For Faith and Freedom

CHAPTER XLII.

ALICE

'Alice!' I cried.

She rose from her knees and turned to meet me. Her face was pale; her eyes were heavy and they were full of tears.

'Alice!'

'I saw you when you came here, a week ago,' she said. 'Oh! Humphrey, I saw you, and I was ashamed to let you know that I was here.'

'Ashamed? My dear, ashamed? But how – why – what dost thou here?'

'How could I meet Robin's eyes after what I had done?'

'It was done for him, and for his mother, and for all of us. Poor child, there is no reason to be ashamed.'

'And now I meet him, and he is in a fever, and his mind wanders; he knows me not.'

'He is sorely stricken, Alice; I know not how the disease may end; mind and body are sick alike. For the mind I can do nothing; for the body I can do but little: yet with cleanliness and good food we may help him to mend. But tell me, Child, in the name of Heaven, how camest thou in this place?'

But before anything she would attend to the sick man. And presently she brought half-a-dozen negresses, who cleaned and swept the place, and sheets were fetched and a linen shirt, in which we dressed our patient, with such other things as we could devise for his comfort. Then I bathed his head with cold water, continually changing his bandages so as to keep him cool; and I took some blood from him, but not much, because he was greatly reduced by bad food and hard work.

When he was a little easier we talked. But, Heavens! to think of the villainy which had worked its will upon this poor child! As if it was not enough that she should be forced to fly from a man who had so strangely betrayed her, and as if it was not enough that she should be robbed of all her money – but she must also be put on board, falsely and treacherously, as one, like ourselves, sentenced to ten years' servitude on the Plantations! For, indeed, I knew and was quite certain that none of the Maids of Taunton were thus sent abroad. It was notorious, before we were sent away, that, with the exception of Susan Blake, who died of jail-fever at Dorchester, all the Maids were given to the Queen's ladies, and by them suffered to go free on the payment by their parents of thirty or forty pounds apiece. And as for Alice, she was a stranger in the place, and it was not known that she had joined that unfortunate procession. So that, if ever a man was kidnapper and villain, that man was George Penne.

It behoves a physician to keep his mind under all circumstances calm and composed. He must not suffer himself to be carried away by passion, by rage, hatred, or even anxiety. Yet, I confess that my mind was clean distracted by the discovery that Alice herself was with us, a prisoner like ourselves; I was, I say, distracted, nor could I tell what to think of this event and its consequences. For, to begin with, the poor child was near those who would protect her. But what kind of protection could be given by such helpless slaves? Then was she beyond her husband's reach; he would not, it was quite certain, get possession of her at this vast distance. So far she was safe. But then the master, who looked to make a profit by her, as he looked to make a profit by us – through the ransom of her friends! She had no friends to ransom her. There was but one, the Rector, and he was her husband's father. The time would come when the avarice of the master would make him do or threaten something barbarous towards her. Then she had found favour with Madam, this beautiful mulatto woman, whom Alice innocently supposed to be the master's wife. And there was the young planter, who wished to buy her with the honourable intention of marrying her. In short, I knew not what to think or to say, because at one moment it seemed as if it was the most Providential thing in the world that Alice should have been brought here, and the next moment it seemed as if her presence only magnified our evils.

'Nay,' she said, when I opened my mind to her, 'seeing that the world is so large, what but a special ruling of Providence could have brought us all to this same island, out of the whole multitude of isles – and then again to this same estate out of so many? Humphrey, your faith was wont to be stronger. I believe – nay, I am quite sure – that it was for the strengthening and help of all alike that this hath been ordained. First, it enables me to nurse my poor Robin – mine, alas! no longer! Yet must I still love him as long as I have a heart to beat.'

'Love him always, Child,' I said. 'This is no sin to love the companion of thy childhood, thy sweetheart, from whom thou wast torn by the most wicked treachery' – but could say no more, because the contemplation of that sweet face, now so mournful, yet so patient, made my voice to choke and my eyes to fill with tears. Said I not that a physician must still keep his mind free from all emotion?

All that day I conversed with her. We agreed that for the present she should neither acknowledge nor conceal the truth from Madam, upon whose good-will we now placed all our hopes. That is to say, if Madam questioned her she was to acknowledge that we were her former friends; but, if Madam neither suspected anything nor asked her anything, she should keep the matter to herself. She told me during this day all that had happened unto her since I saw her last, when we marched out of Taunton. Among other things I heard of the woman called Deb, who was now working in the canefields (she was one of a company whose duty it was to weed the canes). In the evening this woman, when the people returned, came to the sick-house. She was a great strapping woman, stronger than most men. She was dressed, like all the women on the estate, in a smock and petticoat, with a thick coif to keep off the sun, and a pair of strong shoes.

She came to help her mistress, as she fondly called Alice. She wanted to sit up and watch the sick man, so that her mistress might go to sleep. But Alice refused. Then this faithful creature rolled herself up in her rug and laid herself at the door, so that no one should go in or out without stepping over her. And so she fell asleep.

Then we began our night watch, and talked in whispers, sitting by the bedside of the fevered man. Presently I forgot the wretchedness of our condition, the place where we were, our hopeless, helpless lot, our anxieties and our fears, in the joy and happiness of once more conversing with my mistress. She spoke to me after the manner of the old days, but with more seriousness, about the marvellous workings of the Lord among His people; and presently we began to talk of the music which we loved to play, and how the sweet concord and harmony of the notes lift up the soul; and of pictures and painting, and Mr. Boscorel's drawings and my own poor attempts, and my studies in the schools, and so forth, as if my life was, indeed, but just beginning, and, instead of the Monmouth cap, and the canvas breeches, and common shirt, I was once more arrayed in velvet, with a physician's wig and a gold-headed cane.

Lastly she prayed, entreating merciful Heaven to bestow health of mind and enlargement of body to the sick man upon the bed, and her brother, and her dear friend (meaning myself), and to all poor sufferers for religion; and she asked that, as it had been permitted that she should be taken from her earthly lover by treachery, so it might now be granted to her to lay down her life for his, so that he might go free and she die in his place.

Through the open window I saw the four stars which make the constellation they call the 'Crucero,' being like a cross fixed in the heavens. The night was still, and there was no sound save the shrill noise of the cigala, which is here as shrill as in Padua. Slave and master, bondman and free, were all asleep save in this house, where Robin rolled his heavy head, and murmured without ceasing, and Alice communed with her God. Surely, surely, I thought, here was no room for doubt! This my mistress had been brought here by the hand of God Himself, to be as an angel or messenger of His own, for our help and succour – haply for our spiritual help alone, seeing that no longer was there any help from man.

CHAPTER XLIII.

BARNABY HEARS THE NEWS

The master, my patient, got up from his bed in a few days, somewhat pale and weak after his copious blood-letting and the drastic medicines with which I purged the grossness of his habit and expelled the noxious humours caused by his many intemperances. These had greatly injured what we call – because we know not what nor what else to call it – the pure volatile spirit, and, so to speak, turned sour the humor radicalis– the sweet oil and balsamical virtues of the body. I gave him such counsel as was fitting for his case, admonishing him urgently to abstain from strong liquors, except in their moderate use; to drink only after his meals; to keep his head cool and sober, and above all things to repress and govern his raging temper, which would otherwise most certainly catch him by the throat like some fierce and invisible devil and throw him into a fit, and so kill him. I told him also what might be meant by the Wise Man (who certainly thought of all the bearings which his words could have) when he said that one who is slow to wrath is of great understanding – namely, that many men do throw away their lives by falling into excessive fits of rage. But I found that the words of Holy Scripture had little authority over him, for he lived without prayer or praise, trampled on the laws of God, and gave no heed at all to the flight of time and the coming of the next world.

For a day or two he followed my injunctions, taking a tankard of small ale to his breakfast, the same quantity with his dinner, a pint of Madeira for his supper, and a sober glass or two before going to bed. But when he grew well, his brother planters came round him again, the drinking was renewed, and in the morning I would find him again with parched throat, tongue dry, and shaking hand, ready to belabour, to curse, and to rail at everybody. If one wanted an example for the young how strong drink biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder, here was a case the sight of which might have caused all young men to forswear drunkenness. Alas! there are plenty of such examples to be seen in every part of England; yet the younger men still continue to drink, and that, I think, worse than their fathers. This man, however, who was not yet five-and-thirty, in the very prime of strong and healthy manhood, had his finger-joints swollen and stony from taking much wine; he commonly ate but little meat, craving continually for more drink, and his understanding, which was by nature, I doubt not, clear and strong, was now brutish and stupid. Thinking over this man, and of the power, even unto death, which he possessed over his servants and slaves, the words came into my mind: 'It is not for Kings, O Lemuel, it is not for Kings to drink wine; nor for Princes strong drink.'

Nay, more (and this I say, knowing that many godly men will not agree with me): I am fully persuaded that there is no man in the whole world so good and so strong in virtue and religion that he should be suffered to become the master or despot over any other man, even over a company of poor and ignorant blacks, or a gang of transported thieves. When I think of those unhappy people, driven forth in the morning, heavy-eyed and downcast, to the hard day's work; and when I remember how they crept home at night, after being driven, cursed, and beaten all day long; and when I think upon their drivers, overseers, and masters, and of their hard and callous hearts, I am moved to cry aloud (if any would hear me) that to be a slave is wretched indeed; but that to own and to drive slaves should be a thing most dangerous for any who would continue members of Christ's Church.

When I told Barnaby the surprising news that his sister was not only safe, but a servant like ourselves upon the same estate, I looked that he would rejoice. On the contrary, he fell into a strange mood, swearing at this ill stroke as he called it. He said that he never had the least doubt as to her safety, seeing there were so many in the West Country who knew and respected her father, and would willingly shelter her. Then he dwelt upon certain evils – of which, I confess, I had thought little – which might befall her. And, lastly, he set forth with great plainness the increased dangers in escaping when one has to carry a woman or a wounded man – a thing, he pointed out, which had caused his own capture after Sedgemoor.

Then he opened up to me the whole business of our escape.

'Last Saturday night,' he said, 'while you were sleeping, I made my way to the port, and, having a shilling or so left, I sought out a tavern. There is one hard by the Bridge, a house-of-call for sailors, where I had the good fortune to find a fellow who can do for us all we want – if his money hold out, which I doubt. He is a carver by trade, and a convict, like ourselves; but is permitted by his master to work at his trade in the town. He hath been, it is true, branded in the hand; but, Lord! what signifies that? He was once a thief – well – he is now an honest lad again, who asks for nothing but to get home again. John Nuthall is his name.'

'Go on, Barnaby. We are already in such good company that another rogue or two matters little.'

'This man came here secretly last night, while you were in the sick-house. He is very hot upon getting away. And because I am a sailor and can navigate a craft (which he cannot do) he will take with him not only myself, but also all my party. Now listen, Humphrey. He hath bought a boat of a Guinea man in the harbour; and because, to prevent the escape of servants, every boat is licensed and her owner has to give security to the Governor's officers, he hath taken this boat secretly up a little creek of which he knows, and hath there sunk her three feet deep. The masts, the sails, the oars, and the other gear he hath also safely bestowed in a secret place. But we cannot sail without water, provisions, nor without a compass at least. If our party is to consist of Sister, Robin, you, John Nuthall, and myself – five in all – we shall have to load the boat with provisions, and I must have a compass. I looked for a boatful with ourselves and John Nuthall. Now we have Sis as well; and the boat is but small. Where shall we get provisions? and where shall we lay our hands upon the money to buy what we want?'

He could talk of nothing else, because his mind was full of his plan. Yet it seemed to me a most desperate enterprise, thus to launch a small boat upon the wide ocean, and in this cockle-shell to brave the waves which are often fatal to the tallest ships.

'Tut, man,' said Barnaby. 'We are not now in the season of the tornadoes, and there is no other danger upon these seas. I would as lief be in an open boat as in a brigantine. Sharks may follow us, but they will not attack a boat; calamaries they talk of, big enough to lay their arms round the boat and so to drag it under; but such monsters have I never seen, any more than I have seen the great whale of Norway or the monstrous birds of the Southern Seas. There is only one danger, Humphrey, my lad.' Here he laid his hand upon mine and became mighty serious. 'If we are taken we shall be flogged – all of us. Thirty-nine lashes they will lay on, and they will brand us. For myself, I value not their thirty-nine lashes a brass farthing, nor their branding with a hot iron, which can but make a man jump for a day or two. To me this risk against the chance of escape matters nothing. Why, when I was cabin-boy I got daily more than thirty-nine lashes – kicks, cuffs, and rope's-endings. Nay, I remember, when we sat over the Latin syntax together my daily ration must have been thirty-nine, more or less, and Dad's arm was stronger than you would judge, to look at him. If they catch me, let them lay on their thirty-nine and be damned to them! But you and Robin, I doubt, think otherwise.'

'I would not willingly be flogged, Barnaby, if there were any way of escape – even by death.'

'So I thought! So I thought!'

'And as for Robin, if he recovers – which I doubt – he too, if I know him, would rather be killed than be flogged.'

'That comes of Oxford!' said Barnaby. 'And then there is Sis. Humphrey, my lad, it goes to my heart to think of that poor girl, stripped to be lashed like a black slave or a Bristol drab.'

'Barnaby, she must never run that dreadful risk.'

'Then she must remain behind, and here she runs that risk every day. What prevents yon drunken sot – the taste of that cudgel still sticks in my gizzard! – I say, what prevents him from tying her up to-day, or to-morrow, or every day?'

'Barnaby, I say that she must never run that risk, for if we are caught – ' I stopped.

'Before we are caught, you would say, Humphrey. We are of the same mind there. But who is to kill her? Not Robin, for he loves her; not you, because you have too great a kindness for her. Not I, because I am her brother. What should I say to my mother when I meet her after we are dead, and she asks me who killed Alice?'

'Barnaby, if she is to die, let us all die together.'

'Ay,' he replied, 'though I have, I confess, no great stomach for dying; yet, since we have got her with us, it must be done. 'Tis easy to let the water into the boat, and so, in three minutes, with no suspicion at all, and my mother never to know anything about it, she would have said her last prayers, and we should be all sinking together with never a gasp left.'

I took him after this talk to the sick-house, where Alice was beginning her second night of nursing. Barnaby saluted his sister as briefly as if her presence was the thing he most expected.

The room was lit by a horn lanthorn containing a great candle, which gave enough light to see Robin on the bed and Alice standing beside him. The woman called Deb was sitting on the floor, wrapped in her rug.

'Sis,' said Barnaby, 'I have heard from Humphrey how thou wast cozened out of thy money and enticed on board ship. Well, this world is full of villains, and I doubt whether I shall live to kill them all. One I must kill and one I must cudgel. Patience, therefore, and no more upon this head. Well, Sis, dost love to be a servant?'

'Surely not, Barnaby.'

'Wouldst like to get thy freedom again?'

'I know not the meaning of thy words, brother. Madam says that those who have interest at home may procure pardons for their friends in the Plantations. Also that those whose friends have money may buy their freedom from servitude. I am sure that Mr. Boscorel would willingly do this for Robin and for Humphrey; but for myself – how can I ask him? How can I ever let him know where I am and in what condition?'

'Ay, ay, but I meant not that way, child; wilt thou trust thyself to us?'

She looked at Robin. 'I cannot leave him,' she said.

'No, no; we shall wait until he is dead – or, perhaps, better.' But he only added this to please his sister. 'When he is better, Sis, thou wilt not be afraid to trust thyself with us?'

'I am not afraid of any danger, even of death, with you, if that is the danger in your mind, Barnaby.'

'Good! Then we understand each other. There are other dangers for a young and handsome woman – and, maybe, worse dangers. Hast any money at all, by chance?'

'Nay; the man Penne took all my money.'

Barnaby, for five or six minutes without stopping, spoke upon this topic after the manner of a sailor. 'My turn will come,' he added. 'No money, child? 'Tis a great pity. Had we a few gold pieces, now! Some women have rings and chains. But of course – '

'Nay, brother; chains I never had, and as for rings, there were but two that ever I had – one from Robin, the day that I was plighted to him; and one from the man who made me marry him, and put it on in the church. The former did I break and throw away when I agreed – for your dear lives – Barnaby, oh! for the lives of all' —