left 'em there to escape as best they might--any way he gave
them a chance."

"Yet he said that he did so," I replied with a sob, "because they
must die."

"Ay, mistress," answered Buck, "so they must. All men must die. But
they're not a-going to die yet, and he knew it. But I'll tell you who
is going to die, and that before long. That's Roderick, the medicine
man. He's marked as much as any man ever was when the dead warrant
came down to Newgate. Ay! and a good deal more, too, for mine came
down once and yet here I am alive and well, while the old judge who
tried and sentenced me has gone long ago, I make no doubt."

"What will they do to him?" Mary asked.

"Do? Do, mistress? Why convict him of being an impostor, and
then--why, then they'll tear him all to pieces. That's what they'll do
with him. And when they've finished with him there won't be as much
left of Roderick as will make a meal for a crow. I've spoken with men
who have been captured by the Indians and lived to escape from them,
and awful tales I've heard of their tortures, but the worst tortures
they ever devised were kept for those whom the Indians have trusted
and been deceived by. And you had only got to look at this chief's
face when you, missy, were denouncing him, to guess what's going to
happen to the other."

As he spoke we did, indeed, remember the look on Anuza's face as he
stood behind the window frame. Also, I remembered the strange glance
he gave me when he said that Gerald and O'Rourke should live though
they must die later. So that it verily seemed as if Buck had rightly
interpreted all that was going on in our captor's mind.

We halted that night on the skirts of a forest with, to the west of
it, a spur of the Alleghany Mountains. The scene itself was
picturesque and beautiful, while, to our minds, it had something of
the awful and sublime in connection with it. For here it was that,
although not more than forty English miles from where I had dwelt all
my life, the limit to what we knew of the mysterious unknown land
lying to the west of us ceased. Into those mountains, indeed, the
rough backwoodsman had penetrated sometimes, bringing back stories of
the bands of savages who dwelt within them; we knew that living with
these bands were white men and women who, as children, had been torn
from their homes and parents in raids and forays, but we knew little
more. And for what lay beyond the mountains still farther to the west
we knew nothing except that, thousands of miles away, there was
another ocean which washed the western shores of the great land in
which we dwelt, and that on the coast of that ocean were Spanish
settlements, even as on our coasts there were English settlements.
But, of all that lay between the two when once the mountains were
passed, no man knew anything.

And now it was that into those mountains we were to be taken, those
mountains to which Roderick St. Amande had fled from my father's
house, and where, to the Indian dwellers within them, he had appeared
as a great magician or sorcerer.

The halt for the night was made, as I have said, on the skirts of the
forest, with cool grass beneath the trees and, above us, those great
trees stretching out their branches so that they were all interlaced
together and formed a canopy which would have kept the rain from us
had it been the wet instead of the exceeding dry season, and with,
sheltering in those branches, innumerable birds twittering and calling
to each other. It was, indeed, a strange scene! Around us in a vast
circle sat the Indians, speaking never at all to each other, but
smoking silently from the pipes they passed from one to the other,
their faces still with the war-paint upon them and their bodies, now
that the night was coming, wrapped in their blankets. Inside that
circle we, the prisoners, were huddled together, Mary being at this
time asleep with her head on her lover's shoulder and I lying with
mine upon her lap, while the men, now no longer my servants, or, at
least, my slaves, talked in whispers to each other.

And near us, in the glade, there stood that which we in our poor
hearts regarded as an omen of better things to come. An object which,
at least, went far to cheer us up and to inspire us with the earnest
hope that, even between us and those in whose hands we were, there
might still be a possibility of peace and of mercy from the victor to
the vanquished. This thing was a rude stone in the form of a monolith,
made smooth on one side and with, upon that smoothness, these words
carved: "It was to this spot, in ye yere 1678, that Henry Johnson was
brought from the mountains by an Indian woman, he being a boy of ten,
and set free to return to Jamestown because, as she said to him, 'she
pitied his poor mother.' 'I cried unto Thee in my trouble and Thou
heard'st my prayer.'"[4]

Seeing this stone before us growing whiter in the dusk as the night
came on, we, too, in our hearts cried unto the Lord and besought Him
to hear our prayers and to give us freedom from our enemies and all
dangers that encompassed us about.




CHAPTER XXII

AMONGST THE SAVAGES


The moon was waning and the stars disappearing when the movements of
the Indians told us that the journey was to be resumed. All night
those who had not acted as a watch over the party had laid like
statues folded in their blankets, but now they arose as one man and
set about preparations for our departure. With their awakening we,
too, roused ourselves. Food had been given us over night, consisting
of wheaten cakes and dried deer's flesh, accompanied by gourds of
fresh water, and this was again offered to us ere we set out. Mary and
I scarce ate on either occasion, though the water was indeed welcome,
but Mr. Kinchella made a good meal while Buck and his companions ate
heartily, the ex-highwayman contriving as usual to regard all that
occurred as something to be made light of.

"'Tis better than prison fare, anyway," he said to his companions in
the dawn, as they fell to on the meat and bread, "but the devil take
the water! 'Tis cold to the stomach even on so fine a summer morning,
and a tass of Nantz or of Kill-devil from the islands would improve it
marvellously. However, that we must not look for till we get back to
freedom."

"You think, then," Mr. Kinchella asked him, "that to freedom we shall
get back?" The man had proved himself so loyal to us that he was now
admitted to almost familiarity and indeed, it could not be otherwise.
If ever we returned in safety to Pomfret, or to the spot where Pomfret
once stood, these men had my word that they were free; they were,
therefore, no longer our inferiors, while, at the present moment, all
who were prisoners in the hands of the Indians were on a most decided
equality. Yet, let me say it to the honour of all who had been my
bond-servants but a day or two before, none presumed upon their being
so no longer, or treated us with aught but respect.

"I feel sure of it, reverend sir. As I said before, if the chief is
thinking of anything it is not of killing or torturing us; while, if I
had any money, I would bet it all that there would be a pretty scene
when once Roderick is safely back in their encampment."

It seemed, indeed, as though this man had, in his shrewdness,
penetrated the innermost thoughts of the Bear, for ere we had been an
hour on the march he, halting his horse so as to send the advance
party of his warriors on ahead, drew alongside of us and, after a
silence of some minutes, said:

"White people who have dwelt for so long on the lands that once were
ours, know you why your village, which has been spared by us for now
so many moons, has been once more attacked and put to the slaughter by
the braves of my tribe?"

No one answered him for some short space of time, but at last I, to
whom he seemed particularly to address himself, said:

"We have no knowledge of why this should be, seeing that 'tis now
almost two generations since those who were once our forefathers'
friends attacked us. We had hoped that never would they do so again,
since we have kept to our own lands and never sought to do evil to you
or those of your race."

"Never sought to do evil, maiden! Nay, pause. Have 'you not now for
more than fifty moons been dreaming of a raid to be made on us, of
more red men to be slaughtered, more lands to be seized?"

"Never," I replied. "Never. I know all that has been thought of and
every scheme that has been projected in our midst, yet there was never
aught of this. Nay, so little did we dream of such an attack as you
have made on us that, though we went always armed, 'twas more because
of the custom which had grown upon us than for any other reason, and,
if Indians came about we thought 'twas to take our cattle and our
herds more than to massacre us."

"Yet it was told to us that your men were projecting a great war
against us; that even from your other land beyond the deep waters
warriors were being sent forth who should come and slay us all. That
strange implements of war were being devised for our certain
destruction, and that all of us were to be slaughtered and our lands
and wives taken from us."

"Then," I replied, "you were told a base lie."

"Ay," exclaimed Buck from behind, "and I'll bet a guinea I know who
told it."

The chief's eyes fell on him and rested on his face; then he spoke
again, bidding him, since he said he knew who 'twas, to name the
person.

"Name him," said Buck, "name him. Ay, that can I in the first guess.
Why, 'twas that cursed, cringing hound, Roderick St. Amande, who fled
from my pretty mistress's house when her father smote off his ear for
daring to insult her. That's who it was, my noble chief."

"Smote off his ear!" exclaimed Anuza, while in his face there came the
nearest approach to astonishment that I saw there during the time I
was brought into contact with him. "Smote off the ear of the Child of
the Sun. Yet he told us--he--is this the word of truth?"

"If that cursed impostor is the Child of the Sun--the Child of the
Devil, ho, ho!--then 'tis most certainly the truth. Here's my lady who
can tell you 'tis true. She saw it done. And, noble chief, is _that_
the one, that poor, miserable hound, who told you of the attack that
was to be made on you and yours?"

The chief replied not but rode on by our side, his eyes bent on his
horse's mane and he seemingly wrapped in thought. But he spake no more
to us that day, and we knew that he was meditating on how he and all
his tribe had been imposed on by the wretch Roderick. So we journeyed
on until at last we stood at the foot of the mountains, and with,
before us, the town of the Shawnees. 'Twas a strange sight to our
eyes!

All around a vast space sheltered or, at least, surrounded by
countless trees, amongst which were the long-leaved pine, the great
cypress and the greater cedar, with some sweet orange trees as well as
myrtles and magnolias, we saw the Indian stockades, their great
protections from man or beast. For over those pointed poles, topped in
many cases with iron barbs, neither foeman nor fierce animal could
spring or make their way through. Then, within these, there came the
tents or houses of the ordinary fighting men, the latter being little
huts, yet large enough, perhaps, for four or five to repose within. A
circle of chiefs' tents succeeded next to these, the sheafs of poles
gathered together at the top being decorated sometimes with banners,
sometimes with gaudy silken drapery, sometimes, alas! with human heads
from which the hair had been torn. That hair had another destination.
It was to decorate the interior of the tents--to be gloated over by
the savage chiefs within and by their squaws, or wives. In the middle
of all was--regardlessly of the health of the encampment--a tomb of
the chiefs, a horrid erection of wood in which the shrivelled remains
were laid side by side to the number of a dozen, their heads towards
the passers-by, their mummified bodies naked, and before them a wood
fire burning--perhaps to dispel any vapours. Thus they lay in the
exact interior of the camp, each one remaining there through the four
seasons and then being buried in the earth. And to guard over and
preserve them, as the savages thought, was a hideous painted figure of
wood, rudely carved, which they call Kyvash, or the God of the Dead.

And now we were to learn what had been the amount of destruction done
to the homes where we had all dwelt so peacefully and happily
together; we of our party were to learn that which we had so much
longed to know, namely, what had happened to those of our friends and
neighbours who dwelt in and around Pomfret. For in that encampment we
met other prisoners like ourselves who had been brought away by the
detachments of the band who had stormed their houses. We saw, alas!
the best of our men captives in the hands of the savages. Seated on a
log outside a tent, his hands tied cruelly behind his back, I saw
Bertram Pringle, a fair-haired young man who was the leader of all the
diversions of our neighbourhood, and the best dancer as well as
sportsman for miles around. There, too, was Roger Clibourne, one of
our largest estate owners and wealthiest of planters; there was one of
the Byrds of Westover (he being sadly wounded) as well as several
rough backwoodsmen, who must have fought hard ere they surrendered;
and many other owners and white servants were also prisoners. But, I
thanked God, there were no other women but ourselves, and my cousin
was not, as the wretch Roderick had said, amongst them.

"Why, Joice," said Roger, calling to me as I passed by with the
others, "why, my dear"--we had grown up boy and girl together--"this
is, indeed, a sorry sight. Oh! Mr. Kinchella, could you not put a
bullet in their brains or a knife to their throats ere you let Joice
and your sweetheart be captured and brought here."

"Hush! Hush!" I said to him, pausing on my way, as we all did, our
guards making no resistance. "Hush! Indeed, I think we are in no such
great danger. Anuza, the chief, who stormed my house, has found out
that their great medicine man, who was undoubtedly the instigator of
the attack upon us all, is none other than that horrid villain,
Roderick St. Amande."

"Roderick St. Amande!" the others, including the backwoodsmen,
exclaimed, "Roderick St. Amande. Nay, 'tis impossible."

"Indeed, indeed 'tis true. We of our party have all seen him and
spoken with him; nay, heard him gloat over all the horrors of the
attack and threaten us with what awaits us here. But, but--the chief
heard him too, and also heard Mary denounce him, and, I think, he
meditates worse against him than any of us because he hath deceived
them so."

"Is your chief powerful enough to do thus?" Bertram Pringle asked.
"Ours, our captor, is, we have heard, the head of the whole tribe and
the greatest friend of their medicine man. Suppose he believes not
what your conqueror tells him?"

"Then," said Buck, "we will give him some proofs that shall make him
believe. I can do any trick Mr. Roderick St. Amande can, either with
cards, palming, or what not, and if they place faith in him for any of
his hanky-panky, hocus-pocus passes, why, they'll fall down and
worship me! I wasn't the conjurer at many a booth for nothing before I
took to more elevating pursuits."

And now the lads asked us how we had parted from that other one of
whom I thought hourly and only--though they knew it not!--and when I
told them how I had left him wounded and bleeding their sorrow was
great. But they said that, if the Indians did not proceed to any
violence towards us, a rescue must be attempted before long, since
every other hamlet and town would know by now what had befallen us of
Pomfret, and doubtless an expedition would soon set out to seek for
us.

So we passed on to where our guards led us, namely, to a great tent
made of hay and straw, and then we composed ourselves for the night
and, after Mr. Kinchella had said a prayer for our safety in which we
most fervently joined, got what sleep we might. But once during that
night I woke and then screamed aloud, for as I turned my eyes to the
opening of the tent I saw, gazing in, the horrid face of Roderick St.
Amande, and his own eyes gloating over us. But at my scream, and
almost ere the others were aroused, the face was withdrawn, and
nothing more was seen at the opening but the figure of the Indian
sentry outside as he paced to and fro in the moonlight, and nought
heard but the soft fall of his moccasined feet on the earth, or
sometimes the cry of an Indian child or dog.

That the next day was to be one of great importance was easy to see
from the moment it dawned. Towards a belt of pines which grew upon the
rise of the hills there were already proceeding groups of Indians,
some bearing in their hands the skins of animals and blankets dyed
divers colours; banners, too, were being affixed to the trees as
though in preparation for some great feast. We noted, also, that many
of the Indian women and maidens--with, alas! amongst them some girls
and women who were not Indian born, but white women--were finely
dressed as though for a gala. As we ate of the food which our guards
brought us--though three, at least, of our little band had no appetite
for it--the door was darkened by the form of Anuza, and, a moment
later, his great body stood within the tent, while we observed that
he, too, was now arrayed in all the handsome trappings that bespoke
the rank of a great chief. His short-sleeved tunic of dressed
deer-skin was ornamented with the polished claws of his totem, the
Grizzly Bear; on the shield he bore were the same emblems; even his
long black hair, twisted up now like a coronet beneath his plumed
bonnet of feathers, was decorated with one claw set in gold. In his
wampum belt, fringed and tasselled with bright shells, he carried a
long knife and a pair of pistols richly inlaid with silver and
ivory-won, doubtless, in some earlier foray with our race--at his back
hung down a bleached bearskin cloak to which, by a sash or loop, were
suspended his tomahawk and bow. As I gazed on him I understood, if I
had never understood before, what our forefathers meant when sometimes
they spoke of the Indian as a splendid, or a noble, savage.

Behind him, borne upon a litter by two other Indians, came one the
like of whom I had never seen, an old Indian of surely a hundred years
of age; his eyes gone and, in their place, nought but the white balls
to be observed. His head, with still some few sparse hairs left on it,
bent on his breast, his hands were shrivelled like unto those of the
mummies of which I have read, and his body, even on so hot a day as
this, was enveloped in a great bearskin adorned with the gay plumage
of many bright-coloured birds.

As Anuza strode into the tent, or Wigwam, leaving the old man outside
in the sun, he made a grave salutation to us all; but it seemed
directed to me more especially, and then he said:

"Peace be with you all. And, white maiden," he went on, addressing me,
while to my surprise he bent his knee before me, "though death awaits
you and yours to-day, yet it shall not claim you while the Bear is by.
Nor, had I known that which he, my father, has told me, should the
hand of Anuza have been raised against you or your house, or aught
within it." While, as he spoke, I gazed wonderingly at him, not
knowing what his words might mean.




CHAPTER XXIII

DENOUNCED


Yet the explanation or meaning, when it came, was simple indeed. Many
years before, nay, more than fifty, when my grandfather, Mark
Bampfyld, owned and ruled at Pomfret Manor, his wife strolling in the
woods had met and succoured a wounded Indian who had been shot at by
some other colonist and had dragged himself to where she found him.
Now, at that time the Indian was hated in all Virginia more, perhaps,
than he had ever been before or since, for the memory of how he and
his had been our firm allies was still fresh in all men's memories, so
that their new enmity to us was even more bitterly felt than at any
other period. To succour an Indian, therefore, at this period, was to
do a thing almost incredible, a thing not to be believed of one
colonist by another, and, by the Indian himself, to be regarded as
something that could never by any chance occur. Yet this thing my
grandmother, Rebecca, had done; she had tended and nursed that
savage, who was none other than the father of Anuza now without our
tent--himself, also Anuza the Bear--she had sent him forth a well man
to return to his own people, and, ere going, he had vowed to her,
placing his fingers on the scars of his wounds to give his vows
emphasis, that none of his blood or race should ever again injure
those of hers.

Yet now was I--who had never heard aught of this before--a captive in
his son's hands.

"But, oh! white maiden," said Anuza the younger, while the old,
sightless man nodded his head gravely, "had I known aught of this, I
would have smitten off my hands or slain myself ere harm should have
come to you or yours; yea, even before a tree on your lands should
have been hurt or so much as a dog injured. And neither you nor these
others are captives to me longer, though I doubt if, even now,
Senamee, who is chief over us all, will let you go in peace. For he is
as the puma who has the lamb within its jaws when an enemy is in his
hands, and he hearkens to the medicine man, who your sister says is
but a cheat, and who hates you all."

"But," said Mr. Kinchella and Mary together, "that cheat can be
exposed; surely if he is proved no medicine man but only a poor
trickster, the chief will not hearken to him."

"Senamee loves much the blood of his enemies," Anuza repeated; "I know
not if that exposure will save you. It is more to be feared that he
will sacrifice both him and you."

"And can he, this chief, Senamee, do this even when you, a chief, and
your father a chief also, desire to save us?"

"He can do it in one way only," the Bear replied. "He can only do it
if I refuse my sanction, since I of all the tribe stand next to him,
by slaying me in fight."

"And can he slay you?" exclaimed Mary, as her eyes fell on his
splendid proportions. "Is there any of your tribe who can overthrow
you?"

The Indian is but human after all, and on Anuza's usually calm and
impassive face there came, it seemed to me, a look of gratification at
the praise of his great form from a handsome woman.

"I know not," he replied, "whether he can slay me, but this I know,
that he must do so ere harm comes to those who are of the tribe of her
who succoured him," pointing to his father. "That must he do, for
already I am accursed of the god of my tribe in that I have lifted my
hand against one who draws her life through another who pitied and
cared for my father. To remove that curse, I must hold you and yours
free from further harm."

The old Anuza, sitting there in the sun, nodded his head and whispered
some words to himself in Indian, which we thought to mean agreement
with his son, wherefore I said:

"But why, Anuza, why, if this is so, did you take part in and
encourage this attack upon our village, upon our houses and our lives;
why, if thus you felt towards us?"

"My father knew not our war trail," replied the chief, "he knew not
which way we took our course; he knew not where that false priest, the
medicine man, led us. And, oh! white woman," he said casting himself
at my feet, "oh! you, who rule over your tribe and these your kin and
servants, give your pardon to me who sinned unknowing what I did, and
believe--believe, I say, that while I can shelter you harm shall not
come near to you. I, the Bear, who has never lied, promise that."

I bade him rise, telling him that we would believe in him and trust to
him for safety, when in our ears there arose the most horrid din, the
clanging of spears on shields, the firing of matchlocks--with which
the Indians were well armed, and which they had been taught to use in
the days when they dwelt at peace with us--the howling of the swarms
of dogs that were in the encampment, and many other noises.

"Hark," exclaimed Anuza, "'tis Senamee who goes to take his seat and
to commence the tortures"--we started--"but fear not. To you harm
shall not come. But you must go before him now. It is best so. Come,
and fear not."

Thus we went forth escorted by the Bear and those of his guards with
him, and so we reached the plantation of pines that grew upon the
mountain slope. Senamee, the chief of all the tribe, was already
seated on a great stone rudely carved into the shape of a chair,
while, by his side, we noticed similar ones made of wood, over all of
which were thrown skins and blankets. He it was, we learnt afterwards,
who had directed the principal attack upon the village, and who had
stormed the homes of the Pringles, Clibornes, and Byrds. These were
standing before him, bound, but looking defiant and gallant as they
cast their eyes round on all the Indian warriors as well as the women
and children, and, even from their servants and some of the rough
backwoodsmen who were also captured, no sign of fear was forthcoming.
Indeed, fierce and dreaded as the Indian was by the colonist and his
dependants, there was always in the minds of the latter a tinge of
contempt mixed with that dread. That contempt was born, perhaps, of
the feeling that, in the end, our race invariably overbore theirs;
that gradually their lands had become ours, even if by just and fair
bargain. Also that, subtle, crafty, and cruel as the savage might be
and dreadful when attacking from his ambush, in all open encounter he
was no match for the men in whose veins ran the good, brave blood of
their old English ancestors.

"You come late, Anuza," exclaimed Senamee as, striding through the
assembled crowd, the Bear made his way to a seat opposite the chief
and motioned to us to follow him, while to Mary and to me he signed
that we should seat ourselves on the fur-covered bench beside him.
"You come late." Then, observing the other's action to us and our
taking the indicated seat, he said, "What means this, and why are the
pale face women honoured in the presence of their conquerors? They are
prisoners here, not guests to sit by our sides."

"At this moment, oh! Senamee, seek to know nothing," replied Anuza,
"nor ask why the pale face women are seated by my side. Later on all
shall be told you." We saw a look of astonishment appear on the face
of all the other captives at this answer, though it but confirmed in
part that which we had told them overnight, and we saw also a dark
scowl come on the painted face of Senamee, while he muttered to
himself, "'Twill not please the Child of the Sun who is on his way
here," but he said no more.

That the person so termed, the wretched impostor, Roderick St. Amande,
was now on his way we soon learnt. Slowly through the assembled crowd
of warriors, women and others, there came now a dozen or more young
Indian girls habited in fawn-skin tunics reaching to their knees,
with, rudely embroidered on them, golden and silver suns. These were
the priestesses who assisted at whatever rites and ceremonies their
master chose to perform, and were always in attendance on him, as we
learnt hereafter. Then, next to them--who, as they passed, sang or
crooned a most dismal dirge, though doubtless 'twas meant as a hymn of
praise---there came his guards, picked braves whose duty it was to be
always near him. Behind them, came he himself, walking slowly but with
his head erect and casting on all the white captives a look at once
triumphant and scornful. Yet, as he passed by Anuza to enter the
circle, he started with surprise, a surprise bred doubtless of seeing
us seated by that chief's side and also from noticing that, amongst
all the Indians who were now prostrating themselves reverently before
him, the Bear alone did not do so but sat calm and unmoved.

For a moment only he stopped to gaze on us all seated and standing
there, yet 'twas long enough for him to see the contempt on the faces
of Mary and myself and Mr. Kinchella, the look of cold indifference on
that of the Bear, and the mocking grins on the faces of Buck and his
companions. Then, going on to the seat reserved for him by the side of
Senamee, he sat himself in it and whispered a few words to that chief.
But the warrior only shook his head and seemed unable to find any
answer to the questions the other was undoubtedly asking him. Next, he
spake to one of his guards, who a moment afterwards ordered that all
in that place kept silence while the great medicine man, the true
Child of the Sun, addressed them, and on that silence being observed
he spake as follows:

"Dogs and slaves of the Shawnee race and Doegs," such being his
gracious form of addressing them, "dogs and slaves whom the Great
Spirit has so favoured as to send me, the only true Child of the Sun,
to be your medicine man, chief orator, prophet, and civil ruler, hear
me. Owing to my counsel, inspired by my father, the Sun, you have
within the last few days achieved a great victory over the white
slaves who dwell to the east of these mountains. You have destroyed
their town and brought hither as prisoners those whom you have not
slain. This, since you are but red dogs and slaves, whom I account but
little better than the pale faces, you could never have done but for
my assistance, both in putting spells on your enemies and in seeking
the assistance of my father, the Sun."

Here Buck burst into so strident a roar of laughter that Senamee
sprang to his feet and grasped his tomahawk, while he made as though
about to rush at the scoffer and slay him. But the impostor stopped
him, saying, "Heed him not; he is mad. And he is but the slave of the
white woman." Then, continuing, "This victory, I say, you could never
have obtained but for me, and therefore I call on you all, Shawnees
and Doegs, to fall down and prostrate yourselves at my feet and
worship me in this our day of triumph."

All, with the exception of the Bear, rose to do so, but as they were
about to cast themselves to the earth the wretch suddenly stayed them
by a motion of his hand, and exclaimed, "But, hold. Ere you do so let
the white women who I have set apart as my own prize come hither to
me. They are mine, I have chosen them; let them come hither and kneel
at my feet as my handmaidens. Come, I say."

As we, Mary and I, made no motion to do his bidding but only turned
our eyes in appeal towards Anuza, Roderick St. Amande said some words
to two of his guards, who at once crossed the open circle to where we
sat, evidently with the view of seizing us and carrying us to him.

But as they approached near to us, Anuza, still sitting calmly, said:

"Hold! Come no nearer. These pale faces are my captives, and shall
remain by me."

The two warriors turned in astonishment towards the impostor, as
though asking for further commands, but ere he could give any--and we
now saw on his face a look that seemed born half of rage and half of
terror--the Bear rose from his seat and striding forth to them, while
he grasped his tomahawk, said:

"Back to your places at once, or I will slay you here before me. Back,
I say, and obey my orders, not his."

His appearance was so terrible that these two men, although themselves
splendid savages of great size and build, shrank away from him and
retreated towards their master. As for that master, his face was
strange to see. He screamed at Anuza, calling him "Indian dog,"
"accursed one," and many other names, and stamped his foot and waved
his arms in the air, as though invoking something dreadful on his
head. Yet was it plain to see that, through all his assumed power of
superiority, he was indeed alarmed at Anuza's conduct and knew not
what to make of it.

But now Senamee interfered, saying, while he directed fierce glances
at the other:

"Anuza, son of the Bear, what means this conduct? Has madness entered
into your brain that thus you revolt against him whom the Sun God has
sent to succour us and to give us power over all our enemies, or has
your heart turned black with ingratitude towards the great medicine
man who has so long ruled over our destinies, who has made our crops
to thrive and our cattle to increase tenfold? And have you forgotten
that to him we owe blessings for the victory over the pale faces in
the first great attack we have made on them for now many moons?"

"For that," replied the other, still standing before the assembled
crowd, "I owe him curses more than blessings; for it was in this pale
face woman's house--a house now almost destroyed by me and my
followers--that, many moons ago, my father was succoured and healed of
the wounds he had received, and so brought back to life and to his
tribe. And for that I have raised my hand to destroy her dwelling and
to slay those who serve her! Shall I, therefore, not rather curse than
bless him?"

There was a murmur among the crowd--a murmur almost of dismay and
horror. For to the Indian, no matter of what tribe or race, and no
matter what other wicked or evil passions may abide in his heart, one
evil sin stands out as ever to be abhorred by them--the sin of
ingratitude; and he who boasts that he never forgives a wrong boasts
also that he never forgets a kindness. So it was not strange that
those assembled should be much stirred by the words of the Bear. The
villain heard the muttering of the rest, as he could not help but hear
it; but, assuming still a defiant and overbearing air, he addressed
them, saying:

"Granted that you speak truth, what is that to me? How should I know
that many moons ago this woman's people were good to your father?" and
his horrid sneering face looked more evil than before.

"How should you know--you who call yourself the Child of the Sun?"
said Anuza, advancing some paces nearer to him and with his arm
outstretched. "How should you know? Have you not then told us often,
us 'the poor dogs of the Shawnee tribe,' that you know all that has
ever passed or happened, and that there is nought on the land, nor in
the skies, nor in the waters that you know not of? 'Tis strange that
this you should not know."

"'Fore Gad!" whispered Buck, "the Injin's hit him fair."

So, indeed, it appeared the others around thought; and even Senamee,
who hated Anuza for being so near him in power, turned towards
Roderick with a glance that seemed to bid him answer this question.

But ere he could do so the Bear went on again, while the villain
writhed at his words.

"Yet, oh! my kinsmen and brother warriors, if I have done this thing
unwittingly, and with no knowledge of goodness shown to my father by
those of her race in far-off days, what shall be thought of one who,
also having dwelt under the white woman's roof, has yet turned and
rent her? What be thought of one who, coming as a slave to her
father's house, was yet well tended; who sat at meat in that house,
ay, ate of their food and was clothed with their garments, and, in
repayment, assailed first the woman's honour and next, after nursing
warm his hate for many moons, sought to destroy her and hers, even to
taking from her her house, and her life, and the life of those she
loved?"

The impassable Indian blood was roused at last; like the mountain
snow, that stirs not till the sun fires it and causes it to burst
forth a torrent overwhelming all, it burst forth now and, with many
cries, all in that assembly, excepting Senamee and those of his
following, demanded to know what man, what snake, had done this thing?

"What snake!" exclaimed Anuza, "what snake! I will tell you, my
brethren. The snake that has also warmed itself by our fires too long,
and who, as it has turned and stung the white woman, will in time to
come turn and sting us if we guard not against it. The snake who has
cheated us and made us believe in him as a god when he himself was but
a pale face and a slave of pale faces; the snake who has dwelt among
us; the cheat and false medicine man--the Child of the Sun!"




CHAPTER XXIV

'TWIXT BEAR AND PANTHER


Ominous indeed were all the faces around us now. For the denunciation
was terrible; if true, it could mean nothing but death for Roderick
St. Amande. And that an awful death. Near the circle there stood a
Cross which we who dwelt in the colonies knew well the meaning and use
of. That holy symbol, so out of place amongst a band of savages, was
not reared here with reverence, but because, being the token of the
white man's faith, the token to which he bowed his knee and poured out
his soul, their devilish minds had devised it as the instrument of his
execution. And white men, we knew from all hearsay and gossip of those
who had escaped, had often suffered on the cross; there was not an
encampment of Shawnee Indians, of Manahoacs, of Powhattans,
Nanticokes, or Doegs--all of which tribes surrounded Virginia--in
which there was not one erected for their torture and execution. Only,
in those executions their tortures and their sufferings were greater
far than any which had ever been devised outside the colonies. Those
whose fate led them to these Crosses suffered not only crucifixion,
but worse, far worse. As they hung upon them, their poor hands and
feet nailed to the beams, while their bare bodies were tortured by all
the insects that abound in the region, they served also as marks for
the arrows and, sometimes, the bullets of their savage foes. Happy
indeed, were those to whom a vital wound was dealt early in their
suffering, happy those who died at once and did not linger on, perhaps
from one day to the other, expiring slowly amidst the jeers of those
amongst whom they had fallen.

Such was one form of revenge practised by the Indian on the white man,
and, alas! there were many others. There was death by fire and death
by burying alive, the body being in the earth, the head outside, a
prey for the vultures to swoop down upon and to tear to pieces,
beginning with the eyes; there was the death of thirst, when the
victim sat gasping in the hot sun while all around him, but beyond his
reach, were placed gourds of cool water.

It was to such deaths as these that we had feared our men might come
if they fell into the hands of the enemy--the women, be it said, were
never subjected to such torture, there were _other_ things reserved
for them--it was one of such deaths as these that Roderick St. Amande
might now fear if the band believed the denunciation of Anuza.

That they did believe it seemed not open to doubt. They muttered and
gesticulated, they hurled opprobrious names at him, they even beat
their breasts and bemoaned the disgrace which had fallen on them by
being deceived by one who had been a "slave." This, to these free,
untrammelled creatures of the forest, seemed the worst of all, far
worse even than their having been tricked into believing that he, who
was nothing but a poor mortal like themselves, could be a god and the
Child of the great Sun God.

Senamee alone seemed to still believe in the villain; he alone at this
moment raised his voice on behalf of their denounced priest. Rising to
his feet, while his cruel features were convulsed with passion and the
great scars upon his face stood out strangely beneath the paint upon
it, he addressed the members of his tribe thus:

"Children of my race, warriors of our various bands, listen to me and
be not swayed too easily by the voice of Anuza the Bear, the chief who
ever opposes me and gnaws at his heart-strings because of my rule and
authority." Here the Bear cast a disdainful glance at him, while he
went on, "Easy enough are these charges to be made; less easy,
however, is the proof of them. Because the Bear has learned now that
he has attacked the house of one by whose kin his father was
succoured, he has readily lent his ear to the tales told him by the
pale faces, all of whom are liars, as we and those who have gone
before us know only too well and to our cost. Yet, against such lying
tales let us remember what the Child of the Sun has done for us--even
before our own eyes, which do not deceive us. He has brought our
cattle from the mouth of death, he has caused all our herds to
increase tenfold, he has blessed our lands and, where before naught
but the serpent and the wolf could live, has made the maize and the
corn to grow. Yet we, but mortal men, could do naught like unto this.
And has he not ruled the heavens! Rain to refresh the earth has come
to us at his bidding; when the moon and the sun have disappeared
before our eyes, without cloud to obscure them, he has conjured them
back again by waving his hands."

"It requires no sharp eye," muttered Mr. Kinchella to us, "to tell
when an eclipse is drawing to an end. If he could have foretold its
coming it would have been more wonderful."

"He has made trees and shrubs," went on Senamee, "to grow before our
eyes, and objects he held in his hands to vanish away into the air."

"Yes, curse him," now muttered Buck, who, unhappily, rarely spoke
without an oath, "I taught him to. I would they had looked under his
thumb or up his sleeve."

"And, above all, is it not he who bade us go forward on the warpath
towards the home of the pale faces, telling us success should come to
us, as it has truly come?"

Once more the Indians were roused, but this time it was towards the
adoption of the chief's views. Hating ingratitude as they did, they
seemed to think now--judging by the ejaculations of many of them--that
there was danger of their testifying it to the medicine chief by
turning so suddenly against him. Poor, ignorant savages! 'Twas easy to
see that they believed, as doubtless their chief believed, that to
this mean creature was owing the fact that their crops and their
cattle had thrived so. They could not guess, their simple, unformed
minds could not tell them, that it was to their own exertions,
suggested by him, and not to his mumblings and gibberish over those
crops and cattle, that their increase and fatness was due.

But no sooner had Senamee finished than Buck, who could be neither
repressed nor subdued, lifted up his voice and, addressing him,
exclaimed, "Sir! Chief! Listen to me a spell. What this fellow has
done I taught him when he was a bought slave, as I was a transported
one, to this our young lady here, whom you call the pale face woman.
And what he can do I can do better, as I'll show you if you'll give me
the chance. You say he can make objects vanish? Why, look here"; with
which he picked up three stones from the earth, placed them on his
open palm, clenched his hand and blew upon it, and, opening it again,
showed to the astonished surrounders that it was empty. Then he
approached an Indian squaw standing near, and putting out his finger
drew each stone one by one from her long, matted hair, while her dusky
skin turned white and she shrunk away from him muttering. Then he
continued:

"Is that it? Well, 'tis simple enough--there hain't a conjuror or Jack
Pudding at Bartholomew Fair, nor any other, that can't do better nor
that, and they ain't children o' the Sun, nor more am I. No! not no
more than _he_ is"--pointing his finger at the now trembling Roderick.
"Children of the Sun, ha! ha! children born in a ditch more like; or
in a prison." Whereupon, after laughing again, he stooped down once
more and, seizing some larger stones, began to hurl them in the air
one after the other and catch them as they descended. Yet, when he had
caught them all, his hands were empty.

Doubtless the Indians understood not his strange jargon and his talk
about Bartholomew Fair. But they could witness his mysterious tricks,
at which, in truth, I was myself appalled, having never seen the like.
And while once more the simple savages veered round into denunciations
of Roderick St. Amande, muttering that he could be no god if this
other slave could do such things, and some of them turned Buck round
and made him show them his hands and open his mouth so that they might
see if the stones were there, Anuza rose again from his seat and spake
as follows:

"Senamee, from you, a chief of the Shawnee tribe and of the noble
Manahoac blood also, have lies issued forth to-day. Nay, start not,
but hear me; I will maintain my words with my arm later. From you, I
say, have lies issued forth; nay, worse; not only were they lies, but
you knew that they were lies and yet coldly spake them."

"I will kill you," hissed Senamee, "kill you with my own hand."

"So be it," answered the other, "if you have the power, but the Bear
is not weak." "Lies," he went on, "lies knowingly told when you said
that I opposed you and was jealous of your rule and authority. For you
know well such words can have no truth in them. In my wigwam hang more
scalps than in yours, the scalps of Cherokees who dispute the
mountains with us, of Yamasees who dwell near unto the deep waters, of
Muskogees; ay, even of the fierce Southern Seminoles who dwell in the
tents of the blood-stained poles. And in my veins runs blood as pure
as yours, while I yield not to you as my ruler, but as my equal only,
except in years. But let this pass; later on you shall kill me or I
you. Now, there is other killing to be done. For not only has this
man," pointing to Buck, who was now showing some other tricks, truly
marvellous, to the Indians, "who is by his own word a slave, proved to
you that the jugglings of the false medicine man are no miracles, but
things which slaves can do; but also have I to add my word against
him. And, oh! my people," he said, turning round and addressing all
there, "you, my kinsmen and friends of the Shawnees, the Manahoac, and
the Doeg tribes, what will you say shall be done to the false priest,
the pale-faced slave, who has imposed on us, when I tell you all? When
I tell you that, in this white woman's house, I heard him speak of us
who have sheltered him and succoured him, as 'credulous red fools'--as
'credulous red fools,' those were his words. And more," he went on,
putting forth his arm with a gesture as though to stay the angry
murmurs that now arose, while Roderick St. Amande sat shaking with
fear in his seat, "the dark maiden here, the sister of the white
woman, denounced him to his face and before me, though he knew not I
heard. She taunted him with having had his lost ear smitten off by his
owner--the ear that he told us often his father, the Sun God, took
from him so that he should be less than he--oh! fools that we were to
believe it! And--and she called him 'thief' and 'lover of fire waters'
and 'cowardly, crawling dog'--think of it, oh! my kinsmen; the Shawnee
warriors and the Manahoacs and the Doegs to be imposed on by such as
this! A slave, a thief, a drunkard, a cowardly dog! Think of it! Think
of it! And for me, Anuza, worse, far worse than this, for at his
commands have I wrecked the house in which he who gave me life was
tended and succoured; at his commands have I made war on and injured
the child's child of her who succoured him."

He paused a moment and looked round, his eye falling on the angry,
muttering crowd of savages of the three allied tribes; upon Roderick
St. Amande trembling there, making no defence and burying his face in
his mantle, from which he sometimes withdrew it to cast imploring
glances on Senamee. Senamee, who sat scowling on all about him while
his fingers clutched the great dagger in his wampum belt. Then Anuza
went on again, while the muttering of the crowd rose to yells, and
that crowd pressed forward ominously to where the unhappy victim sat.

"For all this, my brethren, he must die. For the inoffensive blood he
has caused us to shed, he must die--for the lies he has told us, 'the
credulous red fools,' he must die--for all that he has done, he must
die. And there, upon the Cross which he himself selected as the death
to be dealt out to the white men, he shall die to-night."

With a how! that was almost like to the dreaded war cry, they all
rushed at Roderick, while high above even the noise of their fierce
threats went forth a piercing shriek from their intended victim, who
clung to Senamee's arm, crying, "Save me, save me," in the Indian
tongue.

That the chief would have dreamt of doing so--seeing that, since he
was head of all, he had been more fooled perhaps than any of them--had
it not been for the hatred and antagonism he bore to the Bear, none of
us who were present have ever been able to bring ourselves to believe.
Yet now, to the astonishment of all, both red and white, he did
actually intercede in his behalf.

As the crowd surged up to where the wretch sat, men and women being
indiscriminately mixed, braves and warriors jostling their servants
and inferiors, while their gaily-bedecked wives--for this was to have
been a feast day--pushed against almost nude serving-women, the chief
sprang to his feet, threw one arm about Roderick St. Amande, and,
brandishing his tomahawk before their eyes, thundered forth an order
to them to desist.

"Back!" he roared in his deep tones, "back, I say. What! is Senamee
dead already that others usurp his place and issue orders to his
people? Who is your chief? I, or Anuza, the rebel?" and he struck at
two or three of the foremost with his tomahawk as he spoke.

"You are," they acknowledged, though with angry glances at him, "yet
shall not the false priest shelter himself behind your shield. We will
have his life in spite of you."

"His life you shall have when we are sure of his guilt. At present we
have nothing but the word of Anuza, who has said I lie. But what if he
has lied himself?"

"He has not lied," they called out. "He has not lied. Anuza never
lies. And his words are proved. The other slave of the white woman can
do more than he. He is no medicine priest. Give him to us that we may
slay him."

"Not yet," answered Senamee. "Not yet. For ere I give him to you I am
about to prove Anuza to be a liar in spite of your belief."

"How can you prove it?" they demanded, while Anuza himself stood
motionless, his eyes fixed on his rival.

"My brethren and followers, you speak either like children who know
nothing or old men who have forgotten what once they knew. Anuza has
told me that I lie. To him I say the same thing. He lies. He lies out
of his spite and envy of me. And have you, oh! ye children or dotards,
forgotten how, when one of our race thinks thus of another, they
decide who is the truthful man and who the liar?"

"We have not forgotten," they all exclaimed; "we have not forgotten.
It must be by the death of one or the other. Both cannot live."

"It is well," Senamee exclaimed, "it is well. And of Anuza, the rebel,
and of me your chief, one of us must die by the hand of the other. As
that death is dealt out so shall it be decided what the fate of this
one is," pointing to the impostor shivering by his side. "If I defeat
the Bear he shall not suffer, for then it will be known that Anuza is
the liar and has wrongly accused him; if Anuza slays me then must you
do with the medicine chief as is his will. But," descending from his
seat and advancing towards where that warrior stood, "that he will
kill me I do not fear. Those of the house of Senamee dread not those
of the race of the crawling Bear."

And then, advancing ever nearer unto Anuza until he stood close in
front of him, he made a defiant gesture before him and exclaimed:

"Anuza, the time has come."

While Anuza, returning his glance with equally contemptuous ones,
replied:

"You have spoken well, Senamee. The time has come."





PART III

THE NARRATIVE OF
LORD ST. AMANDE CONTINUED




CHAPTER XXV

THE SHAWNEE TRAIL


He who has been stunned by a heavy blow comes to but slowly, and so it
was with me and slowly also my understanding and my memory returned,
while gradually my dazed senses began to comprehend the meaning of all
around me. I remembered at last why the handsome saloon in which my
beloved one, my sweet Joice, took ever such pride, should now resemble
the deck of a ship after a fierce sea fight more than a gentlewoman's
withdrawing-room. It dawned upon me minute by minute why the
harpsichord and spinet should both be shattered, the bright carpet
drenched and stained with blood, the window-frame windowless, with, by
it, a heap of dead, formed of red and white men and the mastiffs, and
why my own white silk waistcoat and steinkirk should be stained with
the same fluid. Nor was I, ere long, astonished to see the fontange
which Miss Mills had worn lying on the spinet, nor to perceive
O'Rourke seated by a table near me eating some bread and meat slowly
and in a ruminative manner, while he washed the food down with a
beaker of rum and water and shook his head sadly and meditatively all
the while.

And so, in a moment, there came back to me all that happened but a
little time before, as I thought, and with a great shout I called to
him and asked him where my dear one was.

The old adventurer sprang to his feet as I did so, and came towards me
muttering that he thought for an instant that the red devils were
coming back again; and then, kneeling down by me, he asked me how I
did and if I thought I had taken any serious hurt.

"Though well I know, my lord," he said, "that 'twas nothing worse than
a severe crack o' the skull; yet, being a poor chirurgeon, I could not
tell how deep the crack was. But since you can speak and understand,
and know me, it cannot be so serious. Try, my lord, if you can rise."

Taking his arm I made the attempt, succeeding fairly. But when on my
feet I still felt dizzy, while a great nausea came over me, so that I
was obliged to seat myself at the table and to observe O'Rourke's
counsel to partake of some of the liquor he had by him, if not some of
the bread and meat.

"'Tis fortunate," he said, "that I could induce those squealing
negroes to come forth after all the others had gone, or else----"

"Gone!" I exclaimed. "Who are gone?" And then, in an instant, perhaps
owing to the draught of liquor, I remembered that the others were not
here; that, above all, my dear one was not by my side. "Gone!" I
exclaimed again; "they are gone! Where to?"

"With the savages," he replied. "They had no other resource."

"Therefore let us follow them at once. With the savages! And they are
two defenceless women. With the savages! And I lying there like a log
unable to help them! Oh, Joice! Oh, Joice, my darling!"

"Nay," said O'Rourke, "distress not yourself so much. While you lay
senseless with that fair young thing's arms around you much happened
that you cannot dream of. Much! Much! Indeed such marvellous things
that even I, who have seen many surprising occurrences, could not
conceive----"

"In heaven's name out with them!" I exclaimed. "Man, have you not
tortured me enough already in my life and been pardoned for it, that
you must begin again. Out with your tale, I say, if you would not
drive me to distraction."

He cast a sad look towards me which, with my recollection of all he
had done last night on our behalf, made me to regret speaking so to
him even under such pressure. Then, after saying there was no further
wish in his heart, God He knew, to ever do aught to me but make
atonement, he commenced his narrative of all that had occurred while I
lay senseless and he lay apparently so.

What a narrative it was! What a story! To think of that vile Roderick
being there in command of all the others; to think of that spiteful,
crawling wretch having at last got those two innocent creatures into
his power and able to do what he would with them! Oh! 'twas too
horrible--too horrible to think upon. Nay, I dare not think, I could
only prepare for immediate action.

"We must follow them," I said. "I must follow them at once, even if
the Indians tear me to pieces as I enter their midst. And what matter
if they do? 'Twill be best so if she, my own darling, has become their
prey. O'Rourke, for heaven's sake cease eating and drinking, and lend
me your assistance."

"That will I cheerfully," he replied, "and if they have but left a
brace of nags in the stables we will be a dozen leagues on our way ere
nightfall. But as to eating and drinking, well--well! I am too old a
campaigner of all kinds not to take my rations when they fall in my
way. And you, too, my lord, a sailor, should know 'tis bad to go
a-fighting on an empty stomach. Even Corporal John, who loved better
to pouch the ducats than to provision the army, always sent his men
into battle with their stomachs full."

"But every moment is precious--every instant. Think of the girls in
the hands of those ruthless savages, in the hands of my villainous
cousin."

"Ay, I do think on't. Yet will I wager all my hopes of future
pardon--heaven knows I stand in need of it--that the girls are safe
enough. Have I not told you that the great Indian, the gigantic chief,
heard all. All! He heard Mistress Mills denounce your cousin, and he
heard him call all the tribe superstitious or ignorant fools, or words
of a like import. And, what's more, he knew that neither you nor I
were dead, nor like to die, and yet he left us here unharmed. My lord,
I tell you," he continued, slapping down the bowl he had just emptied,
"that no harm is coming to those young maids, nor do I think to any of
the other prisoners. And more I tell you also, the one who will come
worst out of this fray will be your cousin Roderick."

I would have answered him and said how devoutly I trusted such might
be the case, when we heard a clatter in the courtyard behind and the
shoutings of many men, and voices all talking at once, some
exclaiming, "At least they've left this house standing." "What of the
women folk?" "What of Mistress Bamfyld?" and so forth. And then, as we
rushed to the back windows, I recognised many of the other residents
of the place whose acquaintance I possessed, with, at their head, her
cousin Gregory.

"Where is Joice?" he called out as he dismounted, seeing me. "Where is
she? Is she safe? Yet she must be since you and this other gentleman
are here alive."

It took not long to tell them all, nor to learn that which had
befallen all the other houses and manors around. Some, we learnt, were
burnt to the ground; some were spared simply because they were so well
defended that the Indians had drawn off at daybreak without achieving
any victory; at some every inhabitant had been killed even to the
women and children; at others every creature had escaped. Many, too,
were the deeds of daring that had been done on this night of horror.
Women had stoutly helped their husbands, brothers, and sons in
fighting for their homes, one woman having killed near a score
of the Indians with her own musket. Another, who was alone in her
house--her husband being away at the newly re-constructed town of
Richmond--having none about her but her babes and some worthless
negroes, also defended her house both skilfully and valorously. She
appeared at different windows dressed in her husband's clothes,
changing the wig, or the coat, or other garments as she passed from
one room to another, so that the savages were led to think that the
house was full of men. She shouted orders to imaginary servants and
friends as though they were there to assist her, and every time she
fired she brought down her man so that, by daybreak, her little house
was of those saved. And this was but one of the many gallant actions
performed that night which I cannot here stop to narrate.

All who had now ridden into the courtyard of my dear one's house were
there with but one impulse to stir them. That impulse was revenge and
the rescue of the many prisoners whom they knew to have been carried
off. Yet, when they heard that Joice was gone--who amongst all the
girls in that part of the colony was, perhaps, the most beloved--and,
with her, Miss Mills, that impulse was stirred more deeply still, so
that when Gregory, addressing them, said:

"Gentlemen, she is my cousin, as you know, and, with Miss Mills, is
the only woman captured; therefore must I beg that the leadership of
this party is given to me," they willingly accorded him his desire.

But this I could not permit, so I, too, made a speech to them, saying:

"Yet must I put in my claim against Mr. Haller. Mistress Bampfyld is,
indeed, his cousin, but to me she is more--she is my promised wife.
Therefore, no matter who heads this party, I alone must go as the
chief seeker after her. I would have saved her with my life last night
had it been granted me to do so; I must claim the right to rescue her
now, or to die in attempting it."

"Your promised wife!" poor Gregory said, looking mournfully at me.
"Oh, Joice! Oh, Joice!"

But he alone was the one who did not heartily receive my statement,
all the others shouting lustily "for the future Lady St. Amande," and
saying that none was so worthy of such an honour as she.

"Nay," I said, "nay. 'Tis she who honours me by giving me her love,
and therefore must I be the first to risk my life for her."

So it was agreed that we should set forth at once on the trail, there
being many skilful trappers and hunters in the party who could take it
up as easily as an Indian himself, while, for commander, there should
be no one, each doing his best with the knowledge he possessed of the
savages' habits. Of this knowledge I myself had none, yet was I
recognised as the one most to be considered because I was the
affianced husband of Joice, the "Virginian Rose," as I had heard her
called ere now.

It needs not that I should set down aught that befel us on the
expedition; I know now that my love has written a description of the
journey she made. Nor is it necessary that I tell all that O'Rourke
narrated to us of the arrival of Roderick St. Amande on the scene of
slaughter after I was struck senseless, for that, too, you know. But,
as he informed us of all that had transpired at that time, and as he
told us that, had not it been for this execrable villain, there could
be little doubt that Pomfret and all the countryside round would have
been left as secure from attack by the Indians as it had been hitherto
left for many years, the rage of all in our party was supreme and
terrible.

"I hope," said one of the Pringles, uncle to the young man now a
prisoner, as I learnt, "I hope that, if the gigantic chief you speak
of is going to wreak his vengeance on the scoundrel, I may be in some
way witness of it."

"And I! And I!" exclaimed several others. "If we could see that, or if
they would but deliver him back into our hands, we would almost
forgive them all that they have done for our houses and families."

Travelling quickly, urging the poor beasts that they lent us onwards
as much as possible, walking by their sides to relieve them, and
carrying sometimes the saddles ourselves so that they might have
greater ease, we reached the spur of hills to which the trail had led
us on the morning of the third day after the raid on Pomfret. Thus, as
we knew afterwards, by not sleeping at night, or by sleeping only for
an hour or so at a time, we had arrived at the very period when the
exposure of Roderick St. Amande took place.

That we had proceeded with caution you may be sure. One would as soon
put their head in the lion's mouth as approach an Indian encampment
without due care. Our horses had by this time been left behind,
tethered in a glade and with their heads enveloped in blankets so that
they should not neigh, and one by one the whole of our party, which
consisted of some forty persons, crept slowly round the bluff of the
mountain, leaving the encampment to what I, as a sailor, may describe
as the leeward. Our plan, suggested by an old colonist who had been
engaged in fighting and contending with Indians and wild animals since
far back into the days when William of Orange ruled, was to creep
round this bluff, to ascend it a little, and then, from the elevation,
to look down upon the Indians' town and concoct our method of attack.
And, to the surprise of those who understood the Indian method of
warfare, this we were enabled to do without being discovered. We
encountered no outposts, such as these savage warriors invariably
throw out in a circle round their encampment. We saw no naked breast
or plumed head of Indian sentry gleaming through the pines and
sassafras, laurels and sumachs; no hideously painted face glaring at
us from behind the muscadine vines or maple trees that grew in rich
profusion at the mountain's base, ere its owner launched his poisoned
arrow at us. The reason was, as we learnt later, that none in that
encampment believed that the white avengers could travel twice as fast
as they themselves had travelled. None believed there could possibly
be a pale face within twenty miles of their town; and, more, there
was that taking place in their midst which was enough to distract even
the wary Indian from his duties of watchfulness.

What was happening we ourselves saw a few moments later.




CHAPTER XXVI

AS FOEMEN FIGHT


It was when we had climbed the spur, or bluff, one by one, crawling
like Indians or snakes ourselves, and when we lay prone and gazing
down upon the open space in the encampment that we saw that which
astonished us so.

This it was.

In the middle of that open space there stood, or rather fought, two
men, each contending for the other's life. Each also was a splendid
example of the Indian race, great in height, muscular and sinewy; yet
the one who seemed the younger of the two was the tallest and the best
favoured, the elder having a fierce and cruel face. Both wielded that
dreadful instrument, the tomahawk, the weapon that, while so small and
harmless-looking, is, in the hands of those accustomed to its use, so
deadly; both were bare from the waist upwards, their breasts painted
with emblems or devices--a bear on one, a panther on the other. Yet
more dreadful, perhaps, than to know that this was a combat to the
death, was to see the manner in which the struggle took place. It was
no battle of blow against blow, of one blow struck only to be warded
off and another given; it was a fight in which craft was opposed to
craft and skill to skill, such as no Italian swordsman perhaps knew
better how to exhibit. Round and round what once would have been
called the lists, or, as we now term it, the arena, those two stole
after each other, first one creeping like a tiger at his foe and then
his opponent doing the same; while, as they came within striking
distance, the tomahawk would rise in the attacker's hand only to sink
again as its wielder recognised that it must surely be skilfully
parried or fall ineffectually. It was weird, horrible--nay,
devilish--to see these two great types of humanity creeping at one
another like tigers, yet never meeting in a great shock, as one might
well have looked for.

But those below who sat there caused us as much surprise and agitation
as did these combatants. There I saw my sweet Joice with, on her fair
face, the greatest agitation depicted while she watched every movement
of the contending foemen, her excitement being intense as the one who
bore the emblem of the bear advanced as though to strike the other,
and her look of disappointment extreme when he drew back foiled. What
did it mean? What did it portend?

And there, too, was Mary Mills, her hand in Kinchella's as they sat
side by side, while on both their faces was the same eager look, the
same evident desire for the victory of the younger champion; the same
look of regret when he was forced to draw back. But, more marvellous
even than this, was what we further saw, yet could not comprehend.
_All_ in the crowd of spectators, save one who sat huddled on a great
chair or bench, his face covered with a mantle from which he peeped
furtively, seemed possessed with the same desire as they; all their
sympathy was with him who bore the emblem of the bear. It was so with
the dusky warriors who watched every cat-like footstep that the
antagonists took; so with the humbler Indians round; so with the
richly-bedizened Indian women, whom we deemed the wives or squaws of
the braves, and so with the almost nude Indian girls, servants
probably. And with all the other white people it was equally the
same. Buck and Mr. Pringle, and Mr. Byrd, as well as the other
prisoners--though none seemed like prisoners, being unshackled and
quite free--applauded and shouted in English fashion as the younger
warrior attacked the elder. One would have thought the former was
their dearest friend! They winced when the elder attacked in his turn,
and looked black and anxious if for a moment the fight seemed to go
against the Bear. Strange! all were for him--all; Indians, white
people, even my own dear sweetheart and her friends, Mary and
Kinchella--all, all, excepting that one shrouded, unknown creature who
sat apart by himself. Who could he be? What did it mean? O'Rourke was
able to inform me.

When he had told me that the Indian who was the desired victor of all
who regarded the combat was the one who had been the chief in command
of the attack on my sweet one's house, and had heard Roderick St.
Amande not only exposed by Miss Mills but also by his own tongue, he
said:

"And, my lord, remembering this, 'tis not difficult to draw therefrom
a conclusion that shall, I think, be near the mark. He has denounced
the villain Roderick--see how he cringes in his chair."

"In his chair? Is that creature Roderick?"

"It is, indeed, and I will wager that on this conflict his life
depends. And, look, look! The Bear presses the other hard. See how he
drives him back. Ah, God! he stumbles, he is--no, no! See, see, my
lord, see! Ah, heavens! it is too dreadful!" And he placed his hands
before his eyes. Even he, who had fought so well and risked his life a
score of times three nights ago, could not witness the end of this
fray.

It was, indeed, too dreadful. The end of the combat had come. Even as
O'Rourke had been speaking, the Bear, creeping ever forward towards
the other, had prepared to make a spring at him when, his foot
catching against some unevenness in the baked earth, he stumbled and
nearly fell. And then, indeed, it looked as though he were lost. In an
instant his antagonist was at him; on high he whirled the dreadful
tomahawk, we saw its gleam as it descended, we heard Joice and Mary
scream and clasp their hands--and we saw that it had missed its mark.
It had overshot the other's shoulder; as it descended the Panther's
great forearm alone struck on the shoulder of the Bear, the deadly axe
itself cut into nothing but empty space. So the latter had lost the
one chance given him in the fray.

But now his own doom was sealed--now at the moment that O'Rourke
called out in terror. As the Bear recovered himself from what was in
itself a terrible blow given by the muscular arm of the other savage,
so he seized that arm with his left hand,--it closed upon that other's
limb as a vice closes when tightly screwed!--he wrenched the arm
round, dragging with it its owner's body, and then, high, swift, and
sudden, his own tomahawk flashed in the air and, descending, cleft his
antagonists head in half, he falling quivering and dead.

From us, lying up there on the rise of the bluff, there came a gasp, a
sigh of relief that the horrid combat which had caused us all to hold
our breath was finished; from the Indians below there arose dreadful
whoops and yells. They rushed into the great circle, they shouted and
they screamed; their noted impassiveness gone now, for a time at
least. They jeered at the great dead carcase lying there, a pool of
blood around it, and with the weapon still in its sinewy hand; they
even dabbled their fingers in that blood as the cried: "Anuza is now
our chief. The Bear shall rule over us. Senamee was unworthy, and he
has met his fate."

Now, as we prepared to descend into their midst, we saw Anuza, as they
termed him, turn towards the prisoners. Looking principally, it seemed
to me, towards Joice, we heard him say:

"White woman, and you, her kin, have I atoned somewhat for the sin
that I have done to you! The dead whom we slew in your houses we
cannot bring back, but one of those who urged us most to the fray has
answered for it. Now shall the other--the cheat, the false medicine
man--be punished also." And he turned towards where my cousin had sat
but a moment before.

"What!" he exclaimed, rushing towards the bench, "what, gone! Gone!
Where is he?"

But this none could answer for, in the few moments of intense
excitement that had followed the death of him whom they called
Senamee, he had disappeared.

As they set forth to find him, as braves shouted orders to inferior
warriors to track and discover him but on no account to take his life
till it was offered up before them all, I rushed down the declivity of
where we had lain and, heedless of the excitement our appearance
caused, approached my darling and clasped her in my arms. Ah! what joy
it was to have that fair young form enfolded in them, to hear her
murmured words of love and happiness, to be with her once again, even
though our meeting took place in such a scene as this!

But, ere we could do more than exchange hurried whispers one with
another, the victorious chief was by our side and he was addressing
me:

"Beloved of the white woman," he said, "though I know not how you and
yours came here so swiftly," pointing to all my companions who stood
around, some shaking hands with the gentlemen who had been captured,
some regarding the dead body of Senamee which lay where it had fallen,
and some talking to the bond-servants who, with Buck for their chief
spokesman, were giving an excited description of what had happened to
them. "Beloved of the white woman, for such I know you to be, have you
come here simply to carry her back to her own dwelling house, or to
demand vengeance for the wrong done on her and all of you and your
servants and slaves? Answer, so that we shall know."

I cast my eyes down on Joice, who, poor maid, was now sobbing on my
breast, while some of the Virginian gentlemen who knew not of our
recently avowed love gazed with somewhat of an amazed look at us; and
then I replied:

"As yet I can make no answer to you. Amongst all these white men whom
you see here I am of the least standing, being but a stranger in the
land with no tie to it but this maiden's love. Yet since you address
me, and if they will have me for their spokesman at this moment," and
casting my eyes around on our friends I saw that they were willing it
Should be so, "I say that, ere we reply to you, we must be given some
time for conference between ourselves on the wrong which you have done
towards those who never harmed you nor yours."

Here to my amazement, though I learnt the reason directly afterwards,
the great chief heaved a profound sigh, and, indeed, groaned, while I
went on.

"And also must we know in what position we are here within your camp.
Do you still regard us as at war or peace? Are all free to go as they
desire, or are those here prisoners still?"

Amidst the calls of the Indians who were seeking for Roderick to one
another from the thickets and groves, and the continued shouts which
told us that as yet their quest had been unsuccessful, the chief
answered:

"I, too, speak as the mouth of my tribe, almost all of whom can
understand my words; nay, some there are whose fathers and fathers'
fathers were of your blood. Even so," he said, hearing our murmurs of
astonishment and, in the case of some, their murmurs of disgust. "Even
so. But for all of my tribe, whether of the noble Shawnee and Doeg
races which hath spread here from the great river to the north, or the
Manahoacs, or Monacans, or Tucaroras, Catawbas, or Cherokees, of all
of which races we are composed, and also for those of white blood who
have become of us, I speak, since he who now lies there is dead. All
are free to go, nay, shall be escorted back in safety to their homes.
For the war which we have made on you has been a sinful one, ordered
by the lying false medicine man whom we believed in. And, or
atonement, this I offer, being, though I knew it not then, myself the
worst of all my tribe. For the injuries I have done to the white woman
whose people were good to my father I offer my life, having naught
else to give. Here on this spot I offer it, now and at once."

And to my amazement, as well, indeed, as that of all around, Anuza
came forward to where Joice and I stood, and, kneeling down before
her, stretched out his arms and went on: "Take it now, either with
your own hands or by the hands of this your beloved, or the hands of
these your slaves and servants. What more can I offer than this,
unless also you desire that I shall die a death of torture? And, if
that be so, then that will I also endure."

My love had raised her head from my breast to gaze at him as he spoke
thus; around us had gathered the gentlemen of Pomfret who had been
taken prisoners; near us, looking on with strange and curious looks,
were those who but recently had been her bond-servants. 'Twas a
strange scene and one that would well have become a painter's
brush had any been there to limn it. The noble form of the huge
chief prostrate before the golden-haired girl who clung to her
lover--himself a sorry sight in his soiled and stained finery, which
he had worn from the evening that had begun so happily and ended so
horribly in her house; the dead body of the other chief lying there
close by her feet; the forms of Indian men and women all around, some
clad in gorgeous bravery and some nearly naked; also the other white
men of different degree--all looking on. Nor would the background have
been unworthy of so strange a set of characters. The green glade
dotted with its tents and wigwams, set off in contrast the
blood-smeared arena where the dead man lay; behind began the ascent of
the mountain range, clad with the verdure of the white magnolia, the
tulip tree and laurel, with, peeping through, the darker green of the
bay tree. Glinting through their branches and many-hued leaves were
seen the colours of the blue jay and blue birds, the golden orioles
and the scarlet cardinals, with, distinct from all and horrible to
see, the dusky forms of the foul vultures who had been gathered to the
spot by the warm, sickly scent of the dead man's blood.

And now my beloved, drying her eyes, spoke softly to the man kneeling
before her, saying in her sweet, clear voice:

"Nay, nay, speak not to me of death; there has been too much already.
God He knows I seek not your life--no, not more than she who succoured
your father sought his. But, oh! if this last conflict might end for
ever the encounters between your people and mine I would ask no more."

From the Indians around there came a murmur that seemed born of
surprise. "She forgives," they whispered to each other. "The white
woman forgives the evil the Bear has done to her." And still they
murmured, "She forgives."

"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" Joice cried, hearing their words, while she
stretched out her fair young arms so that, indeed, I thought she
looked more like unto an angel than before. "Yes, if forgiveness rests
with me, then do I indeed forgive. And you, my friends," turning to
those of our own race who stood around, "will you not forgive too;
will you not make this day one that shall end all strife between them
and us? Oh! if thus we could forget the wrongs that each has done to
the other, if the red man will forget the white man's attacks on him
and the white men forget the Indian's revenge, how happily we might
all dwell together in peace for ever."

I looked round that strange gathering as she spoke, and, doing so, I
saw that which might well give good augury of the coming to pass of
what she desired. For in the eyes both of Indian and of colonist, of
savage warrior and of almost equally savage backwoodsman and hunter,
there were tears to be seen. It was not only from the clear young eyes
of Joice that they fell.




CHAPTER XXVII

A LONG PEACE


An hour later those who had been such deadly enemies sat at peace
together, engaged in a consultation. In a circle, side by side, were
the sachems and sagamores of the tribe, the settlers of Pomfret who
had come forth with me to rescue our friends, the late prisoners
themselves, and Joice seated by me. Apart, and taking no share in the
proceedings, were Kinchella and Mary Mills; above, and seated in
Senamee's great chair, was Anuza, now chief over all. Farther off were
the late bondsmen and many other of the Indians, while in the centre
of them was Buck, showing a variety of cheats and delusions, and
endeavouring to teach them how to perform them themselves--though this
they seemed unable to do.

And now an old paw-wah, or sachem, passed the pipe he had been smoking
to another sitting by his side, and spake as follows:

"Chiefs and braves of the tribe who are ever now allies, and you, the
pale faces who dwell to the east of us, hearken unto me. For ere the
sun sets to night it shall be, perhaps, that peace is settled between
us for ever; ay! until the sun shall rise no more and the moon shall
be darkened always."

"Speak," said one of the tribe, while others gave the peculiar grunt
of the Indian and those of our party also bade him speak.

"It is good," he answered, "and I will speak of the far-off days when
first the pale face came amongst us, though not then as a foe, until
even now when, if the great Spirit so wills it, he shall never more be
one. For the wrongs that have been done by the one to the other may be
atoned for ever now."

He paused a moment to collect his thoughts, as it seemed, and then
again he went on: "When first the great waterhouses brought the pale
face to our land they brought not enemies but friends. This all know.
They came among us and they were welcome. We gave them of the fish of
our streams and the beasts of our forests and the fruits of the earth,
and in return they gave us the fire-weapons with which to slay the
beasts. They taught us also how to prepare them in better ways than we
knew, they showed us how to build houses that should be more secure
against the sun's heat and the winter's cold than those we made of the
red cedar's bark. All was well between us; we were friends. Nay, as
all know, we were brothers. We lay on the white man's hearth and he
cherished us; he slept in our cabins and wigwams and he was safe. Why
remained it not so? Hear me, and I will tell you.

"The white man spake not always truth to us. He told us that our lands
were worthless, and he bought them from us for nothing, unless it was
the accursed fire-drink which made us mad, or for fire-weapons that in
our hands would slay nothing. Yet the lands thrived in his grasp and
he possessed them and we had lost them. And when we reproached him he
used fire-weapons that slew us without failure, and our prisoners whom
he took he sent away for ever across the deep waters.[5] So he took
our lands and our men, and got all, and we had nothing. And the Indian
never forgets. Thus, while we drew away from where the pale face
dwelt, some coming to these mountains and some going even farther
towards the unknown land of the setting sun, we had naught to cherish
but our revenge, and naught to comfort us but the exercise of that
revenge."

"Yet," interrupted young Mr. Byrd, "in the days of my grandfather you
made a peace with us, and took gifts from us, and fire-weapons that
would kill of a surety, and agreed to attack us no more. But even that
peace you did not keep, though you made no raids upon us such as this
you have now made."

"Yet were we never the aggressors," the sachem replied. "Never was an
attack made by us until evil was done to us. But the Indian forgives
not. If one of our race was slain by one of the white race then must
one of his kin be slain by us; if our women were outraged, as has
often been, or insulted, then must a white woman or a child be carried
away by us. It is the law of our gods; it must be obeyed. For a life a
life, for a hand a hand, for an Indian woman's honour a white woman's,
or the carrying off of children."

"But," said Gregory, "there was naught to inspire such desire for
revenge as to cause this last attack. None in Pomfret have harmed you
or yours for many moons. What had she," pointing to Joice, "done; she,
this innocent woman, scarce more than a girl even now, that thus you
should attack and ruin her and seek her life and that of those by whom
she was surrounded?"

The sachem was about to answer when whatever he would have said was
interrupted by Anuza, who, speaking quickly, said:

"Because we were deceived by a lying, false, medicine man it was done.
Because he told us lies, even as he has lied to us ever since he dwelt
amongst us. And for those lies he shall die. He cannot escape us long.
Yet, since it is due to the white men that they should know how that
crawling snake worked upon us, so that we believed in him and did his
bidding and attacked their houses, tell them all--tell them all," and
he motioned to the sachem as he spoke.

That all of us were eager to hear this recountal, you may be well
sure, for there was scarcely one amongst us who had not known the
wretch. The gentlemen had met him as an equal--for all believed his
tale--he had caroused with the (now freed) bondsmen, and he had even
gone a-hunting with the backwoodsmen and trappers. So we bent our ears
to the narrative and listened greedily.

"He was found," said the paw-wah, "lying in the forest by Lamimi, the
young daughter of Owalee, a chief of the Powhattans, and she, because
her heart was tender, succoured him. But because Owalee hated the pale
faces with a great hatred she kept him secret from her father for many
days, hiding him in a cave she knew of and going to visit him often.
Yet she believed him to be no pale face, but rather a god sent from
another world, so wonderful were his doings. Food he refused at her
hands, making signs to her (and knowing, too, some words of her
tongue, as she knew some of his, by which they conversed) that meat
was brought to him by some unseen power. And of this he gave her
proof, showing her bones of fishes and of animals and birds which he
had devoured. Later on she learnt that he could marvellously snare all
creatures, making them captive to him even though he had no weapons,
but this she told us not until to-day. Nor told she until to-day--when
she, who had been his squaw and loved him, learned that she was to be
cast out and the white maiden here and her dark sister made to take
her place--of all his own deceptions and crafts. But, to-day, because
she hates him now as once she loved him, she has told all--all! She it
was who taught him the history of our braves and their deeds and the
deeds of their forefathers, which we thought the Sun God only could
have taught him so wonderful did his knowledge seem. She it was who
carried to him the news of what the tribes were deciding on doing,
either in war with other tribes, or in hunting, or in sacrificing, so
that, when he told us that he had learned all our future intentions,
again we believed that his father, the Sun, gave him the knowledge.
Fools! fools that we were! Yet we never thought of the girl, Lamimi,
though we knew she was his squaw. Nor would she have told him all she
did had he not ruled her by terror as much as by love. For he made her
believe that he could cause her to vanish for ever off the earth, even
as he made things to vanish from his hands and be no more seen; or as
he made stones to fly into the air and descend no more. Yet now she
knows, as we know, that all was but trickery, and that many others can
do the same, even as that one there," pointing to Buck, "who says he
is the child of no god, can do such things.

"So the false one worked upon us, doing that which no medicine man had
ever done before; and so, at last, he got supreme control over us,
making us obey his every word. And ever did he tell us that, if we
would please the great Sun God, then must we make war upon and destroy
all the pale faces who dwelt between these mountains and the waters,
directing more particularly our vengeance towards the spot where you,
ye white people, live. This we at first would not do, because for many
moons there had been peace between us with neither little nor great
war; yet, as moon followed moon, and leaf was followed by barrenness
and then withered and fell to the earth, still did he press us. When
the thunder rolled and the lightning blasted our cattle, he told us
the Sun was angry because we obeyed him not; when many of our horses
were killed by reptiles and venomous insects he said ever the same;
when our women bore dead children still spake he of the Sun God's
anger. And yet we would not hearken unto him, for since the pale faces
no longer came against us we went not against them.

"But lo! one day, when all the earth was dark, yet with no cloud
beneath the sky, he stood forth here on this spot where now we sit,
and, stretching out his arms which were bare, he said that ere long
upon his hands should appear a message from the Sun telling us of the
god's anger. And soon the message came, though now we know that it was
a cheat. Upon his open palm, which had been empty ere he clenched it,
there appeared a scroll of skin with, on it, mystic figures which none
could decipher but he. And the figures said, he told us, that never
more should the heavens be light again and that there should be
darkness over all the land, if we would not make war upon the white
men and save ourselves. For they, he said, were arming to attack us,
from over the deep waters their great king, who dwelt beyond them, was
sending more fearful fire-weapons than we had known with which to
destroy us for ever, and, ere another moon had passed, they would have
come. So, at last, in the darkness of the day, and with great fear in
the hearts of all the warriors and braves of the tribe, they said if
he would cause the Sun God to show his face again, then they would
promise to make the war. And so he stretched his hands to the Sun and
spake some words, and slowly his rays came forth again one by one and
light appeared again upon the world. Yet this we also know now was
false, and that the rays would have come and also the light even
though the promise had been withheld. I have spoken."

At first none of us uttered a word when the sachem concluded. In
truth, all were surprised that, even among these poor, ignorant
savages, such credulity could have existed. And, I think, most of us
were pondering on what they would have done to the impostor had the
promise not been forthcoming by the time that the eclipse--for it was,
naturally, of such a thing the sachem spake--had passed away.

Yet a spokesman had to be put forward on our part, and so we drew away
a little to consult. And having chosen one, which was Kinchella, we
returned and he addressed the Indians thus:

"Warriors, braves, and people of the assembled tribes. We have thought
upon all your sachem has said, and we wish that the only true God had
inspired your hearts so that you should not have listened to the false
prophet who deceived you. Yet, since you have done so, and have made
war upon those who in their generation have never harmed you, what
reparation can you offer us?"

"Ask what you will," said Anuza, "and if it is in our power it shall
be given."

"'Tis well. Listen, therefore. These are our demands. Firstly, all
those who dwell with you and have our blood, the blood of the white
men, in their veins, shall be brought here, so that we may speak with
them and implore them to return with us to their own people. Also that
I, who am a humble minister of the true God, may endeavour to bring
them back to His service and, if I can prevail upon them, then you
shall let them accompany us."

"If you can prevail upon them," said Anuza, "they shall accompany you.
But that you cannot do," and the tone in which he spoke seemed to us
one of most marvellous confidence.

"At least we will attempt it. Next, we call upon you all here
assembled to make vows, the most solemn to which you can pledge
yourselves, that never again shall you make war upon the white man, or
his houses or property, nor attempt aught against him until he first
attacks you, and that none of your tribes shall come within a day's
ride of our lands either by stealth or openly."

"Children of these our tribes," exclaimed Anuza, "you hear this
demand. Will you agree to it so that evermore there shall be unbroken
peace between them and us? Answer."

To this there were many who cried out that they would agree to it,
while one, an older man than Anuza, coming forward, said:

"A peace is no peace unless it binds both alike who agree to it. Will
the pale faces agree also that, if we advance not into the lands they
have possessed themselves of, they will come no further into ours?
Will they do this?"

All of our side said they would promise this, while they recalled to
the Indians that 'twas more than fifty summers and winters since they
had made any encroachments on the Indians' territories, or taken one
rood of land from them except by barter at a price agreed upon. And so
at last the compact was made--the peace (which hath ever since that
day, so far as my knowledge serves, been kept in His Majesty's loyal
colony of Virginia) was entered into. It was ratified by the white men
calling upon heaven to witness their agreement to it, and by the
Indians swearing upon their wounds and scars, and calling upon their
gods to inflict most dreadful vengeance on them, and their children
afterwards, if they failed in their part. And also was it sealed by
the passing round of a pipe of peace, at which all smoked silently for
a few moments. But still one other promise was extorted from them--the
promise that the sacred symbol of our faith, the Cross, should be
taken down and nevermore used for the horrid rites to which hitherto
it had been put. This we saw done ere we left them.

Now, as we sat smoking gravely with those who had so lately been our
bitter foes, there came in the Indians who had been sent to find the
villain Roderick, who reported that nowhere could any traces of him be
discovered. He had vanished as mysteriously as he had come--all trace
and trail of him was lost.

And what disturbed these grave savages almost as much--nay, I think,
more, was that Lamimi, the daughter of Owalee, who had been Roderick's
squaw and had loved him once, was gone too. And white and red man
both asked themselves the same question--had that love awakened once
more in her bosom and forced her to fly with him; or--dreadful
thought!--had he in some way been able to wreak his vengeance on her
for having told the story of his imposture to her own people?

We were soon to know.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE REWARD OF A TRAITOR


One thing there was to be done ere we quitted the Indian encampment.
It was to try and bring away with us those who, alas! poor souls, had
come there as white prisoners and had remained of their own free will,
becoming savages in all but complexion. We knew that it would be hard
to tear them from those to whom they had attached themselves. We knew
that girls, who should have grown up to become the wives of sturdy
English colonists or trappers, had stayed willingly with the Indians
to become their squaws and the mothers of their dusky children. We
remembered Anuza's air of confidence when he told us how he doubted of
our being able to persuade them to return with us. Yet we hoped. How
our hopes succeeded you shall see.

We had remarked from our first arrival that there were no signs of any
white people amongst the Indians of the various tribes who dwelt here
together. Yet they had been eagerly sought for. Men from Pomfret and
the small holdings round about it had scanned the stained and painted
faces they gazed down upon while the fight between Anuza and Senamee
had been taking place, in the hopes--perhaps, in some cases, the
fears--that underneath those dreadful pigments the might recognise the
features of some long lost kinsman or kinswoman. And even I, knowing
the stories of those who had been carried off at various periods and
had never returned, had whispered to Joice, asking her if she could
see any whom she had ever known as children dwelling near her? But she
had only shaken her head and answered that she could see none, and
that she almost prayed she should not do so. And I knew why she thus
hoped none would be forthcoming; I knew that, to her tender heart, it
would be more painful to see these renegades than to gaze upon those
who were born savages and had never known the blessings of dwelling in
a Christian community.

Yet now she had to see them.

At a sign from Anuza an Indian servant went forth amongst the tents
and wigwams, returning presently followed by three women--white! Yes,
white, in spite of the stained skin, the Indian trappings of fringed
moccasins and gaiters, of quills and beads and feathers, and of
dressed fawn-skin tunics. Who could doubt it who saw above two of
their heads the fair yellow hair of the northern European woman--was
it some feminine vanity that had led them to keep this portion of
their original English beauty untampered with?--and above that of the
other the chestnut curls which equally plainly told that in her veins
there ran no drop of savage blood.

As they stepped towards us, casting glances of no friendly nature at
those of their own race, one of the women, young and comely and
leading by her hand a child, went directly towards Anuza and,
embracing him, disposed herself at his feet while the child played
with the great hand that, but a few hours ago, had slain Senamee.
Her form was lithe and graceful--in that she might have been Indian
born--upon her head glistened her yellow hair which the Bear softly
stroked; her garb was rich though barbaric. It consisted of a
fawn-skin, bleached so white that it might have been samite, that
reached below the knee, and it was fringed with beads and white
shells. Her leggings were also of some white material but softer; her
moccasins were stained red and fringed also with shells.

She turned her eyes up at Anuza--we saw that they were hazel ones,
soft and clear--and spake some words to him in a whisper, and then was
heard his answer:

"My beloved," he said, "those whom you see around us are of your race,
and we have sworn but now eternal peace with them--a peace that must
never more be broken. Yet to ensure that peace we have granted one
request to the pale faces; we have consented that, if those who dwell
with us, yet are of their land, desire to leave us and go back with
them, they are free to do so. Do you desire thus to return?"

"To return!" she said, looking first with amazement at him and then at
us, "to return and leave you? Oh! Anuza, Anuza! My heart's dearest
love!" while, as she spoke, she embraced the knee against which she
reclined.

"You see," he said to us, "you see. And as it is with her so will it
be with the others. Yet make your demand if you will."

Alas! all was in vain. In vain that Joice and Miss Mills pleaded with
them as women sometimes can plead with their sisters for their
good--what could they hope to effect? If they implored them to return
to their own people they were answered that they could not leave their
husbands, for so they spoke of the chiefs to whom they were allied. If
they asked them to return to Christianity the reply was that their
husbands' faith was their faith. It was hopeless, and soon we knew it
to be so. The lives they led now were the only lives they had any
knowledge of--their earlier ones at home, amongst their own people,
were forgotten if they had ever understood them; their very parents,
they told us, were but the shadow of a memory.

"Why, therefore," asked the fairest complexioned of them all, she who
was the squaw of the Bear and the mother of his child, "should we go
back to those we know not of, even though they be still alive? Will
your faith, which preaches that a woman shall leave all to cleave unto
her husband, ask me to leave mine and my child and go back to I know
not what?"

"In truth," I heard one old colonist whisper to O'Rourke, who stood by
his side, "there would be none for her to go back to. I do think she
is the child of Martin Peake, who was stolen when a babe, and, if so,
her father has been long since dead. Her mother lived until a year ago
hoping ever that she might return, looking up the lane that led to the
woods with wistful eyes, as though she might perhaps see her coming
back at last; even keeping her little room ready against her coming.
Yet it was never to be, and she died with her longing ungratified,"
and the man dashed his rough hand across his eyes as he spoke, while I
saw that those of the old adventurer also filled with tears as he
listened. Then he said softly: "I can understand. I once had a
daughter whom I loved dearly and--and she is dead and gone from me.
Yet better so, far better than to be like this."

Therefore it was not to be! They refused to come with us, and set the
love for their savage mates against all entreaties on our part. Nor
could we find it in our hearts to blame them. We remembered other
marriages that had taken place in earlier days between red and white;
we recalled the union of John Rolfe with the Princess Pocahontas, as
well as many more, and we knew that most of them had been happy. What
could we do but cease to plead and go in peace?

Thus we set out again on our road to Pomfret, and, although some of
the party were going back to ruined homes, I think that even so they
were content. For, in so rich and wooded a land as this fertile
Virginia, houses might soon be repaired and made whole again, crops
easily brought to bear once more, and cattle replaced. And, against
any loss that had been incurred, there was always the great set-off of
peace with the Indians and security. All knew in that band--for well
were they acquainted with their foes of old--that, during at least the
present generation, the tribes would keep their word; if they made war
again it would not be during our time. The Indian had not yet learned
the art of lying--he was still uncivilised!

These did endeavour to offer some reparation for the wrong they had
done the colony; they brought forth skins and furs, ornaments such as
they deemed might prove acceptable, weapons, and, in some few
instances, trinkets, gold, and precious stones--got we knew not
whence--which they piled on the ground and bade us take, saying they
had no more. But no man took aught from them, and so, after Kinchella
had offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for our release and another
that, if not now, at least at some future date, these poor heathens
might be gathered into the true fold, we set forth. And never more did
one of our party lay eyes upon any of those tribes again. As they had
vowed, so the vow was kept.

As we rode on we could not but wonder what would be the fate of my
wretched cousin, the author of all the woe that had recently befallen
the, until now, happy little settlement.

"That they will find him and slay him," said Gregory, who knew much of
their ways, "is certain. It is impossible he should escape or they
forgive. Well, vile as he is, God help him!"

"Amen," said Joice, as she rode by my side. "Amen."

"Perhaps," said the old hunter, who had recognised Anuza's squaw, "he
may strike the southern trail and make for the Seminoles; they hate
all the Alleghany tribes like poison. If he could get them to listen
to him, and promised to lead them up to their encampment, he might yet
join on to them."

"Never," said Mr. Byrd. "He would have to join in the fight not shirk
from it in the garb of a medicine chief. Amongst the Red Sticks[6]
every man fights, and fighting is not his cue."

"What I can't fathom," remarked another, "is how the white girls never
found him out. They should have known their own kind."

"It may be," Gregory said, "that he kept himself ever apart. His squaw
was Indian, and, for his knowledge of our tongue, why! that he would
attribute to a gift from his precious Sun God. Doubtless he told them
he knew all tongues."

"And the girls," said Mr. Byrd, "were stolen when they were children.
They could never have known--my God!" he exclaimed, breaking off,
"what is that?" while, with his finger, he pointed to a sight that
froze all our blood with horror.

We had reached the bend of a small river which joined, later on, the
James, and were passing one side of it, a flat, muddy shore. On the
other side there arose a stiff, almost perpendicular, bank, beneath
which the river flowed; a bank that rose some seventy to eighty feet
above the water's level. And here it was that we saw that which was so
terrible to look upon.

Fixed into the earth was a long pole, or spar, of Virginian pine;
attached to that pole was the naked body of a man--or was it the body
of what had once been a man? It was bound to the staff by a cord of
wampum, the arms were bound to it above the head by yet a second cord;
plunged into the heart was an Indian knife, the hilt glistening in the
rays of the evening sun. But worse, far worse to see than this--which
we could do with ease since the stream was but a narrow one--was that
the body was already nearly consumed with swarms nay, myriads--of huge
ants that had crept up to it by the pole, and were already feeding on
it so ravenously that, in a few more hours, there could be nothing
left but the skeleton. Indeed, already our dilated eyes could see that
the flesh of the lower limbs was gone--devoured; of the feet and legs
there was naught left but the bones, while the body and the face were
black with the host of venomous ants preying on them, so that the
features could not be distinguished.

The women shrieked and hid their faces while the men sat appalled on
their horses. Then with, as it seemed, one impulse, all but one of the
latter dismounted and, wading through the stream that now, after the
long drought, was but knee-deep, rushed at the steep bank and
endeavoured to ascend it.

The impulse that so prompted all of us, except Kinchella, who remained
with Joice and Miss Mills, was that _we guessed who and what that
awful figure had once been_.

At first we could find no foothold by which to ascend; we strived in
vain, we even endeavoured to dig out steps with our swords and hands;
it was all unavailing. We should, indeed, have returned, desisting
from our labour, had not at this moment one of the trappers espied,
lower down, a slight path leading to the summit, a path doubtless used
by the Indians when in the neighbourhood. And so, gaining that path,
we reached the level above and drew near the horrid thing.

No need to ask who the creature had once been; all was answered by one
quick glance. At the foot of the pole, at the foot of the thing
itself, there lay a fawn-skin tunic and a silken cloak on which were
wrought stars and moons and snakes, and a great blazing Sun, the
insignia, or totems, of the false medicine man.

Yet, how had the deed been done? The Indians whom he had outraged and
deceived lay far behind us in the mountains; they, therefore, could
not have been his executioners. We had not far to seek ere this was
discovered too. The crest of the bank was higher than the level behind
it, which sloped downwards away from the river, and thus, when we
stood on the other side, we could not see all that lay below that
crest.

But now we saw, and, seeing, understood.

Near him, yet so far away that the venomous ants had not yet, at
least, reached it, there was another body--the body of a woman. It lay
on its back, the eyes staring up to the heavens, the tunic torn open
at the left breast and in that breast another dagger buried, which
still the right hand of the woman, an Indian, grasped and held as firm
as when she struck herself her death blow.

So we knew all! We knew that he had escaped the vengeance of the tribe
only to die at the hands of the woman who had loved him once, and
whose love he had thought to replace--the hands of the woman who,
having saved his life at the outset, had taken it from him when he was
false to her.

And thus he perished, not by the hands of those from whom he was
fleeing, but by those of Lamimi, his slighted and forsaken squaw.





PART IV

THE NARRATIVE OF
JOICE BAMPFYLD CONTINUED




CHAPTER XXIX

HOMEWARD BOUND


It took not more than three months to put my house into a liveable
condition once more, for, most happily, the injury which had been done
to it in the Indian raid concerned more the woodwork and the fittings
than aught else. Indeed, while this was a-doing, I also took occasion
to have many improvements made in various portions of the manor that
were sorely needed. Thus, in some of our upstairs rooms, our windows
had in them nothing but oiled paper, while others were furnished with
naught but Muscovy glass or sheets of mica, dating back from the time
of the first Bampfyld who came to the colony. These I now replaced by
crystal glass brought from England for the purpose.

Yet, in spite of changes and, I suppose, improvements, I could not
restrain my tears when first I set eyes on my saloon again. Oh!
how sad it was to see the spinet and the harpsichord broken to
pieces--everything stood exactly as we had left it that night--to see
also my choice Segodia carpets stained with the dried blood that had
been shed, and to observe my window-sashes, with their pretty gildings,
in splinters.

"Yet cheer up, sweetheart," my lord said to me, as, leaning on his
arm, I looked round this ruin and let fall my tears. "It is not
irreparable, and might have been worse. And, when we come back from
England, we will bring such pretty toys and knick-knacks with us that
you shall forget all you have lost. I promise you, sweet, you shall."
After which he strove to kiss away my tears, though still they fell.

This took place directly after we had all ridden into the courtyard on
our return from captivity. And when the gentlemen whose houses had
also been attacked as mine had been (including poor Gregory, who
seemed heart-broken at my having fallen in love, yet not with him),
and the other colonists had dispersed to their own homes, or what
remained of them, we had instantly begun to inspect the damage done.
Of the negroes we could discover no signs, though Buck and young Lamb
searched the whole house from the cellars to the garrets for them, the
former roaring many terrible threats and strange ejaculations at their
heads in the hopes they might be in hiding and, on hearing him, come
forth; but all was of no avail. Nor, when they searched in the late
slaves' and bond-servants' quarters were they any more successful.
Christian Lamb, my own maid, soon, however, re-appeared, she having
remained in the house the whole time, and though her brother swore at
her for a chicken-hearted wench and called her many other hard names,
such as traitress and deserter, I was most thankful to see her again,
she being a good, faithful creature, though timorous.

From her we learned that after the departure of O'Rourke and my dear
lord--the former of whom was now engaged in finding provisions for us,
if any remained--the negroes had all sallied forth in a body towards
the coast, some with the intention of escaping from their servitude
and the others to find a home until I returned, if ever, of which they
seemed most doubtful. After this, she told us, the house had been
quite deserted, there being none in it but herself--the other white
indented servant women having also betaken themselves to the village
for safety. Yet she determined to remain until she heard some news of
us and of the party that had set forth to rescue us. Moreover, her
alarm was lessened by the fact that a squadron of the Virginian Light
Horse, from Jamestown, had come into the village with a view of
following us and effecting a rescue if possible, but, on learning that
a considerable band had set out for the purpose, they had decided to
remain where they were, for the present, at least, and to await
results.

And now, when at the end of those months my house was once more fit
for habitation, and when all signs of the horrible attack that had
been made on it had been removed, Gerald, coming to me one evening
when I was sitting by my wood fire--for the evenings were turning
chilly--said:

"My dearest, are you ready? The time draws near."

"Must it be so soon?" I asked coyly, and with a blush upon my cheeks
that was not caused by the blaze of the logs. "Must it be now?"

"In very truth it must," he answered. "I must away to England as
swiftly as may be. See here, sweet, what I have found at Jamestown
to-day." Then with one arm round my waist, he drew forth with his
disengaged hand a packet of letters from his pocket and began to read
them to me.

"The Marquis," he said first, "grows old, nay, has grown old; he is
seventy-five if an hour. List what he says," and continued his reading
of a letter from that noble kinsman:

"I would have you here ere I die so that I may publicly announce you
as my heir, and this I will do in my own house when you return, though
even then I can of no certainty promise that the Lords will enrol you
as such immediately after my death, since they are not so easily
persuaded as their brothers in Dublin. Yet come, I say, come as soon
as may be. Your mother, too, grows more feeble, worn almost to her
grave by the slanders which your uncle and the man Considine--who
scruples not to say openly that you are none other than _his_
son--puts about you; and in truth I do think these calumnies will kill
her ere long. She rages terribly against them both, and calls on me
and many of the peers in power to punish them; yet what are we to do?"
"The vile wretches!" I exclaimed, as I nestled close to him. "Oh! the
vile wretches! Oh! my darling, that thus your birthright should be so
assailed."

"Yet will I have vengeance," he exclaimed, while his eyes glowed with
resentment. "Yet shall the fellow Considine regret that he has ever
dared to call me his son. His--his. God! My uncle's drunken pander!"
and for a while his rage was terrible to witness.

Then, taking up another letter, he said, "This also I found at
Jamestown to-day. It is from her, from my mother."

She, too, wrote saying how earnestly she desired that he might soon be
able to return home, and more especially so as she heard that the
fleet under Sir Chaloner Ogle was about to do so. Then, after
mentioning somewhat the same news as the Marquis had done, she went
on:

"Oh! my dearest child, can'st thou picture to thyself all the horrors
that I have endured since first you were impressed and torn away from
me again, after our short but happy meeting? I think it cannot be that
you do so. For five years have I, with my wasted frame and ill health
ever to contend against, pleaded your cause, worked hard to produce
evidence of your birth, and was even so successful with the Marquis's
aid as to defeat your vile uncle in the Irish courts and induce the
Lords there to enrol you as Lord St. Amande. Yet, as I have thus
striven, think of what else I have had to fight against. That most
abhorred and execrable villain, Wolfe Considine, has thrown away the
mask--if he ever wore it--and has now for two or three years boldly
said--God! how can I write the words?--that when your erring father
was petitioning the House of Lords for a divorce I was his,
Considine's, friend, and that you are his son."

The paper shook in my loved one's hands as he read these words, and he
muttered, "Considine, Considine, if ever you come within the point of
my sword it shall go hard with you," and then went on with the perusal
of the letter:

"That no one believes him--for none do so--matters not. The odium is
still the same, and there are some in existence who remember how, at
Bath and Tunbridge Wells, ere I had met your father, the wretch
persecuted me with his attentions, which I loathed. Also, I remember
that, on my becoming affianced to your father, he swore that I should
rue it and regret it on my knees, even though he had to wait twenty
years for his revenge. Alas! alas! I have rued it and regretted it
again and again, though not as he intended. Yet, my child, and only
one, if I could but see you properly acknowledged as the Marquis's
heir and as such accepted, then would I forget my rue, then could I
die happy--the end is not far off now. But ere that end comes, oh! my
child, my child of many tears, come back to me, I beseech you. Let me
once more clasp you to my arms and let me hear your kinsman proclaim
you as his successor. It is for that I wait, for that I long
unceasingly."

There was more in her letter saying, amongst other things, how Mr.
Quin, whom afterwards I came to know and to respect most deeply, never
slackened in his watchfulness over her; of how he was always in
attendance on her and what services he performed for her. But what he
had read was sufficient.

"You must go to England, Gerald," I said; "at all costs, you must go.
Will the Admiral give you leave?"

He laughed aloud at this, saying: "Will the Admiral give me leave?
Why, Joice, Sir Chaloner Ogle sailed a month ago, leaving me ere he
went his consent to my being absent as long as necessary on urgent
private affairs. He knows well how I stand, and wishes me well, too.
And, dear heart, as you say, I must go--only I will not go alone."

I well understood his meaning yet could find no answer to his words.
So again he went on whispering them in my ear. "No, not alone. My wife
must go with me. And, Joice, to-night I will tell Kinchella to make
all ready, to proclaim our banns, and to prepare to make us one. It
shall be so, my sweet saint, my tender Virginian rose, my heart's best
and only love; it shall be so, shall it not?"

What could I say but yes--what other answer make? No woman who had
loved him as I had loved him (even ere I knew him, I think)--no woman
who had dreamt of his sad story and then come to know him and see his
beauty and grace and his fierce bravery exacted on her behalf, but
must have answered yes, as I did. For he was all a woman's heart most
longs for; all that she most aspires to possess; handsome and brave,
yet gentle; fierce as the lion when roused, yet how tender and how
true. So I whispered "Yes," and murmured my love to him and the
compact was made; our fond troth plighted again with many a kiss.

It was in the old church, from the wooden tower of which the cannon
had been fired so often on that dreadful night of death and horror,
that we were married. As was the custom of the colony--though one, I
think, that might well be changed--the minister took the first kiss
from me, while my husband kissed my bridesmaid, Mary, and afterwards I
had to submit to being kissed by every gentleman present, while all
the while I wanted no other embrace than that of my dear lord. Yet it
had to be borne, and one of the first to avail himself of this
privilege was Gregory, who kissed me sadly, saying as he did so:

"Ah, Joice, 'twas otherwise I had hoped some day to kiss thy sweet
brow. Yet 'twas not to be and so I must bear it as best I may," and he
passed sadly down the aisle and away home, tarrying not for the
drinkings nor merry-makings that afterwards set in. But, poor lad, he
struggled with his love for me so well that at last he conquered it,
and certainly his disappointment made no difference in his friendship
for me or my husband. During our absence in England he managed my
property as carefully as though it had been his own, and regularly
sent us an exact account of all he had done, so that 'twas easy to
see, and to admire in seeing, that his unaccepted love had not made an
enemy of him.

Mr. Kinchella and Mary Mills we saw married a week after our own
nuptials, so we left them also happy and content--which was a great
joy to us to do. O'Rourke, too, we parted from as friends part from
one another, he setting out for Savannah where he purposed to instal
himself as agent of Mr. Oglethorpe and bidding us an affectionate
farewell ere doing so. He also made an affidavit before an attorney at
Jamestown of all he knew of the villainies of Robert St. Amande and
the wretch Considine, and swore as well that, from the intimate
knowledge he had of my lord's family, and also from having had him
once in his charge, the Viscount St. Amande was most undoubtedly the
lawfully born child of the late lord. Moreover, he also swore (and
produced letters from Considine proving his oath, which letters he
gave to Gerald) that, during the separation of Lady St. Amande from
her husband, he, Considine, was living an outlaw at Hamburg with a
price upon his head, so that he could never have even seen her during
that time.

The overseers of the bond-servants being, like all the others, free
men now, were provided with means whereby either to establish
themselves in the colony or to go elsewhere, though they, in common
with the others, elected to remain as hired hands on my estate during
my absence. Buck, however, who seemed never to have lost his
rollicking disposition, being also provided with some money wherewith
to adventure on his own account, bought the lease of the tavern in the
village, and changed its name from that of the King's Head to the St.
Amande Arms. Lamb, who had once been a sailor, became again one, while
his sister, Christian, took passage with us to England as my maid.




CHAPTER XXX

IN THE LAND WHERE THEIR FATHERS DWELT


How shall I, brought up a plain colonial maiden, who had never seen
anything more grand than the opening of our Virginian Assembly by the
Governor, nor anything more of great life than an assembly ball or the
meeting together of our first families at the races, dare to describe
the wonders and splendours of London. For wonderful and splendid
everything was, and marvellous to behold. From where we were at first
installed until the Marquis could arrive in London from his country
seat, namely, a busy inn called the Hercules Pillars, at Hyde Park
Corner, a spot which my dear father had often told me was the centre
of fashion, I saw so much going on that my head was ever in a whirl.
Here from morn till night, under the balcony of our sitting-room
windows, went on such a clatter and a dashing by of vehicles,
including the fast coaches coming in and going out of London, and of
huge carriages and carts and horses, that there was no peace, though,
in dear truth, I loved to lean over that balcony and watch the
turmoil. In the early November mornings--for 'twas that month ere we
reached London--first would come lumbering by great carts piled high
with vegetables, all of which, my lord said, London would have eaten
up by nightfall--a thing not wonderful to understand, seeing that it
was asserted that there were nearly half a million people in the town,
or one-twelfth part of the whole country. Then great droves of beasts
would pass, and sometimes--oh! sad sight--a wretched highwayman with
his hands tied behind his back and escorted by the thief-catchers,
while the passers-by hooted at him or beat at him with sticks and
whips, or flung refuse at him.

"Such was Buck once," Gerald would say when he saw one of these; "and,
perhaps O'Rourke, though I think he was more the spy. Ah! well, it is
better to be honest men in Virginia or Georgia than like this."

Then, as the day went on, and a poor, thin sun struggled out of the
mist, making some brightness around, there would ride forth gentlemen
who were going a-hunting at Richmond, or Hampton, or Hounslow, very
splendid in their coats. Others, too, would come down to ride in the
park most beautifully dressed, and some would stroll along on foot,
talking and laughing, and bowing to ladies in their chaises, or taking
off their hats to a portly bishop who passed our inn every morning in
a coach and six. And sometimes, too, a great lady or so would also go
by in her coach and six, with, seated on the steps outside, a page, or
sometimes a little black boy with a silver chain around his neck, and
I never understood then why Gerald would pull me back into the room as
though he wished me not to see these dames. Yet, when I learnt
afterwards that one was the Countess of Suffolk and another the horrid
woman, Melusina Schulemberg, I did comprehend his reason. And, even in
the three days we lay at this inn, I learnt to hate the latter, for,
going past one morning, she observed my handsome Gerald on the balcony
and kissed her hand to him--as they say she did to any well-favoured
gentleman she saw--and afterwards always peered out of the carriage as
though seeking for him.

Soon, however, my pleasures of witnessing the bustle of this place
came to an end. One dull November morning there drove up to the door
of the Hercules Pillars a great coach and six, all emblazoned with
coats-of-arms and decorated with rich hangings and much gilding, with,
before it, three panting footmen, who, poor creatures, had always to
run in front of it, and with, seated within it, a grave and
soberly-clad gentleman.

"Why," exclaimed Gerald, who did not share my surprise at this
gorgeous and, it seemed to me, sinfully extravagant spectacle--for
why could not the gentleman travel as we do in Virginia, either
a-horseback or on foot! "Why! 'Tis the Marquis. Joice, go, put on thy
best dress--no! stay just as you are; faith, you are fair enough to
charm any man." And then he ran downstairs to meet his kinsman and
presently brought him to our parlour.

"This is my wife, my lord," he said, presenting me to him, "of the
family of Bampfyld, of Virginia."

Whereon the Marquis bowed to me with most stately grace in reply to my
curtsey, and, taking my hand, kissed it. "Madam," he said, "we are
honoured by an alliance with you. There is no better English blood
than that of the Bampfylds, and sure there can be no fairer woman than
the Lady St. Amande. Are all women as fair as your ladyship in the
colonies?"

I simpered and blushed and knew not what to say, when Gerald diverted
his attention by exclaiming, with a smile:

"Her name is Joice, my lord. Will you not, as the head of our family,
thus call her?"

"Indeed I will. Joice--Joice; 'tis a pretty name, and well befits its
pretty owner. And so, _Joice_," turning to me and speaking as though
he had known me from a child, yet all the time with a most courtly
manner, "you have finally determined to throw in your lot with my
young kinsman, in spite of his troubles?"

"Oh! sir," I said; "oh! my lord, what woman who had ever seen or known
him could refuse to love him? And I owe him my life; I would lay it
down for him now if he willed it. He fought for me and mine, ay! shed
his dear blood for me. I have a dress at home all stained with it
which I will never part with. He sought for me amongst my capturers
and would have rescued me if they had not been mercifully disposed; he
was as a god in my eyes, and now he is my husband and I love him more
than aught else upon this earth. Oh! sir, I do love him so."

Both he and Gerald smiled gently at my ardour, which, indeed, I could
not repress, and then he said:

"Doubtless, Joice, doubtless. 'Tis perhaps not strange. And, child,
you wish to see him righted thoroughly; is it not so?"

"Indeed, indeed, my lord!" I cried, "such is ever my fervent prayer.
Yes, morning, noon, and night. And, surely, since the Irish Lords have
acknowledged his right to the title he bears, those in England will
not refuse to regard him as your heir."

"We must do our best. Yet, even if they will not give him my title
when I am gone, I can do much for him. Providence hath greatly
benefited me. There is much I can bequeath to him, and, for the rest,
I can provide that if he gets it not none other shall. Above all, the
Scoundrel Robert shall never have it."

"God bless you!" my husband and I exclaimed. "God bless you!"

"Now, listen," he continued, "to what I propose. Your mother follows
me but a few stages behind--poor Louise! she is marvellously stirred
at the thought of seeing her son again--and when she is arrived in
town this is what I will do. 'Tis what I intended five years ago, had
not Sir Chaloner's men impressed you and made a sailor of you. I will
have a meeting of many peers of my acquaintance--Sir Robert"--he meant
the great Sir Robert Walpole--"has promised that he will come as well
as some others who will be useful--and then I will publicly
acknowledge you as my successor. But," he went on, "there is something
else to be done."

Gerald looked enquiringly at him as though doubtful as to what he was
about to say, when the Marquis again took up the word.

"The two scoundrels, Robert St. Amande and Wolfe Considine, must be
brought to bay; above all, the latter must be made to retract the
villainous falsehoods he has spread about your mother."

"Ay, retract!" interrupted Gerald, hotly, "retract. He shall, indeed,
or I will tear his lying tongue----"

"Nay, nay!" said his kinsman, putting up his hand. "Nay, hear me."

"I ask your lordship's pardon."

"This is my plan, agreed to by your injured mother. They are both in
London now, ever spreading their calumnies about, though I hear that
none heed them, and Robert St. Amande endeavours unsuccessfully to
borrow money on what he terms his succession. Now, we have decided to
ask both these men to attend at my house on the same morning on which
I intend to proclaim you--only they are not to know that there will be
any other persons present but themselves. Thus, they will suddenly
find that they are surrounded by auditors, as well as some witnesses
who knew you in your childhood. There will be, also, the papers you
have forwarded me signed and testified to by O'Rourke, and by these
means we hope either to extort the truth from them, or at least so to
strike terror to them, that they shall prevaricate and contradict
their own lying statements. And, remember, there will be a strong
array against them."

"The idea is most excellent," exclaimed Gerald. "Surely thus they must
be beaten down. And will my mother be there, my lord?"

"Your mother will be there, but her presence will be unknown to them.
Yet she vows that, if Considine does not deny before all assembled the
wickedness of the slanders he has put about, she will come forward and
confront him and dare him to utter them to her face.

"'Twill be a terrible ordeal for her," my husband said. "Heaven grant
she may be able to endure it."

"She will endure it; she will so string herself up that none regarding
her will be able to imagine her a weak woman who sometimes cannot
raise herself even from her bed. Yet, since she has dwelt under my
care----"

"For which I say again God bless you--for that and all the other
luxuries and comforts you have surrounded her with."

"'Tis but little," replied the Marquis. "And she is desolate and the
mother of my heir. 'Tis nothing. But, as I say, since she hath been
with me I have seen some most marvellous moments of recovery with her,
moments when she would suddenly exclaim that she was once more well
and strong. And, to show me that she was so, she would lift some great
weight or walk up and down her chamber a dozen times, yet ever
afterwards there came directly a relapse when she would again sink
into her chair helpless as a babe once more."

"Ay," said my husband thoughtfully, "so have I seen her too. Nor do I
doubt that if she stands face to face with that craven hound, she will
lack no strength to cow him."

In a little while you shall see that that strength was not lacking,
you shall see how it was exerted against the miserable wretch who had
blighted her life. But the place to tell it is not here.

And now the Marquis bade us prepare to accompany him to that great
mansion of his in Lincoln's Inn Fields, of which my dear lord had told
me; and, ere long, Gerald's servant and Christian Lamb between them
had packed up our effects, we going in the gorgeous emblazoned coach
and they following in a hackney. As we went I observed how great a man
this noble kinsman of ours was, for many, both gentle and simple,
raised their hats to the carriage as it passed along, and in the great
square, which they call the Fields, there was quite a concourse to
witness our arrival; the poor people shouting for the noble Marquis
and cheering the Government, while his running footmen threw, by his
orders, some silver pieces amongst them.

Oh, 'twas indeed a joyful day!--joyful in many ways--for, besides
showing to us that which truly I had never had any doubts of, namely,
that the Marquis of Amesbury was all for Gerald and determined, if he
could, to right him, it brought together that poor mother and son who
had so often and so long been parted. Nor could I restrain my tears,
nor fail to weep for joy, as I saw them folded once more in each
other's arms, and heard her whisper her love and fondness for him and
murmur that, at last, they would never more be parted in this world.

"Never more be parted in this world." That was what she said. "Never
more to be parted in this world." Verily she spake as a prophet, or as
one who could divine the future.

And there was still one other meeting that took place which joyed my
heart to see. 'Twas that of my husband and his faithful, old friend,
Mr. Quin; the man who had sheltered him when he was a beggar, who had
been as a father or an elder brother to him, and who, when 'twas no
longer possible that he should serve Gerald, had transferred his
honest, faithful allegiance to Gerald's mother. It pleasured me, I
say, to see those two embrace each other, to hear my husband call him
his old friend and protector, and to see the joy upon the other's face
as he returned that embrace and told him how handsome he had grown and
how noble-looking a man he had become.




CHAPTER XXXI

FACE TO FACE


All were assembled in the great saloon, or withdrawing-room, of the
Marquis's house.

The day had come for that nobleman to acknowledge his kinsman, Lord
St. Amande, as his heir before all men.

The Marquis of Amesbury sat at a table near the fireplace, on which
lay, amongst other things, the papers that O'Rourke had signed and
sworn to, the certificates of Gerald's birth and of his enrolment by
Ulster King-of-Arms as the Viscount St. Amande in the peerage of
Ireland, several affidavits from nurses and tutors to whom the lad had
been put in the country, stating that the child delivered to them was
always spoken of by the late lord as his son; and many other
documents. At the end of the room were three witnesses who had been
brought over from Ireland to testify that, to their certain knowledge
and belief, Gerald was the lad they had known as the late lord's son.
One of these witnesses was the Protestant clergyman of New Ross, now a
very aged man; another was the steward of the estate where Gerald had
been born; a third the nurse who had had him in charge from his
earliest hours and had identified him by the marks upon his body.

Next to the Marquis, and on his right hand, Gerald was placed, and
next to him I sat. On his left was no less a personage than the
renowned Sir Robert Walpole, who had now ruled the country for many
years, after having triumphed over all his enemies--even those who had
had him dismissed from the Parliament and committed to the Tower. He
was a man who, had one met him in the street, they would have been
disposed to regard more as a jolly, beef-loving squire in London for a
week's shopping and sight-seeing, than aught else. There, too, was
William, third Duke of Devonshire--a courtly, grave gentleman, who had
not yet, or barely, reached the prime of life; Lord Trevor and many
others, to all of whom I was presented as the Lady St. Amande and
future Marchioness of Amesbury. All greeted me most courteously,
asking me many questions as to our colony and especially as to its
loyalty, of which I was able to testify proudly, though I know not if
I might have said as much of some of the more northern ones. The
extremely polite, also, made me many compliments and, in their
fashionable jargon, exclaimed that they trusted, now that I had shed
the light of my eyes upon the mother country, I should never withdraw
it wholly again. But these speeches I regarded only as foolishness and
scarce worth answering.

And now the Marquis, addressing them, said:

"My lords and gentlemen and my good friends, you know what we are
assembled here for. 'Tis for me to present you to my kinsman and heir.
That I have already done individually; later on I shall ask you as a
body to testify your willingness to acknowledge him as such. But
first, and ere that is done, I wish to expose to you two villains--one
of them, alas! also near to me in blood--who have long stood in the
path of his lordship, who have endeavoured in every way to thwart his
honest endeavours to come by his own, and who, in those endeavours,
have assailed the fair fame of his mother, Louise, Dowager Viscountess
St. Amande, who sits now behind that organ." And the Marquis pointed
to a great organ made by Geisler of Salzburg in 1650, and brought by
his father from there when making the grand tour.

'Twas there, indeed, that she had placed herself, being unwilling to
be more regarded than was necessary, either by those who knew of her
unhappy married days or who had known her in the full pride of her
beauty. But as she had taken this place, where she could easily
overhear all that passed, she had again reiterated her assertion that,
should the two calumniators persist in their falsehoods and vile
assertions, she would endeavour so to nerve herself to the task as to
drag herself forward and confront them.

"To expose those villains, my lords and gentlemen," went on the
Marquis, "this is what I have done. I have summoned Robert St. Amande
to this house to-day--it wants but a quarter of an hour to the time
when he should arrive," pointing to the great clock over the
fireplace, "and I have requested him to come provided with the proofs
which he says he can bring forward establishing his claim to be my
successor. My lords, he has fallen into the snare, he has notified to
me that he will be here at midday with Mr. Considine, his friend and
secretary, when he will advance such proofs, as he states, that Lord
St. Amande is not entitled to the rank he usurps, and desires in
future to usurp, that he, Robert, must be the right and lawful heir."

"Was not this Mr. Wolfe Considine once proscribed?" asked a gentleman
sitting near, who was no other than His Majesty's Attorney-General,
Sir Philip Yorke. "It appears to me I know his name."

"He was proscribed in 1710 for most treasonable practices and fled to
Hamburg, where he was supported by the Jacobites, but, on the
accession of His late Majesty, he, with many others, obtained a
withdrawal of that proscription on swearing allegiance to the House of
Hanover. But, my lords and gentlemen, I will call your attention to
the fact that this proscription entirely proves the grossness of the
lie he asserts, that he is the father of Lord St. Amande, since he
could not have been in England for some long time either before or
after his lordship's birth."

"And is this Mr. Robert St. Amande's only ground on which to base his
claim to both titles--Lord St. Amande's and yours?" asked Sir Robert
Walpole.

"It would be of little effect if it were," exclaimed the
Attorney-General, "since, even if true, his lordship must have been
born in wedlock." And he took up a document to assure himself of the
date of the marriage.

"He advances many other statements," continued the Marquis, "all of
which he says he is prepared to prove, when called upon to do so,
before the House of Lords. Doubtless he will bring forward some of
these to-day, but, ere he comes, I desire to tell you that, in so
coming, he imagines he will meet no one but myself. When, therefore,
he and his precious comrade are admitted, you may be well prepared to
see him exhibit many marks of surprise and consternation, in which
state we hope to show him in his true colours. And, my lords and
gentlemen, it is for this reason that I have ventured to have your
carriages and coaches sent to the other side of the Fields until
required, so that they, amongst other things, shall not scare the
birds away."

There arose a murmur of amusement at these precautions on the part of
his lordship, who went on to explain that his footmen had also
received their orders for conducting the expected visitors into the
presence of those here assembled; and then, as the clock solemnly
struck the hour, all sat waiting for the arrival of those two
conspirators. And, I think, with the exception of Sir Robert Walpole,
who shut his eyes as though about to indulge in a refreshing sleep,
and the Duke of Devonshire, who conversed with Gerald and me on the
state of the Indians in the colonies and seemed much interested
therein, all present were greatly agitated at the impending meeting.
Once I saw the sweet, sad face of my mother-in-law glance from behind
the organ and smile at Gerald, as though bidding him be of good
cheer--as, indeed, he well might be in this fair company, all so well
disposed towards him; and several times Sir Philip Yorke muttered
"Humph!" and "Ha!" as he turned over carefully the mass of papers
before him and occasionally whispered a word to the Marquis.

"That was a precious plot," I heard him say, "of Mr. St. Amande's to
get his nephew shipped to the plantations as a bond-servant. Our
friend, Mr. Quin, seems to have outwitted him neatly. What did you say
became of the other--the one called--humph! Robinson--nay, Roderick?"

"He died a fearful, terrible death," replied the Marquis, "after he
left the service of her father," indicating me. Then he went on to
tell him the history of that unhappy man while many of us glanced at
the clock. They were already fifteen minutes late--'twas fifteen
minutes after twelve--could they intend not to come?

My self-questioning was answered a moment later--through the hall
there rang a violent peal upon the bell, as though the hand which
caused it was a fierce, masterful one; and clearly could we hear a
harsh voice exclaim:

"Show the way and announce us. Follow, Considine!"

"My uncle," whispered Gerald to me. "Now prepare to see two of the
wickedest rascals unhung."

"The Viscount St. Amande," said the great footman, regarding the
company, as I thought, with a bewildered air--doubtless he wondered
how there could be two persons bearing the same title--"and Mr. Wolfe
Considine," and a moment afterwards the new comers were before us.

The one whom I soon knew to be Robert St. Amande bore nothing in his
features that seemed to me remarkable or to indicate a villain, unless
it was a terrible scowl and a most fierce, piercing pair of black
eyes. He was solemnly clad; indeed, he was in deep mourning for his
second wife, who had been carried off but recently by that dreadful
scourge the smallpox, so that there was no colour about him. His
companion also wore black--I suppose for his master's wife--and was
naught else but an ignoble copy of that master. Gazing on him, and
observing the insolent leer upon his face, his tawdry attempts at
finery even in his mourning, such as his steel-hilted sword inlaid
with brass, his imitation lace fal-lal neckerchief, and silver
shoe-buckles, I could well believe that here was an adventurer and
outcast who might easily be suborned and bribed to swear any lie for a
handful of guineas.

"So," exclaimed Robert St. Amande, as he cast his scowling glances
round the room, though even as he so scowled 'twas easy enough to see
that he was much taken aback by the sight of so many persons
assembled, "so, you invite us to meet a great company, my lord Marquis
and kinsman. 'Tis well, very well. Your Grace of Devonshire, I salute
you," accompanying his words with a deep bow, half mock and half
respectful. "And the Premier, as I live! Sir Robert, I am your most
obedient, humble servant. Sir Philip, too; though, sir, you are, I
think, none too well inclined towards me. Well, it must be endured.
And, now, my lord Marquis, in the midst of this gallant company,
enriched by the beauty of this fair lady, whom I know not, may I ask
what your intentions are? Though, indeed, I can but guess that you
have gathered your friends together to witness an act of justice
which, though tardy, you intend to do at last."

These swaggering speeches were well enough made and with a surprising
air of confidence--indeed, my lord hath often since said that neither
Wilkes nor Booth, the play-actors, could have surpassed him--yet they
had no effect. The Duke and the great Minister took no notice of his
salutations, while the Attorney-General but shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously at his remarks, and then the Marquis spake, saying:

"Robert St. Amande, your guess is indeed most accurate. It is to do an
act of justice at last that I have requested your presence here."

"'Tis well," the other replied, while he threw himself into a chair,
an act in which he was imitated by his follower. "'Tis well. Proceed,
my lord Marquis."

Yet as he spake with such assurance, it seemed to me as though he
blanched and turned white.

"It is, indeed, to do an act of justice at last!" the Marquis
repeated. "Robert St. Amande, it is to present my heir, the future
Marquis of Amesbury, to my political friends that I have summoned them
to-day. My lords and gentlemen and friends," and as he said the words
he laid his hand on Gerald's shoulder and motioned him to rise, "this
is my heir; this is the rightful Lord St. Amande and future possessor
of my rank."

There was a murmur of applause from all assembled, as well as of
greeting, while Robert St. Amande sprang to his feet, exclaiming:

"Him--you present him? That fellow! Why, 'tis none but the self-styled
Gerald St. Amande." And he burst into a contemptuous laugh. "A pretty
heir, that! A child born during a long separation of his father and
mother, ay! a separation of years--if they were ever married at
all----"

"Have a care!" exclaimed Gerald, also springing up from the seat he
had resumed. "Have a care! or even this house shall not protect you
now."

"I speak what I know. If they were ever married produce the
proofs--and, even though you can do that, you must also prove that
they were not separated for long before your birth. And on _that_
score I, too, have my witness," and he glanced significantly at Wolfe
Considine.

"Be tranquil, Gerald," exclaimed the Marquis to my husband, who made
as though he would fly at the other's throat, as, indeed, I think he
would have done had it not been for those who interposed between them.
"Calm yourself. There is proof enough here to confound every statement
of his," and he motioned, as he spoke, to the old clergyman from New
Ross, who came forward at his bidding.

"Sir," exclaimed the Attorney-General, looking up from his papers at
this venerable man, "I have here a certificate of the christening,
signed by you and duly witnessed by the others, of Gerald St. Clair
Nugent St. Amande, son of Viscount St. Amande, of New Ross. Do you
recognise it?"

"I do," the old clergyman answered.

"'Tis the marriage certificate we desire to see," exclaimed Robert St.
Amande. "The birth is not in dispute. What we do dispute is, first the
marriage, then the paternity of the child, and, lastly, the identity
of the person calling himself Gerald St. Amande with the real Gerald
St. Amande, presuming the real Gerald St. Amande to have been lawfully
born."

"We will endeavour to answer all your demands," Sir Philip Yorke said,
glancing up at him. "Listen."

Then in a cold, clear voice, such as I think must have caused many an
unhappy criminal to tremble for fear, he went on:

"The marriage between the late Viscount St. Amande, bearing himself
the names of Gerald St. Clair Nugent St. Amande, with Louise Honoria
Sheffield, was celebrated on the first of March, in the year of our
Lord seventeen hundred and eight, at the Church of St. Olave's, at
York. The certificate is here. You may see it for yourself."

Robert St. Amande waved his hand, exclaiming, "Since the
Attorney-General testifies to it, who shall dispute it? It proves,
however, nothing against our contention. Proceed, sir."

"Next we have the testimony of this reverend gentleman as to the birth
and christening. That you cannot dispute with any hope of success.
Here, too, is the woman who took charge of the infant at its birth.
Norah Mackay, of New Ross, come forward."

With much fear and nervousness, this elderly woman--she who had first
held my darling in her arms--came up the room, and, dropping many
curtseys, stood before the great lawyer.

"Norah Mackay," he said, "you state that you remember the marks upon
the neck and left arm of the child christened at New Ross as the
infant son of Viscount and Viscountess St. Amande, in the year
seventeen hundred and eleven?"

"I do, your honour's worship."

"And you have examined the neck and left arm of his lordship here,"
indicating Gerald, "and find thereon precisely and exactly the same
marks?"

"I do, your honour's worship."

"You swear to that?"

"I swear to it."

"So be it."

"Ay," exclaimed Robert St. Amande, "she may swear to it fifty times
an' she will. Doubtless fifty guineas would produce as many oaths. But
such evidence establishes no claim, nor does it prove even then that
my brother begot the brat. And this man here," pointing a lean and
shaking finger at my husband, whose self-control was most marvellous,
"is not that babe, I swear. The babe who was born at New Ross was
drowned in the Liffey in the year 'twenty-seven."

"Then," asked Sir Philip Yorke, "if such was the case to your
knowledge, why, in the winter of that year, go out of your way to have
this man whom you deemed an impostor shipped to the colonies to be
sold as a slave in the plantations there? For that you did so
endeavour we have, you know, O'Rourke's sworn testimony; and his
accomplice, as you thought Mr. Quin to be, is in this house to produce
your acquittance to him for so doing."

And he fixed his severe eyes on the other as he spoke.




CHAPTER XXXII

NEMESIS


Certainly Robert St. Amande looked now like a villain unmasked! All
eyes were fixed upon him as he rolled his own round upon the assembled
company; there was one pair, however, he did not see; the eyes of
Louise, Lady St. Amande, who from behind the great pipes of the organ,
had never ceased to gaze upon him and that other craven villain since
they entered; and that he stood before them most thoroughly exposed he
must have known well. Yet was his bravado such that he still
endeavoured to brazen it all out; he still attempted to assert his
wicked cause. Alas! I cannot think, even now, but that he would have
desisted and have withdrawn ere it was too late could he have foreseen
the dreadful tragedy that his conduct was to produce.

After a few seconds he again found his tongue; once more he nerved
himself to address all in that saloon, defiant still and reckless in
the blackness of his heart.

"He was to have been shipped to the plantations," he said, "not
because I deemed him the rightful Gerald St. Amande, but because I
knew him, even granting him to be the boy born at New Ross, to be
smirched in his birth; because I knew my brother was not his father.
'Twas for the honour of the family; of my family, of yours, my lord
Marquis, that no such child should ever sit in the place of honour.
And wherein did I sin? Your house, my lord, the house in which I hope
some day to sit as Marquis of Amesbury, has ere now refused the right
of peerage to those born in wedlock when 'twas well known that, in
spite of such birth, they had not been lawfully begotten. And that I
knew of him; I know it and proclaim now." As he spoke he glared even
more fiercely than before, so that his looks were terrible to see.
Then he continued, "You, Sir Philip Yorke, you have produced your
proofs to-day and have deemed them overwhelming. Now is the time, now
the hour, for me to produce mine. I do so. You challenge me to bring
forth evidence of the child's paternity other than that of my late
brother. Behold it, then. Here sits the man who is the father of that
other sitting there. 'Tis he, Wolfe Considine, the discarded admirer
of Louise Sheffield before her marriage, the accepted lover of Louise
St. Amande after her marriage, the father of Gerald St. Amande, the
man who has been wrongfully installed as Lord St. Amande in the Irish
peerage."

"God!" exclaimed my husband. "This can be borne no longer." And, as he
spoke, he endeavoured to tear his sword from its sheath. Yet, between
us, the Marquis and I did manage to appease him for the time, while
the former whispered in his ear, "Tush, tush, be calm! Remember your
mother hears all. Ere long we will bring her forth to confute them.
Peace, I say."

Then, clearly and distinctly upon all ears, there fell the crisp tones
of the Attorney-General addressing Robert St. Amande's accomplice.
"You have heard, sir," he said, "that which Mr. St. Amande hath
advanced. Do you confirm his words?"

A swift glance passed between them--'twas plain to be observed; the
other hesitated a moment, and then, oh! unutterable villain, slowly he
bowed his head and said, "I do confirm them."

I glanced at the organ as he spoke, I wondered how she behind it could
sit there so calm and unmoved if the last of her strength was not yet
gone; and then again Sir Philip Yorke was speaking: "Yet, Mr. Wolfe
Considine, your confirmation is somewhat strange. You were, if I
mistake not, proscribed as a rebel in the reign of Her late Majesty,
Queen Anne. I have a full description of you here, handed to me by the
Marquis. I will read it:--Wolfe Considine, late an officer in the
First Royal Scots Regiment, from which he deserted before Oudenarde.
Irishman, a spy in Scotland and traitor. Proscribed in seventeen
hundred and ten and fled to Hamburg. Now, sir, since you were absent
from England from that year until after the accession of the late King
in seventeen hundred and fourteen, will you tell us how you could
possibly be what you state you are, the father of Lord St. Amande!"

"I--I--I was frequently back in England--in Ireland--at that time," he
stammered, "disguised and unknown to the Government. 'Twas there,
then, that I met Louise St. Amande."

A terrible cry rang down the room as he spoke; a cry betwixt a scream
and a gasp, one that caused all our eyes to be turned to the spot
whence it came. And there we saw that which was enough to appal us;
which caused Gerald to spring to his feet and rush forward and made me
tremble and desire to weep.

For, erect and strong, as though she had never known an illness; her
eyes fixed with an awful glare upon the unhappy wretch; her hands
twitching and closing and opening spasmodically, we saw advancing down
the room towards us the woman so foully calumniated. Back from her she
motioned her son, as though commanding him not to bar her passage;
slowly but unhaltingly she came on until, at last, she stood full face
in front of the coward-hearted scoundrel before her. "Liar," she
hissed forth, "liar! Deny it! Deny it! Retract! Retract!"

He stood shivering before her, his ashen lips muttering and trembling,
though no sound came from them; he seemed, indeed, as though stricken
dumb.

"Liar," again she said, still with the dreadful stare in her eyes as
though she gazed on some horror unspeakable, "liar! Retract! You sat
once at his board and ate of his dish; when you were beggared he gave
you money and clothed you; yet now you would steal his wife's honour
from him; the honour from his child. Retract! Retract, ere it is too
late!"

He was dumb. Dumb with fear and dismay! He could frame no words in
answer to the spectre that had arisen before him; he could not meet
the glance of the poor paralysed woman whose strength had come back to
her so that she might confront him. Still she went on:

"Retract, I say." And with those eyes piercing his soul, she
continued, "Was my early acquaintance with you--unsought by me and
never desired--fit justification for hurling the name of wanton at me
all these years? Was my poor unhappy husband's charity to you fit
justification for branding his child so vilely? See, here he stands
before you. See," and she struck Gerald, who remained by her side, so
fiercely on the breast as she indicated him that he bore the bruise
for some days. "See! Is he that thing you state? Answer, vile
traducer. Answer me."

"For the love of God! be calm, mother. Heed him not," my husband
cried.

But, instead, she heeded not her son and again continued, though as
she spoke she wiped her lips with her handkerchief, and all saw that
it had blood upon it when she had done so.

"Retract, I say! Retract, I say! What! Shall a woman cherish above all
other things her honour only to have it fouled and maligned by any
crawling villain who chooses to speak the word? Am I--are all
women--at the mercy of such base things as you?"

She gazed at him a moment and again she reiterated:

"Retract! Retract! Retract, I say!"

Still his lips quivered but uttered no sound; once he gazed round the
room as though seeking to escape; the perspiration stood in beads upon
his brow; his knees shook under him. And then, unhappy wretch! he
whispered: "I--I cannot; I dare not."

They were the last he ever uttered. Swift as lightning darting from
the clouds, the right arm that had been so long paralysed was thrust
forth; in an instant her hand had seized the sword that hung by his
side and had torn it from its sheath; in another it had passed through
his body, the hilt striking against his breast. There was a piercing
scream from him, a thud as the body fell to the floor a moment after;
a clang of steel as she, after drawing forth the weapon from him, let
it fall from her now nerveless hand and, with a gasp, sunk into her
son's arms.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she moaned, while from her lips there oozed a
thin red stream! "Oh, my dear one, at last I have repaid his attempt
upon our honour and now 'tis finished. My sweet, this is the end. I
have not five minutes' life left to me. Farewell."

Once, as Gerald held her in his arms, she tried to put her own around
his neck, he helping her to do so, and then, opening her eyes wide,
she whispered, "Thrust a sword through a man's body, Gerald; through a
man's body," and so passed away.

How shall I write further, how continue an account of that which I no
longer witnessed? The room swam before my eyes; I heard a terrible cry
escape from the white lips of Robert St. Amande; in a mist I saw the
horror-stricken faces of the assembled guests and of the Marquis. I
knew that Sir Robert Walpole called loudly for a physician and a
chirurgeon to be fetched; I saw the dead man lying at my feet, the
dead woman in her son's arms, and then I swooned and knew no more.





THE NARRATIVE CONCLUDED BY GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE

"AFTER THESE STORMS AT LAST A CALM"


Many years have passed since those events occurred which have been
written down by my dear wife and myself, and, hand in hand as ever, we
are beginning to grow old. Thus I, who was but a boy when my father
died and this history commenced, am now a middle-aged man fast nearing
forty. My children, too, are no longer to be regarded as children;
Gerald, my eldest boy, is promised a guidon in the Royal Regiment of
Horse Guards Blue. My second son is at home in England in preparation
for Oxford. My third, a little lad, is a midshipman serving under Sir
Charles Knowles, and, by his last letter, I gather that he is almost
as proud of the naval uniform which hath this year of grace, 1748,
been authorised to the King's Navy, as of the attack on Port Louis, in
St. Domingo, in which he took part. Of daughters I have been blessed
with one alone, who in name, as in features and complexion, resembles
what her dear mother must have been ere I had the good fortune to set
eyes on her.

The Marquis of Amesbury has been dead twelve years, yet the House of
Lords has not yet called me to take my seat there as his successor.
This, however, is of supreme indifference to me--so much so, indeed,
that I have not yet petitioned them to enrol me in his place, though
Sir Robert Walpole, after he became Earl of Orford, frequently desired
me to do so, saying that it would be better done in his lifetime than
afterwards. Yet he is dead, too; and 'tis not done. Why should it be,
I often ask myself, except for my children's sake? I dwell in
Virginia, which spot I love exceedingly, and I am never like to dwell
anywhere else; while as for the Marquis's wealth it has all come to
me. Yet, as I say, for the children's sake I must some day make out my
claim to the honour. When I do so there can be no opposition to it.

After that dreadful tragedy in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and after the
Marquis had sternly bade my uncle go forth and never darken his doors
again, Robert St. Amande--seeing, I suppose, that all was lost and
being, indeed, then very near to absolute destitution--betook himself
to the Temple Stairs, and, casting himself into the river, was swept
away by the fast ebbing tide and drowned, his body never being
recovered. He left a child, the boy by his second marriage that has
heretofore been spoken of, who has ever since been my care, and who
will be so as long as I live, as well as being provided for at my
death, but that he can dispute my children's birthright is, of course,
impossible. Nor, I think, is it probable he would have any desire to
do so, being in character most amiable and gentle as well as grateful,
and vastly different from his wretched half-brother, Roderick.

The remains of my dear mother lie in the vaults of her own people, and
there the sad and loving heart of Louise St. Amande knows at least the
peace that was never accorded it in this world. Poor mother! Poor
stricken wife, how sad was your existence! The love you gave your
husband was doomed to slight and contumely; the love you gave your
child could never induce Fate to let that child stay long by your
side. And often as I meditate on her and on her strange life and
ending, I see her again as I saw her on that last day; I hear her last
whisper, "Thrust a sword through a man's body, Gerald." As I do so I
recognise fully that she had never forgotten the words we spoke
together in her lodgings in Denzil Street until the time came for them
to bring forth their fruits.

Of the others who have figured in this narrative let me now speak
briefly. Oliver Quin, finding his occupation gone at my mother's
death--whom during her life he would never quit, being always a most
faithful and devoted servitor and friend---re-took up his old
business, and is now a thriving dealer of beasts and black cattle on
Tower Hill. Also has he been chosen as warden of the district in which
he dwells--which is close by where my kidnapping took place so long
ago--and he is a sidesman of his church, so that he is both
prosperous, respectable, and respected. When I am in England, which is
mostly once in every two or three years, we never fail to meet, he
coming to pass an evening or so with me in the great house in the
Fields, or I going to him in the City. And then, over a bottle of
sound wine if it be summer, or a sneaker of punch if winter, we talk
over our early adventures in Dublin and how we outwitted my uncle, and
I retail again and again to him the sequel to those adventures in
Virginia. Our wives know one another, too, for Quin hath married the
daughter of a poor clergyman in the Minories, she having been a
maid-servant in service of a rich cattle-dealer whom he knew; and they
admire one another's babes and talk much mother's prattle together.

Kinchella likewise prospers in America, and doth well. He, too, has a
thriving family and is happy. Mary, for so I now permit myself to call
her, is my wife's greatest friend as ever, as their sons are my sons'
greatest friends when all are at home. Kinchella's eldest is at
Harvard; his youngest is at Trinity College, Dublin; and both are
intended for the ministry. If they follow in their father's footsteps
then must they be an ornament to that sacred calling, and go far
towards reforming that which still needs much reformation in our
colonies--the private lives of our divines.

O'Rourke and I have never met again, yet I know that he is thriving
though he has grown very old. He dwells always at Savannah, in which
rising city he is one of the leading men, and we frequently have
correspondence with one another. And very touching and pathetic it
seemed to me to be when, on my writing him that, on my next journey
home, I intended to visit Ireland on my affairs, he asked me to take
with me some roots and cuttings to plant on his dead daughter's grave
in Dublin. "She died young," he wrote, "and ere you knew me. Had she
lived, may be your lordship would never have known me, for I might
have made a better life of it. She was all I had and she was taken
from me, and thus I turned reckless and dissolute. Thank God I have
seen the evil of my ways at last."

Buck still keeps the tavern--with my wife's redemption acquittal,
which she gave to him as to all the bond-servants, framed above his
chimney-piece--and does well at that occupation and horse-rearing.
Lamb is growing very rich, having again quitted the sea and possessing
now a plantation and many servants both white and black of his own,
and bids fair to found a family.

And now for ourselves, to conclude. That I am content with fate you
must surely know; who could be aught else who has ever by his side an
angel to guide, support, and minister to him? Through all the years
since first we met we have lived happily together, loving each other
most fondly, sharing each other's joys and troubles--which latter have
been but few--and being all in all to ourselves, with only our
children to partake of any portion of that love. She is still the same
as ever, her sweet, fair face as beautiful, her golden hair with
scarce a silver one in it; and, if her years have made her more
matronly, they have not robbed her of one charm. Nor is the gentle
disposition altered a jot; the trust and belief in others, the
unselfish nature, the simplicity and innocence of mind are as they
were on that summer day when first I saw her bending over her roses;
the day on which God raised up and gave to me the loving companion,
friend, and champion of my life and cause.

After I have smoked my big pipe out and drunk my nightcap down, and
seen that all the servants are a-bed--for we live in her old house in
the same way her father and his fathers lived before us--I go to my
rest and, as I pass to it, look in to her retiring-room to give her
one fond, good-night kiss. Yet, often, ere I pull aside the hangings,
I have to pause and stand reverently without. For many a time that
room has become a shrine; within that shrine there is a saint. A saint
upon her knees, her fair white hands clasped, and in those hands her
golden head buried. A saint who prays to her God to bless her husband
and her children ever; a saint who thinks of nought for herself but of
all for those dear to her, and who, in that self-forgetfulness, finds
her deepest happiness.

Than to possess such a fond heart as this there is no more to be
asked.




FOOTNOTES

[Footnote 1: A gossiping, chatting, or drinking place.]

[Footnote 2: The mastiffs in Virginia were trained to worry figures
dressed as Indians, as well as being always taken out in any foray or
chase after either a band of them or an individual, and the antipathy
between these dogs and the savages was always very marked.]

[Footnote 3: Unfortunately, such was the class of ministers who
originally went out to the American colonies (they generally being
outcasts from their own country) that, in this instance, Roderick St.
Amande was not only speaking the truth but also representing very
accurately the common feeling of the Indian tribes towards the
colonial clergyman.]

[Footnote 4: The incident of the Indian woman's mercy is not
fictitious.]

[Footnote 5: Indians taken prisoners by the colonists were sometimes
sold into slavery in Canada or the West Indies, where they generally
died soon.]

[Footnote 6: So called from the poles smeared with blood which were
erected before the Seminoles' tents when on the warpath. The French
settlers also termed them "Bâtons Rouges," whence the name of the old
capital of Louisiana.]



THE END




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F. W. S. Clarke & Co., Ltd., Criterion Press, Leicester.









End of Project Gutenberg's The Land of Bondage, by John Bloundelle-Burton

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