“THE TRAGEDY ON DARTMOOR“A sensational sequel is reported to the arrest of the man Daniel Sweetland on his wedding day. It will be remembered that Sweetland, a notorious poacher, was suspected—on the evidence of his own gun—to have murdered a gamekeeper in the woods of Middlecott Court estate near the little town of Moretonhampstead, Devon. Three officers arrested him and started to convey him to Plymouth. But accident detained the party in the lonely central region of the Moor, and their horse falling lame, they spent some time at a solitary publichouse known as the Warren Inn. Here Sweetland, taking the police into his confidence, confessed to being an accomplice in the recent famous burglary at Westcombe—theseat of the Giffards not far distant from Middlecott Court.…”
“THE TRAGEDY ON DARTMOOR
“A sensational sequel is reported to the arrest of the man Daniel Sweetland on his wedding day. It will be remembered that Sweetland, a notorious poacher, was suspected—on the evidence of his own gun—to have murdered a gamekeeper in the woods of Middlecott Court estate near the little town of Moretonhampstead, Devon. Three officers arrested him and started to convey him to Plymouth. But accident detained the party in the lonely central region of the Moor, and their horse falling lame, they spent some time at a solitary publichouse known as the Warren Inn. Here Sweetland, taking the police into his confidence, confessed to being an accomplice in the recent famous burglary at Westcombe—theseat of the Giffards not far distant from Middlecott Court.…”
The journal, after giving a very accurate account of all that had happened at Furnum Regis, proceeded—
“The hoodwinked officers lost no time in reaching Princetown, and from the convict establishment at that village, telegraphic communication was set up with the neighbouring districts. But early morning brought the sequel to the incident, for at dawn certain labourers proceeding to their work in Vitifer Mine, some few miles from the King’s Oven, discovered the horse on which Sweetland had ridden off. It was tethered in the midst of a wild and savage region full of old workings, where lie some tremendous and unfathomable shafts, sunk in past years but long deserted. Here the unfortunate poacher appears to have deliberately taken his own life, for at the head of the Wall Shaft Gully—a famous chasm which has already claimed human victims in the past—a stake was discovered with a letter fastened to the top of it. The words inscribed thereon ran as follows:—‘Good-bye all. Let Sim break news to my wife.—D. Sweetland.’ The writing bears traces of great agitation, but those familiar with Sweetland’s penmanship are prepared to swear that these pathetic syllables were actually written by him. Absolute proof, however, is impossible, since the profound depths of the Wall Shaft Gully cannot be entered. In the case of an accident during 1883, when a shepherd was seen to fall in, all efforts to recover his body proved fruitless, owing to the fact that foul air is encountered at a depth ofabout one hundred yards beneath the surface of the ground. The man ‘Sim’ alluded to in the poacher’s last message is a footman at Middlecott Court, and appears to have been Sweetland’s only friend. We understand that he has carried out the trust imparted to him by his ill-fated companion. Search at the King’s Oven has proved unavailing. It is clear that no treasure of any kind was secreted there.”
“The hoodwinked officers lost no time in reaching Princetown, and from the convict establishment at that village, telegraphic communication was set up with the neighbouring districts. But early morning brought the sequel to the incident, for at dawn certain labourers proceeding to their work in Vitifer Mine, some few miles from the King’s Oven, discovered the horse on which Sweetland had ridden off. It was tethered in the midst of a wild and savage region full of old workings, where lie some tremendous and unfathomable shafts, sunk in past years but long deserted. Here the unfortunate poacher appears to have deliberately taken his own life, for at the head of the Wall Shaft Gully—a famous chasm which has already claimed human victims in the past—a stake was discovered with a letter fastened to the top of it. The words inscribed thereon ran as follows:—‘Good-bye all. Let Sim break news to my wife.—D. Sweetland.’ The writing bears traces of great agitation, but those familiar with Sweetland’s penmanship are prepared to swear that these pathetic syllables were actually written by him. Absolute proof, however, is impossible, since the profound depths of the Wall Shaft Gully cannot be entered. In the case of an accident during 1883, when a shepherd was seen to fall in, all efforts to recover his body proved fruitless, owing to the fact that foul air is encountered at a depth ofabout one hundred yards beneath the surface of the ground. The man ‘Sim’ alluded to in the poacher’s last message is a footman at Middlecott Court, and appears to have been Sweetland’s only friend. We understand that he has carried out the trust imparted to him by his ill-fated companion. Search at the King’s Oven has proved unavailing. It is clear that no treasure of any kind was secreted there.”
“That’s all right,” said Daniel. “Now the sooner I get back to help ’em find out who killed Thorpe, the better. If I’d known that ’twould all work out so suent an’ easy, I’d not have gone at all. If it weren’t for the thought of Minnie an’ mother, I could laugh.”
Though Daniel had expressly asked Minnie to tell his friend Titus Sim that he was not at the bottom of Wall Shaft Gully but far away in present safety, the wanderer’s wife did no such thing. She would not trust herself to associate Sim with her husband’s tragic misfortune; for she could not yet feel certainty that the footman was all he pretended and declared. His conduct after Sweetland’s disappearance proved exemplary. He fulfilled the mission left behind by Daniel with all possible tact and judgment. Alone he visited Minnie, and broke the news to her that she was a widow. But she surprised him more than he dismayed her.
“I pray that you an’ everybody be mistaken, Mr Sim,” she said. “I hope my Daniel’s not at the bottom of that awful place. But whether his days are over an’ he lies there, or whether he’s safe an’ beyond the reach of those who want to take him, my part is the same. I’ll never rest till I’ve done all a faithful wife can do to clear his memory of this wicked thing.You know so well as I do that he was an innocent man.”
“Yes, and trust me to prove him so, if wit and hard work can do it.”
“Those who loved him must labour to clear him. Let them who want my good word an’ good-will right Daniel. ’Tis the only way to my heart, an’ I don’t care who knows it.”
Perhaps those words were the cleverest that Minnie had ever uttered. At any rate, they produced a profound effect on Titus Sim. He pondered deeply before replying; then he nodded thoughtfully to himself more than once.
“’Tis the great task before us all; to make his memory sweet. Rest sure enough that I’ll do my share,” he promised.
But Minnie Sweetland found her dislike of Sim not lessened by his correct attitude during these dark and troubled days. She avoided him when possible. She kept the secret of her husband’s flight very close. Indeed, two living souls alone knew it beside Minnie, and they were her husband’s parents. Dan need have been in small concern for his mother, because on the morning after the poacher’s flight Minnie had private speech with the Sweetlands, and made them understand the truth. The woman was wise, and perceiving that her son’s salvation probably hung upon this secret, she keptit. Matthew Sweetland also preserved silence. His melancholy was profound, and only Minnie had any power to lift him out of it. Her energy and determination deeply impressed him; her absolute belief and trust in her husband’s honour put life into him. He told her all that he knew concerning the death of Adam Thorpe, and promised to take her to the scene of the outrage that she might study it for herself.
“If only we can prove that he had no hand in it,” said Matthew. “But there, ’tis vain to hope so—look which way you will. If he was innocent, why for did he run?”
“Innocent men have done so for nought but terror,” she answered.
“Maybe; but not Daniel. He was never afeared. No—no; he’s gone with blood on his hands. ’Twill never be known till Judgment Day. Then the record will be cried from the Book.”
“Why for shouldn’t us believe him?” she asked. “He never told me a lie in his life. Can you call home that you ever catched him in one?”
But the father refused to argue.
“He may have throwed himself down Wall Shaft Gully for all he told you he would not. And no man would have taken on that dreadful death if he wasn’t in fear of a dreadfuller.However, you can come to the place an’ welcome. I’ll show you where one rogue got me down an’ nearly hammered the life out of me; an’ I’ll show you where the other man let moonlight into poor Thorpe. The detectives have tramped every yard of the ground, but they found nothing good or bad. The man or woman as can prove my son innocent will have my blessing, I promise you, though too well I know he’s guilty. I’ve heard him threaten Thorpe myself.”
In process of time, therefore, Minnie visited the coverts of Middlecott Court and traversed the exact ground where Daniel was supposed to have destroyed Adam Thorpe. Many other more highly trained observers had done the like; but public interest in the affair perished with Sweetland’s supposed suicide; and even the police when the events of Furnum Regis and Wall Shaft Gully came to their ears, pursued their operations at Middlecott Lower Hundred and elsewhere with less ardour. Their labours threw no light upon the past; nor could they find Daniel’s accomplice. Mr Sweetland swore to a second poacher; for one man fought with him and broke his finger, while the other fired on Thorpe; but both rascals had worn masks, and no trace of either appeared after the affray, excepting only the gun—Henry Vivian’s gift to Daniel.
Proceedings presently terminated tamely enough, and it was not until a fortnight after the last detective had left Middlecott that Minnie with her father-in-law visited the theatre of Thorpe’s death.
But they took a detour, for Sweetland had fresh troubles upon his hands.
“We’ll go by Flint Stone Quarry in the east woods,” he said, “for there it was that more birds were killed last night. You’d think the anointed ruffians had done enough; but they be at it still. ’Twas a great roosting-place—very thick and warm, with snug shelter from north and east. They might have killed scores o’ dozens for all me an’ the new keeper could do. For all I know, they did. Of course when us got there all was silent as the grave; but Thomas went again first thing this morning and found one dead bird an’ one lamed but living, stuck in a tree fork. An’ there was feathers everywhere an’ marks of feet. Ten pounds worth of birds at least they took.”
The girl listened quietly.
“Maybe ’tis the old hands, father?”
“Or new ones, as have larned their wicked tricks from my dead son.”
“I shall never love you while you say these things against Daniel.”
The keeper did not answer. He was surveyingthe glaring evidence of another poaching raid. A stone quarry stood in the centre of heavy woods here, and gleamed white with flint and yellow with gravel where it had been gouged out of the hillside. All round it there crowded trees, and an undergrowth of juniper and rhododendron grew to the forehead of the cleft.
“Look!” said Matthew Sweetland. “The scamps comed down there; an’ one slipped, I reckon. See how the soil be tored away. I lay he fell pretty heavy. ’Twas this here more[1]catched his foot an’ over he comed. Here’s feathers an’ blood where he fell.”
Minnie stood by her father-in-law and examined the marks he indicated. It was clear that some heavy body had crashed over the edge of the quarry and fallen six feet into a bed of fern beneath. While the man examined the ground, Minnie picked up a feather or two, regarded the clotted blood beneath, and wondered whether it came from a dead pheasant or a living poacher. She peeped about among the fern, then started, bent down, picked up a small object and put it into her pocket quickly. When the keeper returned she was looking listlessly at the wound on the quarry.
“The man must have fallen heavy, if ’twas a man,” she said.
“The Dowl looks arter his own,” answered Mr Sweetland. “’Twould have broke the neck of any honest chap, no doubt.”
They proceeded a mile into the sweet recesses of the woods. Then Minnie stood on the scene of the murder and regarded, not without emotion, the spot where her husband was declared to have killed Adam Thorpe.
His father gloomily pointed out the place where Daniel’s gun had been discovered by Titus Sim.
“It have aged the poor wretch twenty year,” he said. “Sim be a hang-dog creature now, an’ slinks past me as though he was to blame for Dan’s downfall. But I won’t have that. He only done his duty. There was the gun, an’ he had to show it. ’Tis all summed up in that. How did it come to be there, if my son was not? An’ why for did he run away or else kill himself, if he had the power to prove himself guiltless? Who can answer those questions?”
“’Tis for me to do it,” replied Minnie. “An’ right’s my side, father. If he was dead, ’tis for me to live to right his memory; but he be living, ’tis for me to clear him more than ever, so that he may come back an’ stand afore your face again like an honest man.”
“Never—never,” he answered. “That’swhere us picked up Thorpe; an’ that’s where the gun was; an’ there, alongside that fallen tree in the brambles, was the spot where t’other blackguard got me down an’ nearly beat the life out of me.”
The girl looked round about her and nodded.
“Now you go about your business, for I lay this not a pleasant place to you,” she said. “I’ll just peep around, if you please.”
“There’s no eyes of all them that have searched here was so bright as yours, my dear; but think twice afore you waste your time here. ’Tis not likely you’ll find aught; an’ if you find anything more than others have found, ’tis most certain to be sorrow.”
“I don’t think it. My heart tells me as there be that hid here as will pay for finding. I’ve felt it all along, an’ never more than to-day.”
“Seek then, an’ if you can find my son’s innocence, me an’ his mother will bless you for evermore, when us wakes and when us lies down. You’ve my leave to come here as often as you will, an’ I’ll tell Thomas an’ t’others that you’m free of the woods. Your way home along is by the path yonder. ’Twill fetch ’e out ’pon the side of Hameldon; then to the high road ban’t above a mile.”
The old man left her, and Minnie, sittingdown upon the fallen tree which he had pointed out, made a quiet and systematic plan of search. But her thoughts were divided between this present site and that whereon she had stood half-an-hour earlier. Now she mapped out the region of the fray, and began her work where Daniel’s gun had been discovered by Titus Sim. She took a reel of stout white thread from her pocket and with sticks marked out a space of three square yards. Then yard by yard she went over the ground, lifting every leaf and examining every inch of grass and soil. Not an atom of ground escaped this most laborious scrutiny. With immense patience and care she pursued the task, and at the end of three hours, in the silent heart of the woods, she had inspected six square yards. Nothing rewarded the examination: but only a very trifling tract out of that involved was yet inspected, and Minnie, having carefully marked the portion investigated, left Middlecott Lower Hundred and prepared to return home.
She still lived at Hangman’s Hut, and the fifty pounds with which Daniel had started life promised to keep her there until time should pass and news of her husband reach her. Already the wonder waned and folks began to talk of the “widow Sweetland” and ask each other how long she must in decency remain alonebefore taking another husband. That Titus Sim would be the man few doubted. He often visited her, and he strove valiantly in many directions to discover the secret of Thorpe’s death. Sometimes he grew elated at the shadow of a clue; then, again, he became cast down as the hope of explanation vanished and the problem evaded him.
Three nights after Minnie’s first great search, Mr Sim called upon her. Of late he had seen her not seldom, because the family at Middlecott was away and the servants consequently enjoyed unusual leisure.
Titus found Mrs Beer with her neighbour, for the innkeeper’s wife often spent an evening hour at the lonely girl’s cottage, and Mr Beer also would occasionally run over if business was quiet. But his motives were selfish, for Minnie proved a good listener, and though she did not praise the fat man’s poetry, she was always prepared to give it respectful hearing.
The footman knocked and entered, according to his custom; then he sat by the fire and stretched his gaitered legs to the blaze.
“A rough night,” he said. “I had a regular fight with the wind coming up over the heath; but you’m snug enough seemingly. I do welcome these days when our people are away;for they give me a chance to be in the air. Sometimes I’m sore tempted to throw up this life and get out-of-door work again.”
“You wasn’t meant for a flunkey, I’m sure,” declared Mrs Beer. “I never can think ’tis a very dignified calling for a grown man, though of course the quality must have ’em.”
“You are almost so fond of the woods and the wild things as my Daniel is,” declared Minnie.
“True for you,” he answered. “True for you, Mrs Sweetland.”
“I dare say you get a breath of the woods now an’ again while the folks are away?”
“All I can. These stirring times make me long to be a gamekeeper—just like when the country goes to war, we men all want to be soldiers. I’m afraid poor old Sweetland gets beyond his work. There’s been more trouble in the preserves since Sir Reginald went to Scotland.”
This information apparently reminded the mistress of Hangman’s Hut that she had offered Titus no hospitality.
“I’ll draw some cider for ’e. ’Tis all I’ve got. Dan promised never to drink nought else after we was married. An’ if you want for to smoke, please do it.”
The footman pulled out a pouch of tobaccoand a pipe from his pocket; as he did so he groaned.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Mrs Beer. “That’s the noise my old man makes in his sleep when the rheumatics be at him.”
“My side. I had a cruel dig in the ribs two days agone. Slipped and fell on the cellar stairs with a scuttle o’ coals. I thought I’d broke every bone in my body. And a pang shoots through an’ through my side yet when I move my right arm. But ’tis better than ’twas.”
Minnie expressed active regret and brought Mr Sim a cushion for his back. His bright eyes looked round the little comfortable kitchen hungrily. He already pictured the time when he might fill a dead man’s shoes, for he was among the many who believed that Daniel Sweetland had in reality perished and would be heard of no more. Minnie never undeceived him.
Now the mistress of Hangman’s Hut poured her visitor out his drink, then sat and watched the tobacco smoke curl from his lips. Presently she spoke.
“Do you still use that wooden pipe what my Dan gived ’e? ’Twas cut very cunning in the shape of a fox’s mask wi’ li’l black beads for eyes. I should like to think as you smoke itsometimes an’ remember him as gived it to you.”
“And so I do. ’Tis my best pipe—for great occasions only. There’s nought belongs to me I treasure more. I had it betwixt my teeth only this morning.”
The woman looked at him and nodded gravely. There was nothing in her face that showed his speech particularly interested her. And yet, in wide ignorance of facts, Sim had spoken words that might some day lead to his discomfiture and ruin. For he had lied, and Mrs Sweetland knew it.
He drank, talked on and suggested in his speech and ideas a man of simple rectitude and honourable mind. His admiration for Minnie he made no attempt to conceal. It presently fired Mrs Beer into a rather personal remark.
“Lord! what a couple you’d make!” she said, eying them. “I do hope, to say it without rudeness, as you’ll see your way, my dear; for Titus here be cut out for you; an’ everybody be of the same opinion. When a man’s saved enough to open a publichouse, that man’s a right to look high for his partner, and he has a right to the respect of us females. Take the case of my Beer. He waited, so patient as Job, till the critical cash was to his name in the Bankat Moreton. Then he flinged over service as gardener up to Archerton and lifted his eyes to me; but not afore he’d got three figures to his name. An’ we all know that Mr Sim be a very snug man.”
“I won’t deny it,” said Titus. “’Twould be idle to do so. I am a snug man as young men go. The guests at Middlecott are generous, and five pound notes soon mount up. But we mustn’t talk of that. Mrs Sweetland hopes that my poor friend and her dear husband be still in the land of the living. And, though it cuts the ground from beneath me, I hope so too. Have ’e heard ’bout drunkard Parkinson? They say he’s not likely to get over his last bout. Now there’s a man famed for poaching since his childhood, and as clever at it as any chap ever I heard of. It strikes me that he knows a lot more than his fellow creatures have heard him speak. Anyway, I’m going to see him to-morrow, if he’s well enough to see me. He’s not above a bit of sport by night still, though I guess he’s shot his last bird now, poor chap! Put a gun in that man’s hand, and he is sober in a minute. ’Tis an instinct with him.”
Minnie listened and said nothing. She appeared to be working on a piece of red flannel, but in reality her mind and attention were elsewhere. She had private reasons for a closepersonal scrutiny of Titus, and now, from under veiled lids, observed his every action, his dress, his speech.
The man clearly endured physical pain from time to time. He moved his right shoulder gingerly and occasionally, forgetting it, puckered his mouth into the expressions of suffering, when a twinge reminded him of his accident. He was clad in an old shooting jacket and breeches, the gift of one of his master’s guests at the end of a shooting season. One leg was torn and the rent had been carefully drawn together. His gaiters were fastened with yellow horn buttons; but upon the right leg a button was missing. It had, however, been replaced with a black one.
Sim smoked and finished his cider; then he loaded his pipe again, talked ten minutes longer and prepared to depart.
“I was forgetting,” he said. “Mrs Sweetland, at the lodge, sent a special message by me. She wants for you to come down and take supper along with her to-morrow. And she was so kind as to ask me also. And I said as I would do it and be proud to see you home after, if agreeable to you.”
“I’ll come gladly. I shall be at Moreton to-morrow. My fowls have beginned to lay finely, an’ I hope to have a dozen eggs for market.”
“And may I see you home after?”
“If you’ve a mind to, though there’s no need—a married woman like me.”
“You’m so brave. Good-night—good-night. See how the moon is shining on the fog-banks. There’ll come rain before morning, for the wind’s fallen a lot already.”
He departed, and soon afterwards Mrs Beer also returned to her home. Then Minnie tidied up the kitchen, brought in from his kennel her sole companion—a great yellow mongrel dog, loved of Daniel—and then locked the door.
Next she turned out from a drawer in the kitchen table a piece of brown wood and examined it very closely. It was the bowl of a pipe broken roughly from the stem. The fragment had been carved to represent a fox’s mask, and upon the bottom of it were cut in small letters “T.S. from D.S.” Minnie Sweetland collected some of the shreds of Mr Sim’s tobacco and compared it with that still pressed into the broken pipe. Thus, while the footman walked home well satisfied with the progress of events, and full of dreams for his future prosperity, she upon whom it rested had made a remarkable discovery. That Titus Sim was involved in the murder of Thorpe, Minnie could not guess or prove; but that he was implicated in the recent raid—that it was, in fact, Sim whohad fallen in the quarry—it seemed impossible to doubt.
The young woman’s first thought was to tell her father-in-law upon the following day. But she abandoned the idea. “I’ll go on alone,” she said to herself. “My Dan shall have none to thank but me. I’ll prove afore all the world that he told the truth; an’ maybe I’ll live to bring the truth to light. An’ if there’s danger in it, let the danger fall on me. I never was afeared of a human an’ never will be, please God.”
At this juncture it is enough to relate of Titus Sim that he honestly believed his old friend was dead, and hoped with all his heart to marry the widow. With no little self-control he concealed his ambitions, but the fact that others saw the propriety of the match impressed him, and since not a few openly held that he might fittingly wed the young wife, he began to sound Minnie herself upon the question.
There came a day after Christmas when Titus did groom’s work and rode with a message from his master to Two Bridges, nigh Princetown. He pulled up his horse on the return journey and stopped to drink at the Warren Inn. Mr Beer was in the bar alone, and it happened that he touched the matter nearest the other’s heart.
“Seeing we’m without company for the minute,” said Johnny, “I can read ’e a bit of my last verses, Sim; an’ though you ban’t addicted to poetry, yet you’ll do well to listen patient, for the matter has to do with you in amanner of speaking, though ’tis poetry. In fact, you be mentioned by name.”
The footman, who never quarrelled with any man, pretended deep interest, and Johnny drew a piece of foolscap from his pocket, unrolled it, set a glass on the top, then spread out the sheet and read with that deliberate and loving unction peculiar to one who recites his own composition.
“’Tis the whole tragedy of two young, youthful lives told in a rhyme,” he explained. “I’ve took the tale so far as it has got like. Now ’tis for you to make history, so as I can write the next verses.”
Then the poet began:—
“Oh, ’twas a direful business sureWhen out come Sweetland from church doorAnd, almost afore he’d kissed his wife,To find himself tried for his dear life.Then up he sprang; policemen threeThey wasn’t half so spry as he.And even Corder, as comed from Plym-Mouth, he couldn’t get quits with him.But cruel sad and wisht the tale,For Daniel from this mortal valeDid take his leave; but there’s no mirthDown in the bowels of the earth,Where he be now—excuse my groans,For fitches and weasles do pick his bones.And that young woman sweet and slim,She never was no wife for him.Though she have lost her maiden name,She’m just a maiden all the same.And Sweetland’s her name and sweet’s her nature—So sweet as any mortal creature.And here, upon the Moor so desolate,She lives, like a bird as have lost its mate.All in a lonesome nest she bides;Near by a little old river glides;And Dan will never come no more, heIs in the Land of eternal glory.For that I swear, who pens this verse,Though some was better and some was worse,Yet never would that straight young DanHave shed the blood of any man.But now who shall come forth and say,‘I’ll take this poor young girl awayAnd marry her and give her joyTo atone for her unfortunate boy?’I ask the question far and near,And answer comes as clear as clear:For Titus Sim, he loved her well,And nothing but death true love shall quell.And therefore I do hope afore longHe will make good this humble song;And no chap will be happier than Titus SimIf Minnie Sweetland will live along with him.”
“Oh, ’twas a direful business sureWhen out come Sweetland from church doorAnd, almost afore he’d kissed his wife,To find himself tried for his dear life.Then up he sprang; policemen threeThey wasn’t half so spry as he.And even Corder, as comed from Plym-Mouth, he couldn’t get quits with him.But cruel sad and wisht the tale,For Daniel from this mortal valeDid take his leave; but there’s no mirthDown in the bowels of the earth,Where he be now—excuse my groans,For fitches and weasles do pick his bones.And that young woman sweet and slim,She never was no wife for him.Though she have lost her maiden name,She’m just a maiden all the same.And Sweetland’s her name and sweet’s her nature—So sweet as any mortal creature.And here, upon the Moor so desolate,She lives, like a bird as have lost its mate.All in a lonesome nest she bides;Near by a little old river glides;And Dan will never come no more, heIs in the Land of eternal glory.For that I swear, who pens this verse,Though some was better and some was worse,Yet never would that straight young DanHave shed the blood of any man.But now who shall come forth and say,‘I’ll take this poor young girl awayAnd marry her and give her joyTo atone for her unfortunate boy?’I ask the question far and near,And answer comes as clear as clear:For Titus Sim, he loved her well,And nothing but death true love shall quell.And therefore I do hope afore longHe will make good this humble song;And no chap will be happier than Titus SimIf Minnie Sweetland will live along with him.”
“Oh, ’twas a direful business sureWhen out come Sweetland from church doorAnd, almost afore he’d kissed his wife,To find himself tried for his dear life.Then up he sprang; policemen threeThey wasn’t half so spry as he.And even Corder, as comed from Plym-Mouth, he couldn’t get quits with him.But cruel sad and wisht the tale,For Daniel from this mortal valeDid take his leave; but there’s no mirthDown in the bowels of the earth,Where he be now—excuse my groans,For fitches and weasles do pick his bones.And that young woman sweet and slim,She never was no wife for him.Though she have lost her maiden name,She’m just a maiden all the same.And Sweetland’s her name and sweet’s her nature—So sweet as any mortal creature.And here, upon the Moor so desolate,She lives, like a bird as have lost its mate.All in a lonesome nest she bides;Near by a little old river glides;And Dan will never come no more, heIs in the Land of eternal glory.For that I swear, who pens this verse,Though some was better and some was worse,Yet never would that straight young DanHave shed the blood of any man.But now who shall come forth and say,‘I’ll take this poor young girl awayAnd marry her and give her joyTo atone for her unfortunate boy?’I ask the question far and near,And answer comes as clear as clear:For Titus Sim, he loved her well,And nothing but death true love shall quell.And therefore I do hope afore longHe will make good this humble song;And no chap will be happier than Titus SimIf Minnie Sweetland will live along with him.”
“Oh, ’twas a direful business sure
When out come Sweetland from church door
And, almost afore he’d kissed his wife,
To find himself tried for his dear life.
Then up he sprang; policemen three
They wasn’t half so spry as he.
And even Corder, as comed from Plym-
Mouth, he couldn’t get quits with him.
But cruel sad and wisht the tale,
For Daniel from this mortal vale
Did take his leave; but there’s no mirth
Down in the bowels of the earth,
Where he be now—excuse my groans,
For fitches and weasles do pick his bones.
And that young woman sweet and slim,
She never was no wife for him.
Though she have lost her maiden name,
She’m just a maiden all the same.
And Sweetland’s her name and sweet’s her nature—
So sweet as any mortal creature.
And here, upon the Moor so desolate,
She lives, like a bird as have lost its mate.
All in a lonesome nest she bides;
Near by a little old river glides;
And Dan will never come no more, he
Is in the Land of eternal glory.
For that I swear, who pens this verse,
Though some was better and some was worse,
Yet never would that straight young Dan
Have shed the blood of any man.
But now who shall come forth and say,
‘I’ll take this poor young girl away
And marry her and give her joy
To atone for her unfortunate boy?’
I ask the question far and near,
And answer comes as clear as clear:
For Titus Sim, he loved her well,
And nothing but death true love shall quell.
And therefore I do hope afore long
He will make good this humble song;
And no chap will be happier than Titus Sim
If Minnie Sweetland will live along with him.”
“There!” said Mr Beer. “Every rhyme out of my own head. An’ what d’you think of it?”
“’Tis very fine poetry, and true, which all poetry is not to my certain knowledge,” answered Titus. “I have chances to dip intogentlefolks’ books, and the nonsensical rhymes they have in ’em would much surprise you. But here’s rhyme and reason both, I’m sure. ’Tis a beautiful poem, an’ I should be very much obliged for a copy.”
“If ’twill fire you on to your duty, you shall have it; an’ if she takes you, I’ll add a bit to it,” said Mr Beer. “If you think in rhyme as I often do,” he added, “’tis fifty pounds against a bag of nuts, that you frequently hit on a bit of wisdom. I’ve often been mazed at my own cleverness. But I never surprise my wife. If I found out a way of turning moor-stone into solid gold, she’d merely say that she knowed all along ’twas in me to do it. Therefore I hope you’ll take the hint like a man, an’ offer marriage so soon as you can. You’ve got the good wishes of the parish behind you in the adventure; an’ that’s half the battle, no doubt.”
“I’m thinking it’s too soon,” said Titus. “Between you and me, Mr Beer, ’tis my dream and hope to have her, but time must pass. In the upper circles they wait a year afore they approach a bereft female, and though I needn’t be asked to keep off it so long as that, still three months isn’t enough, I’m afraid. She was very fond of Dan, remember.”
“I suppose three months is not enough, as you say,” admitted Johnny, “especially as shewon’t have it that he’s dead. There’s a crack-brained thought in her poor young heart that Daniel didn’t make away with himself at all; an’ of course as the ashes of the poor chap will never be seen by mortal eye until the last Trump, ’tis impossible to prove she’s wrong. For my part I’ve said that I reckon he’s dead; but, at the same time, I never shall know why he made away with himself until we stand face to face beyond the grave. Then that will be the fust question I ax the man. ‘Whatever did ’e do such a terrible rash thing for, Dan?’ I shall ax him as we meet in a golden street.”
“I wish I could think with you that he didn’t do it—shoot Thorpe I mean; but I’m only too sure of it. What I believe is this: that Rix Parkinson and Dan did the job between them, and that poor Dan shot the underkeeper while Parkinson tried to knock the life out of Dan’s father. Of course Rix denied it when I taxed him. However, truth will out—at Doomsday, if not before, an’, be it as it will, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t ask the girl I love to marry me now she’s free to. I’ll do it come the springtime, if not before.”
Mr Beer applauded the resolve.
“I’m sure right an’ law be both your side.The Church likewise, for that matter. Parson never would hold Minnie to that marriage. She’m free, no doubt. What you’ve got to do be to convince her loving mind that Daniel be in glory, as my verses say; then she’ll let un bide an’ turn her attention to you, if she’s so wise as I think. Shall you live upalong to Hangman’s Hut if she takes you?”
“No, I sha’n’t. I mean to go to Moreton. I’ve a thought to take a little shop there, if she likes the idea.”
“Better try for a public. Drink be a more certain support than food. If I don’t know Moreton men, who should? I tell you that they put bread second to beer every day of the year. I made a rhyme about it that they wrote up in Sam Merritt’s bar. If you like—?”
“Not now, master,” said Titus. “Though I’ll wager ’tis a very clever rhyme, if you made it. And I’ll keep in mind all you’ve said. Now I must get going, else I’ll be late for dinner.”
Sim rode off, and it chanced, as the dimpsy light faded and the brief splendour of winter sunset lighted the west, that he met young Mrs Sweetland returning home. Minnie was riding a pony which Mr Beer lent her when she wanted it. She had been at MiddlecottLodge and in the coverts also, for her search was not relaxed, and, when opportunity offered, she continued it.
Little remained to be done. That day she had paid her eighteenth visit to the spot where Thorpe fell; and, for the first time since the beginning of the search, the girl believed herself rewarded. Most laborious and faithful had been her scrutiny. She told herself that to leave a twig unturned might be to lose the chance of re-establishing her husband’s good repute. She toiled with a patience only possible to a woman; and now, while but three or four more yards remained to be searched, a significant fragment came to the light. Yet it was not near the spot where Daniel’s gun had been discovered. That tract, despite a survey microscopical in its minuteness, yielded her nothing but a flake of flint. The arrow-head, for such it was, had told an antiquary of some Danmonian warrior from neolithic days; but to Minnie Sweetland it meant nothing, and she threw it aside without interest. Then, where Matthew Sweetland had suffered his cruel beating, the searcher came upon a yellow horn button. It reminded her instantly of Sim’s leathern gaiters, and she stood silent in the peace of the woods and stared before her. Thus it seemed that her husband’sclosest, dearest friend was identified with the spot of the murder. But even in the flush of discovery the young woman perceived how slight and vain was such a clue unsupported. If the button was Titus Sim’s, it proved nothing against him, since all men knew that he had been early on the scene of the fray. But her heart leapt, though her head warned it, and she left the forest full of hope renewed.
Returning from this discovery, Minnie met Sim. Then they pulled up their horses and spoke together.
“I do wish you’d come down off the Moor to live, Mrs Sweetland. ’Tis much too cold and lonely for a female upalong these winter days.”
“I like it. ’Tis a stern life an’ keeps a body patient. You’ve got to fight a bit wi’ nature. It makes a woman brave to have to do that. Last night the foxes got to my fowels an’ killed three of ’em.”
“I’m sorry, indeed!”
“’Twill larn me to be wiser.”
“To think what it is to be a few miles nearer the sun! At least, I suppose ’tis that. They’ve heard from Mr Henry. Sir Reginald was reading out a lot of his letter at luncheon to-day. Such a place as that Tobago be! All palm-trees, and lofty mountains, and flowers,and birds and butterflies, and sweltering sunshine, and niggers, and cocoanuts and sugar-cane. A different world, if words mean anything. Mr Henry has a pretty pen seemingly. I wish to God I’d been educated and could write so easy and flowing. As to the overseer of the estates, I didn’t hear about that. ’Twas only a bit here and there Sir Reginald read out to her ladyship.”
“Have they heard anything ’bout the pheasant thieves?”
“Not a syllable. Drunkard Parkinson swears on his oath he had no hand in it, though for my part I suspect him. And what d’you think? Matthew Sweetland was at me only yesterday to throw up my indoor work and turn keeper again! He knows I understand the work almost so well as Dan himself did. But I’ve got my ideas. It all depends on—on other parties what I do. I’ve told the old man that he must wait for my answer till next Midsummer-day.”
“He’s always praising you an’ wishing how my Daniel had been more like you.”
“No, no! I wasn’t a patch on Daniel. Still, I know the outdoor work and love it, too!”
Minnie thought of her button.
“You’d want a wife then. A gamekeeper’s life is a hard one. I suppose if you do that,you’ll take the north cottage and Thomas will get warning?”
“Yes—I should have his place; he’s not much good. But as to a wife—well, if you ask me, I think a keeper’s better without one. Men will talk to their wives; an’ women will talk again to other women. They can’t help it. A man whose business ’tis to keep secrets and run the chance of sudden death had better bide single. So it depends—as I told you just now—’pon other parties. Come next Midsummer, I shall ask a certain party a certain question; and if the answer is ‘Yes,’ there’ll be no gamekeeping for me; and if the answer is ‘No’—well, I’d rather not think of that. There come times in his life when a strong man can’t take ‘No’ for an answer.”
Minnie sat on her pony with one hand in her pocket. She fingered the horn button and spoke.
“You want somebody to look after you. A girl’s eyes be sharp where she takes an interest. I wonder your master have never called you to account for that black button on your gaiter. ’Tis very untidy. If you was an outdoor man, you’d never dare to go about like that.”
“Quite right,” he admitted. “To think your sharp eyes have seen—but what don’t they see—even to a button? It do make mefeel proud all the same, that you can have bestowed the least thought on such a thing.”
“I catched sight of it some time ago. If you remind me one day, I’ll sew a yellow one on for ’e. I’ve got one. ’Twill match t’others an’ look more vitty than that black one.”
“I’m afeard it won’t match the others, my dear, for they’m notched around the edge and be peculiar. But your button will be more to me than all the rest, and if ’tis yellow in colour, ’twill pass very well; and thank you kindly for the thought.”
“Next time you come up then?”
“That will be Sunday night, if I may.”
She nodded.
“Good-night, and bless you for your kind words,” said Mr Sim very fervently.
“Good-night,” she answered, and went her way.
No definite course of action had prompted her to this strange offer. Her only wish was to get a closer view of the gaiter and compare the button she had found with those upon it. Now, as she rode on, a thousand plans passed through her mind, but not one pleased her, and she began doubtfully to speculate upon the necessity of seeking help in this enterprise. The danger grew. Let Sim once suspect, and she could not guess the result. If he had himselfdestroyed the keeper and in cold blood plotted the subsequent destruction of Daniel Sweetland, then he would stick at nothing. Minnie very clearly perceived the necessity for caution. She also saw the direction in which Sim’s thoughts were turning. That he would ask her to marry him when Midsummer came was certain. She only hoped that, long before summer returned, the truth might have dawned upon her darkness and her husband be by her side again.
Daniel was in her thoughts and her young heart yearned for him as she returned to her lonely dwelling. Then, as if to answer the longing, a great thing greeted her and the day closed in splendour brighter than any sunset light.
Mr Beer was waiting for the pony when Minnie arrived at the Warren Inn, and she remarked, despite the gloaming, that his mouth was full of news.
“Wonders never cease, but be on the increase,” he began. “An’ well you know that when I break out into poetry I’ve generally got something on my mind. Well, so I have. Onlight from your horse an’ I’ll give ’e a present. What could be better than a postman’s letter? An’ from foreign parts, if you’ll believe me, though I didn’t know, my dear, as you’d got friends in the distance.”
“Dan,” she said. “’Tis Dan—my heart says it.”
“Now don’t think that, my poor maiden. I wish it was. But there ban’t no letter-writing in the grave. A man neither sends nor receives ’em in the pit. An’ ’tis not the worst thing as you can say for death that it puts you beyond reach of the penny post—not to name telegrams. You must make up your mind that Daniel be in the better land with saints an’ angels grand. This here is from the West Indies where the rum comes from; an’ if the place be as comforting as the drink, then I make no doubt people do very well there. For rum punch is a glorious brew to make the heart and liver new. But, if you ax me, this letter is from Mr Henry, who be in them parts. He was a close friend of Dan’s; an’ his was the gun that done the dreadful deed when death to Adam Thorpe did speed—Lord! how full I be of rhyme to-night! So, very like, he’s written in his gentlemanly way to comfort you.”
Minnie’s bosom panted, and she put her hand upon it to hide the swift rise and fall. Right well she knew that Mr Beer was wrong, and though the superscription of the letter spread in a scrawling hand quite unlike Daniel’s yet her heart saw through the envelope and she felt that the letter came from her husband.
“Let me have it,” she said. “I’ll tell you what’s to tell to-morrow.”
“Why not read it now?” he asked as he handed the letter to her.
“Time enough. Now take the pony, an’ thank you, an’ good-night.”
Soon she was alone, but Minnie ate no supper that night, for another sort of feast awaited her. She read the long letter thrice from end to end; then, finding that the hour was nine o’clock, and the fireless cottage had grown very cold, she went to bed, and read the letter three times more by candle light. After that the candle suddenly went out, so she cuddled her soft bosom to the pages and slept with them against a happy heart.
“My own, dear pretty-eyed wife,—Here I be so safe as you could wish, with many a mile o’ salt water betwixt me and them as would harm me. A mighty lot of terrible strange things I’ve seed; but first I must say as I got to Plymouth all right and met a chap as wanted a sailor-man. He took me, because he couldn’t get a better, and we sailed out of Plymouth on the very next tide. My ship be called thePeabody. She’s a steamer—not much to look at and a poor one to go; but here we are anyway, and I be writing to you from Tobago—an island in the West Indies, where us get brown sugar and cocoanuts and such like foreign contrivances.
“I’ll begin at the beginning, well knowing how you like for things to be all in order and ship-shape as we say. Well, the food’s cruel bad and the ship’s under-manned and under-engined, but we’m just on the windy side of the law, I believe, which is all you can expect from a tramp like thePeabody. The old man (Skipper) is a very good sort and everybody likes him; also themate; likewise the bosun. Everything’s all right, in fact, except the grub and the engines. I be the carpenter’s mate.
“Us seed a good few wonders coming out over, but it blowed a bit off the Azores (which you can find in father’s big map of the world), and we took it green. By which I mean this vessel shipped solid waves over her bows and we had to slow down, else we’d have gone down. The engines be good for nought in a head wind. But we got to Barbados at last, and I find ’tis called Bim for shortness. In the dimpsy light us fetched it, but out here twilight turns to night while the clock’s striking, and afore we cast anchor ’twas dark and the island lying like a sea monster with a red light on his nose and a white on his tail—lighthouses I mean. Bridgetown it was where us landed part of our cargo—a place with windmills ’pon it and tilled land and miles of stuff, as made me think of home, so green it was; but ’tis sugar-cane when you gets up to it. We didn’t bide in Carlisle Bay long, else I’d have wrote from there, but we was so terrible busy I hadn’t but one chance to land. The folks here be every colour you could name between white and black, through all manner of shades of snuff colour, and butter colour, and putty colour, and peat colour. Cheerful, lazy devils, as like to laughand smoke and chew sugar-cane all day. But they properly hate work. Reckless mongrels, I should say they was; but in Bim a man don’t have any show unless he’ve got a touch of the tar-brush as they say. That means nigger blood. Such a way as they tell! I never heard English spoke so comic in all my born days. Their clothes be built for ventilation mostly, and I never seed such a show of rags. Barbados is made of coral, but t’other islands are volcanoes, and they’ve a nasty way of going off when you least count upon it. From Carlisle Bay you can see white houses under wooden tiles all scorched grey by the sun heat, and in the streets a great crowd goes up and down in the blazing air and shining dust. Such a noise and clatter I never did hear. Mules squealing, bells ringing, bands playing, niggers bawling. The women all wear white dresses and gay turbans. They’m amazing straight in the back, owing to carrying all their goods ’pon top their heads. They sell cocoanuts, cane, pineapples, oranges, limes, mangoes, yams, pickles, and Lord knows what beside. They stride out beautiful owing to their short petticoats, but their mouths be a caution. The children look like little chocolate dolls, and much you’d love ’em. The policemen all be dressed in white. They fancy themselves an awful lot.The pigs run about the streets and be for all the world like greyhounds (what we call long-dogs to home). The climate’s that fiery that you’ll never get no stock properly fatted in it. But you don’t feel no call for much red meat. We got fresh water and green stuff aboard here, and how I wish I could have sent you my dinner yesterday. I had flying-fish and sweet potatoes and green-skinned oranges, red as gold inside, and many other fine things as would make your little mouth water to hear tell about. But the mangoes is what I like best, though they do say out here they be no better than a bit of tow dipped in turps. Ban’t true, I assure ’e. I got off for two hour just afore we set sail, and went into the country, trapsing round to see what I could see. And if I didn’t come across a great mango tree as ’peared to me to be just a foreign, wild tree alongside the high road. Well, I seed the fruit in it, an’ thinks I, ‘’twill be a fine thing for the ship.’ So up I goes, hand over fist, but not before I made some niggers stop throwing stones up at the tree. Well, I shinned up aloft and began flinging down the mangoes, and the wretched niggers holloed out, ‘Good massa! Massa brave! Massa no frightened ob nobody!’ Then suddenly there was a mighty loud barking and up comed a yellow dog, so big as a calf, and thenigs went off for dear life. ‘Him coming, massa! Him running like de debbil, sar!’ they shouted out as they went; and then a big chap arrived at the bottom of the tree and began giving me all the law and the prophets, I do assure ’e. For it happened to be his tree.
“‘You tief, come down! come down and my dog he tear you. I catch you at last! It all ober wid you now!’
“‘Not much,’ I said. ‘I ban’t coming down to be tored by thicky hulking dog, John.’ (Us calls all niggers ‘John.’)
“‘You a tief and you take to gaol, sar. I no go till you come down,’ he says.
“And I knowed as my ship would sail in two hours or less!
“‘Now list to me, you black ass,’ I says. ‘I thought this here was a wild tree—as anybody would. You ought to stick your name on the tree. And I ban’t a thief, and if you call me one, I’ll break your fat head. Just take the dog and tie him up, then I’ll come down and us’ll have a bit of a tell about it.’
“‘You tief my mangoes! You lodge in de gaol!’ was all he could think of. So I told him not to be such a tarnation fool.
“‘There’s your mangoes on the ground,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a bob for ’em, and if Ihear any more about it, I’ll apply to the Governor to have your beast of a dog shot.’
“’Twas the money done it!
“‘A bob—a bob, massa!’ he says. ‘Dat’s diff’rent, sar! I’se too sorry I spoke so rude to massa. A bob! Go home, you damn dog!’
“So the dog cleared out and I comed down and gived the heathen his shilling, and took the mangoes and marched off to the Careenage and joined my ship. But I’d paid a lot too much money, of course.
“Next morn us got to St Vincent—an island that runs up into the sky, like a Dartmoor tor, only ’tis a lot larger and the sides of un be all covered with palms and savage trees. The town lies spread at sea level—all white and red—and the forest slopes behind with fine trees. Some of them was blazing with red flowers. A pride of the morning shower falled just as we got here, and the rain flashed like fire. There was a rainbow in it, and I never seed such a bright one afore. The caps of the mountains was hidden in clouds, but the sun touched ’em and made ’em all rosy; then it swallowed ’em up and drawed ’em into the blazing blue. There’s Carib Indians to St Vincent, and one Carib be worth five niggers when it comes to a bit of work. They’ve got a queer sort of religion, I’m told, though not so queer as thenegroes. The niggers’ religion be called Obeah, and the Obi Men be awful rum customers. Missionaries try to stop ’em and their goings-on, but Obi mysteries still happen and all sorts of devilish deeds are done in secret.
“I never knowed a place what smelled worse than Kingstown, St Vincent. Farmer Chown’s muck-heap’s a fool to it. Niggers be the same here as everywhere—a poor, slack-witted lot. If you want to see work, you’ve got to go and look at the coolies in the sugar factories, or the Caribs. Among niggers only one in a hundred works. T’other ninety-nine look on and talk and give advice. But they be men and women all right, though our bosun, Jim Bradley, says ’tis generally thought they haven’t got no souls. St Vincent be the place where arrowroot comes from. After that we went down to next island, by name of Grenada, and seed a long row of rocks sticking out of the sea, which be called the Grenadines. They are scorched up places—just splashes of yellow rock against the blue sea; but folks dwell in some of ’em and on some live nought but the wild goats and pelicans. The fishes in these seas fight like hell, and be always a-lashing the surface with their fins and tails, seemingly. Can’t live and let live by the looks of it. Aflying-fish do put me in mind of myself, for he’s always moving on. If he bides in the sea, barracudas and other chaps go for him, and when he comes out for a sail in the air, the birds are after him. Then the swordfish go for the porpoises, and the sharks go for everything.
“Grenada be a bigger place than St Vincent, and very wild up on the mountains by the look of it. All along the sea runs a strip of silvery sand, and cocoanut palms almost dip in the water. Our tub called here and there, and I seed wonderful fine goyles and coombs running inland, all full of blue air and forests and waterfalls a-tumbling down off great crags in the mountains. ’Tis an awful savage island as was throwed up by volcanoes out of the sea once ’pon a time, and will be throwed down again in like manner sooner or late—so Jim Bradley says.
“Grenada be a wonnerful brave place for nutmegs, which you might not know grow ’pon trees like almond trees. There be male and female trees, and one male goes to every ten females. A fine thing, even if you was a tree, to have ten wives—so Bradley says! But I only want one, and that’s my dinky Minnie, so brave and so lovely.
“St George, Grenada, we stopped at for aweek, and I seed a great deal of the place. They’ve got a lunatic asylum and a klink there; and they want ’em both. Niggers often go mad, but it ban’t from over-work, that I will swear.
“The King of the Caribs lived here, but he was a poor fool and believed the French. They gived him a few bottles of brandy and he gived them his island on conditions. But of course they broke the conditions. And pretty well all the Caribs died fighting. The last of the King’s men jumped into the sea and was drowned rather than give in.
“The market would make you die of laughing, I’m sure. Never seed such a chatter of business even to Moreton on a Saturday. Such a row! You’d think the wealth of the nation was changing hands, but you could buy up the whole lot pretty near for thirty shilling. But a gay bit of coloured scenery, I promise you, with the women’s turbans all a-bobbing, like a million coloured parrots. ’Tis a very fine place for cocoanut palms also. The little young nuts look like giant acorns in long sprigs. I went to a nigger man on business and met with some mighty strange sights in his garden. There was land-crabs lived there and a tame tortoise, and a nursery of young cocoanut trees and a nursery of young niggers also, for theman was a family man and had a lot of little people.
“‘Dat my youngest darter,’ he said to me, and pointed to a little maid playing along with the lizards and things and dressed the same as them.
“‘A very nice darter, too,’ I said to him.
“‘Dat my son ober dar,’ he said, ‘and dat my next youngest son, and dem gals eating dat shaddock—dey twins.’
“I told him I never seed a braver lot o’ childer, and then he went in his house and fetched out his wife and his old father and his aunt. And I praised the lot and told him what a terrible lucky chap he was; and he got so pleased that he gived me half a barrow-load of fruit.
“There’s a lake inland by the name of Etang, and the niggers say how the Mother of the Rain lives in. But I told ’em that the Mother o’ Rain lives homealong with us in Cranmere Pool ’pon Dartymoor. But they wouldn’t believe that. Anyway, their Mother of Rain belongs to Obeah, and she’m an awful strong party. ’Tis a wisht, silent place she do live in, all hid in palms and ferns and wonderful trees blazing with flowers. They do say the witch comes out of the water of a moony night to sing; but I don’t know nought about that.I’d go and have a look and see if I could teel a trap here and there; but there ban’t no game worth naming in these parts, though Bradley tells me they’ve got deer in Tobago. If there be, I’ll bring some pairs of their horns home to ’e to stick over the doors to Hangman’s Hut. How I do wish I was there; but ban’t no good coming back yet awhile, and when I do, us will have to be awful spry. I wonder if you’ve found out aught—you or Titus? I daresay such a clever man as him have got wind of the truth afore now. I be bringing home some pink coral studs for him. You might let him know it, if you please. I suppose they’ve gived back my gun to you? They did ought to, since no doubt everybody thinks I be dead. If you be very pressed for money, sell the gun to Sim; but not if you can help it.
“Mister Henry Vivian be in Tobago, and I hope as he’ll suffer me to have speech with him some day soon. ’Twould be a tower of strength to get him ’pon our side. But such a stickler as him and so quick to take a side and hold to it—he may be against me, and, if so, the less I see of him the better.
“But I must tell about Trinidad while my paper holds out. We comed to it after Grenada, and a very fine place it is. And a very terriblesight I seed in the Court House there, namely, no less than a nigger tried for murder. The coolies be short-tempered people and often kill their wives. Then the vultures find ’em in the sugar-canes. But niggers, though they talk a lot, never kill one another as a rule. This chap had shot a tax-collector, and the black people in the court didn’t seem to take it very serious; but the jury fetched it in murder, and he was sentenced to be hanged, I’m sorry to say. My flesh did cream upon my bones to hear it, for it might have been me; and them words I should certainly have heard but for my own way of doing things after they took me. The nigger stood so steady as if he was cut out of coal. A good plucked man, and went to his doom like a hero. It took three judges to hang him. They sat under a great fan in court to keep ’em cool. But all three growed awful hot over the job. The people thought ’twas very hard on the man, and so did I.
“They’ve got a pitch lake here, and there’s a lot of business doing, and a racecourse and a railway.
“At Port o’ Spain I met the rummest human that ever I did meet. ’Twas in a drinking-place what me and Bradley went to one evening. This here chap was bar-keeper, and his father had been a Norwegian, and his motherhad been a Spaniard from Hayti, and he was born in the Argentine Republic, and he said he was an Englishman! Swore it afore all-comers! Us told the man it couldn’t be so—according to the laws of nature; and he got his wool off something cruel, and cussed in five languages, and axed us who the blue, blazing hell we thought we were, to come teaching him. He said he was English to the marrow in his bones; and we proved he couldn’t be, in good sailor language. Then he said that such trash as us wasn’t going to be heard afore him; and then we got a bit short like (though not in liquor, that I promise you) and told the man he was no better than a something or other mongrel—like everybody else in foreign parts. After that glasses got flying about, and we slung our hook back to the ship. But it shows what fools men are, I reckon.
“The coolies put all their money on their wives. And I’d do the same, as well you know. But they don’t do it in a manner of speaking, but really and truly, for they hammer all their silver money into nose-rings, and bracelets, and armlets, and leglets, and their females go chinking about with the family fortune hanging to ’em, like fruit to a tree. I seed a lot at a sugar factory nigh Saint Joseph—a little place out over from Port o’ Spain. One estate theredone very well, but others was all falling to pieces, and the machinery all rusting, and no business doing at all. The air in a busy factory smells of sugar, and the canes be smashed between steel rollers, and the juice comes out in a stream, like a moor brook. Then they set to work and, after a lot of things have been done to this here juice, including boiling, it turns into brown sugar. And the remains be treacle, and the crushed cane is used for firing. They also make rum out of sugar-cane, and very cheerful drinking ’tis. The coolie girls be awful purty—so brown as my Minnie, with dark eyes that flash. But they keep themselves to themselves. They wouldn’t keep company or go out walking with a sailor man for the world. And their men folks be very short and sharp with them. One gal was singing and scrubbing a floor when I catched sight of her. All in red she was, with silver bangles on her arms, and wonnerful glimmering eyes, and not a day more than thirteen years old. ‘That’s a purty child,’ I said to Jim Bradley. ‘Child be damned,’ he said in his short way. ‘She’s a growed woman and very like got a family.’ The truth is that they be grandmothers at thirty. But I’ve only seen one purtier girl in all my born days, and that’s my gal.
“All the machinery in Trinidad be workedwith cocoanut oil. ’Tis a very funny smell, but you soon get used to it.
“Our next port was Tobago, and here we shall bide for a good while and let our fires out and have a go at the boilers. This letter will go off from there to you, and I do hope and trust as it will find you as it leaves me at present, my dear wife. Ban’t much good for me to ax you to write the news, because you wouldn’t know where to send it. But I hope afore next year be out that we’ll come together again, and your poor chap will be proved an innocent man.
“I’ll send you three pound from here presently, and another letter along with it. If there’s any good news and the charges don’t run too high, you might send a telegram on getting this letter, to ‘Bob Bates, SteamshipPeabody, Bridgetown, Barbados.’ We go back there in three weeks, and shall be there afore you get this. I be ‘Bob Bates’ now, and shall remain so for the present till I can be Dan Sweetland again without running my neck in the rope.
“Lord save us, but how I do long to be squeezing my own true wife! Awful rough luck we’ve had, but there’s a better time coming. Tell mother and father all about me, but make ’em swear on father’s old Bible fust that they’ll name it to none else. They can hearbits of this letter, but not all. I’m sending you twenty thousand kisses. I wish to God I was bringing ’em. Last thing I done at Trinidad was to cut your name and mine on a great aloe leaf in the Botanical Garden when nobody was looking. And over ’em I scratched two hearts with a arrow skewered through. They aloe leaves live for ever, I’m told; so our names will be there for people to see long after we be dead and gone, I hope. But that won’t be for a mighty long time yet, please God.
“I may say that I’ve growed a bit religious since we parted. Ban’t nothing to name and won’t make any difference in my feelings to old friends, but you can’t see the Lord’s wonders in the Deep without growing a bit thoughtful like. And if by good chance I ever get back to you and stand afore the world clear of the killing of poor Adam Thorpe, then I shall be a church-member for ever more—or else a chapel member—which you like best. But one for sartain. So no more at present, from your faithful husband till death,
Daniel Sweetland.”