Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

I was surprised, therefore, when he hesitated, glanced up at me, and finally informed me that the hammering we heard was made by masons and carpenters who were reconstructing the upper tiers of the prison for the new warden and his family.

  Presuming on his pleasant manner, I continued my questioning, but he soon silenced me with a shake of his head.

  “I know nothing about your case,” he said. “Matters move slowly here; the prison is crowded with rebels who have defied the Governor’s edict against public assemblies. Their cases come before yours, young man.”

  “And the others here?” I asked.

  He paid no attention to my question.

  I asked for news of the outside world, but he would give me none.

  Mount, whose morbid curiosity had been aroused by the sight of some workmen digging holes in the yard outside the prison, stood up to watch them. The other prisoners also huddled to the south side of the cage, their chains making a great clanking as they moved. At the moment when their backs were turned the jailer looked at them significantly, then at me, and, to my horror, passed his withered fingers over his corded throat.

  I stared at him, fascinated, but he shrugged his stooping shoulders, shuffled off to the wicket, let himself out, and slammed the grating.

  That night I sat close to Jack Mount, my hand on his broad shoulder, crushing back the lump in my throat. I believed he was to die soon; when, I did not know; but the grim gesture of the jailer had conveyed a hint that could not be mistaken.

  At dawn I stood up to gaze fearfully out into the prison yard. Snow had fallen; workmen were digging at the holes with pick and crow.

  When the jailer brought breakfast to us, he laid two bundles of sail-cloth on the floor under the windows beyond 408 our cage. Later he returned and carefully nailed each strip of cloth over the windows, hiding our view of the prison yard.

  Mount asked him why he did that; the other prisoners became restless and suspicious, calling out to the jailer in Spanish and Portuguese; even the Englishman broke his long silence with a sneering inquiry as to the reason of cutting off our view. The jailer continued his task without answering or even glancing at the imprisoned men, who now crowded against the bars, clamouring, gesticulating, and clanking their manacles. They were stunted, swarthy fellows, bull-necked, shaggy of hair and beard, clothed in filthy shreds of finery to which the straw stuck.

  Some were frightfully scarred; some were still swathed in bandages, greasy with filth, tied over unhealed sores or wounds. One of them, who wore large gold hoops in his ears, had lost his right hand, but he beat against the steel bars with the mangled stump, and cried ever: “Listen, señor, you good fellow! Hé! Señor! I say, señor! They will to do me no harm, eh? I am innocent, what? And thus I say to your señor Governor; eh, you good fellow? What? It is the holy truth, by Jesu!”

  The Englishman laughed scornfully: “They’re planting trees in the yard outside. We’ll all climb them soon, won’t we, jailer?”

  “By God,” muttered Mount, “they are planting gallows!”

  When he had shrouded the windows, the jailer scrambled briskly to the floor and hastened out through the wicket, unheeding the shouts and shrill cries of the ruffians, who had rushed to the other side of the cage. When the wicket slammed the panic ceased; a dead silence followed, then one of the Spaniards uttered a piercing scream and fell down into the straw, tearing and biting at his chains.

  “Die like a man! Die like a man!” said the Englishman, contemptuously; but terror had seized another of the ruffians, and he began hobbling around the cage, shrieking out prayer on prayer.

  Mount, pale and composed, lay at full length in our corner, watching the wicket, a straw between his white teeth. I sat beside him, my heart hammering under my torn shirt, 409 resolutely crushing back the terror which was feeling my throat with icy fingers.

  “Do you believe they are setting the gibbets?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  After a moment he added: “Why did you not leave me, lad? This is foul company for a gentleman to die in.”

  Terror choked me. I sank face downward in the straw, blind with fright, and lay there shaking till the candle was lighted and the lanthorn in the corridor sent its yellow rays through the wicket.

  Black, whirling thoughts swarmed through my brain; again and again I fought the battle for courage, only to lose it and again find myself faint with horror, tearing silently at my chains.

  “Now that I know I am to die,” said Mount, calmly, “I shall die easily enough. It was hope that hurt. I shall die easily.”

  “I shall die hard,” I stammered; “no one will know it, but I shall die hard out there in the snow.”

  “I will stand next to you if I can,” said Mount. “If you feel weak, reach out and touch me. I shall jest with the hangman. It is easy; you will see how easy it can be.” I raised my head to look at him.

  “You care nothing,” I said, fiercely; “you will see Cade Renard, and you care nothing! But I am leaving her!”

  “God will right all that,” said Mount, gravely.

  “As for death,” I blurted out, pronouncing the word with an effort, “I can die as coolly as you. But — but a gentleman’s son — on the gibbet — hanging in chains between thieves — the disgrace—”

  Shame strangled the voice in my throat, my head reeled.

  “Our Lord so died,” said Mount, slowly.

  I sat still as a stone. Mount gathered his knees in his hands and chewed his straw peacefully, blue eyes fixed on vacancy.

  Presently I plucked his sleeve. “Yes, lad,” he said, without turning.

  “You are not afraid that I will not know how to meet — it?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I am — am not afraid,” I whispered. “I mean to bear myself without fear. I shall speak to you when — we are ready. You shall see I am not afraid. Will they pray, Jack?”

  “When? Now?”

  “No, to-morrow.”

  “They will say a prayer on the gallows, lad.”

  “Will they take off our chains?”

  “No.”

  “How — how long shall we hang?”

  “A long time, lad.”

  “Could anybody know our features?”

  “The weather will change them. Have you never seen a cross-roads gibbet?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Yes, lad.”

  After a silence I said, “I hope no one will know me.”

  He did not reply; the candle-flame in the dripping socket swayed in icy draughts from the wicket; the Spaniards muttered and moaned and cried like sick children; the Englishman stood in silence, staring at the windows through which he could not see.

  Presently he came over to our corner. We had never before spoken to him, nor he to us, but now Mount looked up with a ghost of a smile and nodded.

  “It’s all behind that window,” said the Englishman, jerking his thumb over his shoulder; “we’ll know all about it this time to-morrow. Is the young one with you afraid?”

  “Not he,” said Mount.

  The Englishman sat down on his haunches.

  “What do you suppose it is?” he asked.

  “What? Death?”

  “Ay.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mount.

  “Nor I,” said the Englishman, with an oath; “and,” he added, “I have dealt it freely enough, too. Have you?”

  “Yes,” said Mount.

  “And he?” glancing at me.

  “Once,” I replied, hoarsely.

  “I’ve watched men die many times,” continued the Englishman, rubbing his thumb reflectively over his irons, “and 411 I’m not a whit the wiser. I’ve seen them hang, drown, burn, strangle — ay, seen them die o’ fright, too. Puff! Out they go at last, and — leave me gaping at their shells. I’ve slid my hanger into men and the blood came, but I was none the wiser. What makes the dead look so small? Have you ever killed your enemy? Is there satisfaction in it? No, by God, for the second
you stop his breath he’s gone — escaped! And all you’ve got is a thing at your feet with clothes too large for it.”

  He looked at me and played with his wrist-chains. “You’re six feet,” he said, musingly; “you’ll shrink to five foot six. They all do. I’ll wager you are afraid, young man!”

  “You lie!” I said.

  “Spoken well!” he nodded. “You’ll die smiling, yet. As for the Spaniards yonder, they’ll sail off squalling. It’s their nature; I know.”

  He rose and glanced curiously at Mount.

  “You have not followed the sea?” he asked.

  Mount shook his head absently.

  “Highway?”

  “At intervals.”

  “Well, do you know anything about this place called Death?” asked the Englishman, with a sneer.

  “I expect to find a friend there,” said Mount, looking up serenely.

  At that moment a faint metallic sound broke on our ears. It seemed to come from the depths of the prison. We listened; the Spaniards also ceased their moaning and sat up, alert and quiet. The sound came again — silence — then the measured cadence of footfalls.

  Mount had risen; I also stood up. The Spaniards burrowed into the straw, squealing like rats. Tramp, tramp, tramp, came the heavy footfalls along the corridor; the ruddy gleam of lanthorns played over the wicket.

  “Halt! Ground arms!”

  Lights blinded our dazzled eyes; bayonets glittered like slender flames.

  An officer stepped to the lanthorn; a soldier raised it; then the officer unrolled a parchment and began to read very rapidly. I could not distinguish a word of it for the cries of 412 the Spaniards, but I saw the jailer unlocking our cage, and presently two soldiers stepped in and drove out a Spaniard at the point of their bayonets.

  Shrieking, sobbing, supplicating, the Spaniards were thrust out into the corridor; the Englishman went last, with a contemptuous nod at Mount and me, and a cool gesture to the soldiers to stand aside.

  Mount followed; but, as he stepped from the cage, a soldier pushed him back, shaking his head.

  “Not yet?” asked Mount, quietly.

  “Not yet,” said the soldier, locking the cage and flinging the iron key to the jailer.

  Into the prison passed the tumult; the solid walls dulled it at last; then came the far echo of a gate closing, and all was silent.

  I turned to the draped windows. Dawn whitened the sail-cloth that hung over them. A moment later I heard drums in the distance beating the “Rogues’ March.”

  CHAPTER XXV

  We were condemned to death without a hearing by a military court sitting at Fort Hill, before which we appeared in chains. The 19th of April was set for our execution; we were taken back to the south battery in a coach escorted by light horse, and from there conveyed through the falling snow to the brick prison on Queen Street.

  This time, however, we were not led into the loathsome “Pirates’ Chapel,” but the jailers conducted us to the upper tier of the prison, recently finished, and from the barred windows of which we could look out into Long Acre and School Street across the eight gibbets to the King’s Chapel. It appeared that England treated condemned highwaymen with more humanity than coast pirates, for our cells were clean and not very cold, and our food was partly butcher’s meat. Besides this, they allowed us a gill of rum every three days, an ounce of tobacco once every twenty-four hours, and finally unlocked our irons, leaving us without manacles, in order that the sores on our necks, wrists, and legs might heal.

  It was now the 1st of January, 1775. The New Year brought changes to the prison, but the most important change, for us, was the appointment of Billy Bishop as warden of our tier, to replace Samuel Craft, now promoted to chief warden in the military prison on Boston Neck.

  The warden, his wife, and his children occupied the apartment at the west end of our corridor; and the day that Craft, the former warden, moved out, and the Bishop family moved in, I believed firmly that at last our fighting chance for life had come.

  All day long I watched the famous thief-taker installing his family in their new dwelling-place; doubtless Mount also 414 noted everything from his cell, but I could not communicate with him without raising my voice.

  Mrs. Bishop, a blowsy slattern with a sickly, nursing child, sat on a bundle of feather bedding and directed her buxom daughter where to place the furniture. The wench had lost her bright colour, and something, too, in flesh. Her features had become thinner, clean-cut, almost fine, though her lips still curved in that sensual pout which so repels me in man or woman.

  That she knew Mount was here under sentence of death was certain; I could see the sorrowful glances she stole at the grating of his cell as she passed it, her bare, round arms loaded with household utensils. And once her face burned vivid as she stole by, doubtless meeting Mount’s eyes for the first time since he had bent in his saddle and kissed her in the dark mews behind the “Virginia Arms” — so long, so long ago!

  All day the thief-taker’s family were busied in their new quarters, and all day long the girl passed and repassed our cells, sometimes with a fearful side glance at the gratings, sometimes with bent head and lips compressed.

  My heart began singing as I watched her. Surely, here was aid for us — for one of us at all events.

  The early winter night fell, darkening our cells and the corridor outside; anon I heard Bishop bawling for candle and box, and I looked out of my grating into the darkening corridor, where the thief-taker was stumping along the entry bearing an empty candle-stick. Mrs. Bishop followed with the baby; she and her husband had fallen to disputing in strident tones, charging each other with the loss of the candles. As they passed my cell I moved back; then, as I heard their voices growing fainter and fainter down the corridor, I stepped swiftly forward and pressed my face to the grating. Dulcima Bishop stood within two feet of my cell.

  “Will you speak to me?” I called, cautiously.

  “La! Is it you, sir?” she stammered, all a-tremble.

  “Yes; come quickly, child! There, stand with your back to my cell. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, sir,” she faltered.

  “Do you still love Jack Mount?” I asked.

  Her neck under her hair crimsoned.

  “Will you help him?” I demanded, under my breath.

  “Oh yes, yes,” she whispered, turning swiftly towards my grating. “Tell me what to do, sir! I knew he was here; I saw him once in the ‘Chapel,’ but they boxed my ears for peeping—”

  “Turn your back,” I cut in; “don’t look at my grating again. Now, listen! This is the 1st of January. We are to die at dawn on the 19th of April. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are to get us out, do you understand, child?”

  “Yes — oh yes, yes! How, Mr. Cardigan? Tell me and I’ll do it; truly, I will!”

  “Then go to Jack’s cell and let him talk to you. And have a care they do not catch you gossiping with prisoners!”

  The girl glanced up and down the corridor; a deeper wave of red stained her face, but already I heard Mount calling her in a cautious voice, and she went, timidly, with lowered eyes.

  I laid my ear to the grating and listened; they were whispering, and I could not hear what they said. Once an echoing step in the entry sent the girl flying across the corridor into her room, but it was only a night keeper on his rounds, and he went on quickly, tapping the lock of each cell as he passed. When the glimmer of his lanthorn died away in the farther passages, the girl flew back to Mount’s grating. I listened and watched for a sign of Bishop and his wife.

  “Jack,” I called out in a low voice, “tell her to find Shemuel if she can.”

  “Quiet, lad,” he answered; “I know what is to be done.”

  Before I could speak again, a distant sound warned the girl to her room once more; presently Bishop came stumping back, holding a lighted candle and still disputing with his slattern wife.

  “You did! I tell you
I seen you!” he grunted. “You left them candles in the wood-box.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so before you tore up all the parcels?” demanded his wife, shrilly.

  “Oh, quit your nagging!” he snarled. “All the rogues in the prison will be laughing at you!”

  “Let ’em laugh! Let ’em laugh!” she panted, waddling along furiously beside him; “I can’t help it. I know I married a fool. Bishop, you’re a fool, and you know it, and everybody knows it, so don’t pick on me, for I won’t have it!”

  I saw the termagant as she passed my door, tagging after the thief-taker, who looked surly enough, but evidently was no match for the dirty shrew at his heels. How pitiful and petty their anger to a man in the shadow of death! But their wrangling voices were presently shut out as their door slammed. I waited a while, but heard nothing more, so took myself off to the corner, there to lie on my iron cot and try to think.

  A young moon hung over King’s Chapel, shedding a tremulous light on the snowy parade. Very dimly I could make out the tall shapes of eight gibbets, stark and black against the starry sky. There was no wind; the pendent bundles of bones and chains which hung from each gibbet did not sway as they had swayed that morning in a flurry of wind-driven snow, while the brazen drums of the marines played eight souls into hell eternal.

  I watched the stars, peacefully, thinking of the stars that lighted our misty hills in Johnstown; I thought of Silver Heels and my love for her, and how, by this time, she must deem me the most dishonourable and craven among men. I thought of this calmly; long since I had weathered the storms of grief and rage impotent, which had torn me with their violence night after night as I lay in chains in the “Chapel.”

  No; all would yet be well; some day I should hold her in my arms. All would be well; some day I should hold the life of Walter Butler on my sword’s point, and send his red soul howling! Yes, all would be well —

  A ray of light fell on my face; I turned and sat up on the edge of my cot as the key in the cell door gritted.

  Full under the flare of a lanthorn stood a man in a military uniform of scarlet and green. Behind him appeared Warden Bishop, holding the lanthorn.