Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (17 page)

 
          
 
Their march ended in a stuffy courtroom where
the Americans were forced to stand uncovered while they were arraigned before
the worshipful justices of the peace. The charge was read—that they had been
found "in arms and rebellion on the high seas, in the ship Retaliation,
commissioned by the North American Congress."

 
          
 
And the stout, elderly man who delivered the
sentence seemed extremely bored as he repeated it.

 
          
 
"You are severally and individually
committed to Mill Prison, having been taken for rebellion, piracy, and high
treason, on His Britannic Majesty's seas, there to remain during His Majesty's
pleasure until he sees fit to pardon or otherwise dispose of you."

 
          
 
Tho' a mad-hearted war, which Old England will
rue,

            
At
London
, at
Dublin
, and
Edinburgh
, too,

            
The tradesmen stand still, and the
merchant bemoans

            
The losses he meets with from such
as Paul Jones.

 
          
 
—PAUL JONES

 
          
 
Double walls with a twenty-foot space between
them encircled the group of stone buildings which was Old Mill Prison. The iron
gates which opened into this cheerless enclosure were well guarded by sentries,
and other redcoats patrolled the yard, or loitered here and there watching the
motley crowd enjoying a certain amount of freedom within.

 
          
 
At that time almost three hundred Americans
were penned in their particular section; and in other buildings almost as many
French and Spanish were quartered. Exchange was a dream most of them had ceased
to believe in. They had heard that it was possible, but had yet to see it in
practice. The
complications of Congress was
increased
twofold by the officers of His Majesty's government, and the chance of
procuring all the forms and fulfilling all the conditions was perhaps one in a
thousand. Most of the Americans preferred to pin their hopes on escape under
their own power—spurred on by stories of one or two successful attempts.

 
          
 
From eight in the morning until sunset the
captured privateersmen were allowed the liberty of the yard, and here ninety
per cent of the talk ran to planning escapes. It was possible to get over the
walls, or under them, or even through the gates. All this had been done.

 
          
 
"Recapture means forty or sixty days in
the Black Hole on bread an’ water," Labron Coffin, lately of 1 Marblehead,
spoke, looking down at the bit of softwood he was lovingly shaping into the
form of a small sea horse, "but seem' as how they make us go short o' rations
anyhow—that ain't too bad pay for a chance at gettin' away altogether. They say
as bein' rebels we ain't entitled t' full rations an' they cut us down
while ;
the Frenchies an' th' rest o' them foreigners fill
their bellies tight!"

 
          
 
He was giving voice to an old, old grievance
which every American prisoner chewed on sooner or later. "Why, durin' th'
cold time last winter some o' our boys caught snails t' give a mite o' flavor
t' th' soup-so they did!"

 
          
 
The men of the Retaliation, who had held
together jail morning, eyeing the old-timers a little suspiciously land still
looking to Fitz for leadership, goggled at this tale of horror.

 
          
 
"Have you heard anything of Captain
Crofts?" Fitz cut through the New Englander's yarning. "We haven't
seen him since we were taken."

 
          
 
Coffin shook his head. "He hasn't been in
here yet. You're
th
' newest fish aboard. Captain Adams
might know somethin'—he's that officer over there wi' a whole coat on
him "

 
          
 
A man with a whole coat on his back truly was
memorable in the tatterdemalion crowd, most of whom still possessed only the
clothes which had been on their backs at the time of their capture. Fitz pushed
through the throng, skirting a ball game and the circle of watchers about a
wrestling match, to the side of the man Coffin had pointed out. He was as neat
as if he still trod his own quarter-deck, and he looked up quickly as Fitz
instinctively came to attention and saluted.

 
          
 
"Sub-lieutenant Lyon,
of the Retaliations marines, sir."

 
          
 
"Captain Adams, late of
the Jason."
His salute was returned by a gesture more nautical than
military. , "I have just heard of your arrival in our midst, sir. In what
manner can I serve you? Wait," he put out a hand, "let us get out of
his
hubbub "

 
          
 
Fitz glanced back. The men of the Retaliation
were no longer a group to themselves. His leaving had broken up their
clanishness. He glimpsed Mike's light head in the line of a leap-frog party,
and the rest were drifting into other circles. His feeling of responsibility
diminished, and he followed the captain eagerly into the building which housed
the American prisoners.
Adams
, with
something of a flourish, ushered him into a room where there was actually some
degree of warmth. Hammocks hung on pegs in the walls, and the center space had
been cleared for a rough table, some benches and stools, and a charcoal
brazier.

 
          
 
"Our coffee house, sir.
May I present Mr. Lyon, gentlemen, of the Retaliation out of
Baltimore
"

 
          
 
The four or five men in the room put down
their papers, their cards, and stopped their conversation to look up and then
rise and bow with a punctilious courtesy which appeared odd against the grim
background.

 
          
 
"Captain Ezra Blount, of the Congress out
of Maine, Captain Leonard Griggs, of the Washington out of Norfolk, Captain
Conrad Blum, of the Franklin out of Philadelphia, Mr. Roger Towers, sailing
master of the Mohawk, Massachusetts, and Mr. Peter Neagle, first officer of the
Washington/*

 
          
 
The last named, a rather stout young gentleman
with a round, open face, came forward, a steaming mug in his hand.

 
          
 
"You appear, sir," he said, as he
held out the mug to Fitz with a languid air which would have been perfectly
proper in an assembly room, "as if you would be the better for a portion
of this beverage. It is the best obtainable since Captain Adams suborned our
guard to purchase it for us. Drink up, gentlemen," he urged the others,
"we seldom have a marine come aboard.
Your home state, sir?"

 
          
 
Fitz had cautiously sipped at the contents of
the mug, only to discover to his astonishment, that it was actually hot tea.
For the first time his chronic headache eased into a faint pounding.

 
          
 
"
Maryland
"
he managed to get out after swallowing his
first good mouthful.

 
          
 
"A marine, eh?"
Captain Griggs came up to sit on the edge of the table where the card players
were engaged. "And a slightly damaged one, too. Best have Dr. Swift look
at your head, young man, if it troubles you. But you'd be wise to stay out of
the hospital if you can. I don't trust any lobster pill-roller.
The Retaliation . . . Where were you taken?"

 
          
 
"In the Channel,
sir."
Fitz gave a short account of the encounter which had made an
end to the Retaliation's luck.

 
          
 
"Dat is badt," Captain Blum shook
his head. "Und der Kapitan, you haf not heard from der Kapitan?"

 
          
 
Fitz put down the empty mug and looked from
face to face in the half-circle of listeners about him.

 
          
 
"Is there any truth in this talk of our
being held as pirates?" he asked.

 
          
 
It was Adams who answered: "Well, they've
put that tag on all of us here, and we've yet to see a man dangle for it. It's
my opinion that they've taken your Captain Crofts for questioning, and when
they find that they can learn nothing from him, we'll be greeting him here. You
have little to fear for your captain, sir."

 
          
 
Fitz ventured a question of his own. "You
have tea, sir.
How "

 
          
 
"How do we do it?" Neagle finished
his question. "It is simple enough. If you possess money you can have almost
anything you wish. There is a regular fair about our wall gates. And with
permission, also paid for as you may guess, we can purchase what we wish— or
have the means for. Those of us who are clever with our hands fashion small
souvenirs to sell to the townsfolk, to whom we are something of a raree show.
The men who can carve have worked up a nice little business.
Captain
Blount here, for example.
Will you show the gentleman your wares,
Captain?"

 
          
 
The captain from Maine unwound to his full
six-foot-three and went over to the corner, returning with a box from which he
produced—with a pride he did not try to dissemble—a series of small figures of
Indians, carved and painted with considerable skill. As Fitz exclaimed over
them, Captain Blount pointed out the special features of each in turn, the face
paint, the trappings, the style of scalp lock which made it representative of
tribe or rank.

 
          
 
"I was captured when I was a lad,"
he explained, "back in the days of the French Wars.
Lived
two years among the tribes.
Their life isn't ours and they're cruel
enough, God knows. But I've seen white men as vicious. And they're good to
their own folk. When they're starving they'll divide the last mouthful of meat
among the whole clan if they can. This is Squamis," he picked out one of
the figures. "He adopted me in place of a son who had died of the
smallpox. He taught me how to use the bow and hunt. We're clumsy critters in
the forest—but they can slide through brush like
serpents
"

 
          
 
"An' sarpents they be!" cut in Captain
Griggs. "My brother was with that fool Braddock an' was captured too. Only
he wasn't adopted—no, he was roasted— screaming—like a lot of others! They
ain't human a'tall »

 
          
 
Neagle chuckled in Fitz's ear and whispered:
"This is one of the classic debates which tend to enliven our captivity.
We are men of many words, as you will discover. But," he raised his voice,
"whether they are human or not, these Indians have proved a boon to our
present company." He touched one of the half-crouching painted hunters
with a finger tip. "The townspeople are half mad for them, and this mess
lives fat because of Captain Blount's skill—and his two years of captivity.
And now, sir, where are you quartered?"

 
          
 
"I don't rightly know. We were only
marched in an hour
ago "

 
          
 
"If you are in search of a space to bed
down, may I suggest my own apartment? We are one short at the present. Mr.
Bramley of the Terror went over the wall three days ago. Since we have heard
nothing further we may even hope that he was successful this
time
"

           
 
"Had he tried it before?" asked Fitz
with real interest. Neagle laughed and the others echoed him heartily.

 
          
 
"Poor Bramley has been trying ever since
he came here. But heretofore the fates have been opposed. He has practically
lived in the Black Hole between essays. Perhaps you may find his hammock lucky
if you wish to try it."

 
          
 
Fitz hesitated. "That is passing kind of
you, sir. But there's one of the ship's boys, Mike Sewall, he has been with me
since we were
taken "

 
          
 
Neagle waved a plump hand. "One boy will
not be hard to pack away among the rest of us. Bring him along, sir. A smart
and willing youngster to run errands will be an addition to our company."