For Faith and Freedom

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  ON BOARD THE JOLLY THATCHER.

  I lay awake all night thinking of this plan. The more I thoughtupon it, the more I was pleased with it. To fly from the countrywas to escape the pursuit of my husband, who would never give overlooking for me because he was so obstinate and masterful. I shouldalso escape the reproaches of my lover, Robin, and break myselfaltogether from a passion which was now (through my own rashness)become sinful. I might also break myself from the loathing andhatred which I now felt towards my wicked husband, and might even,in time and after much prayer, arrive at forgiving him. At thattime--yea, and for long afterwards--I did often surprise myself insuch a fit of passion as, I verily believe, would have made me amurderess had opportunity or the Evil One sent that man my way. Yea,not once or twice, but many times have I thus become a murderessin thought and wish and intention--I confess this sin with shame,though I have long since repented of it. To have been so near untoit--nay, to have already committed it in my imagination, covers mewith shame. And now when I sometimes (my Lord, the master of myaffections, doth allow it) visit the Prison of Ilchester and findtherein some poor wretch who hath yielded to temptation and suddenwrath (which is the possession by the Devil), and so hath committedwhat I only imagined, my heart goes forth to that poor creature, andI cannot rest until I have prayed with her and softened her heart,and left her to go contrite to the shameful tree. Nay, since, asyou shall hear, I have been made to pass part of my life among themost wicked and profligate of my sex, I am filled with the thoughtthat the best of us are not much better than the worst, and that theworst of us are in some things as good as the best; so that there isno room for pride and self-sufficiency, but much for humiliation anddistrust of one's own heart.

  Well, if I would consent to fly from the country; across the seas,I should find kith and kin who would shelter me. There should Ilearn to think about other things--poor wretch, as if I could everforget the village--and Robin! Oh! that I should have to try--evento try--to forget Robin! I was to learn that though the skies bechanged the heart remains the same.

  How I fled--and whither--you shall now hear.

  Mr. George Penne came to see me next morning, sleek and smiling andcourteous.

  'Madam,' he said, 'may I know your decision, if you have yet arrivedat one?'

  'Sir, it is already made. I have slept upon it; I have prayed uponit; I will go.'

  'That is well. It is also most opportune, because a ship sails thisvery day. It is most opportune I say--even Providential. She willdrop down the Channel with the coming tide. You will want a fewthings for the voyage.'

  'It will be winter when we arrive, and the winters in that countryare cold; I must buy some thicker clothing. Will there be anygentlewoman on board?'

  'Surely'--he smiled--'surely. There will be, I am told, more thanone gentlewoman on board that ship. There will be, in fact, a largeand a cheerful company. Of that you may be assured. Well, since thatis settled, a great load of care is removed, because I have heardthat your husband rode into Taunton with Judge Jeffreys; that helearned from someone--I know not from whom--of your presence in thetown, and of your departure with me.'

  'It must have been the market-woman.'

  'Doubtless the market-woman'--I have often asked myself whether thiswas a falsehood or not--'and he is even now speeding towards Bristolhoping to find you. Pray Heaven that he hath not learned with whomyou fled!'

  'Oh!' I cried. 'Let us go on board the ship at once! Let us hasten!'

  'Nay; there is no hurry for a few hours. But stay withindoors.Everything that is wanted for the voyage shall be put on board foryou. As for your meals, you will eat with'--here he paused for amoment--'with the rest of the company under the care of the Captain.For your berth, it will be as comfortable as can be provided. Next,as to the money. You have, I understand, two hundred pounds andmore?'

  I took the bag from my waist and rolled out the contents. There werein all two hundred and forty-five pounds and a few shillings. Therest had been expended at Ilminster.

  He counted it carefully, and then replaced the money in the bag.

  'The Eykins of Boston, in New England,' he said, 'are people ofgreat credit and substance. There will be no necessity for you totake with you this money should you wish it to be expended to theadvantage of your brother and your friends.'

  'Take it all, kind Sir. Take it all, if so be it will help them intheir need.'

  'Nay, that will not do, either,' he replied, smiling, his hand stillupon the bag. 'For, first, the Captain of your ship must be paidfor his passage; next, you must not go among strangers (though yourown kith and kin) with no money at all in purse. Therefore, I willset aside (by your good leave) fifty pounds for your private purse.So: fifty pounds. A letter to my correspondent at Boston, which Iwill write, will cause him to pay you this money on your landing.This is a safer method than to carry the money in a bag or purse,which may be stolen. But if the letter be lost, another can bewritten. We merchants, indeed, commonly send three such letters ofadvice in case of shipwreck and loss of the bags. This done, and theexpenses of the voyage provided, there remains a large sum, which,judiciously spent, will, I think, insure for your friends from theoutset the treatment reserved for prisoners of distinction who canafford to pay--namely, on their arrival they will be bought (as itis termed) by worthy merchants, who (having been previously paid byme) will suffer them to live where they please, without exacting ofthem the least service or work. Their relatives at home will forwardthem the means of subsistence, and so their exile will be softenedfor them. If you consent thereto, Madam, I will engage that theyshall be so received, with the help of this money.'

  If I consented, indeed! With what joy did I give my consent to suchlaying out of my poor Barnaby's money! Everything now seemed turningto the best, thanks to my new and benevolent friend.

  At his desire, therefore, I wrote a letter to Barnaby recommendinghim to trust himself, and to advise Robin and Humphrey to trustthemselves, entirely to the good offices of this excellent man. Iinformed him that I was about to cross the seas to our cousins inNew England, in order to escape the clutches of the villain who hadbetrayed me. And then I told him how his money had been bestowed,and bade him seek me when he should be released from the Plantations(wherever they might send him) at the town of Boston among hiscousins. The letter Mr. Penne faithfully promised to deliver. (Notabene--the letter was never given to Barnaby.)

  At the same time he wrote a letter for me to give to hiscorrespondent at Boston, telling me that on reading that letter hisfriend would instantly pay me the sum of fifty pounds.

  Thus was the business concluded, and I could not find words, I toldhim, to express the gratitude which I felt for so much goodnesstowards one who was a stranger to him. I begged him to suffer meto repay at least the charges to which he had been put at the innsand the stabling since he took me into his own care and protection.But he would take nothing. 'Money,' he said, 'as payment for suchservices as he had been enabled to render would be abhorrent to hisnature. Should good deeds be bought? Was it seemly that a merchantof credit should sell an act of common Christian charity?'

  'What!' he asked, 'are we to see a poor creature in danger of beingimprisoned if she is recognised--and of being carried off againsther will by a husband whom she loathes, if he finds her--are weto see such a woman and not be instantly fired by every generousemotion of compassion and indignation to help that woman at the merecost of a few days' service and a few guineas spent?'

  I was greatly moved--even to tears--at these words, and at all thisgenerosity, and I told him that I could not sufficiently thank himfor all he had done, and that he should have my prayers always.

  'I hope I may, Madam,' he said, smiling strangely. 'When the shiphath sailed you will remember, perhaps, the fate of Susan Blake,and, whatever may be your present discomfort on board a rollingship, say to yourself that this is better than to die in a noisomeprison. You will also understand that you have fallen into the handsof a r
espectable merchant, who is much more lenient than JudgeJeffreys, and will not consent to the wasting of good commercialstuff in jails and on gibbets.'

  'Nay, Sir,' I said, 'what doth all this mean?'

  'Nothing, Madam; nothing. I was only anxious that you should say toyourself, "Thus and thus have I been saved from a jail."' Such wasMr. Penne's humanity!

  'Understand it! Oh! dear Sir, I repeat that my words are not strongenough to express my gratitude.'

  'Now, Madam, no doubt your gratitude runs high. Whetherto-morrow----'

  'Can I ever forget? To-morrow? To-morrow? Surely, Sir----'

  'Well, Madam, we will wait until to-morrow. Meantime, lie snug andstill all day, and in the afternoon I will come for you. Two hundredand forty-five pounds--'tis not a great sum, but a good day'swork--a good day's work, added to the satisfaction of helping a mostunfortunate young gentlewoman--most unfortunate.'

  What did the good man mean by still talking of the morrow?

  At half-past twelve the good woman of the house brought me a plateof meat and some bread.

  'So,' she said--her face was red, and I think she had beendrinking--'he hath determined to put you on board with the rest, Ihear.'

  'Hush! If you have heard, say nothing.'

  'He thinks he can buy my silence. Come, Madam; though, indeed, somewould rather take their chance with Judge Jeffreys--they say he is aman who can be moved by the face of a woman--than with--well, as formy silence, there----It is usual, Madam, to compliment the landlady,and though, I confess, you are not of the kind which do commonlyfrequent this house, yet one may expect'----

  'Alas! my good woman, I have nothing. Mr. Penne has taken all mymoney.'

  'What! you had money? And you gave it to Mr. Penne? You gave it tohim? Nay, indeed--why, in the place where thou art going'----

  She was silent, for suddenly we heard Mr. Penne's step outside; andhe opened the door.

  'Come,' he said roughly; 'the Captain says that he will weigh anchorin an hour: the tide serves--come.'

  I hastened to put on my hat and mantle.

  'Farewell,' I said, taking the old woman's hand. 'I have nothingto give thee but my prayers. Mr. Penne, who is all goodness, willreward thee for thy kindness to me.'

  'He all goodness?' asked the old woman. 'He? Why, if there is uponthe face of the whole earth'----

  'Come, Child!' Mr. Penne seized my hand and dragged me away.

  'The woman,' he said, 'hath been drinking. It is a bad habit shehath contracted of late. I must see into it, and speak seriously toher: but a good nature at heart. Come, we must hasten. You will beunder the special care of the Captain. I have provided a box full ofwarm clothing and other comforts. I think there is nothing omittedthat may be of use. Come.'

  He hurried me along the narrow streets until we came to a quay,where there were a great number of ships, such as I had never beforeseen. On one of them the sailors were running about clearing awaythings, coiling ropes, tossing sacks and casks aboard, with such a'Yo-hoing!' and noise as I never in my life heard before.

  ''Tis our ship,' said Mr. Penne. Then he led me along a narrowbridge, formed by a single plank, to the deck of the ship. Therestood a gentleman of a very fierce and resolute aspect, armed witha sword, hanging from a scarlet sash, and a pair of pistols in hisbelt. 'Captain,' said Mr. Penne, 'are all aboard?'

  'Ay; we have all our cargo. And a pretty crew they are! Is this thelast of them? Send her for'ard.'

  'Madam,' said Mr. Penne, 'suffer me to lead you to a place where,until the ship sails and the officers have time to take you to yourcabin, you can rest and be out of the way. It is a rough assemblage,but at sailing one has no choice.'

  Gathered in the forepart of what they call the waist there was acompany of about a hundred people. Some were young, some old; somewere men, some women; some seemed mere children. All alike showed intheir faces the extreme of misery, apprehension, and dismay.

  'Who are these?' I asked.

  'They will tell you themselves presently. Madam, farewell.' Withthat Mr. Penne left me standing among this crowd of wretches,and, without waiting for my last words of gratitude, hurried awayimmediately.

  I saw him running across the plank to the quay. Then the boatswainblew a shrill whistle; the plank was shoved over; some ropes werecast loose, and the ship began slowly to move down the river withthe tide, now beginning to run out, and a wind from the north-east.

  I looked about me. What were all these people? Why were they goingto New England? Then, as the deck was now clearer, and the sailors,I suppose, at their stations, I ventured to walk towards theafterpart of the ship with the intention to ask the Captain for mycabin. As I did so, a man stood before me armed with a great cane,which he brandished, threatening, with a horrid oath, to lay itacross my back if I ventured any further aft.

  'Prisoners, for'ard!' he cried. 'Back you go, or--by the Lord'----

  'Prisoner?' I said. 'I am no prisoner. I am a passenger.'

  'Passenger? Why, as for that, you are all passengers.'

  'All? Who are these, then?'

  He informed me with plainness of speech who and what theywere--convicts taken from the prisons, branded in the hand, andsentenced to transportation.

  'But I am a passenger,' I repeated. 'Mr. Penne hath paid for mypassage to New England. He hath paid the Captain'----

  'The ship is bound for Barbadoes, not New England. 'Tis my duty notto stir from this spot; but here's the Mate--tell him.'

  This was a young man, armed, like the Captain, with pistols andsword.

  'Sir,' I said, 'I am a passenger brought on board by Mr. Penne, bywhom my passage hath been paid to New England.'

  'By Mr. George Penne, you say?'

  'The same. He hath engaged a cabin for me, and hath purchasedclothes--and'----

  'Is it possible,' said the Mate, 'that you do not know where youare, and whither you are going?'

  'I am going, under the special care of the Captain, to the city ofBoston, in New England, to my cousin, Mr. Eykin, a gentleman ofcredit and substance of that town.'

  He gazed at me with wonder.

  'I will speak to the Captain,' he said, and left me standing there.

  Presently he returned. 'Come with me,' he said.

  'You are Alice Eykin?' said the Captain, who had with him a paperfrom which he read.

  'That is my name.'

  'On a certain day in July, your father being a preacher in the armyof the Duke of Monmouth, you walked with a procession of girlsbearing flags which you presented to that rebel?'

  'It is true, Sir.'

  'You have been given by the King to some great Lord or other, Iknow not whom, and by him sold to the man Penne, who hath put youon board this ship, the "Jolly Thatcher," Port of London, to beconveyed, with a hundred prisoners, all rogues and thieves, to theIsland of Barbadoes, where you will presently be sold as a servantfor ten years; after which period, if you choose, you will be atliberty to return to England.'

  Then, indeed, the Captain before me seemed to reel about, and I fellfainting at his feet.