Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector

by Lillian de la Torre

  Greetings were soon exchanged; but Dr. Johnson absolutely declined to tackle any problem fasting:

  “Not a word, my dear,” said he to the girl, “till you have taken your tea.”

  We were a strange consult, I reflected as we fell to, to take under our protection this fragile bisque statuette in the rumpled male attire. She sat rigid in her chair, and though she touched the tea to her lip, no morsel passed her throat. Taciturn Levett gulped bits of crust; Miss Willaims delicately groped up a bird-bite or two; Dr. Sam: Johnson drank tea in Olympian draughts, while I addressed myself to (O felicity!) the marmalade, and drank in, no less delicious, the girl’s beauty. ’Twas a catalogue of perfection—arched brows over eyes of melting violet, straight nose gently retroussée at the tip, short upper lip, bee-stung mouth, chin a perfect oval, curls in a tangle like finest yellow silk a kitten stirs. No blood rose under the transparent skin; the girl sat like a marble statue on a tomb.

  At last Dr. Johnson, replete with his seventh cup of tea, pushed back from the old-fashioned mahogany table.

  “Pray, my dear, give us your story.”

  “You must wonder,” began she, in a voice like a small silver bell, “what brought me to the soldiers’ camp at such an hour, in such attire. I beg you will not think ill of me. I have done no wrong; and for my folly I am paid and overpaid.”

  Her voice faltered, and I thought she would weep, but she mastered herself and went on.

  “My name is Lucinda Locke. My father is a rich merchant of Bristol. My mother died when my brother was born. That was fourteen years ago. Last year, in an evil hour, my father looked up from his ledgers and perceived that my brother was running wild about the wharves while I turned frump at home. He looked attentively at me, and concluded, how wisely I know not, that if Elizabeth Gunning the Irish beauty could have her choice of Dukes, so could I too.

  “So to London we came, where Dukes abound. Soon I was surrounded by suitors; but none would do. The Alderman’s son was a lout; the Duke’s son was a rake; and Captain Donellan though handsome and accomplished, was twice my age, and had naught at all but his pay. Yet so runs the world, of all of them he has been the kindest friend to me.

  “Meanwhile for my brother there must be a tutor to make a gentleman of him. A little Latin, and the genteel accomplishments, as dancing and sword-play, of which my father accounts sword-play first. My father is a direct man. He sets out to find my brother a tutor—where do you think?—at the salle d’armes of the great Angelo. He asks for a master of fence with a smattering of Latin; and he gets Allan Macdonald.”

  On the name her voice broke at last.

  “Allan Macdonald is a gentleman,” she went on, commanding herself. “His father was a cadet of Macdonald of Keppoch, who was ruined in the ’45. Allan was bred a scholar and a swordsman, and maintains himself by his skill, and where is the harm in that?”

  “Sure if I take you aright,” remarked I, “he maintains himself upon the King’s fivepence a day, or did until—” I stopped short, suddenly realizing in what peril the young Scotchman stood.

  “My fault, my fault,” cried she. “But for me he would still be a free man. I loved him from the moment I saw him, and he me. We were the two halves of one coin, the words of a song to its music …” The silver voice trailed off, and the violet eyes looked back into sunshine.

  “I was sixteen,” she remembered ruefully, “and I had never been crossed. I went to my father, and asked him to wed me to Allan Macdonald. I would know better now. He was turned off, and I was watched close; and Allan Macdonald took the King’s shilling. But for Captain Donellan I should have despaired indeed. But he took Allan into his own company, and protected him from the brutality of the sergeant, and carried my letters to keep up his heart; and he was working for Allan’s discharge. But the American war made a difficulty—and in short, gentlemen, I tired of waiting. So I sent a message by Captain Donellan, and bespoke the Captain’s attendance for the sake of propriety, and dighted myself for safety in the weeds you see me in, and went to Hyde Park before dawn. But I came too late. The hateful sergeant had done his work too well; I came only in time to hear Allan Macdonald unjustly condemned to die—to die this very day at the stroke of noon. Dr. Johnson, you must make haste and save him.”

  “Why, my poor dear, what’s to be done? Can I step between your lover and the muskets?”

  “There must be a way—there must be a way!”

  “There’s the Leyden battery,” pronounced Miss Williams in her old voice like the rustling of a leaf. “We may electrize the young man after he’s—hem, when I assisted Dr. Gray, the noted Electrician, the Leyden battery worked wonders with deceased frogs.”

  “Tut, Miss Williams,” said Dr. Johnson testily, “this is not a matter of frogs.”

  Miss Williams bridled, but said no more.

  “I’ll fix the captain a dose,” volunteered Mr. Levett.

  “You mean the sergeant?” I enquired.

  “No, sir, the captain, him that hollos Fire!”

  “Now, sir,” said Johnson severely, “you’ve taken leave of your senses, to propose so coolly to give a soldier of the King a poison dose.”

  “No, sir, no poison dose, but say a great purge or a sleepy draught, shall occupy him otherwise till the stroke of noon be past.”

  “Foh,” says Johnson, “there’s officers enough in the regiment to hollo Fire, I warrant you. We must go another way to work.”

  “Allan protests his innocence,” said Lucinda. “We must prove it.”

  “Prove it, my dear? In four hours? This is a labour of Hercules.”

  “And who so fit for the part of the Greek hero?” I enquired, viewing the great frame, the massive limbs, the large shapely hands of my friend.

  “Well, well, as yet the cause of Allan Macdonald is Greek to me. But I will try to construe it. Pray, Mr. Boswell, you’re a lawyer, detail me the case against him.”

  “Sir,” said I, “the case against him is simple and damning. Allan goes on watch at Cumberland Gate. Midnight is scarce past when along comes Sergeant Thacker on his rounds. He finds Allan sleeping away at his post.”

  “He lies,” cried Lucinda. “He hates Allan. He is wishful to lie his life away.”

  “What says Allan? Has he no counter-proof?”

  “Only,” said I, “the stroke of 13.”

  “Thirteen? How is this proof?”

  “Sir,” said I, “Allan Macdonald avers that, waking as he stood his watch, he heard the great bell of St. Paul’s strike 13.”

  “And others heard it?”

  “Nay, I know not.”

  “There’s one, that’s certain. Sergeant Thacker.”

  “Nay, sir, he denies it.”

  “So he would,” cried Luanda hotly. “Yet there must be a way to prove it. There must be a way!”

  She started to her feet, all languor shed.

  “Why do we sit here wasting time? Let us go at once!”

  “Go? Whither?”

  “To St. Paul’s! To Hyde Park! To Allan! Anywhere, save sitting here while the sands run out!”

  “Child, child,” said Dr. Johnson mildly, “not in those garments.”

  “You are right, sir. I’ll send for woman’s gear. But there’s no time to lose. Do you and Mr. Boswell go at once, and send me word where we may meet.”

  St. Paul’s clock was striking 9 as we entered Hyde Park Corner. A small bandy-legged sentry admitted us to the park without parley.

  ’Twas a sight to warm the blood. The conical red-topped white tents, the showy uniforms, the stands of arms, the waving standards, the park of artillery, the rows of picketed horses, and all the other paraphernalia of military life sparkled in the sunshine on the greensward and shimmered under the broad shade of the trees.

  “A camp,” observed Johnson sententiously, “is one of the great scenes of human life.”

  ’Twas so indeed. Here a gallant grenadier in sugar-loaf cap dallies with some trim milliner’s apprentice. There a
sutler’s booth displays a board “Pool’s intire Butt Beer. Fine Ale and Amber,” and the soldiers gather round. Hard by, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, clad en militaire, epauletted and cockaded, stands siege of a dozen red coats.

  Soon we drew rein before the tent of the court-martial. ’Twas a brave sight in full sun, with the company standard waving before it, and the red of its peak repeated in a bed of flowers sparkling beside it like a pool of blood, a wave of full-blooded ruffled blooms like scarlet silk, with blackness at the heart.

  Before the tent sat Captain Donellan. His cockaded hat lay upon the bench beside him. His waistcoat was unbuttoned; he wore a red flower over his ear, and sat reading upon an octavo in red leather.

  When we presented ourselves, the Captain was eager to welcome us. He had heard of Dictionary Johnson. He must needs display his domain, and Dr. Johnson willingly observed the little niceties of life in the field. He much admired the patent camp bed and the chair that folded so neatly, the ingenious writing-stand and the rack of books. As was his wont, he lingered to read the titles, holding one book after another close to his nearsighted eyes and muttering: a Shakespeare, a Pope, Wolfe’s Instructions, Dodd’s Sermons, Linnaeus’ Genera Plantarum, the physical volumes of Mead.

  As we withdrew, to take our ease upon the bench, Dr. Johnson leaned with a grunt and picked up from the ground, where Allan and the sergeant had locked in combat, a little instrument of unknown use. ’Twas four sharp-clawed prongs bound together with a handle of cord. He extended it to the captain. The soldier’s brows drew down.

  “What’s this instrument of torture?” he muttered. “And whence came it? If Thacker—” He broke off. “Pray, gentlemen, be seated.”

  As Johnson seated himself, he indicated with a smile the rippling pool of crimson flowers.

  “‘Not poppy, nor mandragora,’” he quoted from Othello, “‘Shall ever med’cine thee to that sweet sleep that thou owed’st yesterday’ … or should I rather cite Linnaeus? For which, poet or philosopher, do you give camp-room to this redcoat regiment?”

  “For Linnaeus,” replied Donellan, giving smile for smile. “’Tis sheer necessity that has set me a-gardening and a-soldiering in one summer, for I brought these with me from the East Indies, and I was unwilling to let their propagation lapse, even in the field. But come, sirs, how can I serve you?”

  “You can serve Lucinda Locke.”

  Captain Donellan started.

  “What do you know of Lucinda Locke?”

  When he heard, he was filled with compunction.

  “’Pon honour, Dr. Johnson, I would give £1000 that matters had taken another turn. But how comes Lucinda to be running about thus in boy’s attire? Upon young Macdonald’s misfortune, I sent her a message, on no account to keep our rendezvous.”

  “Then your message miscarried.”

  “’Sdeath and blood (scowling darkly), if my messenger failed me I’ll have the hide off his back!”

  “Well, well, sir, but will you serve Miss Locke and save young Allan?”

  Captain Donellan lifted shoulder and brow, and slowly and ruefully shook his head.

  “I have done all I could. The lad’s offence, being in time of war, is not to be extenuated; he must be shot as an example.”

  “But if he be innocent?”

  “Who can say he is innocent? When he leaned incapable, snorting like a pig? When he reeked of rum? When he was scarce to be shook awake?”

  “Yet he avers he was waking.”

  “Waking? And heard the great bell of St. Paul’s—”

  “This is not impossible,” said Johnson quickly, “if the wind sets right.”

  As if to prove his contention, at this moment the great bell gave voice: 10 o’clock.

  “But he avers it struck 13!”

  “And did it?”

  “How could it?”

  “That’s to be seen. I shall make it my first point of inquiry.”

  “Well said, Dr. Johnson!” exclaimed Donellan, fired with hope. “For if he’s innocent, he may yet be saved.”

  “I’ll set about it. Where’s Thacker?”

  “Thacker? Thacker is cock-sure. You’ll get no help from Thacker.”

  “Yet I’ll see him. Where is he?”

  “He’s on duty.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Hercules’ Pillars.”

  “Happy he, to be posted at a publick house!” cried Johnson, smiling. “And where’s the prisoner?”

  “I regret, Dr. Johnson; you cannot see the prisoner.”

  “Yet (sternly) you’d not hurl him out of this world unprepared? I’ll send him a man of God. Where is he?”

  “At the Hercules’ Pillars.”

  “Surely this is irregular?”

  “He is committed to the nearest place of safety. Stay, this writing—” Captain Donellan scrawled a line on his tablets—“this writing will admit your man of God.”

  Our man of God was the Rector of All Hallows Staining, for whom we had done some slight service in the matter of the manifestations in Mincing Lane. We sent a sedan chair for him, with command to turn in at Bolt Court and fetch Lucinda Locke on the way. Then we betook ourselves to the Hercules’ Pillars.

  ’Twas a snug little tavern at the edge of Hyde Park. The first sight that met our eyes as we entered the tap-room was Sergeant Thacker. He was alternating a pull at his ale-pot and a pull at the bar-maid, whom he held clipped about her ample waist as she sat on his brawny knee. His broad phiz had a hard shine, and he breathed heavily through his nose. His armament was set by, his waistcoat gapped unbuttoned. Opposite him, grinning into a pot of ale, sat a skinny soldier as unbuttoned as he.

  We made bold to stand them a fresh pot. The bar-maid flounced off to fetch it. At the prospect the grins broadened, but a scowl superseded when we named Allan Macdonald.

  “Him? Gentleman Macdonald?” grunted the sergeant. “He’ll come to no good in the ranks—so I said to Captain Donellan.”

  “And so it fell out,” concurred his redcoated toady.

  The sergeant glowered with a sense of grievance.

  “Handle him easy, says the captain, he’s a gentleman. Ho! A gentleman! I found means to harden him up, I’ll lay my davy—there’s no place for a gentleman in my squad, so there isn’t.”

  “Aye, Ned, so there isn’t,” seconded his chorus.

  “’Stow your jaw! But he’d a lily liver, did young Macdonald. Sleeping on sentry-go! Cry for your Nannie, do, says I. Well, I’m rid of him, or shall be within the day.”

  The callous brute took a long swig at his pot and exhaled with satisfaction.

  “You’re certain he slept?” Dr. Johnson put it to him.

  Thacker looked my venerable companion flat in the eye.

  “Aye, I’m certain, and I’ll thank you to mind your business, old square-toes.”

  “Aye, mind your business, old put, for the sergeant is certain, and so am I.”

  Dr. Johnson ignored the double affront.

  “You at least were waking, sergeant—did Paul’s clock strike 13?”

  “What a pox,” cries the sergeant rudely, “has all the world gone mad? When did any man ever hear tell of a clock that could strike 13? No, sir. I counted the strokes, it being then time for my rounds; and the number of strokes was 12.”

  “It was so,” chimed in the grinning soldier, “for so did I count ’em too, more by token I had just flung the captain’s note over the young lady’s gate, and as I came away Paul’s clock struck 12 as I’m alive; ’twas 12, I’ll stand to it, eh, Ned?”

  “I misdoubt you can count to twelve,” his companion crushed him, “so stubble your whids, do.”

  “As a man stands watch under the arch of Cumberland Gate,” I struck in, “is there never an echo might gather in the concavity?”

  “Echo, concavity, bah!” cried the sergeant. “Give over! The pot’s dry, and so am I.”

  As the pot was replenishing, the door was pushed slowly open, and there entered, lo
oking mighty out of place, a thin, apologetic clergyman, our friend the good rector. He handed Miss Locke, now doubly beautiful in a pale gown of India muslin with round sash, like a good child.

  Sergeant Thacker scowled over the rector’s paper of permission, but he honoured it.

  “This way, sir,” said the bar-maid.

  The rector followed her, and we boldly followed him. Nose in pot, the sergeant made no move to stop us as we all four descended the rough stone stair together.

  We found Allan Macdonald in the ale-cellar, still in his red coat, with three of his comrades to guard him. Having broached a butt of ale, they were warmed with its contents. They admitted us with a right good will. Lucinda Locke went straight into the prisoner’s arms.

  “O Allan, Allan,” cried she, “why did you leave me? Why did you ’list?”

  The young soldier held her off at arms’ length.

  “I leave you?” he cried. “When you turned me off without a word of farewell? When you sent me back my gifts and would see me no more? What should I do but ’list and die?”

  “I never, I!” cried the girl. “They were taken from me. My father tricked you. But let be, you shan’t die. Captain Donellan is our friend, he’ll save you yet.”

  “He’d best be quick,” said the young Scot drily.

  “He had all in train to obtain your discharge, but for the difficulty of the war,” lamented Lucinda. “We were consulting daily, and you were as good as free. Why did this happen?”

  “Who knows?” asked Allan gently. “I know I have done no wrong. Keep up your heart, my sweeting.”

  Lucinda clung without speech to the scarlet bosom.

  “Pray, sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “answer me a question or two.”

  “Your servant, sir. Ask what you please.”

  “Are you certain you heard the clock strike 13?”

  “As I stand here. I was watching a sinking star, and musing upon Lucinda, and upon the long ill luck of the house of Keppoch. I feared to hear a taisk, a voice of ill omen at the midnight, and when I heard the great bell tolling I counted each stroke—’twas the unlucky number, ’twas 13, clear upon the dark air, and as it were coloured crimson.”