CHAPTER X.AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION.
YoungVale was a man of strong will. Sorrow and rage at his sister’s disappearance did not blind his reason. Knowing that he must take care of his own safety, if he would do aught for her’s, all his actions were governed with the utmost prudence.
As there were numerous tories, well acquainted with him, residing in the city, he did not deem it prudent to venture in without a disguise sufficiently impenetrable to deceive all prying eyes. The disguise was effected in a satisfactory manner: his own mother would have looked twice before she recognized in the clodhopper, wending his way along the road, her own good-looking son.
It was sundown when the queer-looking figure of the patriot might have been seen wending its way along a rather deserted-looking street, looking to the right and left in a staring, half-silly sort of manner, so natural to those who, totally uneducated either in heart or mind, look upon some strange scene for the first time.
Three or four soldiers, in red uniforms, came staggering down the street, evidently just from a visit to a tippling-house. These the youth carefully avoided by giving them the sidewalk and himself taking the street. A loud laugh was raised as they passed, for there was something truly ludicrous about the countryman; and he joined in the laugh as though not perceiving it was against himself. After having passed the soldiers, the sidewalk was regained and the lonely march continued.
A stop was finally made before a small building which our readers will hardly be surprised to learn was inhabited by thefamily of Simon Hunt, the blacksmith, who had, on two occasions, sent to Ernshaw and his men most important intelligence. It being so near dark, the blacksmith himself was at home, and answered the knock which came thundering against his door. The person whom he perceived to be standing on the steps was perfectly unknown to him; nevertheless he bid him enter.
When the two entered the room, Simon turned, and, by the light of a candle, surveyed the other with a long and scrutinizing look. The countenance somehow seemed familiar, but it was only after hearing him speak that the worthy smith was able to say, “Your name is Vale, is it not?”
“Right, sir—my name is Vale; and yours, I believe, is Simon Hunt?”
“It is.”
“Then allow me, before proceeding any further, to thank you for the services you have done to Ernshaw and his men, as well as to the holy cause of liberty.”
“Never mind about them; I have done nothing which I wouldn’t wish to do again; and you had better thank another one whose name I can not tell you, but who was the person that furnished me with all the information that I have had.”
“Well, Mr. Hunt, to whoever the thanks are due, to him or them, let them be earnestly given. It was not for this I came here, disguised in this dress; and, though any assistance which you can render me will be but small, still, little as it may be, I shall feel thankful for it.”
“I am with you,” said Hunt, decisively.
Vale told the story of the outrage briefly. It stirred the soul of the blacksmith deeply, and his lips were not slow in uttering his sentiments. He asked to share John’s search, and to be permitted the privilege of avenging her wrongs. The only service which was now required was to endeavor to find some traces of Catherine; and, in case any thing went wrong with Vale, to send immediate intelligence of it to Nat Ernshaw.
“Now that we understand each other,” finally interposed Hunt, “I suppose that you will stop at my house, for the present, at least.”
“Under other circumstances, I would be happy to do so,”responded Vale; “but, at present, it would not be prudent. If any thing evil should chance to befall me, you might be placed in a bad predicament.”
“Pooh! never mind that. If any one should inquire about you, why, we will call you my wife’s cousin; and I defy any one to recognize you underthatdisguise.”
“There is another reason why I should not accept your hospitality, and that is this: I have already engaged lodging at a rather obscure-looking inn, and, having paid a week in advance, for the landlord did not seem inclined to trust me with lodging before seeing the color of my money. If I should not make my reappearance, it might excite suspicion and cause inquiry to be made. Of course, that is the last thing I would have to happen.”
“Perhaps it will be better; but remember that you are welcome to count on me foranyassistance, or to use my house as your home during your stay in the city. We are fellow-workers for freedom and the right, and that gives you a full claim to my sympathy.”
“You will, doubtless, soon see me; meanwhile be on the alert to catch any loose information which may be within reach. If, at any time, you wish to communicate with me, you will find me at the ‘Traveler’s Home,’ kept by Jim Fagan.”
These were John Vale’s last words; and half an hour later found him sitting in the front room at Fagan’s.
Notwithstanding the smallness of his hotel, Fagan seemed to do a good business, and it kept the red-headed boy at the bar busily engaged to satisfy the wants of the numerous applicants for his villainous beverages. Vale, still in disguise, sat in a corner, never speaking, but carefully noting all that was said or done around him. Some of those who were sitting by cast a glance of inquiry at the queer-looking figure, but they evidently had no suspicion of his real character, only wondering what brought him into Fagan’s place. The “Traveler’s Home” was a quiet enough house in the daytime, and even at night a stranger was in no danger of being insulted or maltreated within its precincts; but the men who frequented it after nightfall were of rather doubtful, if not of desperate character, and it was not without the repute of being no betterthan a gambling-den. Vale knew nothing of the character of the place when he first secured lodgings there.
He was destined to learn much of the place and its “patrons” before he again entered the confines of Cedar Swamp.
The crowd kept growing larger and larger, until the space in front of the bar was quite filled with men, young and old—all drinking, talking, and smoking. Fagan stood at one end of the bar, occasionally assisting his red-haired and masculine Hebe, but keeping a watchful eye in his head to see that his property was neither injured nor improperly confiscated. As he had, several times, subjected Vale to a close scrutiny, the rebel had thought it best to endeavor to allay any lurking suspicion which the tavern-keeper might have, and so he staggered up to the bar and called for a glass of beer.
This being finished, the young man lit a pipe and vigorously puffed away at it. Whatever Fagan might have thought before, after seeing this performance of Vale’s, all suspicion was allayed, and his grim countenance relaxed with a smile.
Hardly had Vale taken his seat, when, from among the crowd, a man elbowed his way to the bar where Jim stood. Leaning over, he addressed the landlord in a tone too low for John to hear the question, but the answer, incautiously given in a rather loud tone, sent a thrill to the heart of the honest patriot.
“You know, Harry,” said Fagan, “that Turner has hired the place for a couple of weeks, and I guess it would be better to let any thing of the kind alone for the present.”
“All right!” responded Harry. “Some of the boys were speaking about it, and I gave ’em the same answer you gave me, without mentioning Turner’s name; but, to make the thing sure, I thought I’d speak with you about the matter.”
“There’s no harm done by your speaking; but, if it’s necessary, we can enter by the garden-way without troubling the other part of the house. Have you heard from Bob yet, about how he’s getting along?”
“Nary word.”
After this laconic answer, “Harry” disappeared in the crowd, leaving Jim to attend to his customers. John Vale was strongly excited by what he had just overheard. That Captain Preston had used Turner as an instrument withwhich to abduct Catherine, was not doubted—the conversation between Fagan and “Harry” had set him on the trail; and the point now was to find out of what house they had been speaking. He did not anticipate much difficulty in doing that; and when once he lit upon the spot, Vale thought it would go hard with him if he could not, by hook or crook, manage to discover if Catherine was there hidden, and to rescue her from the clutches of the ruffians who had abducted her.
The hours passed slowly, until it came to ten o’clock. John was earnestly considering about the best means of leaving his corner, crossing the room, and making his exit from the opposite door without running against any one who might chance to take advantage of his seeming simplicity to annoy him. Though in a good humor, the crowd seemed to be well primed with liquor, and it would take but little to involve the whole roomful in a general row. After half rising to his feet, he sank back again into his seat. Words of altercation attracted his attention. A big, rough-looking man was saying something in an angry tone to some one concealed from the eyes of Vale by the crowd. Curiosity impelled the young man to take his stand upon a bench in order that he might get a glimpse of the man who was being berated. What was his surprise to recognize the cat-like countenance of Timothy Turner. That worthy did not seem in the least troubled by the invectives hurled against him, but waited quietly until the large man had concluded. Then raising his hand and making a peculiar sign with his forefinger, he remarked:
“Keep cool, Bob Wynstay. If I shoved against your sore arm, you ought to be thankful I don’t tell how it got hurt.”
The sign which the tory made seemed to have a remarkably sedative effect upon the big man, and he only answered:
“What the—— do you run against a fellow that way for? Aren’t it bad enough to have a broken arm, without having it punched by every one that chooses to elbow me about?”
“A man with a broken arm ought to keep out of a crowd, and then he wouldn’t get it hurt,” responded Turner.
The crowd made way for him—he seemed to be well known to those around him—and Turner passed on, casting a quick glance around him. For an instant his eye rested on JohnVale’s face, and the gaze, quick and keen, filled the heart of the disguised patriot with apprehension. Whether or not he was recognized, Vale could scarce tell; but he felt that it would be well to make his exit as soon as possible. Turner, though a traitor, and, at heart, a coward, was a man of great caution and was possessed of extraordinary perception. Knowing the hatred the fellow felt for him, John could but think that his destruction would be certain, surrounded as he was by enemies, if the tory should recognize him.
Fagan and the new-comer had a few words of conversation, and the landlord left the room, but almost immediately returned, followed by Tom Blanchard and several soldiers who had been playing cards in a back room. Pointing at Vale, Turner said, in a loud voice: “Secure your man! I accuse him of being a rebel, and of entering this place as a spy.”
The three soldiers made a rush forward. Vale drew a brace of pistols.
“He is a dead man who attempts to lay hands on me!”
“Take him, I say!” shouted Tim.
“Dastard! I defyyou!” now shouted John, who rose to his utmost height and looked as if one word more would precipitate him upon the treacherous scoundrel.
“Yes! because I am unarmed, I suppose,” the tory whispered.
“A coward and traitor always seeks for some excuse for his baseness!” said Vale.
“He is a spy, for he calls me traitor. Soldiers, you are armed—will you take him, or shall he be allowed to escape? I have reason to fear he is not alone on these premises. Off to the guard-house with him, quick!” said Tim, white with rage and fear.
Two soldiers stepped forward to seize him. Two pistols flashed in their faces, and the men fell back, wounded and stunned.
In an instant a half-dozen men were on the patriot, and, bearing him to the floor, secured him after a struggle which proved how great was the strength and will of the young boy.
In themelee, Turner escaped; and when John arose to his feet, with his arms bound behind him, his eyes sought in vain for the traitor.
“Your friend ’as concluded to ’elp hus,” remarked Blanchard, rather humorously inclined, “by making tracks for the lines. The ’ole garrison will soon be here; so come along young chap, hand we’ll show you the hinterior of has good a bake-hoven as you hever grinned hover.”
And amid the laughs and jeers of the crowd, John was forced away to the guard cells.