“Well, then,” said Captain Forrester, “to leave Jack Bell and come to your own affairs. When I land you to-morrow morning I shall ask the authorities to give you the run of the town of Newport, but not to let you go outside. I think I can contrive it through the admiral, who is my friend. And how about this youngster here?”
“That brat, axin’ your parding, sir, is the son o’ the Widow Stubbs at Newport—a excellent woman, and a good hand at book-larnin’, as well as at the spinnin’ wheel. Her husband was killed in one o’ the fust scrimmages o’ the war, and this ’ere brat, he run away to jine the ’Merican navy and was took on the Betsey along with me. I knowed his mother well, and I’ve kinder kep’ my eye on the young one. He is a right handy sort o’ boy, and he can sing a lot o’ chunes I’ve larned him. He can sing all the old songs and two or three ‘Tid re I’s’ I’ve set him.”
“Pipe up, youngster,” said the captain; “I’d like to hear one of the old songs again. Give me ‘When the Wind at Night Whistles o’er the Deep.’”
Little Dicky Stubbs looked scared to death. His mouth came open, but no sound issued. Jack Bell, giving him a nudge that nearly broke his ribs, whispered:—
“Didn’t you hear the cap’n tell you to pipe up, you mutinous brat?”
Thus adjured, Dicky began in a deliciously sweet but rather uncertain voice:[4]
When the wind at night whistles o’er the deepAnd sings to landsmen dreary,The sailor, fearless, goes to sleepOr takes his watch most cheery.Snoozing here,Tossing there,Steadily, readily,Cheerily, merrily,Still from care and thinking free,Is a sailor’s life at sea.
When the wind at night whistles o’er the deep
And sings to landsmen dreary,
The sailor, fearless, goes to sleep
Or takes his watch most cheery.
Snoozing here,
Tossing there,
Steadily, readily,
Cheerily, merrily,
Still from care and thinking free,
Is a sailor’s life at sea.
Before he reached the third line Dicky’s courage, and his voice too, returned and he sang like some sweet-throated bird the next verse:—
When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck,And landsmen hoist the boat, sir,The sailor scorns to quit the deckWhile there’s a single plank afloat, sir.
When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck,
And landsmen hoist the boat, sir,
The sailor scorns to quit the deck
While there’s a single plank afloat, sir.
Captain Forrester, leaning his head on his hand, listened to the song that carried him back to his midshipman days, and watched the boy whose young fresh voice echoed through the low-pitched cabin. Dicky was unmistakably a child of the people, but his honest face, his bright, intelligent eyes, and his clean though ragged attire made him a prepossessing little fellow.
“You may go now,” said Captain Forrester to Jack Bell, and meanwhile giving Dicky a bright shilling, “but do not forget what I have told you, and also that you have got off very well. As for that lad, take him to his mother and tell her to keep him at home until he has cut his wisdom teeth.”
“Thank ye kindly, sir,” answered Jack. “I’ll not forget your orders, sir, and as long as I live I’ll not forget your kindness, sir.” And, with a parting salute, Jack returned to the custody of the waiting master-at-arms.
The next morning ushered in a blustering day, and the wind blew so hard as to make it decidedly uncomfortable for small boats in the harbor.
In the forenoon a boat was lowered from the Diomede to take Jack Bell and Dicky Stubbs ashore. Captain Forrester had seen the admiral, and had got permission to let Jack Bell remain at Newport in a merely nominal imprisonment, upon the ground of the old sailor’s age; and with many thanks Jack bade the captain good-by and got in the boat, with Dicky after him.
The boat was commanded by young Forrester, the captain’s son, and so like his father that Jack felt as if he had turned back many pages of his life, and it was the Midshipman Forrester of twenty-five years ago before him.
The captain’s gig had put off from the ship with the captain, bound ashore, and was far behind the midshipman’s boat. The young midshipman steered straight for the landing-place, but he knew nothing of the tides and currents of the harbor. The fierce wind was against them, and he suddenly found the boat too close to the shore, and fast nearing a ledge of sunken rocks, around which the waves were boiling. As he half-rose from his seat the boat lurched violently and he suddenly lost his balance; in another moment he was jerked overboard and disappeared. A cry went up from every man in the boat except Jack Bell. It was not a mere everyday fall overboard, but a fall amid sharp-pointed rocks and dangerous eddies. Before the echo of that cry had died over the water, Jack Bell had kicked off his shoes, peeled off his jacket, and had plunged into the icy water after the young midshipman.
Every movement was plain to Captain Forrester in his gig, only a short distance away; and his crew, in a moment, pulled furiously toward the other boat.
Jack Bell had dived exactly over the spot where young Forrester had disappeared. In a minute or two he came up, but alone. At this the agonized father covered his face and groaned. But after a few long breaths Jack dived again. This time when he rose a great shout went up—he had young Forrester in his arms.
In another minute he was in the boat, which headed for the nearest shore, closely followed by the captain’s gig. Just above where they landed was a lonely little cottage, and as soon as the keel touched the sand two powerful sailors seized the unconscious young midshipman and, led by Jack Bell and followed by Dicky Stubbs, rushed up the steep incline toward the cottage.
Captain Forrester was not far behind, but when he reached the cottage the little midshipman’s clothes had been stripped from him, Jack Bell was vigorously rolling, rubbing, and pounding him, while Dicky Stubbs and his mother—for it was the Widow Stubbs’ plain cottage—were wringing out hot cloths to put on young Forrester. Just as Captain Forrester entered, the young midshipman gave a loud gasp and opened his eyes, only to close them again.
“He’s all right, sir,” cheerily called out Jack Bell, not stopping in his rubbing. “He’s wuth all the dead reefers betwixt Newport and Chiny. He got a whack on his head from some o’ them jagged rocks, and he just fainted like—but he’s a-comin’ to fast, sir.”
“He would not have been here to come to at all if it had not been for you, my friend,” said the captain in a choking voice.
Jack Bell said nothing,—he was too busy,—and the captain, seeing the color return to his boy’s face, and that he was breathing better at every moment, sat and watched with longing eyes his return to life. The Widow Stubbs was as useful in her way as Jack Bell, while Dicky seemed to have six hands and four legs, he was so helpful.
In half an hour the young fellow was laid in the widow’s plain though clean bed, and, except a little weakness, was as well as ever he was in his life, and was carried on board the Diomede that very afternoon. The story of Jack Bell’s plunge into the surf for him was known on board, and from that hour Jack was safe from being denounced as a deserter.
The fact that he was born in America had already deprived his offence of the moral guilt that would have attached to it. It was common enough for British sailors to be pressed into the service of Spanish and French ships when captured on merchant vessels, but there was an unwritten law that they should desert the first chance they had. This rule applied perfectly to Jack Bell, and his plucky dive after a young British officer secured for him that his past should be universally winked at among the officers and sailors at Newport who might recognize him.
That same night Captain Forrester came ashore and went straight to the Widow Stubbs’ cottage, where he felt certain he would meet the three persons he most desired to see there.
Sure enough, on opening the door he found the widow, Jack Bell, and the boy Dicky sitting before a blazing hickory fire in the humble living-room. The widow sat at her spinning wheel in one corner, and the wheel hummed merrily. They were so poor they could not afford even a tallow dip, but the fire made the tidy little place quite bright and cheery. Jack Bell sat on the wooden settle, and curled up by him was Dicky Stubbs.
Dicky had just been displaying his new accomplishments in the singing line, and the Widow Stubbs had swelled with pride at the display of Dicky’s talents. It was happiness enough to get him back alive and well, but to find him so grown, so much improved from the ragged urchin who had run away, and with such a wonderful new gift of singing, made the Widow Stubbs an uncommonly happy woman.
They all rose as Captain Forrester entered, and the widow gave him her only armchair.
“I have come to thank you all for my son’s life,” said Captain Forrester as soon as he was seated, “but especially Jack Bell, here, who risked his own life in jumping overboard among the rocks for my son. Of course I never can pay you for it—but here is something that at least may give you some comforts;” and the captain took from his breast a small package made up of golden sovereigns banded together and held it toward Jack Bell.
Jack, however, shook his head and folded his arms.
“I thank ’ee, sir, most respectful for ’em, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelin’s by refusin’; but I can’t take money for savin’ anybody’s life—and leastways from you, Cap’n Forrester—as was”— Jack Bell paused, smiled knowingly, and then continued: “This ’ere boy sings a song called ‘Old Shipmates.’”
“Yes, I know,” answered the captain, smiling back and knowing that Jack meant that he and the captain had been shipmates; “but think of the pleasure you would give me to know that this little present would make your old age comfortable.”
“True, sir,” answered Jack; “but I ain’t used to livin’ on my money, and I’d be a sight happier if I had sumpin’ to do, like bein’ a night watchman or some sich thing. You see, sir, I has had a watch now for more ’n forty year, and it seems so ornnateral for me to git into a standin’ bed place and know I ain’t got to hear the boatswain’s call when it’s time to turn out, that I can’t sleep a wink. Now it seems to me, sir, as if I had a watch on shore I could walk up and down this ’ere town callin’ out the hours, and it would seem like I was standin’ my reg’lar watch.”
“But couldn’t you stand watch on shore, as you call it, just as well if you knew you had a little money put away?”
“Not for savin’ a life, sir,” answered Jack as politely as ever; but the captain knew then there was no hope of his taking the money. “If you’d be so kind, sir, as to git me the place as watchman, I wouldn’t ax no better.”
“You shall certainly have a watchman’s place,” said the captain, who mentally added, “if I have to pay your wages out of my own pocket.”
“It would seem mightily like the lookout,” continued Jack evidently tickled with his new scheme. “I dessay I’d forgit and call out: ‘Eight bells! Bright light, weather cathead!’ instid o’ ‘Twelve o’clock, and all’s well!’”
The captain laughed at this and then turned to the Widow Stubbs:—
“And you, madam, and your son—will you not permit me to give you some little token of gratitude for your help in restoring my son?”
The Widow Stubbs blushed at this, but, like Jack Bell, she had scruples about taking any recompense for the saving of life, especially as she was a woman of some education and stood a little higher in the world than Jack Bell.
“No, sir, I thank you; but I could not accept money from anyone. What I did was very little, and what my boy did was still less. I am glad, though, we were able to do that little.”
The captain felt disappointed when he put his money back in his breast pocket, but he was too much the gentleman to insist on these humble people receiving what they felt themselves above taking.
“At all events,” he said, looking toward Dicky’s round, bright face, “I might be able to do something for your boy.”
“I am afraid not,” answered the widow with a faint smile. “We are patriots—my boy and I; my husband was killed only six months ago in the Continental Army, and there is nothing that a British officer could do for him, no matter how kindly meant.”
“What do you mean to do with him at present?” asked Captain Forrester.
The widow shook her head.
“I have just got him back after he ran away. I have not had time to think; but there is always work hereabouts for a good strong boy like Dicky.”
“Provided he does not run away again,” said Captain Forrester.
Dicky turned a rosy red at finding himself the subject of conversation and astonished his mother by stuttering out,—
“P-p-please, sir, don’t the British ever give folks their parole? I—I mean, let ’em—go—if they promise they won’t do so any more?”
The Widow Stubbs heard this with surprise and indignation. She had been much distressed when Dicky had run away to join the Continental navy, although he never got farther than the merchant ship Betsey; but his apparent eagerness to promise he would not do so any more struck her as a want of spirit in the boy that mortified her keenly.
“Why, Dicky Stubbs!” she exclaimed, and said no more for very shame of him.
“Yes; we take paroles,” said Captain Forrester, supposing Dicky knew it referred only to officers.
“Then, sir,” cried Dicky, whose ideas of a parole were very hazy, “all I’ve got to say is that I don’t want no parole,—I wouldn’t take it if you was to offer it to me,—and I ain’t going to give no promise about not running away again. Just as soon as I am big enough to carry my father’s musket I’m a-going to enlist in the ’Merican army under General Washington, and it won’t be long before I do it, neither!”
This sudden outbreak was followed by the Widow Stubbs clasping Dicky in her arms and crying,“That’s my own boy!” while Jack Bell said “Hooray!” under his breath.
But Captain Forrester, instead of sternly calling upon Dicky to recant, as Dicky hoped, who meant to hurl defiance at him, only laughed. Dicky could have cried with rage and disappointment when the captain got up, still laughing, and said:—
“General Washington will gain a valuable recruit, and King George a dangerous enemy.”
“I hope you’ll excuse him,” said the widow, smiling, but a little ashamed of Dicky’s forwardness; “he doesn’t mean to be impudent.”
“I know it,” said the captain. “He is a lad of spirit, and I like that kind. I will now bid you good evening with a thousand thanks for your kindness to my son; and if you get in any trouble with that youngster of yours, write to General Prescott and mention my name; and as for you, Bell, the less we say about the days on the Indomptable and the old Colossus, the better, eh?”
Jack Bell grinned broadly at that and answered:—
“I knowed, sir, you wouldn’t blow the gaff on a old shipmate.”
“Good-by, then,” said Captain Forrester. “You shall be made a watchman; and remember, if you get in any trouble you must manage to communicate with me; but I hope that prosperity may attend all of you, whom I can never forget and must always feel grateful to.”
The Widow Stubbs made a low bow, Jack Bell saluted, and Dicky, getting a lantern, lighted the captain to his boat, which lay at the foot of the cliff.
Jack Bell very promptly got his appointment as a watchman, and soon every night he paraded the streets of Newport with a stick and a lantern, calling out the hours as the night slipped away. He never could bring himself, though, to calling as the other watchmen did,—the hour, and then, “All’s well!”—but sung out every half-hour the time according to the ship’s bells, always adding what the weather was, and where the wind lay, such as, “Six bells! Wind sou’-sou’-east!”
The townspeople soon got used to the old sailor’s way and he was not molested in his peculiar ideas of the time. At all events, evil characters who prowled by night had great respect for him after having once felt the force of his stick, because in spite of his age Jack’s arm was still stalwart, and he was not given to arguing with offenders.
At that time there was a large British fleet under Admiral Wallace lying off Newport, besides a large land force under General Prescott. It was impossible for Jack not to have a great many more acquaintances than he desired among the sailors of the fleet. But although his true story was more than suspected, it was perfectly well known that he had a powerful protector in Captain Forrester. Jack’s bold dive into the icy water had turned out a good thing for him. So Jack walked his beat all night, and went back at daylight to the Widow Stubbs’ cottage where he slept in the loft until midday, and was as little unhappy as he could be on shore.
The Widow Stubbs had spoken quite confidently to Captain Forrester of Dicky’s capacity to make a living, but it turned out not so easy as she fancied in spite of the fact that Dicky was strong and bright and willing to work. But he was only a twelve-year-old boy, and the war times made business of all sorts dull. Dicky worked around the wharves, but there were scarcely any merchant vessels plying, and the waterfront was almost deserted except by the British warships and crews.
The Americans held the opposite shore of Narragansett Bay, and Dicky imagined that on fine days he could see the American flag flying there, and the sight always made him feel very well disposed to run away again, but he never did.
Dicky, however, discovered very unexpectedly that he possessed a means of livelihood in his beautiful young voice, and in the songs that Jack Bell had taught him. But the treasure of Dicky’s life was a little dog’s-eared, ill-printed book of patriotic songs, all predicting the speedy overthrow of John Bull, and the certainty that the patriots would soon drive every British soldier and sailor off American soil. The book had been smuggled over from the Narragansett side, and was rather a dangerous possession. But as Dicky soon learned the songs all by heart, it would not have mattered if it had been found and destroyed.
It was the dream of Dicky’s life though, as well as of Jack Bell’s, to compose a song themselves. They had no scruples about adapting somebody else’s music, but they burned with ambition to create a new set of words which rhymed. Many a night before it was time for Jack’s watch to begin, would he and Dicky struggle over a slate on which they had marked lines, something like this:—
____sea____be____shore____gore____sail____hail
____sea
____be
____shore
____gore
____sail
____hail
But they never got any farther.
“Seems to me, young ’un,” said Jack, scratching his head, “we’re beginnin’ at the wrong end. It’s stern foremost, d’ye see?”
“Yes, sir,” Dicky would reply, “but in poetry I believe you are obliged to begin stern foremost—because if you begin at the beginning you never get any poetry—just as if it was makin’ a song like this:—
“The ’Mericans are gallant lads; they’re bound to whip Johnny Bull. It don’t make no matter if Johnny Bull has got more ships and soldiers. We’re goin’ to whip him. Now that ain’t poetry, because I begun at the beginning.”
“That’s so,” Jack would reluctantly admit; “but if it ain’t poetry, it’s mighty good sense, and I hope it’ll all come true.”
In those days tavern kitchens were very respectable resorts of the humbler classes of people and Jack Bell was very fond of the kitchen of the Eagle Tavern. The proprietor, Jacob Dyer, was a patriot at heart; but his house was so much the resort of British sailors and soldiers that he dared not avow the full extent of his sympathies.
In the kitchen Dicky made most of his pennies—and he made so many that they soon grew into shillings. It might have been rather a dangerous place to trust a weak or a vicious boy; but Dicky was neither weak nor vicious. He went to the tavern to sing his songs, and when he got through he scampered off home to his mother with his money and was very glad to get there. Besides, at the time when he usually turned up at the tavern to sing, Jack Bell was comfortably established in the chimney-corner and he kept a sharp eye on Dicky and promptly reported any bad manners or other small offences to the Widow Stubbs, who upon the few occasions that Dicky had transgressed always came down on him with the heavy hand of justice armed with a good birch switch.
One afternoon Dicky turned up at the tavern, as usual, and found the kitchen full of sailors from several cruisers of Lord Howe’s fleet that had rendezvoused at Newport.
“Here you are, you young rapscallion!” called out one jolly man-o’-war’s-man. “Come here and give us ‘Black-eyed Susan’ or I’ll give you the cat.”
This being the usual form in which those requests were made, Dicky nodded his head, grinned, and perched himself on the kitchen dresser to be heard the better. Having trolled out “Black-eyed Susan,” “Strike Eight Bells,” and other nautical ditties in his sweet boyish treble, Dicky got down and began to hand his homespun hat around for pennies. The sailors were liberal and Dicky was beginning to think how his mother would smile as he upset the hat in her lap, when one of the sailors, a fellow with a great voice, seized him and, holding up a glass of rum, called out: “Here, you lubber! come and drink the king’s health.”
“Much obliged, sir,” answered Dicky readily; “but my mother don’t on no account let me touch rum, and I’ve promised her I won’t.”
How glad was Dicky at that moment that he had made the promise! His mother had asked him and he had done it without giving it any particular thought; but when it came to saving him from drinking the king’s health, Dicky’s patriotic soul rejoiced that he had so good an excuse.
The man, rough as he was, could not ask the boy to break his word, but he was determined to get some British sentiment out of Dicky.
“Then you pipe up ‘God Save the King’ as loud as you can,” he cried.
“I c-c-can’t,” said Dicky, looking around at Jack Bell in the corner. Jack gave him an almost imperceptible wink and nod, which meant: “You’re right; stick to it.”
“But you shall!” roared the sailor.
“But I won’t!” shouted Dicky boldly, and making a dash for the rolling-pin on the dresser, which he seized and flourished stoutly.
The sailor made a dash for Dicky, who, as alert as a monkey, pushed a chair in front of him, over which the sailor fell sprawling. The next minute Dicky gave the window a terrific whack that smashed sash and all, and, scrambling through, took to his heels and was almost home by the time the sailor had got through rubbing his bruised shins.
The Widow Stubbs was scrupulously honest, and her first comment after she had praised Dicky for keeping his word about the rum and refusing to sing “God Save the King” was:—
“But, son, we must pay for the window.”
“Yes, mammy,” said Dicky ruefully; “and I lost three shillings and my hat too.”
That night when Jack Bell came in for his usual chat on the settle, he told Dicky: “You’re right, boy, and if it’s too hard a pull for you and your mammy to pay for the winder, why, Jack Bell has got some of the rhino and you’re welcome to it, for I see how you stuck up to your promise and to your country.”
Just at that minute a knock came at the door, and when Dicky opened it Jacob Dyer walked in. Both the widow and Dicky thought he had come for his money for the window, and the Widow Stubbs began: “Don’t you have any fear, sir, that I won’t pay for what my boy did to-day, and pay it cheerful, to know I’ve got a boy who can keep his word to me, and can’t be frightened into singing ‘God Save the King.’”
“Widder,” said Jacob, “your boy is welcome to smash that winder. Maybe he’s got more courage than Jacob Dyer; for although I can’t sing ‘God Save the King,’ chiefly because I don’t know how to sing anything, I feel sometimes as if I ought to be more outspoken than I am for my country. But I have a wife and eight children to support, and if I got the redcoats down on me, they’d close my tavern and then I’d be on the town. But sometimes my blood biles when I hear ’em talk about lickin’ General Washington. I kem to-night to tell you that if I look cross at your boy the next time he comes to the tavern he needn’t mind. You sha’n’t pay a cent for the winder, and I’d be a good deal more of a ’Merican if my livin’ didn’t depend on the redcoats.”
The very next day Dicky showed up in the tavern kitchen. As usual, redcoats were plenty. Jacob Dyer, in a huge white apron, was superintending the turning of the spit. As soon as he caught sight of Dicky he began to grumble.
“Here comes that Stubbs boy as cost me five shilling for a glazier’s bill. If it warn’t that his mother’s a widder, I’d be after him, I can tell you. But look out, you young scamp, if ever you get to wreckin’ my premises again, I’ll get after you as sure as shootin’. Do you mind that?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Dicky very meekly and not in the least alarmed.
Visitors were few at the widow’s cottage, but the very night after Jacob Dyer had been there another knock at the door ushered in a very different visitor. The widow had just trimmed the fire, swept the hearth, and drawn up the settle, and was waiting for Jack and Dicky to come in and get their supper of milk and porridge and potatoes, when a thundering rat-tat-tat came at the door. When she opened it, there stood an elderly gentleman in a cocked hat and handsome knee buckles and a gold-headed cane. The widow knew him in a moment. He was Squire Stavers, one of the richest citizens of Newport and a staunch patriot. The widow was rather flustered by the importance of her caller, but invited him in politely.
“I understand, madam,” began Squire Stavers, “that you have an uncommonly reliable boy—a little fellow who goes about singing for his living.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the widow, all in a flutter. “It mayn’t seem such a steady business for a boy, but the times are so hard I can’t find anything else for him to do, and he makes a very good living and brings all his money to me.”
“His employment will answer very well for the present,” replied the squire, “and when times become more settled no doubt you can find honorable work for him. What I came to see you about to-night was in connection with him. Is there any danger of being overheard?”
For answer the widow rose and bolted the door of the cottage and—rare luxury!—lighted two tallow candles. Then the squire continued:
“I know, madam, that you are the widow of a Continental soldier and may be depended upon to help your country.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the widow quite promptly.
“This, then, is what I wish to say. The patriots of Newport desire to communicate with the Continental forces at Providence Plantations, and if they can get a trusty messenger as far as Tiverton, there will be no difficulty the rest of the way. We dare not employ a man on this service as we are closely watched. But a boy would never be suspected, and our communication would be in the form of a letter that would reveal nothing in case it was found. Mr. James Barton, who has a gallant son in the Continental Army, and myself are old friends, and we are supposed to be corresponding for pleasure and profit. Mr. Barton, for example, has beeves to sell, and writes me asking the price in the market. His younger son has lately visited my house, and in my letter I speak of him. Yet there is a hidden meaning in all this, and it would be of substantial help to the cause if we could carry information in that manner.”
“If you will wait a few moments, sir, I will ask Mr. Bell’s opinion. He’s a steady, sensible man, and although I’m perfectly willing to let my boy do all he can, I’d rather consult Mr. Bell.”
At that moment they both heard Dicky and Jack Bell fumbling at the latch. The widow rose and let them in, then bolted the door again.
Jack Bell knew well enough who Squire Stavers was, and when Dicky heard that he, Dicky Stubbs, was actually wanted for an important service, he could scarcely forbear hurrahing and cutting the pigeon wing in his delight.
“Now let me read you the letter I wish the lad to carry,” said the Squire, putting on his great gold spectacles, and taking a letter from his pocket. “Suppose your boy is stopped. Let him at once produce this letter, and if the British can find out anything from it, they are cleverer than I take it.”
My dear Sir,—Your letter, enquiring what price beeves will fetch, is received, and I made a note of the contents. No one can understand who has not been here lately, the extremely low price that animal produce has fallen to. But let me know in regard to the beeves, stating whether you wish to sell them on the hoof or not, which is important. The lad who takes this can bring a verbal message straight enough, but it would be safest to write, as boys are but heedless creatures, and of their own memory, they are overconfident. However, the bearer of this, may be your son, as I am expecting him to return this way, and I may keep it for him. The town is closely patrolled, and although the force here is large, it is remarkably well disciplined. Your son was very popular among the young ladies, who seemed determined to surround and capture him. The place is not what it was in times of peace, as it is very dull, the military being obliged to see an extremely strict watch kept, and it would not be difficult in consideration of the unsettled state of affairs to believe that we are in a state of siege, which is a serious matter. There is but an indifferent interest taken in welfare of the town, except by General Prescott commanding the land forces. He is an able officer, and his loss would be very great should he be transferred. I am thinking of taking up my residence at the Eagle Tavern, or at the Overing House, on the outskirts of the town.I should let my house to a staff officer of my acquaintance who wants it for six months. General Prescott has taken up his quarters as if he meant to stay, and it leads me to think that no change of commanders is impending.I am,Your Friend and Obedient Servant,WENTWORTH STAVERS.
My dear Sir,—
Your letter, enquiring what price beeves will fetch, is received, and I made a note of the contents. No one can understand who has not been here lately, the extremely low price that animal produce has fallen to. But let me know in regard to the beeves, stating whether you wish to sell them on the hoof or not, which is important. The lad who takes this can bring a verbal message straight enough, but it would be safest to write, as boys are but heedless creatures, and of their own memory, they are overconfident. However, the bearer of this, may be your son, as I am expecting him to return this way, and I may keep it for him. The town is closely patrolled, and although the force here is large, it is remarkably well disciplined. Your son was very popular among the young ladies, who seemed determined to surround and capture him. The place is not what it was in times of peace, as it is very dull, the military being obliged to see an extremely strict watch kept, and it would not be difficult in consideration of the unsettled state of affairs to believe that we are in a state of siege, which is a serious matter. There is but an indifferent interest taken in welfare of the town, except by General Prescott commanding the land forces. He is an able officer, and his loss would be very great should he be transferred. I am thinking of taking up my residence at the Eagle Tavern, or at the Overing House, on the outskirts of the town.
I should let my house to a staff officer of my acquaintance who wants it for six months. General Prescott has taken up his quarters as if he meant to stay, and it leads me to think that no change of commanders is impending.
I am,Your Friend and Obedient Servant,WENTWORTH STAVERS.
Jack Bell listened with great solemnity to the reading of this letter, and when the Squire finished reading and lay back in the chair with a triumphant smile, Jack remarked with emphasis:—
“There ain’t nothin’ to hurt a babby in that ’ere letter. It’s all plain sailin’, as fur as I can see.”
The Widow Stubbs agreed with him, and Dicky thought privately it was one of the stupidest letters he had ever read.
“Well, now,” cried the Squire with a victorious air, “suppose you read every third line, beginning at the third from the bottom. Here you are.
“General Prescott has taken up his quarters at the Overing House on the outskirts of the town. He is an able officer and his loss would be a serious matter. There is but an indifferent watch kept, and it would not be difficult to surround and capture him. The place is not closely patrolled, and, although the force here is large, they are overconfident. The bearer of this can bring a verbal message straight enough. But let me know in regard to the beeves; the contents no one can understand.
“Now, what do you say to that?” inquired the Squire as he finished the interpretation of the letter.
Jack Bell’s jaw dropped and Dicky almost rolled on the floor in his surprise, while his mother took the letter and, counting the lines, saw how the information conveyed in it was so different from what appeared on the surface. Presently Jack Bell recovered himself enough to bring his hand down on the table with a thwack that made the candles jump and everybody in the room jump, too.
The Squire enjoyed the sensation he had given his simple audience and looked around with an air of much satisfaction.
“Now,” said he, “I want this letter taken to Tiverton, ten miles up. If the boy takes it, I will lend him a horse,”—here Dicky could not forbear thrusting his tongue into his cheek and wagging his head with rapture,—“and if he is stopped on the way, let him hand out the letter. They will probably read it and pass him on. And one thing may be of use to you—I will give you two shillings if you bring me an answer back; so, if you are stopped, tell your captors that and they will probably let you go.”
The Squire then rose to leave and, standing with his hand on his gold-headed cane, spoke impressively:—
“I have confided in all of you to-night, and if one word from any of you gives rise to suspicion, there will be deep and serious trouble for all of us.”
“I can answer for me and my boy,” said the widow, while Jack Bell made reply:—
“I can answer, sir, for Jack Bell, as who is a uneddicated man, but ain’t a fool, nor yet a rascal.”
“I believe you, and good-by to all of you. The boy must be at my house at sunrise to-morrow morning. He ought to be back by the early afternoon, and if he is not, I myself will go and look for him.”
The Squire then went out and the widow and Jack Bell and Dicky sat and looked at each other, the widow unmindful of the extravagance of burning two candles when there was no distinguished company.
“Well,” said she after a pause, “the boy can’t come to harm just riding between here and Tiverton—do you think so, Mr. Bell?”
Instead of the hearty assurance that the widow expected, Jack looked quite solemn and seemed to avoid an answer. But the widow’s pleading eyes forced a reply out of him.
“’Tain’t the distance, ma’am—that’s neither here nor there—and the boy could leg it easy enough. But horses is ornnateral sort o’ beasts and they’ve got a special spite ag’in sailor men and sailor boys too. I never see a sailor man git on a horse that I didn’t see the four-legged scoundrel kinder look around with a devilish grin, as much as to say: ‘Aha, I’ve got you now! You ain’t a-ridin’ the spanker boom, nor yet the topsail yard, and I’ll bounce you off or bust’—and they most in gin’ally don’t bust. I can’t help feelin’ oneasy about trustin’ him a horseback, ma’am.”
The widow laughed at this and Dicky cried out indignantly:—
“Why, Mr. Bell, I’d just as lief ride anything from an elephant to a goat. ’Tain’t any harder to stick on a horse than it is to hold on to the topsail yard.”
“Yes, it is, boy,” answered Jack with much severity, “and a sight more dangersome. Horses, I tell you, has a spite ag’in sailor men—and they’re mighty cunnin’ in carryin’ out their ill-will. I wish you was goin’ to leg it. That’s all.”
Dicky was sent to bed early that night, so he could have a good sleep before his journey. But he was so excited over the prospect of his coming adventures that he scarcely closed his eyes. He was up and dressed by daybreak, and his mother had hard work holding him until sunrise before starting off.
As it was, he arrived at the Squire’s fine house in the town, before the Squire was up. When the horse was led out for him to mount, Dicky made a rush at him and scrambled up, beaming with delight. It was quite a sober old cart horse, named Blackberry—but had he been the finest thoroughbred in the world he could not have given Dicky more pleasure.
The Squire gave him the letter before several of the servants, without any extraordinary charges of carefulness, merely telling him to deliver it with his own hands to Mr. Josiah Barton, of Tiverton, and to return as soon as possible, when he would receive two shillings—and not to ride Blackberry too hard.
Dicky listened very respectfully, put the letter in the bosom of his jacket and pinned it, and started off. He rode very slowly as long as he was in sight of the Squire’s house, but it must be admitted that as soon as he turned the first corner he gave old Blackberry a cut that started him on a sharp trot. Blackberry, however, like the Squire himself, was well fed, his load was light, the day was pleasant, and he was quite willing to play the colt for a while, so he and Dicky got on beautifully.
The morning was deliciously fresh, and Dicky, who had never been ten miles from Newport in his life, except when he had run away on the Betsey, was as happy as a bird and felt himself quite as much of a man as Jack Bell. He was so happy that when he had gone two or three miles he could not forbear breaking into song—and as galloping and singing are somewhat incongruous he brought Blackberry down to a leisurely walk. Then with his knee crossed on the saddle he began to sing some of his favorite songs.
Unluckily though, he chose one of his rebel songs as they were called, and he was trolling it out in his sweetest voice when presently looking up, he found himself almost riding over a squad of redcoats marching along the road with a sergeant at their head.
“Look out, you young rebel!” called out the sergeant, catching Blackberry’s bridle; “what are you up to?”
“Nothing wrong,” answered Dicky boldly although he felt a slight tremor at heart—but he knew the necessity of keeping a cool exterior. “I am on my way to Tiverton on an errand for Squire Stavers.”
“And do you know this is the King’s highway, and you were singing a song about,
‘At Bunker Hill, that glorious day,The time the redcoats ran away.’”
‘At Bunker Hill, that glorious day,
The time the redcoats ran away.’”
Dicky remained prudently silent and wished he had not sung his Bunker Hill song.
The sergeant, who was a powerful fellow with a good-natured face in spite of his bluff words, reached up, and lifting Dicky off the horse as if he were a baby, set him down on the ground and proceeded to search him. The first thing he ran across was the letter. “Come now,” said the sergeant, “the lieutenant must see this. From Squire Stavers to Josiah Barton of Tiverton. Both of them out-and-out rebels. Young man, will you please to ’bout face and march along, while I’ll ride your battle horse?”
“‘LOOK OUT, YOU YOUNG REBEL,’ CALLED OUT THE SERGEANT.”
“‘LOOK OUT, YOU YOUNG REBEL,’ CALLED OUT THE SERGEANT.”
This was an unkind slur on Blackberry, who was unmistakably a horse who had spent his life in civil pursuits. The sergeant mounted him, and the old horse, out of whom Dicky had taken most of the spirit, struck into a slow and dejected trot.
Dicky went along silently, and appeared to be neither frightened or discomposed. Indeed after a while he rather relished his adventure, and anticipated the telling of it with the keenest pleasure, in which he meant to do full justice to his own calmness under trying circumstances. The whole party walked down the road about half a mile, when they came to a deserted farmhouse. The sergeant, then dismounting, took Dicky by the shoulder and shoved him into a room where a young officer sat at a table writing. “If you please, sir,” said the sergeant, touching his cap, “I found this boy riding along the road, singing rebel songs. I thought I’d examine him to see if there was anything suspicious about him, and I found this letter directed to Josiah Barton of Tiverton,—a rank rebel,—and the boy says it is from Squire Stavers of Newport, who is another rank rebel. So I thought it would be safer to bring him and the letter to you.”