At midday a pennant was seen to flutter out above each division of the Prison, and on No. 3, styled "The Commodore," a huge white flag broke and revealed a legend printed upon it. "Free Trade and Sailors' Rights." A salute of seventeen bombs accompanied this display and the riot became deafening. Far distant upon the Moor many a traveller heard the sound, as of remote thunders grumbling under the horizon, and hastened upon his journey in dread of approaching tempest.
At the Prison, as the flags flew out, and the multitudes roared, Cecil Stark approached Burnham and prayed him to consider his position.
"You are doing a mad thing," he said. "You know as well as I that while a spark of reason lurked in efforts to escape authority, I was eager as any man. Ay, and beyond reason too, for, looking back, I see that the tunnel plot was folly. But now, to what purpose is this frantic nonsense? We shall be free men in three months. Then why make vexatious friction and lend the weight of your support to so much brainless folly?"
Burnham had been drinking and he answered fiercely.
"Cease your preaching! I calculate things are just about cooked now; and they'll have to be eaten. We know you, at any rate—ever ready to make trouble when you had no temptation to do otherwise. But now—you're an Englishman in disguise!"
"If you were not drunk, I'd thrash you before your bullies, for that insult."
"Threats—threats and big words. We know you, I say; we see through you. A place-seeker, who tried to lead that he might gratify his own cursed vanity. Now you are a pious prig and teach in the school and say your prayers, I dare say! Much good your leadership did—you with big patriotic words on your lips and an English girl in your mean heart!"
"Leave that, or I'll——"
"Do it—do it! D'you think I fear you? I'm leader now—leader of braver men than ever listened to you. Touch me, and a hundred men will break every bone in your body! A Yankee—you! I'll swear, if the truth was known, we should find you were leagued with Judas Leverett himself. Take that pill and swallow it, you canting humbug!"
Stark fell back and stared at his old companion.
"You!" he cried. "Bill Burnham to say that to me!"
He was silent and the other repeated his charge.
"I'll speak with you when you're sober then."
"And what will you say?" began the younger; but Stark turned from him; and at the same moment a peculiar whistle, used by his gang as a signal, told Burnham that he was wanted. Captain Short, with a bodyguard of armed troops, had appeared, and he desired to speak with a representative of the prisoners.
Burnham, with Ira Anson, stepped forward, and the rest of the mischief-makers stood in a group and watched them.
"Do you speak for these troublesome men?" asked the Commandant.
"I do," answered the young American. "I lead them all; and I'll not answer for them if any attempt is made to oppress them to-day."
"At least their spokesman should not be drunk himself, whatever his rag-tag and bob-tail are. You stand condemned, for you know that liquor is forbidden."
"The lad's not drunk," said Anson; "or, if he is, it is only at the same tap as all of us: the news from Ghent."
"I'll not argue it, sir. I'm only sorry you cannot receive the news in a spirit more worthy. At least you'll oblige me by striking that flag on Prison No. 3. It is an invitation to foolish and ignorant sailors to mutiny, and I will not permit it to float here while I'm in command."
"The word 'Rights' is a red rag to your Government," said Anson insolently.
"Your rights at least have always been respected," answered Short patiently. "I wish I could help you benighted fellows to see reason and take juster views. Your conduct proceeds from hatred of us and fear of us, instead of hatred of evil and fear of God. But 'tis your nation that must answer for you. Believe me, I shall be very well pleased to wash my hands of you."
Stark approached at this moment, and Captain Short turned to him.
"You at least are intelligent; and you fought fair," said the soldier. "Now I desire that yonder flag should be hauled down. I ask politely; I sink authority and approach these foolish fellows here as man to man. One is intoxicated; the other is, unfortunately, not a gentleman. I desire that that offensive flag shall be pulled down, and since we are in the atmosphere of peace, I will hoist an American emblem at the Prison gate and let it wave beside the Union Jack."
"You are generous," declared Cecil Stark. "Nothing could be fairer."
"I say 'no,'" interposed Burnham doggedly. "My men will have their flag; and if the motto stings—let it sting."
"In that case I order all flags down," answered Short, his neck flushing crimson. "Since you are such an intractable ass, you must be driven. Let every shred of bunting be down ere the sun sets, or it shall be brought down. If you court hard knocks, you may expect them."
He turned away in a rage, and Burnham whistled "Yankee Doodle," while a few silly sailors who had overheard the conversation cheered their representatives and hissed at Cecil Stark. But later in the day Anson prevailed with his detachments, and at sunset, rather than provoke an actual struggle, the flags came down. To the end, however, they defied their guards. Captain Short himself led three hundred men with fixed bayonets, and Sergeant Bradridge, who was of the number, expected at last to hear the sound of battle. But as the red winter sun sank behind the Moor, every flag fluttered simultaneously to earth, and for that time acute danger vanished with the daylight.
Many sailors were now arriving from the British battleships. These men, on hearing of peace, claimed the rights of American citizenship, and refused longer to fight against their fellow-countrymen. Those guilty of such tergiversation met but a frosty welcome at Prince Town, and new strifes followed upon their arrival. Among these shifty mariners were six from H.M.S.Pelican, who had fought in the action between that vessel and the United States brigArgus. The crew of the captured brig had been imprisoned at Prince Town; and after thePelican'smen arrived, such was the bitter animosity displayed against them that they found their lives in danger. To Captain Short these people appealed for protection, and another grave collision occurred between Burnham's party and the Commandant, when a detachment of soldiers entered the War Prison and rescued the six by force of arms. Then came two more defaulters from an English ship, and as both had actually volunteered for British service from Prince Town a year before, they were received back again with universal execration. A court convened by Ira Anson sat upon these poor wretches, and while some cried for their instant death, others proposed a flogging.
It was Mr. Knapps who hit upon an agreeable punishment to meet their crime.
"Take the doodles and brand 'em," he said. "They've got the name of a British ship tattooed over their dirty hearts, for I seed it there; now put U.S.T. on their faces, so as they'll be known evermore for United States Traitors."
The proposal was cheered and acted upon. To the hospital the sufferers went after their punishment, and Doctor Macgrath did what was possible to eradicate the damning letters; but they had been bitten in too well. Captain Short took this matter gravely, and the men responsible for the actual assault were thrust into the cachots to stand their trial.
Another incident to illustrate the growing rancour and bitterness may be given. A prisoner—one of four unfortunates who had suffered six months in a cachot—watched his opportunity when at exercise, and escaped from his yard to the next. He was immediately surrounded by his countrymen, and when Short demanded him back, the Americans refused to give him up. Thereupon the Commandant appeared with fixed bayonets and directed all prisoners to retire into their respective quarters, that a strict search might be made for the escaped man. Burnham, however, defied this order in the name of his comrades.
"This poor devil has suffered enough," he said. "His crime, which was an alleged attempt to blow up a British schooner, was never proved against him, and we will not restore him to renewed tortures. I am master here, and we lack not for arms or skill to use them. That you will learn to your cost, if you try force against us. You forget that the war is ended now."
Captain Short perceived that with his small company he would have little chance against the threatening hordes arrayed against him; therefore, without answering Burnham, he gave the order to retire, and left the prison amid wild and derisive shouts and cat-calls.
But albeit defeated, the Commandant took a weak man's revenge and shut up the Prison markets. Instantly Burnham and his friends issued an order that no carpenter, mason nor other mechanic should do any further work for the British Government until the markets were re-opened. This 'strike' caused such unexpected expense and inconvenience, that Captain Short was constrained to yield again. The markets were set going once more and the artificers promptly returned to their labours. Thus the prisoners achieved their ends, and Burnham, flushed with success, continued to take the side of lawlessness; while Short, much embittered by his reverse and uneasily conscious that his own officers were laughing at him, sank into a brooding ferocity that darkened his face and boded ill for the future.
An interval of calm succeeded; and then fell out those tragic events that closed the history of the Prince Town War Prison.
Mr. Peter Norcot dwelt in one of the comfortable border farmhouses that lie among the foothills of Dartmoor near Chagford. It was an old Elizabethan domicile, and with it the wool-stapler owned a hundred acres of forest and three farms. His property adjoined the estates of the Manor of Godleigh; but he was not upon genial terms with the lord of the manor, one Sir Simon Yeoland. The knight had old-fashioned ideas on the subject of trade and looked down upon Peter; while Mr. Norcot for his part, held his neighbour a mere machine for slaughter of game and oppression of the common people—a bundle of hereditary and predatory instincts handed down from the dark ages.
There came a night in early spring when Peter sat beside his parlour fire, sipped his grog and read his Shakespeare. Gertrude Norcot, a faded but still handsome woman of five-and-thirty, kept him company until the clock chimed ten; then she stopped her work, kissed her brother on the temple and retired.
Mr. Norcot sat on until midnight; after which he put up a guard before the dying fire and was just about to go to bed when the flame burst out anew and he delayed and spread his hands to warm them. His thoughts were busy of late, for he matured the next attempt to win Grace Malherb. Still there was but one woman in the world for him, and his purpose towards her remained unshaken. But the task grew difficult indeed, for now Maurice Malherb was to be counted upon the side of his daughter.
Alone, without need of any mask, Peter's countenance lacked that geniality usually associated with it. To-night, in the flickering fire-gleam, he looked as though his face was carved out of yellow ivory. It revealed stern lines such as shall be seen in the facial severity of the Red Man.
Now, upon his grim and midnight cogitations, there fell suddenly a sound. The noise of tapping reached him from the window; but supposing it to be but an ivy spray escaped from the mullion and blown against the casement by nightly winds, he paid no heed. Then the sound increased and became sharper; so Norcot knew that some wanderer stood outside and summoned him. Without hesitation he threw open the shutter, pulled up the blind and looked out, to see a man with his face close against the glass. An aged but virile countenance with brilliant eyes peered in. The man beckoned, and Peter nodded and prepared to unfasten the window. The face was not unfamiliar to him, and he puzzled to recollect the person of his visitor, but failed to do so.
"'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,'" said Mr. Norcot to himself as the stranger entered.
"Give 'e good even. I'll speak with you if you'm alone," he began, and immediately approached the light.
"I know your face; yet I know it not. Who are you?" asked Peter.
The wanderer uttered a sound that might have indicated amusement.
"I've had a long journey and feared every moment to find my feet in a man-trap."
"That you need not have done upon my land. The gorge of humanity rises at such damnable contrivances. The ruffian Yeoland, lord of the manor, has both traps and spring-guns in his coverts—he showed them to me himself, cold-blooded devil. Yes, he exhibited them with such pride as a mother might display her first-born! Engines of hell! But they answer their purpose; he does not lose a bird now."
"Since when was you so merciful? Your words is soft—your eyes give 'em the lie."
Then Norcot, recognising his visitor, leapt from his seat and stared with real amazement. For once he was startled into an oath.
"Good God, it's Lovey Lee!"
The miser grinned.
"You was a long time finding out. Ess fay—poor old Lovey, still in the land of the living."
"But your bones were found and buried! There was a most dramatic scene, I hear. Malherb—he cried out before them all in the churchyard at Widecombe that he had slain you, that your blood was upon his head. It's eating his heart out, they say."
"Let it eat with poisoned teeth. No fault of his that I didn't die. An' I've cussed heaven for two months because the law haven't taken the man an' hanged him, as I meant it to. But yet hanging's an easier death than what he's dying."
"Alive!" said Norcot. "Alive—very much alive. And turned into a man. 'Doubtless a staunch and solid piece of framework, as any January could freeze together!' And where learnt you the trick of rising from the dead? What devil taught you that, you 'ceaseless labourer in the work of shame'?"
"If you've only got hard words——"
"Nay, nay; I love you; you are the Queen of the Moor!"
"He left me for dead, and Lord knows how long I was dead. He struck me down at dawn, and when I comed to my senses, the moon was setting. I got back to my secret place somehow, and found 'twas empty. So I seed that the Devil had helped him to find his darter. Well for her he did!"
Norcot nodded.
"Not a doubt of it," he said.
"Be you still of a mind about the wench?"
He did not answer, but prepared to pour some spirits into a glass for the old woman. Lovey, however, refused them.
"Be you still of a mind? That's my question."
"Maurice Malherb has changed his views. Your death has done wonders and quite broke him. An ignoble type of man
"'We call a nettle but a nettleAnd the faults of fools but folly.'
So Shakespeare dismisses Malherb. Now tell me about yourself; then I'll answer your question."
"Soon told. After I seed my den was found out, bad as I was, with my skull near split and scarce able to crawl, I dragged my goods away an' carried 'em—every stick—two mile off. For I knowed they'd come next day an' tear the place down an' pull all abroad, like a boy pulls out a bird's nest. I reckoned the bloodhounds was arter me, too, and might finish me any minute; but nought happened and I got clear off. Then 'twas that two nights after, seeking for another hiding-place where I could be safe, I comed across a corpse. Never was a stranger sight seen. A man wi' only one hand an' his throat cut from ear to ear. His eyes glared through the dim fog of death upon 'em, an' the foxes had found him. I be wearing his clothes now. They'm very comfortable, an' 'tis a wonder I never took to man's garments afore, for they'm always to be had where there's scarecrows. I needn't tell 'e the rest, for you've guessed it by your grinning. I seed how 'twould fall out, an' so it did. My white rags of hair I cut off an' left beside his bald poll, an' my clothes I put about his clay. His knife I took, an' what's more, I got two hundred and eight pound by him, for there was gold pieces covered with his blood all round him. More there might have been, but the cursed greedy bogs had swallowed 'em, though I raked elbow deep for 'em. Then I smashed in the man's head an' left winter an' the crows an' wild beasts to do the rest. My locks be growing again now."
She took off her close cap of rabbit's skin and revealed a tangle of snow-white hair with evident satisfaction.
"What next?" asked Peter.
"That be all. I'm hid very snug just now, right up where the river springs nigh the Grey Wethers on Sittaford Tor. Not a bee gathers honey there; not a beast grazes that way. An' Jack Lee be along wi' me; for us met by chance nigh Holne Wood in the night, both hunting for food. 'Twas three days after he slipped the sojers."
"A scurvy trick he served me. I'd got her promise to marry me if I saved him."
"Well, I'll sell him to 'e if you wants to pay him out."
"A grand-dam to be proud of! And now, my old treasure, what do you come to me for?"
"First I want you to change my money into paper an' buy my snuff-boxes an' watches an' bits of plate. I be going to France."
"Going to leave us! You mustn't. We couldn't get on without you. Damme, I'm in love with you myself. There's something about those clothes——"
"Be you in love with that girl still? That's the question. If so, us may do each other a service."
"Yes, she marries me sooner or later. I never change. The good wife of Bath's motto is my own:
"'I followeth aye mine inclinationBy vertue of my constellation."
My star is steadfastness—the fixed pole is not more stable. I'm going to marry Grace Malherb."
"You'll ne'er get her by fair means."
"In love all is fair. 'Tis strange, but your gaunt presence actually shattered thoughts of her. Things have now come to a crisis and I must use the remarkable brains that Heaven has given me. 'Nor do men light a candle and put it under a bushel.' I've tried to marry her and failed utterly to do so upon simple and conventional lines. Now I must be serious with myself. 'The Destinies find the way,' if we only let them have their heads."
He toyed with his watch-guard. The seals were fastened to a piece of black silk.
"She wore that once about her waist," he said.
"Give me but what this ribband bound;Take all the rest the sun goes round.'"
"I can help you."
"It's so difficult to realise that you are alive. The countryside has quite settled it. All men believe you to be in another world. Malherb's announcement was taken with wonderful self-control. I don't want to hurt your delicate feelings, Lovey, but not a soul went into mourning. In fact, only one man in all Devon felt your taking off, and that was Maurice Malherb."
"You laugh at me. Well, here's a thing to make you laugh again. I'll tell you how to get her without any more trouble."
"I had thought perhaps to approach the parent birds once more. But what's the use? Her mother counts for nought. Her father has got his head full of his own miseries. 'Doubtful ills plague us worst,' as Seneca so justly observes. While he hesitated as to whether you were really extinct, he must have gone through hot fires. Now he knows the worst and waits to suffer for it; but, what's interesting, not a soul moves against him."
"That's where my plan comes in then. You lay a charge of murder on him, an' the maid will marry you to shut your mouth."
"Worthy of you, but foreign to my genius. Besides, though I blush to say it, everybody sympathises with him. It is always very painful to hear the estimate of our fellow-creatures upon us; but people who die and come to life again must expect to learn some particularly painful facts. There's an Eastern proverb apposite to that, 'Nobody knows how good we are except ourselves'! No; for my part, since have this girl I must and will, I'm inclined now to take her by main force—to do something feudal and old-fashioned. Until she comes under my roof and finds all that she is losing, she will never get sense. And then—stolen fruit! Consider the charm of it to an epicure like myself."
"I'll do anything woman can do for money," answered Mrs. Lee. "My grandson an' me bide in a ruined shepherd's cot beyond Sittaford. Us have made it watertight; but 'tis plaguey cold, an' I'm sick of it. Change my money an' add a bit to it, an' I'll help 'e with that girl afore I go to France. I always knowed 'twould be my lot to help you."
"We ought to use your nephew. She would trust him."
"Ess, she do. If you want her here, Jack Lee's the properest tool to use. I can fox him with a word an' make him help us without knowing what he's doing."
"Of course—of course. I'll not insult you by planning details. The thing is obvious."
"Only one man knows where we be hidden, an' that's Leaman Cloberry. He'll help 'e. He hates Malherb, 'cause he dusted rat-catcher's mangy jacket for him long ago. 'Tis Cloberry keeps us in food; an' a cruel lot of money he makes us pay for it."
They conversed for the space of another hour; then Norcot directed the old woman to return to him in three weeks from that night, and let her out of the window.
"An' you'll give me a clear hundred over what you change for me, an' buy my trinkets?" she said.
"All that."
"An' help me to take ship at Dartmouth an' get out o' the country?"
"It is agreed."
Lovey vanished and Peter watched her. The Malherb amphora was for that moment uppermost in his mind, but he had not mentioned it for fear of alarming her. His plot was adumbrated and the details began to grow. He meant to marry Grace after abducting her from her home; and he designed subsequently to propitiate Malherb with the amphora.
"'Twill be a little surprise for our old lady to lose it after all," he thought.
Peter appeared at seven o'clock to take breakfast, as usual, and, as Gertrude poured out coffee, he surprised his sister with an item of intelligence.
"I go to London to-morrow," he said. "It is a bore to travel just now, but the East India Company must be obeyed."
John Lee had reached a supreme height of indifference to fortune even before his capture, condemnation and sentence. He awaited his end without concern, and only averted it at the instance of Thomas Putt. Afterwards, for mingled reasons, he carefully abstained from any intercourse with Fox Tor Farm. And thus it happened that he knew nothing of the supposed death and burial of his grandmother. The miser herself had gloated over the success of her enterprise as related by Mr. Cloberry, but Leaman was expressly directed by Lovey Lee to keep the truth a secret; and this he did, being well paid for his pains. Meantime the old woman's indignation grew that Maurice Malherb was not arrested and hanged.
"'Tis a blackguard beast of a world," she told Leaman Cloberry. "One law for rich an' one for poor; but if there's any justice left stirring in the land, us may live to see him dancing in the air outside of Exeter Gaol yet."
Now, after a period of most miserable seclusion in a shepherd's ruined cot near the secret sources of Dart, John Lee was to find himself again thrust into the affairs of Grace Malherb, and to thank God that he had been spared to do her further service.
It was not until Peter Norcot had returned from London, after a visit of three weeks' duration, that Lovey Lee opened the new project to her grandson, and then, indeed, she approached it in a fashion so remarkable that one might have been stirred to admiration.
She returned late one night to their haunt, and plunged into a startling narrative which quickly roused John Lee from sleep.
"The wickedness of this world! Oh, Jack, if ever you go out among men again, an' get safe off to America, as you hope, try an' keep straight."
He turned over in his bed of dry heath and stared while his grandmother ate her supper. Only a streak of moonlight through the roof lighted their forlorn hiding-place.
"That's strange advice from your lips," he said.
"I know I've been a bad old devil—nobody knows it better. But whose fault? The world's, not mine. An' I'm white to black compared to some of us."
"That's very comforting for you, I'll wager. But he must be a night-black colour that makes you look fair. Yet since you can mourn, 'tis well. Give back the Malherb amphora and I'll say you're the best woman in England."
"All in good time. Have you thought what that bit of glass has cost me? I can't change my god in a minute. For my god it be. But I'm minded to alter my way of living—I swear it—after what I've heard this night."
"Have you met the Devil himself then?"
"No—his right hand, Peter Norcot. I was just sitting by the wayside, full of wonder how I could get out of this evil an' clear the country, an' turn my fag end of life to good, when past he rode 'pon his great horse. ''Tis Lovey Lee!' he cries out, for his lynx eyes remembered my face, even in moonlight. And the black spleen of him! His first thought was you! He's hopeful to see you hanged yet. 'Give him up an' I'll give 'e five hunderd pound,' he said. But I ban't sunk so low as that, though by your starting you seem to think so. I said I knowed nought about 'e. 'Leave that then,' says he. 'You can help me in another job, and richly I'll reward you.'
"Then he fell to telling 'bout Malherb an' his darter. He'm set there still—the black patience of him! An' now his plan be to kindiddle her away altogether. He's plotting to get her under his own roof; and once there—oh Lord! even I—stone-hearted as I've been till now—felt my inwards curdle to hear him an' see the moonlight in his steel eyes! But I was so cunning as a viper an' promised to help him if he'd help me."
"What do you want of him?"
"He'm going to change all my gold money into paper, an' he'm going to buy my watches an' snuff-boxes an' teaspoons, as I can't take with me. Then, that done, I've promised to help with the maiden. She'm to meet him 'pon Saturday week, an' if she do, home she'll never go no more till her name be Grace Norcot."
"And you promised to help in that?"
"I didn't dare refuse; but I'm going to play him false. I've done with wickedness. These latter days have drove the fear of God into me. I wouldn't help that tiger, not for another amphora; an' I be going to prove it by taking the side of right."
"She must be warned."
"I know it; an' that's your work. Us can't go to Fox Tor Farm; but you've got to see her by hook or by crook, else 'tis all over with her."
"I might write."
"You must write. 'Tis the only way. An' since she taught 'e to write, she'll know your penmanship an' trust it. My only fear was you'd had about enough of the girl an' wouldn't care to do no more for her. But so it lies: if she's to be saved, you must do it. I'm too old and weak to do anything. Besides, I'm feared of Norcot."
"I must see her."
"You can't—not at Fox Tor Farm. He've got his spies set as though he'd made war upon the house. His plot be deeper than the sea. Go near an' you'm a dead man, for there's money on your head. Us can only trust Leaman Cloberry to take a letter for a reward; an' since he'll be sure to read what you say, 'twill be well in the letter to do no more than ax the maid to come an' see you."
"See me!"
"Why not? She's free; you ban't. You can slip down to Cloberry's cot at Dartmeet by night, an' she can come next day an' see you there an' get her warning."
Lee nodded.
"A written word will bring her, an' Cloberry would get it to her for money. That I'll pay. He's as fond of gold as I was afore I began to get sense. I'll give Leaman ten pounds if he does what you want."
John Lee's simple heart was too concerned with Grace to reflect upon his grandmother's attitude toward this business. Full of the perils that lay in wait for her, and aware she was ignorant of them, he thanked heaven that he was still alive and possessed power to do her vital service. He did not weigh Lovey's words, but her startling news; he did not question the probable veracity of her present sentiments; but considered little more than her proposals to assist him in a righteous cause. That he must now see Grace was clear; and if, as had been declared, the plot against her only wanted a week for its fulfilment, the event cried for instant action. Since to approach Fox Tor Farm and pierce the cordon said to be set around was doubtless impossible, John determined to follow his grandmother's advice and write and bid Grace meet him at Leaman Cloberry's cottage. To walk or ride thither was easy for her and could rouse no suspicion. Then what he had to say might be quickly said, though it could not safely be written.
"I'll go after nightfall to-morrow," he declared.
"And bid her come to see you on Friday, be it wet or fine," answered Lovey; "for after that date she'll be free no more. Her father's hardened his heart like Pharaoh. He'll see that she don't trick him again."
"Her father!"
"So Norcot told me—grinning like a rain-shoot. They'm both against her. 'Tis two to one; and 'twould be three to one if I'd done what they wanted. But I couldn't. I'm weary of wickedness."
"After nightfall to-morrow, then," said the man.
Lovey spoke no more, and they retired into their respective corners of the hut; but when, two hours later, John Lee's steady breathing told his grandmother that he was unconscious, she rose, left him asleep, and crept away into the Moor. Southward she went, and then, near the tor called Hartland, heard a voice out of the night—a cracked and ancient voice, that sang of the owner's business and repeated its refrain with the monotony of a bird.
"A ha'penny for a rook;A penny for a jay;A noble for a fox;An' twelvepence for a gray!"
Soon Lovey found Leaman Cloberry, where he waited by appointment in a cleft of the rocks, snugly clad as usual in the raiment of dead beasts.
"'Tis all so easy as cursing," she said. "He'll come to you to-morrow—poor sheep—an' write the letter. You'll get it to her through Tom Putt, who won't know what he's doing; an' she'll go to him Friday. Then he'll pour his nonsense into her ears; and as she passes home, along by Whispering Wood, you an' me will be waiting for her. She'll jump for joy and fear no evil when she sees me alive; for it means that her father's guiltless of blood."
"An' this here Mr. Norcot?" asked Cloberry. "A good friend to me an' very generous in the past; but the money ought to be big."
"So it will be. We take the maiden by night up to where the springs of Dart break out; an' then he comes along by chance and rescues her from us. 'Tis all planned. He'll seem in a grand rage, an' may even fetch you a blow or two; but they'm light at fifty pounds. Then off he goes with her to Chagford, and not a living soul that cares for her will know where she be hidden till it pleases him to tell."
"An' John Lee?" inquired the vermin-catcher.
"Well—what of him? Who troubles about the cheese when the mouse is catched? He'll know nought till he hears she has been caught. And she'll always think that 'twas his treachery laid the trap for her!"
On the fourteenth day of March, 1815, came peace, borne upon the white wings of theFavourite: for the President of the United States had ratified the treaty.
But, unhappily, the history of the War Prison on Dartmoor was not yet written, and the last bloody chapter still remained to tell. Ignorant of the complicated task set for authority, the bulk of the Americans instantly clamoured to be free; nor could the better instructed among them induce patience at this juncture. Letters from Mr. Blazey cooled enthusiasm; but these were written in a callous spirit, and impatience quickly rose to anger. Nothing had as yet been prepared for exodus, and the Agent not only gave no promise of immediate liberation, but explained that certain precautions, highly offensive to many of the Americans, must first be taken before a man left Dartmoor.
"I am informed," he wrote, "that great numbers of you refuse to be inoculated with the smallpox, which I hear has been very mortal among you. I therefore acquaint you that it will be impossible for me to send home any prisoners unless they have gone through the same."
Later he wrote again concerning American prisoners taken under the French flag; and then, as no further communication was received for many days, the sailors, like schoolboys on the verge of holiday, began mischievous pranks, flouted their guards and planned all the trouble that ingenuity could devise. Many escaped, for discipline was relaxed. Then Captain Short, from carelessness, proceeded to the other extreme, until even those who desired to assist him in the maintenance of order despaired. The prisoners were out of hand, and their Commandant knew it. He blamed them, not himself, for his heart would not accuse him, though a soldier's conscience sometimes whispered censure.
One night a strange glare filled the courtyard of No. 4, and lurid lights with inky shadows leapt and fell against the granite walls. In the midst a great bonfire blazed, and round about it thousands of wild figures ran, shouted and yelled. At the grilles stood the officers of the prison, some fearful, some indifferent, some enraged.
Sergeant Bradridge, off duty, was watching this scene, and beside him stood his nephew, Mr. Putt.
"There'll be trouble yet," declared the sergeant gloomily, "for they be bent on it. They're mad at the delay, and the party for sense—Mr. Cecil Stark and a grey-head or two, and most of the other gentlemen among 'em—count for nothing."
As he spoke a procession of prisoners appeared, carrying a hurdle on which was seated the semblance of a man. The figure wore a plum-coloured coat, had a scratch wig, a three-cornered hat and knee breeches. Its face was red, its nose was scarlet, its great eyes coal-black.
"'Tis meant for Agent Blazey," explained Putt's uncle. "They've been playing the fool with that great doll all day. First they tried it for bringing 'em to nakedness and starvation here; then they found it guilty; then they made it confess all its sins, which took a mighty long time; then they hanged it by the neck; and now they'm going to burn it to ashes. So they'd treat the real man if they could get at him. An' they'll break loose afore long, so sure as my name's Bradridge, for the Devil's in 'em."
With songs and a wild war dance the effigy of Reuben Blazey was flung upon the flames; then, while it burned, the prisoners roared "Yankee Doodle" together until the walls vibrated.
Apart among them stood Burnham, and with him was Cecil Stark. A sort of friendship still subsisted between them, for the younger man had apologised after their last quarrel as soon as he found himself sober again. Relations, however, were strained to breaking, and to-night they broke for ever.
Stark, indeed, had lost interest in everything but his own affairs now. He might have left the prison at any moment by the expedient of a bribe to the guard; but, as before, the interests of the great plot had kept him, so now the welfare of the mass of prisoners held him still among them. There was little he could do, for he represented patience, which was an unpopular virtue after peace had been declared; but he saw the futility of this behaviour, and tried as far as possible to make his fellows reasonable. A few begged him to remain to the end, and, knowing from letters pretty regularly received through Putt, that all was well with Grace, he waited on.
His future line of action was difficult, but he had determined upon it. Grace gave him to understand that Norcot troubled her no more, and that her father, stricken by a terrible grief, was changed and took a gentler view of life's many-sided problems. Therefore, he proposed to return to Fox Tor Farm and attempt a reconciliation between himself and the Malherbs. Great personal circumstances armed him with strong arguments from a worldly point of view, for his uncle in Vermont was dead, and he now stood heir to a notable fortune.
"I wish to God 'twas the living man that roasted there!" cried Burnham, pointing to the bonfire. "Of all devilish things in this war, our treatment after peace is declared has been the most devilish. 'Tis two weeks since we should have been set free, yet here we still are."
"But they are active. Three ships have set sail from London for Plymouth."
"D'you believe that yarn? Ask the soldiers and they'll tell you the ships are held in the Downs by contrary winds; then they turn aside and wink at each other."
"You take the conduct of these hirelings too seriously. It is folly to let the vulgarity of turnkeys and guards anger you, or to answer the indifference of the authorities with this buffoonery."
He pointed to the bonfire.
"You're a prig," said the other. "You can't help it, but an infernal prig are you, Cecil Stark; and now every word you speak shows that you've changed sides and are only an American in name."
"Bad company has demoralised a good fellow," answered the other. "You want the discipline of a ship-of-war and a whiff of salt air to make you your own man again, Burnham. You pretend it is a fine thing to lead these ignorant, silly fellows; but in your heart you are ashamed, and that makes you break with an old friend. 'Tis the same with Captain Short. He's been weak in the past, and the weakest thing about him is that now he's looking for gratitude for his former good nature. Gratitude's the rare virtue of individuals—never of a mob."
"You prose and prose and blink at facts, like an owl blinks at daylight. Why don't you escape and get out of it?"
"Because I reckon I'm more use here."
"I know better; you're frightened to do it. If you had the pluck of a powder-monkey, and if your love for that girl over there was worth a damn, you'd have vanished long ago; but you know this cursed Government is letting us escape now, so that we may fall into the hands of the press-gangs that are hunting all round Dartmoor like packs of wolves—you know that, and you're frightened they'll catch you too. Nothing makes a man such a coward as coming into a fortune."
"See him—see him!" shouted Mr. Cuffee, who ran by at this moment. "See him fizzle, gemmen! Marse Blazey blaze—him blaze—him blaze like dat in hell!"
He rushed screaming past with the other black men, whose rags, gleaming teeth and ferocious faces, suggested the demon throng proper to Mr. Blazey's future environment.
"You will pick a quarrel, drunk or sober," said Stark, "though of late you've sunk to be not worth kicking. As you like—but even at the risk of more nonsense from you, I'd wish to explain that I'm no Englishman, though it happens I'm not mad. Consider how this nation stands. Hardly has it concluded peace with us than comes the news that Bonaparte has left Elba, and is now in Europe at the head of three hundred thousand men."
"Don't I know it? Doesn't every cur among them turn pale and look over his shoulder like a frightened woman when you cry 'Boney is coming'?"
"They are busy and rather preoccupied. I had speech with Short yesterday."
"What do I care with whom you had speech? I'm here for nearly six thousand free men, who are shut up and still treated as prisoners. Let them see to that. We want our liberty, and we'll take it before many days are done. What do you suppose we are made of?"
"The Lord knows," said Stark. "You are men no more, but a horde of savage and silly monkeys. How can they get ships to convey six thousand of us to America in a week? You, at least, who pretend to some knowledge of warfare and seamanship, should have patience and do your small part to help the British Government, not hinder it."
"I'm not an Englishman."
"I wish you were. Unfortunately the fact remains that you're an American; but your country's not likely to be proud of you if ever this chapter in your career is written."
At this moment, as the ashes of Blazey sank into one glowing mass, and the bonfire slowly died, the Americans burst into a mournful dirge that had been written by Ira Anson the day before, and committed to memory by a hundred men.
Stark left his old shipmate, not guessing that he would never speak to him again; but he had caught sight of Putt with some soldiers near the grille, and now he approached. They strolled on different sides of the barrier into a dark corner under shadow of a cachot wall. Then Putt spoke.
"A letter, your honour, an' I think 'tis important, for Miss sent it by one of our women with urgent orders to get it to you before to-morrow."
"Wait here," answered the other, and, taking the note, he returned within the light of the waning fire and read it.
"Dear heart," wrote Grace. "Yesterday through a villager I had a line from John Lee. He is near us, and I fear that he has heard of evil. He sends but two lines: 'Meet me after noon to-morrow at Leaman Cloberry's cot, where I shall lie hid till you come. I must see you. Danger. John Lee.' I am going. It is his writing, therefore I fear nothing. When are you coming to me? The time of waiting is endless to your Grace."
Stark reflected rapidly. That Lee should not approach him was easily understood; yet that some new danger threatened and John had wind of it, filled him with alarm. He returned to Putt, but made no mention of the letter, for Thomas was in ignorance of all matters between Grace and the prisoner. He glorified in his secret duties as messenger, and in the substantial payment they received; but of John Lee he knew nothing, and Stark, guessing at Lee's personal dangers, did not increase them by whispering of his presence, even to his most faithful friend. He wrote a few words on a leaf from his pocket-book. "My life, trust him, of course; and write to me to-morrow what he tells you. Within a week, if all be well, I may reach Fox Tor Farm; but, if necessary, I can be there to-morrow. C."
"I be going to take supper with the soldiers an' my uncle," said Mr. Putt; "but I'll see Miss Grace gets this first thing in the morning. Mrs. Beer will hand it to her at daylight."
The fire was nearly out now, and the great courts deserted. Soon lights streamed from the windows of the prison; then they too disappeared. Silence fell at last. Under night, in their long rows of hammocks, men slept, or tossed and swore; while beneath the stars, the sentries stood like ghosts upon the walls, or tramped backwards and forwards within them.
Fate, ordering that the War Prison should be for ever remembered in the annals of Prince Town, now crowned all horrors of the past with a supreme catastrophe before those gloomy haunts of sorrow were deserted and echo reigned alone in their courts and corridors. An accident fostered the turbulent spirit that still animated these great companies, and daily infected the minds of new subjects, even as smallpox gained power over their bodies. Mr. Blazey thought it best to take no notice of the insult to which he had been subjected, and soon after the event wrote to his fellow-citizens in an amicable spirit. He explained that to grant passports must not be expected save by those who had friends and connections in England. For the rest, he assured the prisoners that all possible despatch marked the preparation of the cartel ships. "You are much wanted in the United States," he wrote, "and the encouragement for seamen there is very great."
The message soothed not a few impatient hearts, and many of the wiser sailors used it to good purpose in allaying the prevalent bitterness and disorder. But close upon it fell out an unfortunate occurrence for which the prison contractors were responsible. During a whole day the prisoners remained short of bread, and they were called upon to subsist as best they might on four and a half ounces of beef to each man. Captain Short was away at the critical moment upon business in Plymouth, and his subordinates refused to oblige the hungry hordes. A pound and a half of soft bread by right belonged to every prisoner, but the contractor's clerk lost his presence of mind and refused to serve rations of any sort until the return of the Commandant.
This accident was enough for William Burnham's hot-headed faction. A bread riot became imminent, and the prisoners threatened to force the prisons and break open the store-house. Panic and terror swept through Prince Town; chaos fell upon the gaol, and from all the surrounding neighbourhood the women and children fled into the villages, for it was reported that the prisoners were about to break loose and pour, like an angry sea, over the countryside. Many, indeed, escaped before Captain Short returned with a reinforcement of two hundred soldiers from Plymouth; but in the meanwhile fresh supplies of bread had reached the prison, and the bulk of the Americans, having no desire to brave the unknown while liberty promised to be but a thing of days, remained quiet and orderly. Their numbers acted as a weight to render the more daring inert; the disturbance passed and the Commandant expressed a frank and courteous regret for the occasion of the trouble.
Yet alarm did not subside so quickly without the prison walls. Rumours daily gained ground that the Americans contemplated a desperate deed, and Captain Short began to credit these reports. His suspicions and the folly of those in his charge precipitated a conflict, and the innocent suffered for the guilty.
Upon the 6th day of April, towards a peaceful Spring twilight, a large body of men, under Burnham's leadership, collected by twos and threes in one place. The numbers increased, and began ominously to swarm round about a great gate that led from the exercise yards to the marketplace. Ordered by the turnkeys to disperse, they refused; implored by some of their friends to avoid risk of suspicion, Burnham himself bade these peace-seekers go their way or join the party for freedom.
A subaltern, hearing the words, hastened to Captain Short.
"There's trouble brewing, sir. They're swarming like bees at No. 1 gate from the yard, and it's only secured against 'em with a chain. There's a breach, too, in the prison wall of No. 6. The guards are frightened, and the turnkeys won't face the prisoners. I fear that they only wait for darkness."
He came in an evil hour, because the Commandant had already heard warnings of like character from one or two of the Americans themselves. For their information they had received their liberty.
Short started up.
"The dogs! Will nothing satisfy 'em? Must it come to bayonets? Then, by God, it shall! I've done all living man can do to tame these chattering hyaenas. I've endured enough to make me stand self-condemned for a poltroon. More I'll not endure. They are not to be tamed by kindness. The whip, then!"
He raged and ordered that the alarm bells should be rung immediately.
A brazen clangour echoed and re-echoed through Prince Town; the walls of the prison flung it to the mountain-tops, and the great tors resounded it, until, sunk to a mellow murmur, the bells were heard afar off. Upon their clash followed the rattle and hubbub of drums, for a tattoo broke out and beat the guard to quarters. No more unfortunate act could have marked the moment. Thousands of prisoners, just then turning in to their evening meal, rushed back to the yards, and the group at the gate became a centre of theatrical attraction. Upon one side of them advanced the Commandant, his officers and the bulk of the garrison; on the other their inquisitive and excited compatriots began to crowd. The mass was augmented from the rear until it became a moving force, impelled forward and powerless to take action against itself. Thus, when bayonets were lowered, the unfortunate van of this great movement found itself pushed remorselessly upon them.
Captain Short, taking sole command at the fatal moment, when his own self-command had vanished, drew up his force in position to charge. Simultaneously a crash above the hubbub told that the great chain at the gate was broken, and a hundred voices were lifted to cheer Mr. Knapps, whose powerful arm, wielding a sledge, had done the deed. Until now it is certain that any design of escaping had but actuated a handful of the prisoners. No concerted enterprise existed among them; but as the barrier fell and the gate yawned open, others, seeing the opportunity, crowded among Burnham's faction, and prepared to break out under the eyes of their guardians. Captain Short understood nothing more than what he saw, and the immediate danger cooled his passion. But his hatred of this many-headed monster was not cooled. Cries resounded, and behind the breaking gates the civil guards were flying. Yet to the Commandant's credit it may be recorded that he addressed the prisoners and called upon them to yield and fall back. Only yells and laughter greeted him; while at the portals themselves an energetic handful were already forcing the great gates off their hinges.
Thereon the Commandant ordered fifteen file of the guard to this barrier, and with lowered bayonets the men advanced. Many fell back; many were driven on with curses and sharp wounds; but the inert mass behind yielded slowly, while the phalanx in front refused to yield. They kept their ground and held the gate. They insulted the soldiers, and even dared Short to fire upon them.
The first use of that awful word was in Burnham's mouth. "We are free men!" he shouted; "and you have no jurisdiction upon us, and no right to lift these bars between us and liberty. You might as soon dare to fire upon us as order us to bide here. This night we take our liberty, since you abuse your trust and deny it to us in a country that is at peace with ours."
The mass who heard yelled and pressed forward; those who heard not answered the yell, and guessing nothing of the bayonets in front, fought to get there.
Short answered Burnham.
"Before God, they shall fire if——"
But his troops, now maddened with anger, and sore buffeted by the foremost of the prisoners, heard the word "fire," and waited for no context.
A crash and a vibrating roar followed, and Short's sentence was never spoken. Into the waning light flashed the muskets, and with the billowy smoke there rolled aloft a shriek of fear and of agony where souls parted from life.
William Burnham fell shot through the head, and several perished with him. About fifty men were wounded, and the great yard ran blood. Many of the soldiers had fired reluctantly and discharged their weapons over the heads of the prisoners; but the cry of "Blank cartridge!" lifted in the rear had no power to stay the awful panic that followed. A bellow went up from thousands of throats, and the masses of men fell back and poured like rivers into the gaols. It was then that certain knaves among the soldiery, themselves secure on the wall of the prison, opened a cross fire and slew not a few innocent men as they fled to safety. None was brought to justice for this damnable deed, because not one criminal could be discovered when the catastrophe was investigated.
Chaos indescribable ruled that hour. Short toiled like a madman to stay the mischief. He stood before his own men and yelled himself hoarse with execration and command. But the soldiers were out of hand. They had suffered much, and in their base minds the hour of vengeance was come.
At length non-commissioned officers succeeded where their superiors had failed. Sergeant Bradridge and others drew off the garrison, and Doctor Macgrath, with his orderlies and many recruits, hastened to the dead and dying. Not a few had already perished; others were mortally wounded.
Recognising Cecil Stark, the doctor approached where he knelt beside his old messmate; but a glance sufficed.
"That man is dead," he said, and hastened on to tend the living.
Those few of this vast host with whom we have been concerned had all gathered here. Knapps was down with a ball in his leg and a bayonet wound in the arm. Mr. Cuffee, uninjured, howled with sorrow beside one Haywood, a black from Virginia, who had perished. The air stank with the smells of blood and smoke. Voices and cries rang in it; deep groans, like the bass of an organ, persisted beneath the high-pitched cries. As the doctors turned or moved a sufferer, some, restored to consciousness, shrieked till the walls rang out their exquisite grief; others sighed and died under the gentle hands now stretching out to succour them. Captain Short had withdrawn his men, and nearly all the Americans were finally driven back to their respective prisons and locked in; but the Commandant and his officers laboured among the wounded and toiled on under torchlight until the last fallen sufferer had been moved to the hospital or dead-house. Seven ultimately deceased, and of those who recovered many lost a limb. The Americans first responsible for the catastrophe nearly all suffered. They were standing beside Burnham and received a point-blank fire.
After the prisoners had been removed, Cecil Stark, who worked with the English to aid them, prepared to return to his quarters when he found himself accosted by a man with a swarthy face and a black beard. Many Hebrew merchants from the surrounding towns swarmed about the prison with garments to sell to the prisoners at this season, and Stark, supposing the man to be a Jew who had entered with hundreds of others after the catastrophe, was turning from him, when the stranger spoke.
"A moment," he said. "'Tis a terrible hour in which I'm come; but this ill wind will blow you good luck and perchance one who's more to you than yourself."
"John Lee!"
"Ay!—I've come, for there was none else that I dared to send. Evil has fallen out to Grace Malherb. This time there must be nothing to keep you from her, or else the worst will happen. Even as it is you may be too late."
"She sent your letter and I told her to fall in with any plan or warning that you might have for her."
"Take this," said Lee, producing a handful of something dark. "'Tis a beard made of sheep's wool. Wondering as I came how I should hide my face, I saw a black sheep. For once 'twas not a sign of ill-luck, but good. I cornered her, threw her, and cut from her back enough wool for the purpose. I browned my face by rubbing peat upon it. Now I am a Jew. Don this quickly and follow the crowd that is now being thrust outside the walls. The rest you shall know as we go on our way."
Stark adjusted the crisp wool about his chin, drew his hat over his eyes, fetched the cloak about him, and passed unchallenged out beside John Lee. It seemed the most natural and simple matter thus to depart. The long months of suffering, the privations, plots, excitements and disappointments did not return to his mind for many a day. Henceforth, one solitary thought informed him, and he hastened straightway forward into a trap more cunning than any made with granite.
Lee explained what had happened as far as he knew it.
"To me she came two days ago in answer to my urgent message. I had heard that Norcot meant to get her into his personal power at any cost, for he told my grandmother that he would do so. Weary of evil, or pretending so, the old woman confessed to me, and I explained to Grace Malherb the threatened danger. She promised that she would not stir abroad again, and assured me that her father knew nothing. She could hardly stop for joy when she heard that Lovey Lee was alive; for it seems that Mr. Malherb, who struck her down upon Cater's Beam, believed that he had slain her."
"But of Miss Malherb?"
"She left me and has not since been seen. This I have heard to-day, for as my grandmother did not return, I grew fearful and last night got to Fox Tor Farm. It was easy to lie in wait until I could speak with Putt, for once more the place is disturbed and they seek high and low for Miss Grace."
"You saved her from Norcot then, and some other ill has overtaken her?"
"I do not know. It may be that in ignorance I only worked for Norcot. I cannot question my grandmother, since she is still absent from our hiding-place. Therefore, there was no course but to come to you."
"Norcot may have used you after all through your grandmother?"
"I can only fear it."
"Then to him! I will not sleep until I have met that man."
"We are going there now. To-night you shall lie hid close to Chagford, and to-morrow night—not sooner—you can tackle him. I've been to Chagford, but I dared not go to him myself until I had been to you, for his answer would be to arrest me. You've got to show your quality now. If my grandmother is guilty of this, you'll find the cleverest man and the wickedest woman on Dartmoor against you."
Stark did not answer. His thoughts wandered backwards as it seemed.
"Seven there were, and now—Miller, Burnham, Carberry—all dead. And Leverett in the hand of God, if still he lives. And Jim Knapps badly wounded. That leaves but poor Cuffee and me."
"To-night you'd better lie in my den. If my grandmother has returned to it, you can tackle her; but indeed I fear you'll see her no more. Norcot was to turn her gold and trinkets into paper money. Then she meant to go to France."
"Why wait till to-morrow? Why not to-night?"
"I cannot get there, Mr. Stark. I've walked forty miles and more to-day. Five yet lie before us, and that will settle me. Food's been scarce, too, of late. I'm not in good fighting trim, I fear."
Stark seized his hand.
"By God! you've done your share! But your troubles are near over. You come with me to Vermont, or I'll not go. I've sworn to myself that you come. I don't leave this country without you."
"You are very generous and good."
They tramped over the night-hidden land in silence. Twice Lee had to stop and rest awhile. Then he walked forward. Before midnight they reached the ruined cot under Sittaford Tor. Plenty of food was hidden there, and both ate heartily, drank from a rivulet at hand, and then slept side by side.
The place was empty, for Lovey Lee had not returned to it; but before dawn the old woman, like an aged tigress, came slinking back. Upon entering the cot and striking a light, she saw not only her grandson, but the pale upturned face of Cecil Stark.
Neither moved in their profound slumber; but the woman instantly extinguished her taper, and crept out of doors again.
"It's a hell of a tramp to take twice in one night," she thought. "Yet 'tis good for another clear hundred, and Norcot shan't hear it for less."
Then she set her old bones creaking again upon the way to Chagford.
To Maurice Malherb it seemed that he was living his life over again. Upon the second disappearance of his daughter, the old turmoil recurred; but less fury marked his manners and more method. Grace had gone for a long tramp over the Moor, and had never returned home. She set out after her mid-day meal and was no more seen. Neither had any man nor woman heard of her. Tom Putt, indeed, remembered the letter that he had conveyed to her through Mr. Cloberry; but he also knew this missive came from John Lee. Therefore he felt no alarm, but doubted not that John was working with Cecil Stark, and that Grace was safe.
When the catastrophe at Prince Town became known and it transpired that not a few besides Stark were reported missing, the Americans declared their compatriots were fallen in the struggle and had been hastily buried by night, that the numbers of the slain might not challenge too much attention; but the history of the time may be relied upon in this matter, and it is safe to assume that those unaccounted for upon that unhappy night escaped in the subsequent confusion, even as Cecil Stark had done.
So, at least, concluded Maurice Malherb; and, awake to the significance of the incident in connection with his daughter's disappearance, he was first minded to yield and let her have her way; but then he came back to himself, and fury awoke him, and he sought Peter Norcot, that the wool-stapler might assist him to recover his daughter.
Malherb rode over the Moor to Chagford upon the morning after the tragedy at Prince Town; and on his way he reflected concerning his own peculiar position.
It was now generally known that in a fit of rage he had slain an ancient woman upon Cater's Beam. But since the attributes of Lovey Lee and her history came also to be apprehended; so soon as it was understood that Lovey had plotted with the American prisoners and herself was hiding from a rope when Malherb destroyed her, no further concern in the matter touched men's minds. The times were troublous; there was much to think of; none made it his business to take action, and Malherb's only punishment lay within his own heart and brain.
His personal grief did not lessen; his wife alone knew of the tortures that he still suffered. His physical health began to break under the strain, for the man's old zest in food departed; his zest in sport was dead; and his zest in life and the work of life had wholly vanished. Remorse ate him alive.
To Chagford he came, and Gertrude Norcot, who had not seen him for many days, started to find the master of Fox Tor Farm much changed. His demeanour had altered; his carriage had grown humble; his head had sunk forward under the blows of time. Native pugnacity had given place to melancholy; even the incisive and stern methods of his speech were merged into a hollow and phlegmatic indifference, as of one careless of affairs.
Yet to-day he was sufficiently himself to be eager, and even passionate, as he recounted events.
"Peter has heard all," said Miss Norcot. "He has not been idle. Indeed, for three days he has lived in the saddle. Certainly we have seen very little indeed of him here."
"Your daughter must have a strange disposition," said a weak voice; and, turning round, Malherb saw a little clergyman, who held out his hand. He was flat-faced, meek and humble.
"Our kinsman, Mr. Relton Norcot," said the lady. "Peter had occasion to go to London recently, and on his way back through Exeter he picked up Relton. My cousin stands in need of rest, for he works too hard."
"It is the duty of man to toil," said the minister. "What is life without work? A formless void."
"And where is Peter now?" inquired Malherb.
"Heaven knows," answered Gertrude. "He may return to dinner, or he may not do so. Will you stay with us for the night?"
"No, no; I must home to my wife. I am sorry to miss him. Let him know that Cecil Stark has escaped from the War Prison. This will quicken his wits as it has quickened mine. I have watchers set round about Holne. And also at Dartmouth. And yet there is that in me which begets a great indifference now. It is vain to fight the young, for Time is on their side."
"You must be brave, dear Mr. Malherb."
Miss Norcot put a light hand upon his arm.
"You can touch me," he said, "knowing what you know?"
"Indeed, yes. You have atoned."
He shook his head, and the clergyman spoke.
"Who shall fling the first stone, my dear sir? Who shall hale you before your outraged country?"
Malherb stared at him, as a man who sees an unpleasant insect suddenly where before there was none. Then his expression changed.
"You say well. Who shall? There is but one man. His duty it is, and he hangs back."
Miss Norcot was much interested.
"You mean her grandson? But he cannot, dear Mr. Malherb, for he, too, stands in danger of the law. He ought to have been hung long ago."
"I mean Maurice Malherb," he said, speaking to himself rather than to her. "Farewell. Tell Peter that I have been here. If he learns anything of comfort, let him hasten to us at Fox Tor Farm."
"Be of good cheer," said the clergyman; but Malherb did not answer. He departed and left them whispering together.
Hardly had his horse gone out of the courtyard when Peter appeared. He had been above, in his bedchamber.
"You have made your sister say the thing which was not, my dear Peter," said the clergyman mournfully.
"Pardon me," she answered. "I did nothing of the sort. He asked where my brother was, and I said that Heaven knew. That was not to say I did not know."
They fell to talking, and Maurice Malherb went slowly towards Chagford. For a moment he stopped at Norcot's place of business beside Teign river, and asked if Peter was there; but a doorkeeper shook his head, and the master went on his way to the "Three Crowns," that he might bait his horse before returning home.
And as he passed the great manufactory, Maurice Malherb had been within twenty yards of his daughter; for there she was hidden; there, where hundreds of busy men and women circled round about her and the roar of water-wheels and the hum of looms made grand music of industry from dawn till eve, Grace Malherb was securely shut up in Norcot's private rooms. Two apartments had been prepared for her, and Peter's sister visited the girl every night after dark. The full extent of her brother's purpose Gertrude only suspected when he returned from London and brought the Rev. Relton Norcot along with him; but how Peter proposed to compass the marriage his sister had not yet comprehended. Her sympathies were with him, however, and she was true and trustworthy. She guessed which way things were tending. She understood now that Peter's sole reason for going to London was that he might procure a Special License of marriage; and she knew that he had got it. Gertrude doubted not that days—perhaps hours—would bring the sequel; and nightly she exhausted her powers of persuasion upon Grace from eleven o'clock until one, in the silent factory; but as yet the captive showed no signs of being tamed. Norcot had also striven with her, and now she was a chained fury, so that Peter told his sister frankly that he went in fear of his eyes. Even his equanimity had given out, and he was casting round to know by what channel the ceremony might be celebrated as quickly as possible. But no course of action appeared until the night before Malherb's visit. Then Lovey Lee had brought her news out of the cottage on Sittaford's side, and, from that moment, Peter began to see light. Long ago he had asked himself whether Cecil Stark could be made of any service in the great matter of Grace; and now, when he learned that the American was almost at his door, Peter's spidery instincts served him well. While yet he waited, confident of the speedy advent of Stark, the future began to unfold, and a project as extraordinary as it was difficult matured in the merchant's brains.
"An enterprise involving violent melodrama, no doubt," he told himself, "but then these are melodramatic times, and in the rush and hurry of wars, and rumours of wars—in the scare of Bonaparte and the tragedy over the hills at Prince Town, a little lawlessness must pass unnoticed. Tut, tut! Does not the world still think that fool at Fox Tor Farm a murderer? Yet no hand is lifted against him. And there is a source of strength there; for when we tell him that he is innocent of blood, he'll be so overjoyed that he'll forgive anything and anybody. And she—once married all must right itself. Let it work then. Come, Mr. Cecil Stark of Vermont! I'm nearly ready for you; indeed, 'tis perfectly plain that I can't get on much further without you. But pray God Malherb don't run upon him riding home! Yet 'tis improbable, for he'll hardly stir till nightfall. Then the man Lee will bring him hither. And now to see my lady. Here's news indeed for her."