Colonel Thorndyke's Secret
by G. A. Henty · English · Gutenberg #8155 · 708,709 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Colonel Thorndyke's Secret
Author: G. A. Henty
Release date: May 1, 2005 [eBook #8155]
Most recently updated: March 11, 2018
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8155
Credits: Produced by Martin Robb, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLONEL THORNDYKE'S SECRET ***
Produced by Martin Robb
COLONEL THORNDYKE'S SECRET
By G. A. Henty.
PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.
“Colonel Thorndyke's Secret” is a story so far out of the ordinary that
it will not be inappropriate to speak a few words regarding the tale and
its unusually successful author, Mr. George Alfred Henty.
The plot of the story hinges upon the possession of a valuable bracelet,
of diamonds, stolen from a Hindoo idol by a British soldier in India.
This bracelet falls into the possession of Colonel Thorndyke, who,
shortly afterward, is sent home to England because of his wounds. The
secret concerning the bracelet is told to the Colonel's brother, a
country squire, and the treasure is left to younger members of the
Thorndyke family.
As is well known today, the theft of anything from a Hindoo temple is
considered an extraordinary crime in India, and when this occurs it
becomes a religious duty for one or more persons to hunt down the thief
and bring back the property taken from the heathen god.
The members of the Thorndyke family soon learn that they are being
watched. But this is at a time when highwaymen are numerous in this part
of England, and they cannot determine whether the work is that of the
“knights of the roads” or that of the Lascars after the famous bracelet.
A mysterious death follows, and the younger members of the family are
almost stunned, not knowing what will happen next. They would give the
bracelet up, but do not know where it is hidden, the secret having been
in the sole possession of the member now dead. In this quandary the
young hero of the tale rises to the occasion and determines to join the
London police force and become a detective, with the hope of ultimately
clearing up the mystery. Thrilling adventures of a most unusual kind
follow, and at last something of the mystery is explained. The bracelet
and other jewelry are unearthed, and it is decided to take the bracelet
to Amsterdam and offer it to the diamond cutters at that place. But
the carrying of the bracelet is both difficult and dangerous. How the
mission is brought to a conclusion, and what part the Lascars played in
the final adventure, will be found in the pages that follow.
It can truthfully be said that Mr. Henty is easily the most popular of
all English story tellers, his books for boys enjoying a circulation of
from a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred and fifty thousand per
year. His tales are all clean, and although some are full of exciting
situations and thrilling to the last degree, they are of a high moral
tone, while the English employed is of the best.
The present story is of peculiar value as giving a good insight into
country and town life in England over a hundred years ago, when railways
and telegraph lines were unknown and when the “knights of the road” were
apt to hold up any stagecoach that happened to come along. It also gives
a truthful picture of the dark and underhanded work accomplished at
times by those of East Indian blood, especially when on what they
consider a religious mission.
CHAPTER I.
Squire Thorndyke, of the Manor House of Crawley, was, on the 1st of
September; 1782, walking up and down the little terrace in front of the
quaint old house in an unusually disturbed mood. He was a man of forty
three or four, stoutly and strongly built, and inclined to be portly.
Save the loss of his wife four years before, there had been but little
to ruffle the easy tenor of his life. A younger son, he had, at his
mother's death, when he was three and twenty, come in for the small
estate at Crawley, which had been her jointure.
For ten years he had led a life resembling that of most of his
neighbors; he had hunted and shot, been a regular attendant at any
main of cocks that was fought within fifteen miles of Crawley, had
occasionally been up to London for a week or two to see the gay doings
there. Of an evening he had generally gone down to the inn, where he
talked over, with two or three of his own condition and a few of the
better class of farmers, the news of the day, the war with the French,
the troubles in Scotland, the alarming march of the Young Pretender, and
his defeat at Culloden--with no very keen interest in the result, for
the Southern gentry and yeomen, unlike those in the North, had no strong
leanings either way. They had a dull dislike for Hanoverian George, but
no great love for the exiled Stuarts, whose patron, the King of France,
was an enemy of England.
More often, however, their thoughts turned upon local topics--the
holding up of the coach of Sir James Harris or Squire Hamilton by
highwaymen; the affray between the French smugglers and the Revenue men
near Selsea Bill or Shoreham; the delinquencies of the poaching gangs;
the heaviness of the taxes, and the price of corn.
At the age of thirty-three Squire Thorndyke married the daughter of
a neighboring landowner; a son was born and three years later Mrs.
Thorndyke died. Since then the Squire had led a more retired life; he
still went down to smoke his pipe at the inn parlor, but he gave up his
visits to town; and cock fights, and even bull baiting, were no longer
attractions to him. He was known as a good landlord to the three or four
farmers who held land under him; was respected and liked in the village,
where he was always ready to assist in cases of real distress; was of an
easygoing disposition and on good terms with all his neighbors.
But today he was unusually disturbed in his mind. A messenger had ridden
up two hours before with a letter from London. It was as follows:
“MY DEAR BROTHER JOHN:
“You will be surprised indeed at this letter from me, who, doubtless,
you suppose to be fighting in India. I have done with fighting, and
am nearly done with life. I was shot in the battle of Buxar, eighteen
months ago. For a time the surgeons thought that it was going to be
fatal; then I rallied, and for some months it seemed that, in spite of
the ball that they were never able to find, I was going to get over it,
and should be fit for service again. Then I got worse; first it was
a cough, then the blood used to come up, and they said that the only
chance for me was to come home. I did not believe it would be of any
use, but I thought that I would rather die at home than in India, so
home I came, and have now been a week in London.
“I thought at first of going down to my place at Reigate, and having
you and your boy there with me; but as I have certainly not many weeks,
perhaps not many days, to live, I thought I would come down to you; so
the day after you receive this letter I shall be with you. I shall not
bring my little girl down; I have left her in good hands, and I shall
only bring with me my Hindoo servant. He will give you no trouble--a mat
to sleep on, and a little rice to eat, will satisfy his wants; and he
will take the trouble of me a good deal off your hands. He was a Sepoy
in my regiment, and has always evinced the greatest devotion for me.
More than once in battle he has saved my life, and has, for the last
three years, been my servant, and has nursed me since I have been ill
as tenderly as a woman could have done. As I shall have time to tell you
everything when I arrive, I will say no more now.”
The news had much affected John Thorndyke. His brother George was five
years his senior, and had gone out as a cadet in the company's service
when John was but thirteen, and this was his first home coming. Had it
not been for a portrait that had been taken of him in his uniform just
before he sailed, John would have had but little remembrance of him. In
that he was represented as a thin, spare youth, with an expression of
quiet determination in his face. From his father John had, of course,
heard much about him.
“Nothing would satisfy him but to go out to India, John. There was, of
course, no occasion for it, as he would have this place after me--a
fine estate and a good position: what could he want more? But he was a
curious fellow. Once he formed an opinion there was no persuading him to
change it. He was always getting ideas such as no one else would think
of; he did not care for anything that other people cared for; never
hunted nor shot. He used to puzzle me altogether with his ways, and,
'pon my word, I was not sorry when he said he would go to India, for
there was no saying how he might have turned out if he had stopped here.
He never could do anything like anybody else: nothing that he could have
done would have surprised me.
“If he had told me that he intended to be a play actor, or a Jockey, or
a private, or a book writer, I should not have been surprised. Upon my
word, it was rather a relief to me when he said, 'I have made up my mind
to go into the East India Service, father. I suppose you can get me
a cadetship?' At least that was an honorable profession; and I knew,
anyhow, that when he once said 'I have made up my mind, father,' no
arguments would move him, and that if I did not get him a cadetship he
was perfectly capable of running away, going up to London, and enlisting
in one of their white regiments.”
John Thorndyke's own remembrances were that his brother had always
been good natured to him, that he had often told him long stories about
Indian adventures, and that a short time before he went away, having
heard that he had been unmercifully beaten by the schoolmaster at
Reigate for some trifling fault, he had gone down to the town, and had
so battered the man that the school had to be closed for a fortnight.
They had always kept up a correspondence. When he received the news of
his father's death George had written to him, begging him to go down to
Reigate, and to manage the estate for him.
“Of course,” he said, “you will draw its income as long as you are
there. I mayn't be back for another twenty years; one gets rich out here
fast, what with plunder and presents and one thing and another, and it
is no use to have money accumulating at home, so just live on the place
as if it were your own, until I come home to turn you out.”
John had declined the offer.
“I am very well where I am,” he wrote, “and the care of the estate would
be a horrible worry to me; besides, I have just married, and if I ever
have any children they would be brought up beyond their station. I
have done what I can for you. I have seen the family lawyers, who have
engaged a man who has been steward to Sir John Hieover, and looked after
the estate during his son's minority. But the young blade, on coming of
age, set to work to make ducks and drakes of the property, and Newman
could not bear to see the estate going to the Jews, so, as luck would
have it, he resigned a month ago, and has been appointed steward at
Reigate. Of course, if you don't like the arrangement you must write and
say so. It will be a year before I get your answer, and he has only been
engaged for certain for that time; it must lie with you as to permanent
arrangement.”
So Newman had taken charge of the Reigate estate, and had continued
to manage it ever since, although George had written home in great
displeasure at his offer being refused.
Inside the Manor the bustle of preparations was going on; the spare
room, which had not been used for many years, was being turned out, and
a great fire lighted to air it. John Thorndyke had sent a letter by the
returning messenger to a friend in town, begging him to go at once to
Leadenhall Street and send down a supply of Indian condiments for his
brother's use, and had then betaken himself to the garden to think the
matter over. The next day a post chaise arrived, bringing the invalid
and his colored servant, whose complexion and Indian garb struck the
maids with an awe not unmingled with alarm. John Thorndyke could hardly
believe that the bent and emaciated figure was that of his brother, but
he remembered the voice when the latter said, holding out his hand to
him:
“Well, brother John, here I am, what is left of me. Gracious, man,
who would have thought that you were going to grow up such a fine tall
fellow? You are more fitted to be a soldier than I am. No, don't try
to help me out; Ramoo will do that--he is accustomed to my ways, and I
would as soon trust myself to a rogue elephant as to you.”
“I am sorry to see you looking so bad, brother George.”
“What must be must. I have had my fling; and after thirty years of
marching and fighting, I have no right to grumble if I am laid upon my
back at last.”
Leaning on Ramoo's arm, Colonel Thorndyke made his way into the house,
and when the Hindoo had arranged the cushions of the sofa, took his
place there in a half reclining position.
“I am not always as bad as this, John,” he said; “the jolting of your
confounded roads has been too much for me. If I were the King I would
hang every fellow who had anything to do with them--contractors, boards
of county magistrates, and the whole lot. If I had known what it was
going to be like I would have hired a sedan chair, and had myself
carried down. That is what I have been doing in London; but I would
rather have had an Indian palkee, that one could have lain down
comfortably in.”
“What shall I get you first, George? I have got some lemons.”
“I want something better than lemons, John. Have you any Burgundy
handy?”
“Yes, plenty.”
“If you give a bottle to Ramoo he will know how much water I want.”
Here the servants entered with a tray with a chicken and a dish of
kidneys.
“I sent up yesterday for some of the Indian things that you are
accustomed to, George, but they have not come down yet.”
“I brought a store down with me. This will do capitally for the present.
Ramoo will do the cooking for me in future. He need not go into the
kitchen to scare the maids. I could see they looked at him as if he had
been his infernal majesty, as he came in. He can do it anywhere; all he
wants is an iron pot with some holes in it, and some charcoal. He can
squat out there on the veranda, or, if it is bad weather, any shed will
do for him.
“Well, it is nice to be home again, John,” he went on, after he had
eaten a few mouthfuls of chicken and drunk a tumbler of Burgundy and
water. “I am glad to be back, now I am here, though I dare say I should
not have come home for another ten years if it had not been for this
rascally bullet. Where is your boy?”
“He is away at school.”
“Well, I think I will go up to bed at once, if you don't mind, John. I
shall be fitter to talk in the morning.”
The next day, indeed, Colonel Thorndyke was materially better. His voice
was stronger and more cheery, and when he came down after breakfast he
took his seat in an easy chair instead of on the sofa.
“Now, brother,” he said, “we will have a cozy chat. There are several
things I want done, but the chief of these is that when I am gone you
should go down to Reigate, as I wanted you to do ten years ago. I want
you to seem to be its master, as well as be its master, until Millicent
comes of age, if not longer. Her name is Millicent Conyers Thorndyke. I
wish her to be called Millicent Conyers, and to appear as your ward, and
not as your niece and heiress of the property. If there is one thing in
the world I have a greater horror of than another, it is of a girl being
married for her money. I don't suppose that anyone knows that I have a
daughter--at any rate, none beyond a few Indian chums. She was sent home
with an ayah under the charge of the widow of a comrade of mine. I had
been away for months, and only went back to Calcutta in time to see her
mother die. So that is all right.”
“I could not do such a thing as that, George. I should be living under
false colors. It is not that I mind so much leaving here and looking
after the child's interest at Reigate, but I could not possibly take
possession of the place as its owner when I should not be so. Besides,
there are other objections. Mark would grow up supposing himself to be
the heir.”
“Mark will be all right. I have, since I have been in London, signed a
will, leaving the rest of my fortune between them. I had it drawn up by
our father's solicitors, relying upon your consent to do what I asked
you. I have explained the matter to them, and given them the assignment,
or whatever they call it, of the Reigate estate to you, until my
daughter comes of age, appointing them her guardians should you die
before that. Thus, you will be placed in a proper position; and should
it be known by any means that the child is my daughter, that deed will
still be a proof that you are carrying out my wishes, and are absolute
master of the estate until she comes of age.”
“I must think it all over, George. It is a singular proposal, and I own
I would rather things went on in their regular course.”
“Yes, yes, I understand that, John; but you see I have altogether set
my mind on this matter. I want to know that my girl is not going to be
married for her money; and, at any rate, that deed makes you master of
the Reigate estates for the next thirteen years; so the only thing that
I really want of you is to let the girl be called your ward instead of
your niece, and that she and everyone else shall be in ignorance that
she is an heiress. So far from doing the girl a wrong, you will be doing
her a benefit; and as I have explained the whole matter to our lawyers,
no one can possibly think that the thing has been done from any motive
whatever except that of affording me satisfaction.”
“I will think the matter over,” John repeated. “Of course, brother, it
has been in your mind for some time, but it comes altogether fresh to
me, and I must look at it in every light. For myself, I have no wish at
all to become master of our father's estate. I have been going in one
groove for the last twenty years, and don't care about changing it. You
wished me to do so ten years ago, and I declined then, and the ten years
have not made me more desirous of change than I was before.”
“All right; think it over. Please send Ramoo in to me; I have tired
myself in talking.”
John Thorndyke smoked many churchwarden pipes in the little arbor in his
garden that day. In the afternoon his brother was so weak and tired that
the subject of the conversation was not reverted to. At eight o'clock
the Colonel went off to bed. The next morning, after breakfast, he was
brighter again.
“Well, John, what has come of your thinking?” he asked.
“I don't like it, George.”
“You mayn't like it, John, but you will do it. I am not going to have my
girl run after by ruined spendthrifts who want her money to repair their
fortunes; and I tell you frankly, if you refuse I shall go up to town
tomorrow, and I shall make a new will, leaving all my property to your
son, subject to a life annuity of 200 pounds a year to the child, and
ordering that, in the event of his dying before he comes of age, or of
refusing to accept the provisions of the will, or handing any of the
property or money over to my daughter, the whole estate, money, jewels,
and all, shall go to the London hospitals, subject, as before, to the
annuity.
“Don't be an ass, brother John. Do you think that I don't know what I
am doing? I have seen enough of the evils of marrying for money out in
India. Every ship that comes out brings so many girls sent out to some
relation to be put on the marriage market, and marrying men old enough
to be pretty nearly their grandfathers, with the natural consequence
that there is the devil to pay before they have been married a year or
two. Come, you know you will do it; why not give in at once, and have
done with it? It is not a bad thing for you, it will be a good thing for
your boy, it will save my girl from fortune hunters, and enable me to
die quietly and comfortably.”
“All right, George, I will do it. Mind, I don't do it willingly, but I
do it for your sake.”
“That is right,” Colonel Thorndyke said, holding out his thin bronzed
hand to his brother; “that is off my mind. Now, there is only one other
thing--those confounded jewels. But I won't talk about them now.”
It was not indeed till three or four days later that the Colonel again
spoke to his brother on any than ordinary matters. He had indeed been
very weak and ailing. After breakfast, when, as usual, he was a little
stronger and brighter than later in the day, he said to his brother
suddenly:--
“I suppose there are no hiding places in this room?”
“Hiding places! What do you mean, George?”
“Places where a fellow could hide up and hear what we are talking
about.”
“No, I don't think so,” the Squire replied, looking round vaguely. “Such
an idea never occurred to me. Why do you ask?”
“Because, John, if there is such a thing as a hiding place, someone will
be sure to be hiding there. Where does that door lead to?”
“It doesn't lead anywhere; it used to lead into the next room, but it
was closed up before my time, and turned into a cupboard, and this door
is permanently closed.”
“Do you mind stepping round into the next room and seeing if anyone is
in the cupboard?”
Thinking that his brother was a little light headed, John Thorndyke went
into the next room, and returned, saying gravely that no one was there.
“Will you look behind the curtains, John, and under this sofa, and
everywhere else where even a cat could be hidden? That seems all right,”
the Colonel went on, as his brother continued the search. “You know
there is a saying that walls have ears, and I am not sure that it is
not so. I have been haunted with the feeling that everything I did was
watched, and that everything I said was listened to for years; and I can
tell you it is a devilishly unpleasant thought. Draw your chair quite
close to me. It is about my jewels, John. I always had a fancy for
jewels--not to wear them, but to own them. In my time I have had good
opportunities in that way, both in the Madras Presidency and in the
Carnatic. In the first place, I have never cared for taking presents in
money, but I have never refused jewels; and what with Rajahs and Nabobs
and Ministers that one had helped or done a good turn to somehow, a good
deal came to me that way.
“Then I always made a point of carrying money with me, and after a
defeat of the enemy or a successful siege, there was always lots of
loot, and the soldiers were glad enough to sell anything in the way of
jewels for a tithe of their value in gold. I should say if I put the
value of the jewels at 50,000 pounds I am not much wide of the mark.
That is all right, there is no bother about them; the trouble came
from a diamond bracelet that I got from a soldier. We were in camp near
Tanjore. I was officer of the day. I had made my rounds, and was coming
back to my quarters, when I saw a soldier coming out of a tent thirty
or forty yards away. It was a moonlight night, and the tent was one
belonging to a white Madras regiment. Suddenly, I saw another figure,
that had been lying down outside the tent, rise. I saw the flash of the
moonlight on steel; then there was a blow, and the soldier fell. I drew
my sword and rushed forward.
“The native--for I could see that it was a native--was bending over the
man he had stabbed. His back was towards me, and on the sandy soil he
did not hear my footsteps until I was close to him; then he sprang up
with a cry of fury, and leaped on me like a tiger. I was so taken by
surprise that before I could use my sword the fellow had given me a
nasty stab on the shoulder; but before he could strike again I had
run him through. By this time several other, men ran out of the tent,
uttering exclamations of rage at seeing their fallen comrade.
“'What is it, sir?' they asked me.
“'This scoundrel, here, has stabbed your comrade,' I said. 'He did not
see me coming, and I ran up just as he was, I think, rifling him for
booty. He came at me like a wild cat, and has given me a nasty stab.
However, I have put an end to his game. Is your comrade dead?'
“'No, sir, he is breathing still; but I fancy there is little chance for
him.'
“'You had better carry him to the hospital tent at once; I will send a
surgeon there.'
“I called the regimental surgeon up, and went with him to the hospital
tent, telling him what had happened. He shook his head after examining
the man's wound, which was fairly between the shoulders.
“'He may live a few hours, but there is no chance of his getting
better.'
“'Now,' I said, 'you may as well have a look at my wound, for the
villain stabbed me too.'
“'You have had a pretty narrow escape of it,' he said, as he examined
it. 'If he had struck an inch or two nearer the shoulder the knife would
have gone right into you; but you see I expect he was springing as he
struck, and the blow fell nearly perpendicularly, and it glanced down
over your ribs, and made a gash six inches long. There is no danger. I
will bandage it now, and tomorrow morning I will sew the edges together,
and make a proper job of it.'
“In the morning one of the hospital attendants came to me and said the
soldier who had been wounded wanted to speak to me. The doctor said he
would not live long. I went across to him. He was on a bed some little
distance from any of the others, for it was the healthy season, and
there were only three or four others in the tent.
“'I hear, Major Thorndyke,' he said in a low voice, 'that you killed
that fellow who gave me this wound, and that you yourself were stabbed.'
“'Mine is not a serious business, my man,' I said. 'I wish you had got
off as easily.'
“'I have been expecting it, sir,' he said; 'and how I came to be fool
enough to go outside the tent by myself I cannot think. I was uneasy,
and could not sleep; I felt hot and feverish, and came out for a breath
of fresh air. I will tell you what caused it, sir. About two years ago
a cousin of mine, in one of the King's regiments, who was dying, they
said, of fever (but I know the doctors thought he had been poisoned),
said to me, “Here are some things that will make your fortune if ever
you get to England; but I tell you beforehand, they are dangerous things
to keep about you. I fancy that they have something to do with my being
like this now. A year ago I went with some others into one of their
great temples on a feast day. Well, the god had got on all his trinkets,
and among them was a bracelet with the biggest diamonds I ever saw. I
did not think so much of it at the time, but I kept on thinking of them
afterwards, and it happened that some months after our visit we took the
place by storm. I made straight for the temple, and I got the jewels. It
don't matter how I got them--I got them. Well, since that I have never
had any peace; pretty near every night one or other of our tents was
turned topsy turvy, all the kits turned out, and even the ground dug
up with knives. You know how silently Indian thieves can work. However,
nothing was ever stolen, and as for the diamonds, at the end of every
day's march I always went out as soon as it was quite dark, and buried
the bracelet between the tent pegs; it did not take a minute to do. When
we moved, of course, I took it up again. At last I gave that up, for
however early I turned out in the morning there was sure to be a native
about. I took then to dropping it down the barrel of my gun; that way I
beat them. Still, I have always somehow felt myself watched, and my tent
has been disturbed a great deal oftener than any of the others. I have
had half a mind to throw the things away many a time, but I could not
bring myself to do it.”
“'Well, sir, I have carried the bracelet ever since. I have done as he
did, and always had it in my musket barrel--When we had fighting to do I
would drop it out into my hand and slip it into my ammunition pouch;
but I know that I have always been followed, just as Bill was. I suppose
they found out that I went to see him before he died. Anyhow, my tent
has been rummaged again and again. I have no doubt that fellow whom you
killed last night had been watching me all the time, and thought that I
had come out to hide the things. However, there they are, sir. One of my
mates brought my musket here a quarter of an hour ago, and emptied the
barrel out for me. Now, sir, you did your best to save my life last
night, and you killed that fellow who did for me, and you pretty nearly
got killed yourself. I have got no one else I could give the things to,
and if I were to give them to one of my mates in the regiment they would
probably cost him his life, as they have cost me mine. But you will know
what to do with the things; they are worth a lot of money if you can get
them home. Mind, sir, you have got to be careful. I have heard tales of
how those priests will follow up a temple jewel that has been lost for
years, and never give it up until they get it back again.'
“'I ought to give it up,' I said.
“'You don't know where it came from, sir,' he replied. 'I was one of a
party of convalescents who were sent up just before that fight, and my
own regiment was not there: it might have been here, and it might have
been in the Carnatic. Bill never told me, and I have no more idea than a
babe unborn.'
“The gems were certainly magnificent; and though I knew well enough that
these untiring Brahmins would not be long in guessing that the things
had come into my possession, I took the bracelet. I thought, anyhow,
that I might have a few hours' start; the fellow I had killed might, of
course, have one or two others with him, but I had to risk that. I got
leave an hour later, and went down to Madras, and got them put into
a place of safety. That I was watched all the time I was in India
afterwards I have no doubt, but no attempts were made to assassinate
me. They would have known that I went straight away, but whether I had
buried them somewhere on the road, or had given them to someone's care
at Madras they could not know, and there was, therefore, nothing for
them to do but to wait till I made a move.
“I have no doubt whatever that they came over in the same ship with me.
Two or three times during the week I was in London I saw colored men in
the street outside the hotel. Once it was a Lascar seaman, another time
a dark looking sailor in European clothes: he might pass for a Spaniard.
Several times as I was going about in a sedan chair I looked out
suddenly, and each time there was a dark face somewhere in the street
behind. I had a letter this morning from the lawyer, and he mentioned
that two days ago his offices had been broken into, and every strong box
and drawer forced open, but that, curiously enough, they could not find
that anything had been stolen, though in the cashier's box there were 30
pounds in gold. Of course it was my friends. I have no doubt that one or
two of them have followed me down here; and for anything I know they may
be lurking somewhere in your garden at the present moment--that is, if
they are not standing beside us in this room.”
John Thorndyke looked round with an uncomfortable feeling.
“How do you mean, George?”
“I mean some of those Indian fellows can do all sorts of wonderful
conjuring tricks. I have seen them go up into the air on a rope and
never come down again, and for aught I know they may be able to render
themselves invisible. Seriously, I think that it is likely as not.”
“Well, and where are the things to be found now, George?”
“That I won't tell you, John. Before I go I will whisper it in your ear,
and give you the means of finding them, but not till then. No, I will
write it down on a piece of paper, and slip it into your hand. As soon
as you get out of the room you glance at it, and then put the piece of
paper into your mouth, chew it up and swallow it. I tell you I dare not
even whisper it; but whatever you do, take no steps in the matter until
your son comes of age.”
“There can surely be no danger in another twelve years, George; they
will have given up the search long before that.”
“Not they,” the Colonel said emphatically. “If they die others will take
their places: it is a sacred business with them. My advice to you is,
either sell them directly you get them into your hands, or go straight
to Amsterdam and sell them there to one of the diamond cutters, who will
turn them out so that they will be altered beyond all recognition. Don't
sell more than two stones at most to any one man; then they will never
come out as a bracelet again, and the hunt will be over.”
“I would almost rather leave them alone altogether, George.”
“Well, they are worth 50,000 pounds if they are worth a penny, and a
great deal more I should say; but you cannot leave them alone without
leaving everything alone, for all my gems are with them, and 52,000
pounds in gold. Of course, if you like you can, when you get the box,
pick those diamonds out and chuck them away, but if you do you must do
it openly, so that anyone watching you may see you do it, otherwise the
search will go on.”
Two days later, as Ramoo was helping the Colonel to the sofa, the latter
was seized with a violent fit of coughing, then a rush of blood poured
from his lips. His brother and Ramoo laid him on the sofa almost
insensible.
“Run and get some water, Ramoo,” John Thorndyke said.
As Ramoo left the room the Colonel feebly placed his snuffbox in his
brother's hand with a significant glance; then he made several desperate
efforts to speak, and tried to struggle up into a sitting position;
another gush of blood poured from him, and as it ceased he fell back
dead.
John Thorndyke was bitterly grieved at the death of his brother, and it
was not until he went up to his room that night that he thought of the
snuffbox that he had dropped into his pocket as his brother handed it
to him. He had no doubt that it contained the instructions as to the
treasure. It was of Indian manufacture. He emptied the snuff from it,
but it contained nothing else. He was convinced that the secret must be
hidden there, and after in vain endeavoring to find a spring, he took
a poker and hammered it, and as it bent a spring gave way, and showed a
very shallow false bottom.
In this was a thin gold coin, evidently of considerable antiquity, and a
small piece of paper, on which was written the word “Masulipatam.” John
Thorndyke looked at it in bewilderment; that it was connected with the
secret he felt certain, but alone it was absolutely useless. Doubtless
his brother had intended to give him the key of the riddle, when he had
so desperately striven to speak. After in vain thinking the matter over
he said:
“Well, thank goodness; there is nothing to be done about the matter for
another thirteen or fourteen years; it is of no use worrying about it
now.” He went to an old fashioned cabinet, and placed the coin and piece
of paper in a very cunningly devised secret drawer. The next morning
he went out into the garden and dropped the battered snuffbox into the
well, and then dismissed the subject from his mind.
CHAPTER II
Standing some two miles out of Reigate is the village of Crowswood, a
quiet place and fairly well to do, thanks in no small degree to Squire
Thorndyke, who owned the whole of the parish, and by whom and his
tenants the greater portion of the village were employed. Greatly had
the closing of the Manor House, after the death of old Squire Thorndyke,
been felt. There were no more jellies, soups, and other comforts to
be looked for in time of sickness, no abatement of rent when the
breadwinner was sick or disabled, no check to the drunkards, whom the
knowledge that they would be turned out of their cottage at a week's
notice kept in some sort of order. When, therefore, after ten years
of absence of all government, John Thorndyke, after the death of his
brother, the Colonel, came down and took possession, he found the place
sadly changed from what it had been when he had left it twenty years
before. His first act was to dismiss Newman; who, completely unchecked,
had, he found, been sadly mismanaging affairs. It was not long, however,
before his hand made itself felt. Two out of the three public houses
were shut up in six months, a score of their habitual frequenters had,
weeks before, been turned out of their houses, an order had been issued
that unless a cottage was kept in good order and the garden bright and
blooming with flowers in the summer a fresh tenant would be found for
it. Every child must be sent to the village school; the Squire was
ready to do what there was to be done in the way of thatching and
whitewashing, repairing palings and painting doors and windows, but,
as he told the people, the village had to be kept clean and decent,
and anyone who would not conform to the rules was at liberty to leave
without a day's notice.
Many of the villagers grumbled under their breath, but public opinion
was, on the whole, favorable. There was someone to look after them now,
someone who would see that the greater portion of the wages was not
spent at the alehouse, who would take an interest in the people, and
would lend a helping hand in bad times. There was a feeling of regret
that the Squire was a widower, but the post of visitor and almoner was
well supplied by the lady who acted as companion and governess to the
Squire's little ward and regulated the affairs of his household.
John Thorndyke had never had much occasion for the display of energy
before, but he had an abundance of it, although hitherto latent. He
had come into this business against his will, but he took it up with
a determination to do well in it. The income was legally his until his
niece came of age, but he was determined he would take nothing out of
the estate beyond the necessary expenses of the position, and that all
surplus should be expended in improving it in every way possible,
so that he could hand it over to her in the most perfect condition.
Therefore, when he came into possession he made a close inspection of
the farms, with their houses, barns, and other tenements. Where he saw
that the men were doing their best, that the hedges and fields were in
good order, he did everything that was necessary without a word; but
where there were slovenly farming and signs of neglect and carelessness,
he spoke out his mind sharply.
“This has all got to be amended,” he said. “What must be done I will
do, but unless I see things well kept up, the fences in good order, the
hedges cut, the cattle in good condition, and everything going on as
it ought to be, out you go next Christmas. The estate at present is a
disgrace to the county, but it shall not be so any longer if I can help
it. I shall do my share, and anyone who is not prepared to do the same
had better look out for another holding at once.”
No one rejoiced more at the coming home of the Squire than Mr. Bastow,
the Rector. He had had a pleasant time of it during the life of the old
Squire. He was always a welcome guest at the house; Mr. Thorndyke had
been ever ready to put his hand into his pocket for any repairs needed
for the church, and bore on his shoulders almost the entire expense of
the village school. In the latter respect there had been no falling off,
he having given explicit instructions to his solicitors to pay his usual
annual subscriptions to the school until his son's return from India.
But with the death of the Squire the Rector had gradually lost all
authority in the village.
For a time force of habit had had its effect, but as this wore out and
the people recognized that he had no real authority things went from bad
to worse. Drunken men would shout jeeringly as they passed the Rectory
on their way home from the alehouse; women no longer feared reproof for
the untidiness of their houses and children; the school was half emptied
and the church almost wholly so.
For seven or eight years Mr. Bastow had a hard time of it. It was, then,
both with pleasure as an old friend, and with renewed hopefulness for
the village, that he visited John Thorndyke on his return. The change
in the state of affairs was almost instantaneous. As soon as it became
known that the Rector was backed, heart and soul, by the Squire's
authority, and that a complaint from him was followed the next day by a
notice to quit at the end of a week, his own authority was established
as firmly as it had been in the old Squire's time, and in a couple of
years Crowswood became quite a model village. Every garden blossomed
with flowers; roses and eglantine clustered over the cottages, neatness
and order prevailed everywhere.
The children were tidily dressed and respectful in manner, the women
bright and cheerful, and the solitary alehouse remaining had but few
customers, and those few were never allowed to transgress the bounds of
moderation. The Squire had a talk with the landlord a fortnight after
his arrival.
“I am not going to turn you out, Peters,” he said. “I hear that you make
some efforts to keep your house decently; the other two I shall send
packing directly their terms are up. Whether you remain permanently must
depend upon yourself. I will do up your house for you, and build a bar
parlor alongside, where quiet men can sit and smoke their pipes and talk
and take their beer in comfort, and have liberty to enjoy themselves as
long as their enjoyment does not cause annoyance to other people or keep
their wives and children in rags. I will do anything for you if I
find the place well conducted; but I warn you that I will have no
drunkenness. A man who, to my knowledge, gets drunk twice, will not get
drunk a third time in this parish, and if you let men get drunk here it
is your fault as much as theirs. Now we understand each other.”
Things once placed on a satisfactory footing, the Squire had but little
more trouble, and it soon came to be understood that he was not to be
trifled with, and that Crowswood was no longer a place for the idle or
shiftless. Two or three of the farmers left at the termination of their
year, but better men took their places, and John Thorndyke, having
settled matters to his satisfaction, now began to attend more to other
affairs. He had been, when he first came back, welcomed with great
heartiness by all the gentry of the neighborhood; his father had been a
popular man, and young Thorndyke had been regarded as a pleasant young
fellow, and would in any case have been welcomed, if only because
Crowswood had become a nuisance to the whole district. It was, indeed,
a sort of rendezvous for poachers and bad characters, it was more than
suspected that gangs of thieves and burglars made it their headquarters,
and that even highwaymen found it a convenient and quiet resort.
Thus, then, the transformation effected within a few months of Mr.
Thorndyke's return caused general and lively satisfaction, and a year
later he was put on the Commission of the Peace, and became one of the
most regular attendants at the Bench of Magistrates. Reluctantly as
he had taken up his present position, he found it, as time went on, a
pleasant one. He had not been conscious before that time hung somewhat
heavily on his hands, but here he had duties to perform and ample
employment. His nature was naturally somewhat a masterful one, and
both as a magistrate and a landlord he had scope and power of action.
Occasionally he went up to London, always driving his gig, with a pair
of fast trotting horses, and was known to the frequenters of the
coffee houses chiefly patronized by country gentlemen. Altogether, John
Thorndyke became quite a notable person in the district, and men were
inclined to congratulate themselves upon the fact that he, and not the
Indian officer, his brother, had come into the estate.
The idea of an old Indian officer in those days was that he was almost
of necessity an invalid, and an irritable one, with a liver hopelessly
deranged, a yellow complexion, and a hatred of the English climate. The
fact that, instead of leaving the army and coming home at his father's
death, George Thorndyke had chosen to remain abroad and leave the estate
to the management of agents, had specially prejudiced him in the eyes of
the people of that part, and had heightened the warmth with which they
had received his brother. John Thorndyke had upon the occasion, of his
first visit to the family solicitors spoken his mind with much freedom
as to the manner in which Newman had been allowed a free hand.
“Another ten years,” he said, “and there would not have been a cottage
habitable on the estate, nor a farm worth cultivating. He did absolutely
nothing beyond collecting the rents. He let the whole place go to rack
and ruin. The first day I arrived I sent him out of the house, with a
talking to that he won't forget as long as he lives.”
“We never heard any complaints about him, Mr. Thorndyke, except that I
think we did once hear from the Rector of the place that his conduct was
not satisfactory. I remember that we wrote to him about it, and he
said that the Rector was a malignant fellow, on bad terms with all his
parishioners.”
“If I had the scoundrel here,” John Thorndyke said with indignation, “I
would let him have a taste of the lash of my dog whip. You should not
have taken the fellow's word; you should have sent down someone to find
out the true state of things. Why, the place has been an eyesore to the
whole neighborhood, the resort of poaching, thieving rascals; by gad,
if my brother George had gone down there I don't know what would
have happened! It will cost a couple of years' rent to get things put
straight.”
When the Squire was at home there was scarce an evening when the Rector
did not come up to smoke a pipe and take his glass of old Jamaica or
Hollands with him.
“Look here, Bastow,” the latter said, some three years after his return,
“what are you going to do with that boy of yours? I hear bad reports of
him from everyone; he gets into broils at the alehouse, and I hear
that he consorts with a bad lot of fellows down at Reigate. One of my
tenants--I won't mention names--complained to me that he had persecuted
his daughter with his attentions. They say, he was recognized among that
poaching gang that had an affray with Sir James Hartrop's keepers. The
thing is becoming a gross scandal.”
“I don't know what to do about him, Squire; the boy has always been a
trouble to me. You see, before you came home, he got into bad hands in
the village here. Of course they have all gone, but several of them only
moved as far as Reigate, and he kept up their acquaintance. I thrashed
him again and again, but he has got beyond that now, you see; he is
nearly eighteen, and openly scoffs at my authority. Upon my word, I
don't know what to do in the matter.”
“He is growing up a thorough young ruffian,” the Squire said
indignantly, “and one of these mornings I expect to see him brought up
before us charged with some serious offense. We had to fine him last
week for being drunk and making a disturbance down at Reigate. Why do
you let him have money? You may have no authority over him; but at least
you should refuse to open your purse to him. Don't you see that this
sort of thing is not only a disgrace to him, but very prejudicial to
the village? What authority can you have for speaking against vice and
drunkenness, when your son is constantly intoxicated?”
“I see that, Squire--none better; and I have thought of resigning my
cure.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Parson! If the young fellow persists in his present
course he must leave the village, that is clear enough; but that is no
reason why you should. The question is what is to be done with him? The
best thing he could do would be to enlist. He might be of some service
to his country, in India or the American Colonies, but so far as I can
see he is only qualifying himself for a jail here.”
“I have told him as much, Squire,” Mr. Bastow said, in a depressed
voice, “and he has simply laughed in my face, and said that he was very
comfortable where he was, and had no idea whatever of moving.”
“What time does he go out in the morning?” John Thorndyke asked
abruptly.
“He never gets up till twelve o'clock, and has his breakfast when I take
my dinner.”
“Well, I will come in tomorrow morning and have a talk with him myself.”
The next day the Squire rode up to the door of the Rectory soon after
one o'clock. Mr. Bastow had just finished his meal; his son, a young
fellow of between seventeen and eighteen, was lolling in an easy chair.
“I have come in principally to speak to you, young sir,” John Thorndyke
said quietly. “I have been asking your father what you intend to do with
yourself. He says he does not know.”
The young fellow looked up with an air of insolent effrontery.
“I don't know that it is any business of yours, Mr. Thorndyke, what I do
with myself.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” the Squire replied. “This village and the people in it
are mine. You are disturbing the village with your blackguard conduct;
you are annoying some of the girls on the estate, and altogether you are
making yourself a nuisance. I stopped at the alehouse as I came here,
and have ordered the landlord to draw no more liquor for you, and unless
you amend your conduct, and that quickly, I will have you out of the
village altogether.”
“I fancy, Mr. Thorndyke, that, even as a justice of the peace, you have
not the power to dictate to my father who shall be the occupant of this
house.”
“What you say is perfectly true; but as you make your father's life a
burden to him, and he is desirous of your absence, I can and will
order the village constable to remove you from his house by force, if
necessary.”
The young fellow cast an evil glance at his father. “He has not been
complaining, has he?” he said, with a sneer.
“He has not, sir,” John Thorndyke said indignantly. “It is I who have
been complaining to him, and he admits that you are altogether beyond
his authority. I have pointed out to him that he is in no way obliged
to support you at your age in idleness and dissipation, and that it were
best for him and all concerned that he should close his doors to you. I
don't want to have to send the son of my old friend to prison, but I can
see well enough that that is what it will come to if you don't give up
your evil courses. I should think you know by this time that I am a man
of my word. I have taken some pains to purge this village of all bad
characters, and I do not intend to have an exception made of the son of
the clergyman, who, in his family as well as in his own person, is bound
to set an example.”
“Well, Mr. Thorndyke, I utterly decline to obey your orders or to be
guided by your advice.”
“Very well, sir,” the magistrate said sternly. “Mr. Bastow, do I
understand that you desire that your son shall no longer remain an
inmate of your house?”
“I do,” the clergyman said firmly; “and if he does so I have no other
course before me but to resign my living; my position here has become
absolutely unbearable.”
“Very well, sir, then you will please lock your doors tonight, and if he
attempts to enter, I, as a magistrate, should know how to deal with
him. Now, young sir, you understand your position; you may not take my
advice, nevertheless, I shall give it you. The best thing you can do
is to take your place for town on the outside of the coach that comes
through Reigate this afternoon, and tomorrow morning proceed either to
the recruiting officer for His Majesty's service, or to that for the
East India Company's. You have health and strength, you will get rid at
once of your bad associates, and will start afresh in a life in which
you may redeem your past and be useful to your king and country.”
Young Bastow smiled.
“Thanks,” he said sarcastically. “I have my own plans, and shall follow
them.”
“I would think, Mr. Bastow,” the Squire said quietly, “it would just
be as well for you to come home with me. I don't think that the leave
taking is likely to be an affectionate one.”
The Rector rose at once.
“I will come with you, Squire. I may tell you now, what I have not told
you before, that my son has more than once raised his hand against me,
and that I do not care to be left alone with him.”
“I judged him capable even of that, Mr. Bastow.”
“Goodby, Arthur,” his father said. “My heart is ready to break that it
has come to this; but for both our sakes it is better so. Goodby, my
son, and may Heaven lead you to better ways! If ever you come to me and
say, 'Father, I have turned over a new leaf, and heartily repent the
trouble I have caused you,' you will receive a hearty welcome from me,
and no words of reproach for the past.”
The young man paid no attention to the offered hand, but laughed
scornfully.
“You have not got rid of me yet,” he said. “As for you, Squire
Thorndyke, I shall not forget your meddlesome interference, and some
day, maybe, you will be sorry for it.”
“I think not,” John Thorndyke said gravely. “I am doing my duty to the
village, and still more I am doing my duty to an old friend, and I am
not likely ever to feel any regret that I have so acted. Now, Parson,
let's be off.”
After leaving the house with the clergyman, the Squire stopped at the
house of Knapp, the village constable; and said a few words to him,
then, leading his horse, walked home with Mr. Bastow.
“Don't be cast down, old friend,” he said. “It is a terrible trial to
you; but it is one sharp wrench, and then it will be over. Anything is
better than what you must have been suffering for some time.”
“I quite feel that, Squire; my life has indeed been intolerable of late.
I had a painful time before, but always looked forward with hope to your
brother coming home. Since you returned, and matters in the parish have
been put straight, this trouble has come in to take the place of the
other, and I have felt that I would rather resign and beg for charity
than see my son going from bad to worse, a scandal to the parish, and a
hindrance to all good work.”
“It is a bad business, Bastow, and it seems to me that two or three
years in prison would be the best thing for him, as he will not take up
the only trade open to him. At any rate, it would separate him from his
evil associates, and give you peace while he is behind the bars. Where
does he get his money?”
“That I know not, Squire. He takes some from me--it used to be done
secretly, now it is done with threats, and, as I told you, with
violence--but that would not account for his always having money. He
must get it somewhere else, for when I have paid my bills, as I always
do the hour that I receive money, there is but little over for him
to take. He is often away all night, sometimes for two or three days
together, and I dare not think what he does with himself; but certainly
he gets money somehow, and I am afraid that I cannot hope it is honestly
obtained.”
“I do not well see how it can be,” the Squire agreed.
“If I had before known as much as you tell me now, I would have taken
some steps to have him watched, and to nip the matter before it went too
far. Do you think that he will take your notice, and come no more to the
house?”
Mr. Bastow shook his head.
“I fear that the only effect will be to make him worse, even when he was
quite a small boy punishment only had that effect with him. He will come
back tonight probably half drunk, and certainly furious at my having
ventured to lay the case before you.”
“You must lock the doors and bar the windows.”
“I did that when he first took to being out at night, but he always
managed to get in somehow.”
“Well, it must be all put a stop to, Bastow; and I will come back with
you this evening, and if this young rascal breaks into the house I will
have him down at Reigate tomorrow on the charge of house breaking; or,
at any rate, I will threaten to do so if he does not give a promise that
he will in future keep away from you altogether.”
“I shall be glad, at any rate, if you will come down, Squire, for, to
say the truth, I feel uneasy as to the steps he may take in his fury at
our conversation just now.”
John Thorndyke took down from a wall a heavy hunting whip, as he went
out with the parson at nine o'clock. He had in vain endeavored to cheer
his old friend as they sat over their steaming glasses of Jamaica. The
parson had never been a strong man; he was of a kindly disposition, and
an unwearied worker when there was an opportunity for work, but he had
always shrunk from unpleasantness, and was ready to yield rather than
bring about trouble. He had for a long time suffered in silence, and
had not the Squire himself approached the subject of his son's
delinquencies, he would have never opened his mouth about it. Now,
however, that he had done so, and the Squire had taken the matter in
hand, and had laid down what was to be done, though he trembled at the
prospect, he did not even think of opposing his plan, and indeed could
think of no alternative for it.
“I have told John Knapp to be here,” the Squire said, as they reached
the house. “It is just as well that he should be present if your son
comes back again. He is a quiet, trustworthy fellow, and will keep his
mouth shut if I tell him.”
Mr. Bastow made no reply. It was terrible to him that there should be
another witness to his son's conduct, but he saw that the Squire was
right. An old woman opened the door.
“Are all the shutters closed and barred?” John Thorndyke asked her.
“Yes, sir; I always sees to that as soon as it gets dark.”
“Very well; you can go to bed now, Elisa,” her master said. “Is John
Knapp here?”
“Yes, he came an hour ago, and is sitting in the kitchen.”
“I will call him in myself when I want to speak to him.”
As soon as the old servant had gone upstairs the Squire went into the
kitchen, Mr. Bastow having gone to the cellar to fetch up a bottle of
old brandy that was part of a two dozen case given to him by the old
Squire fifteen years before.
“Do you go round the house, John, and see that everything is properly
fastened up. I see that you have got a jug of beer there. You had better
get a couple of hours' sleep on that settle. I shall keep watch, till I
am sleepy, and then I will call you. Let me know if you find any of the
doors or windows unbarred.”
Five minutes later the constable knocked at the door of the parlor. “The
door opening into the stable yard was unbarred, Squire.”
“I thought it likely that it would be so, Knapp. You have made it fast
now, I suppose? That is right. Now lie down and get an hour or two of
sleep; it is scarce likely that he will be back until late.
“That was the old woman, of course,” he went on to his companion, when
the door closed behind the constable. “I thought it likely enough that
he might tell her to leave a way for him to come in. You told me that
she had been with you a good many years. I dare say she has left that
door unbarred for him many a time. I should advise you to get a man to
sleep in the house regularly; there are plenty of fellows who will be
glad to do it for a shilling or two a week, and I do not think that it
is safe for you to be here alone.”
An hour later he said to the Rector: “Now, Bastow, you had best go
to bed. I have taken the matter into my own hands, and will carry
it through. However, I won't have him taken away without your being
present, and will call you when we want you. Of course, if he will give
a solemn promise not to molest you, and, even if he won't enlist, to
leave this part of the country altogether, I shall let him off.”
“There is one thing, Mr. Thorndyke, that I have not told you,” the
Rector said hesitatingly. “Sometimes, when he comes home late, he brings
someone with him; I have heard voices downstairs. I have never seen who
it was--for what could I have done if I went down?--but I have heard
horses brought round to the stable yard, and heard them ride away:”
“It is just as well you told me,” the Squire said dryly. “If you had
told me this evening at the house, I would have dropped a brace of
pistols into my pocket. However, this hunting crop is a good weapon;
but I don't suppose they will show fight, even if anyone is with him.
Besides, Knapp has a stout oaken cudgel with him--I noticed it standing
against his chair as I went in--and as he is a strong active fellow, and
we shall have the advantage of a surprise, I fancy we should be a match
even for three or four of them.”
At one o'clock the Squire roused John Knapp. “It is one o'clock, John;
now take off your boots. I don't want him to know that there is anyone
in the house till we get hold of him. I am going to lie down on the sofa
in the parlor. The moment you hear footsteps you come and wake me.”
The clock in the kitchen had just struck two when the constable shook
John Thorndyke. “There are two horses just coming into the yard.”
“All right. I opened a window in the room looking down into the yard
before I lay down. I will go up and see what they are going to do. If
they try to break in anywhere down here, do you come at once quietly up
to me.”
The Squire had taken off his boots before he lay down, and, holding his
heavy hunting crop in his hand, he went quietly upstairs. As he went to
the window he heard Arthur Bastow say angrily:
“Confound the old woman! she has locked the door; she has never played
me that trick before. There is a ladder in the stable, and I will get in
at that window up there and open it for you. Or you may as well come up
that way, too, and then you can stow the things away in my room at once,
and have done with it.”
The Squire went hastily down.
“Come upstairs, Knapp,” he whispered to the constable. “There are three
of them, and I fancy the two mounted men are highwaymen. Let them all
get in, keeping yourself well back from the window. The moon is round on
the other side of the house, but it will be light enough for us to see
them as they get in. I will take the last fellow, and I will warrant
that he will give no trouble; then I will fall upon the second, and do
you spring on young Bastow. The two highwaymen are sure to have pistols,
and he may have some also. Give him a clip with that cudgel of yours
first, then spring on him, and hold his arms tightly by his side. If I
call you give him a back heel and throw him smartly, and then come to
my aid. I don't think I shall want it, but it is as well to prepare for
everything.”
They went upstairs and took their places, one on each side of the
window, standing three or four feet back. Just as they took up their
positions the top of the stable ladder appeared above the sill of the
window. Half a minute later young Bastow's head appeared, and he threw
up the sash still higher, and stepped into the room; then he turned and
helped two men in, one after the other.
“Follow me,” he said, “then you won't tumble over the furniture.”
As they turned, the heavy handle of John's Thorndyke's whip fell with
tremendous force on the head of the last man.
“What the devil is that?” the other exclaimed, snatching out a pistol
and turning round, as the falling body struck him, but he got no
further. Again the heavy whip descended, this time on his right arm;
it dropped useless by his side, and the pistol fell from his hand. Then
John Thorndyke fell upon him and bore him to the ground, snatched the
other pistol from his belt, and held it to his head.
“Now, my man,” he said quietly, “if you don't surrender I will blow out
your brains.”
“I surrender,” the man moaned. “I believe that you have broken my arm.
Curse you, whoever you are.”
The struggle between John Knapp and young Bastow was soon over.
The young fellow was lithe and sinewy, but he was no match for the
constable, who, indeed, had almost overpowered him before he was aware
what had happened.
“Has he got pistols, Knapp?” the Squire asked.
“Yes, sir, a brace of them; I have got them both safely in my pocket.
There,” he went on, as a sharp click was heard, “I have got the darbys
on him. Now shall I help you, sir?”
“You had better run downstairs first and light a couple of candles at
the kitchen fire: you will find a pair standing on the parlor table.
Don't be long about it; the first fellow I hit was stunned, and he may
come round any moment.”
“I will make sure of him before I go, Squire. I have got another pair of
darbys in my pocket.”
As soon as he had fastened these upon the wrists of the insensible man
he ran downstairs, and in a minute returned with the candles.
“I am glad that you are back,” the Squire said. “I was afraid that young
rascal would try to escape.”
“I took good care of that, Squire; you see I put one of his arms round
the bedpost before I slipped the darbys on, and he cannot get away
unless he takes the whole bed with him; and as I don't think he would
get it out either by the window or the door, he is as safe here as he
would be in Newgate. What is the next thing to do, Squire?”
“You had better tie this fellow's legs. I will leave you a candle here,
and you can keep guard over them while I go and wake Mr. Bastow.”
The Rector needed no waking; he was walking up and down his room in
great distress. He had not undressed, but had thrown himself upon his
bed.
“What has happened, Thorndyke?” he asked as the Squire entered. “I heard
two heavy falls, and I felt that something terrible had taken place.”
“Well, it has been a serious matter--very serious. That unfortunate
son of yours is not hurt, but I don't know but that the best thing that
could have happened would have been for him to have got a bullet through
his head. He brought home with him two men who are, I have little doubt,
highwaymen; anyhow, they each had a brace of pistols in their belt, and
from what he said I think they have been stopping a coach. At any rate,
they have something with them that they were going to hide here, and
I fancy it is not the first time that it has been done. I don't expect
your son had anything to do with the robbery, though he was carrying a
brace of pistols, too; however, we have got them all three.
“Now, you see, Bastow, this takes the affair altogether out of our
hands. I had hoped that when we caught your son in the act of breaking
into your house after you had ordered him from it, we should be able to
frighten him into enlisting, or, at any rate, into promising to disturb
you no more, for even if we had taken him before the bench, nothing
could have been done to him, for under such circumstances his
re-entering the house could not be looked upon as an act of burglary. As
it is, the affair is altogether changed. Even if I wished to do so, as a
magistrate I could not release those two highwaymen; they must appear as
prisoners in court. I shall hear down in the town tomorrow morning what
coach has been stopped, and I have no doubt that they have on them the
proceeds of the robbery. Your son was consorting with and aiding them,
and acting as a receiver of stolen goods, and as you have heard horses
here before it is probable that when his room is thoroughly searched we
shall come upon a number of articles of the same sort. I am sorry that
I ever meddled in the matter; but it is too late for that now. You had
better come downstairs with me, and we will take a turn in the garden,
and try to see what had best be done.”
CHAPTER III.
John Thorndyke opened the shutters of the parlor window, and stepped out
into the garden alone, for the Rector was too unnerved and shattered to
go out with him, but threw himself on the sofa, completely prostrated.
Half an hour later the Squire re-entered the room. The morning was just
beginning to break. Mr. Bastow raised his head and looked sadly at him.
“I can see no way out of it, old friend. Were it not that he is in
charge of the constable, I should have said that your only course was
to aid your son to escape; but Knapp is a shrewd fellow as well as
an honest one. You cannot possibly get your son away without his
assistance, for he is handcuffed to the bed, and Knapp, in so serious a
matter as this, would not, I am sure, lend himself to an escape. I have
no doubt that with my influence with the other magistrates, and, indeed,
on the circumstances of the case, they will commit him on a minor charge
only, as the passengers of the coach will, I hope, give evidence that it
was stopped by mounted men alone. I think, therefore, that he would
only be charged with consorting with and aiding the highwaymen after the
event, and of aiding them to conceal stolen goods--that is, if any are
found in his room.
“That much stolen property has been hidden there, there is little reason
to doubt, but it may have been removed shortly afterwards. It was, of
course, very convenient for them to have some place where they could
take things at once, and then ride on quietly to London the next day,
for, if arrested; nothing would be found upon them, and it would be
impossible to connect them with the robbery. Later on they might come
back again and get them from him. Of course, if nothing is found in his
room, we get rid of the charge of receiving altogether, and there would
be nothing but harboring, aiding, and abetting--a much less serious
business. Look here, old friend, I will strain a point. I will go out
into the garden again and walk about for an hour, and while I am out, if
you should take advantage of my absence to creep up to your son's room
and to search it thoroughly, examining every board of the floor to see
if it is loose, and should you find anything concealed, to take it and
hide it, of course I cannot help it. The things, if there are any, might
secretly be packed up by you in a box and sent up to Bow Street, with a
line inside, saying that they are proceeds of robbery, and that you hope
the owners will be traced and their property restored to them. Not, of
course, in your own hand, and without a signature. There might be some
little trouble in managing it, but it could, no doubt, be done.”
John Thorndyke went out into the garden without another word. The hour
was nearly up when Mr. Bastow came out; he looked ten years older than
he had done on the previous day. He wrung his friend's hand.
“Thank God I have been up there,” he said. “I do not think they will
find anything.”
“Say nothing about it, Bastow; I don't want to know whether you found
anything. Now I am going to fetch two or three of the men from the
village, to get them to aid the constable in keeping guard, and another
to go up to the house at once and order a groom to saddle one of my
horses and bring it here.”
As it was now past five o'clock, and the Squire found most of the men
getting up, he sent one off to the house with the message, and returned
with two others to the Rectory. He told them briefly that two highwaymen
had been arrested during the night, and that as young Mr. Bastow was in
their company at the time, it had been necessary as a matter of form to
arrest him also. He went upstairs with them.
“I have brought up two men to sit with you, Knapp, until the Reigate
constables come up. You can take those handcuffs off Mr. Bastow, but
see that he does not leave the room, and do you yourself sit in a chair
against the door, and place one of these men at the window. How about
others?”
“The man you hit first, Squire, did not move until a quarter of an hour
ago; he has been muttering to himself since, but I don't think he is
sensible. The other one has been quiet enough, but there is no doubt
that his arm is broken.”
“I am going to ride down to Reigate at once, and will bring back a
surgeon with me.”
“You will repent this night's business, Thorndyke!” Arthur Bastow said
threateningly.
“I fancy that you will repent it more than I shall, Bastow; it is likely
that you will have plenty of time to do so.”
It was not long before the groom with the horse arrived. John Thorndyke
rode at a gallop down to Reigate, and first called on the head
constable.
“Dawney,” he said, as the man came down, partially dressed, at his
summons, “has anything taken place during the night?”
“Yes, Squire, the up coach was stopped a mile before it got here, and
the passengers robbed. It was due here at one, and did not come in till
half an hour later. Of course I was sent for. The guard was shot. There
were two of the fellows. He let fly with his blunderbuss, but he does
not seem to have hit either of them, and one rode up and shot him dead;
then they robbed all the passengers. They got six gold watches, some
rings, and, adding up the amounts taken from all the passengers, about a
hundred and fifty pounds in money.”
“Well, I fancy I have got your two highwaymen safe, _Dawney_.”
“You have, sir?” the constable said in astonishment.
“Yes. I happened to be at the Rectory. Mr. Bastow had had a quarrel with
his son, and had forbidden him the house.”
The constable shook his head. “I am afraid he is a very bad one, that
young chap.”
“I am afraid he is, Dawney. However, his father was afraid that he might
come in during the night and make a scene, so I said I would stop with
him, and I took our village constable with me. At two o'clock this
morning the young fellow came with two mounted men, who, I have no
doubt, were highwaymen. We had locked up down below. Bastow took a
ladder, and the three got in at a bedroom window on the first floor.
Knapp and I were waiting for them there, and, taking them by surprise,
succeeded in capturing them before the highwaymen could use their
pistols. The constable and two men are looking after them, but as one
has not got over a knock I gave him on the head, and the other has a
broken arm, there is little fear of their making their escape. You had
better go up with two of your men, and take a light cart with you with
some straw in the bottom, and bring them all down here. I will ride
round myself to Mr. Chetwynde, Sir Charles Harris, and Mr. Merchison,
and we will sit at twelve o'clock. You can send round a constable with
the usual letters to the others, but those three will be quite enough
for the preliminary examination.”
“Well, Squire, that is good news indeed. We have had the coach held up
so often within five miles of this place during the past three months,
that we have been getting quite a bad name. And to think that young
Bastow was in it! I have heard some queer stories about him, and fancied
before long I should have to put my hand upon his shoulder; but I didn't
expect this.”
“There is not a shadow of proof that he had anything to do with the
robbery, Dawney, but he will have difficulty in proving that he did not
afterwards abet them. It is serious enough as it is, and I am terribly
grieved for his father's sake.”
“Yes, sir; I have always heard him spoken of as a kind gentleman, and
one who took a lot of trouble whenever anyone was sick. Well, sir, I
will be off in twenty minutes. I will run round at once and send Dr.
Hewett up to the Rectory, and a man shall start on horseback at seven
o'clock with the summons to the other magistrates.”
John Thorndyke rode round to his three fellow magistrates, who, living
nearest to the town, were most regular in their attendance at the
meetings. They all listened in surprise to his narrative, and expressed
great pleasure at hearing that the men who had been such a pest to
the neighborhood, and had caused them all personally a great deal of
trouble, had been captured. All had heard tales, too, to Arthur Bastow's
disadvantage, and expressed great commiseration for his father. They
agreed to meet at the court half an hour before business began, to talk
the matter over together.
“It is out of the question that we can release him on bail,” the
gentleman who was chairman of the bench said. “Quite so,” John Thorndyke
agreed. “In the first place, the matter is too serious; and in the
next, he certainly would not be able to find bail; and lastly, for his
father's sake, it is unadvisable that he should be let out. At the same
time, it appears to me that there is a broad distinction between his
case and the others. I fear that there can be no question that he had
prior acquaintance with these men, and that he was cognizant of the
whole business; something I heard him say, and which, to my regret, I
shall have to repeat in court, almost proves that he was so. Still, let
us hope none of the stolen property will be found upon him; whether they
had intended to pass it over to his care or not is immaterial. If they
had not done so, I doubt whether he could be charged with receiving
stolen goods, and we might make the charge simply one of aiding these
two criminals, and of being so far an accessory after the crime.
“If we could soften it down still further I should, for his father's
sake, be glad; but as far as he himself is concerned, I would do nothing
to lighten his punishment. He is about as bad a specimen of human nature
as I ever came across. His father is in bodily fear of him. I saw the
young fellow yesterday, and urged him to enlist, in order to break
himself loose from the bad companionship he had fallen into. His reply
was insolent and defiant in the highest degree, and it was then that in
his father's name I forbade him the house, and as his father was present
he confirmed what I said, and told him that he would not have anything
more to do with him. This affair may do him good, and save his neck from
a noose. A few years at the hulks or a passage to Botany Bay will do him
no harm; and, at any rate, his father will have rest and peace, which he
never would have if he remained here.”
A somewhat similar conversation took place at each house. John Thorndyke
breakfasted at Sir Charles Harris', the last of the three upon whom he
called, and then mounting rode back to Reigate.
“We have found the plunder on them,” the head constable said, coming
out of the lockup as he drew rein before it, “and, fortunately for young
Bastow, nothing was found upon him.”
“How are the two men?”
“The fellow you hit first is conscious now, sir, but very weak. The
doctor says that if he hadn't had a thick hat on, your blow would have
killed him to a certainty. The other man's arm is set and bandaged, and
he is all right otherwise. We shall be able to have them both in court
at twelve o'clock.”
The Squire rode up to his house. He was met at the door by his son, in a
state of great excitement.
“Is it all true, father? The news has come from the village that you
have killed two men, and that they and Arthur Bastow have all been taken
away in a cart, guarded by constables.”
“As usual, Mark, rumor has exaggerated matters. There are no dead men;
one certainly got a crack on the head that rendered him insensible for
some time, and another's arm is broken.”
“And are they highwaymen, father? They say that two horses were fastened
behind the cart.”
“That is what we are going to try, Mark. Until their guilt is proved, no
one knows whether they are highwaymen or not.”
“And why is Arthur Bastow taken, father?”
“Simply because he was in company with the others. Now, you need not ask
any more questions, but if you like to get your pony saddled and ride
down with me to Reigate at eleven o'clock, I will get you into the
courthouse, and then you will hear all about it.”
At greater length the Squire went into the matter with Mrs. Cunningham,
his lady housekeeper, and his ward's governess.
“It is a bad business, Mr. Thorndyke,” she said, “and must be terrible
for poor Mr. Bastow.”
“Yes, it is a bad business altogether, except that it will rid him of
this young rascal. If I were in his place I should be ready to suffer a
good deal to obtain such a riddance.”
“I suppose that you won't sit upon the bench today?”
“No; at least I shall take no part in the deliberations. I shall, of
course, give evidence. The affair is not likely to last very long; my
story will take the longest to tell. Knapp's will be confirmatory of
mine, and the Reigate constable will depose to finding the watches,
rings, and money upon them; then, of course, the case will be adjourned
for the attendance of the coachman and some of the passengers. I don't
suppose they will be able to swear to their identity, for no doubt
they were masked. But that is immaterial; the discovery of the stolen
property upon them will be sufficient to hang them. No doubt we shall
have some Bow Streets runners down from town tomorrow or next day, and
they will most likely be able to say who the fellows are.”
“Will Mr. Bastow have to give evidence against his son?”
“Not before us, I think; but I imagine he will have to appear at the
trial.”
“It will be terrible for him.”
“Yes, terrible. I sincerely hope that they will not summon him, but I am
afraid that there is very little doubt about it; they are sure to want
to know about his son's general conduct, though possibly the testimony
on that point of the constable at Reigate will be sufficient. My own
hope is that he will get a long sentence; at any rate, one long enough
to insure his not coming back during his father's lifetime. If you had
seen his manner when we were talking to him yesterday, you would believe
that he is capable of anything. I have had a good many bad characters
before me during the year and a half that I have sat upon the bench, but
I am bound to say that I never saw one who was to my eyes so thoroughly
evil as this young fellow. I don't think,” he added with a smile, “that
I should feel quite comfortable myself if he were acquitted; it will
be a long time before I shall forget the expression of his face when
he said to me this morning, 'You will repent this night's work,
Thorndyke.'”
“You don't mean that you think he would do you any harm, Mr. Thorndyke?”
“Well, I should not care to meet him in a lonely place if he was armed
and I was not. But you need not be nervous, Mrs. Cunningham, there is
not the smallest chance of his being out for years; and by that time his
blood will have had time to cool down, and he will have learnt, at any
rate, that crimes cannot be committed in this country with impunity.”
“It is all very shocking,” the lady said. “What will poor Mr. Bastow do?
I should think that he would not like to remain as clergyman here, where
everyone knows about it.”
“That must be for him to decide,” the Squire said; “but if he wishes to
resign I certainly shall not press him to continue to hold the living.
He is a very old friend of mine. My father presented the living to him
when I was nine or ten years old, and I may say I saw him daily up to
the time when I went down into Sussex. If he resigns I should urge him
to take up his residence here and to act as Mark's tutor; and he might
also relieve you of some of Millicent's lessons. You have plenty to do
in looking after the management of things in general. However, that is
for the future.”
At eleven o'clock the Squire drove down to Reigate, taking Mark with
him, as it would save all trouble about putting up the horse and pony.
On arriving he handed Mark over to the head constable, and asked him to
pass him into a seat in the courthouse, before the public were let in.
Reigate was in a state of unusual excitement. That the coach should have
been stopped and robbed was too common an event to excite much interest,
but that two highwaymen should have been captured, and, as was rumored,
a young gentleman brought in on a charge of being in connection with
them, caused a thrill of excitement. Quite a small crowd was assembled
before the courthouse, and the name of Squire Thorndyke passed from
mouth to mouth.
“There is some talk of his being mixed up with it in some way or other,”
one said. “I saw him myself ride in here, about half past five, and
I wondered he was about so early. Some do say as he caught the two
highwaymen single handed; but that don't stand to reason. Besides,
what could he have been doing out at such an hour as that? He is a good
landlord, and they say that Crowswood has been quite a different place
since he came to be master. He is a tight hand as a magistrate, and
cleared out half the village the first two or three months he was there;
but he spent a mint of money on the place, and the people there say that
they could not have a better master. Ah, here is Squire Chetwynd. He was
sure to be here. There is Sir Charles' gig turning the corner. I expect
most of them will be on the bench; they don't get such a case as this
every day.”
“It may be there will be nothing for us to hear when the court opens,”
another said. “I hear both the fellows have been shot or knocked about
so bad that they cannot be brought up. Of course the court cannot sit if
they aint before it.”
“That is not so, Master Jones. I spoke to one of the constables half an
hour ago--he lives next door to me--and he said that they would be well
enough to appear. Neither of them have been shot, though they have been
hurt pretty bad.”
All this added to the desire of those around to get into the court, and
there was quite a rush when the doors were opened two minutes before
twelve, and it was at once crammed, the constable having some difficulty
in getting the doors shut, and in persuading those who could not get in
that there was not standing room for another person. There was a buzz of
talk in court until the door opened and six magistrates came in. It was
observed that John Thorndyke did not seat himself with the others, but
moved his chair a little apart from them, thus confirming the report
that he was in some way connected with the matter, and did not intend to
take any part in the decision. Then another door opened, and the three
prisoners were brought in. The two first were pale and evidently weak;
one had his head wrapped in bandages, the other had the right sleeve of
his coat cut off, and his arm bandaged and supported by a sling. Both
made a resolute effort to preserve a careless demeanor. The third, who
was some years younger than the others, looked round with a smile on his
lips, bowed to the magistrates with an air of insolent bravado when
he was placed in the dock, and then leaned easily in the corner, as
if indifferent to the whole business. A chair was placed between his
comrades for the use of the man whose head was bandaged. Many among
those present knew Arthur Bastow by sight, and his name passed from
mouth to mouth; but the usher called loudly for silence, and then the
magistrates' clerk rose.
“William Smith and John Brown--at least, these are the names given--are
charged with stopping the South Coast coach last night, killing the
guard, and robbing the passengers; and Arthur Bastow is charged with
aiding and abetting the other two prisoners, and with guilty knowledge
of their crime.”
It was noticed by those who could see the prisoners' faces that, in
spite of Bastow's air of indifference, there was an expression of
anxiety on his face as the charge was read, and he undoubtedly felt
relief as that against himself was mentioned. The first witness was John
Knapp, and the constable stepped into the witness box.
“What do you know of this business, Knapp?” the chairman asked. “Just
tell it your own way.”
“I am constable of Crowswood, your honor, and yesterday Squire Thorndyke
said to me--”
“No, you must not tell it like that, Knapp; you must not repeat what
another person said to you. You can say that from information received
you did so and so.”
“Yes, your honor. From information received I went to the Rev. Mr.
Bastow's house, at a quarter to nine last night. At nine o'clock Squire
Thorndyke and the Parson came in together. They sent the servant up to
bed, and then the Squire sent me round to examine the fastenings of the
doors. I found that one back door had been left unfastened, and locked
and bolted it. The Squire told me to lie down until one o'clock, and he
would watch, and Mr. Bastow went up to bed.”
“Do you know of your own knowledge why these precautions were taken?”
“Only from what I was told, your honor. At one o'clock the Squire woke
me, and he lay down in the parlor, telling me to call him if I heard
any movement outside. About two o'clock I heard two horses come into the
Parson's yard. I called Squire Thorndyke, who went upstairs to an open
window; presently someone came and tried the back door. I heard voices
outside, but could not hear what was said. The Squire came down and
called me upstairs. I went up and took my place at one side of the
window, and the Squire took his on the other. I had this cudgel in my
hand, and the Squire his riding whip. A ladder was put up against the
window, and then someone came up, lifted the sash up high and got in.
There was light enough for me to see it was young Mr. Bastow. Then the
two other prisoners came up. When the third had got into the room Mr.
Bastow said, 'Follow me, and then you won't tumble over the furniture.'”
“How was it that they did not see you and Mr. Thorndyke?” the chairman
asked.
“We were standing well back, your honor. The moon was on the other side
of the house. There was light enough for us to see them as they got in
at the window, but where we were standing it was quite dark, especially
to chaps who had just come in from the moonlight. As they moved, the
Squire hit the last of them a clout on the head with his hunting crop,
and down he went, as if shot. The man next to him turned, but I did not
see what took place, for, as the Squire had ordered me, I made a rush at
Mr. Bastow and got my arms round him pretty tight, so as to prevent him
using his pistols, if he had any. He struggled hard, but without saying
a word, till I got my heel behind his and threw him on his back. I came
down on the top of him; then I got the pistols out of his belt and threw
them on the bed, slipped the handcuffs onto one wrist, lifted him up a
bit, and then shoved him up against the bedpost, and got the handcuff
onto his other wrist, so that he could not shift away, having the post
in between his arms.
“Then I went to see if the Squire wanted any help, but he didn't. I
first handcuffed the man whose head he had broken, and tied the legs
of the other, and then kept guard over them till morning. When the
constables came up from town we searched the prisoners, and on two
of them found the watches, money, and rings. We found nothing on Mr.
Bastow. I went with the head constable to Mr. Bastow's room and searched
it thoroughly, but found nothing whatever there.”
The evidence created a great sensation in court. John Thorndyke had
first intended to ask Knapp not to make any mention of the fact that
Arthur Bastow was carrying pistols unless the question was directly put
to him. But the more he had thought over the matter, the more convinced
was he that the heavier the sentence the better it would be for the
Rector; and when he had heard from the latter that there was nothing
left in his son's room that could be brought against him, and that he
could not be charged with the capital crime of being a receiver, he
thought it best to let matters take their course.
The head constable was the next witness. He deposed to the finding of
the articles produced upon the two elder prisoners and the unsuccessful
search of the younger prisoner's room.
“You did not search the house further?” the chairman inquired.
“No, sir; I wanted to get the prisoners down here as fast as I could,
seeing that two of them were seriously hurt.”
The chairman nodded.
“You will, of course, make a careful search of the whole house,
constable.”
“Yes, sir; I left one of my men up there with instructions to allow no
one to go upstairs until I returned.”
“Quite right.”
John Thorndyke was the next witness, and his evidence cleared up what
had hitherto been a mystery to the general body of the public, as to
how he and the constable happened to be in the house on watch when the
highwaymen arrived. The most important part of his evidence was the
repetition of the words young Bastow had used as he mounted the ladder,
as they showed that it was arranged between the prisoners that the
stolen goods should be hidden in the house. The Squire was only asked
one or two questions.
“I suppose, Mr. Thorndyke, that you had no idea whatever that the
younger prisoner would be accompanied by anyone else when he returned
home?”
“Not the slightest,” the Squire replied. “I was there simply to prevent
this unfortunate lad from entering the house, when perhaps he might have
used violence towards his father. My intention was to seize him if he
did so, and to give him the choice of enlisting, as I had urged him to
do, or of being brought before this bench for breaking into his father's
house. I felt that anything was better than his continuing in the evil
courses on which he seemed bent.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thorndyke. I must compliment you in the name of my
brother magistrates, and I may say of the public, for the manner in
which you, at considerable risk to yourself, have effected the capture
of the two elder prisoners.”
After consulting with the others the head constable was recalled.
“Do you know anything about the character of the youngest prisoner?”
“Yes, sir. We have had our eye upon him for some time. He was brought
before your honors a week ago charged with being drunk and disorderly in
this town, and was fined 5 pounds. He is constantly drinking with some
of the worst characters in the place, and is strongly suspected of
having been concerned in the fray between the poachers and Sir Charles
Harris' gamekeepers. Two of the latter said that they recognized him
amongst the poachers, but as they both declined to swear to him we did
not arrest him.”
John Knapp was then recalled, and testified to Bastow's drinking habits,
and that the landlord of the alehouse at Crowswood had been ordered by
the Squire not to draw any liquor for him in future on pain of having
the renewal of his license refused.
“Have you any more witnesses to call?” the chairman asked the head
constable.
“Not at present, your honor. We have sent up to town, and on the next
occasion the coachman will be called to testify to the shooting of the
guard, and we hope to have some of the passengers there to identify the
articles stolen from them.”
“It will be necessary that the Rev. Mr. Bastow should be here. He need
not be called to give evidence unless we think it to be of importance,
but he had better be in attendance. The prisoners are remanded until
this day week.”
An hour later the three prisoners, handcuffed, were driven under an
escort of three armed constables to Croydon Jail. When again brought up
in court the passengers on the coach identified the articles taken from
them; the coachman gave evidence of the stopping of the coach, and of
the shooting of the guard. The head constable testified that he had
searched the Rectory from top to bottom, and found nothing whatever of
a suspicious nature. None of the passengers were able to testify to the
two elder prisoners as the men who had robbed them, as these had been
masked, but the height and dress corresponded to those of the prisoners;
and the two Bow Street runners then came forward, and gave evidence
that the two elder prisoners were well known to them. They had long been
suspected of being highwaymen, and had several times been arrested when
riding towards London on occasions when a coach had been stopped the
night before, but no stolen goods had ever been found upon them, and in
no case had the passengers been able to swear to their identity. One was
known among his associates as “Galloping Bill,” the other as the
“Downy One.” At the conclusion of the evidence the three prisoners
were formally committed for trial, the magistrates having retired in
consultation for some time upon the question of whether the charge of
receiving stolen goods ought to be made against Arthur Bastow.
“I think, gentlemen,” the chairman said, after a good deal had been
urged on both sides of the question, “in this case we can afford to take
a merciful view. In the first place, no stolen goods were discovered
upon him or in the house. There is strong presumptive evidence of his
intention, but intention is not a crime, and even were the evidence
stronger than it is, I should be inclined to take a merciful view. There
can be no doubt that the young fellow is thoroughly bad, and the bravado
he has exhibited throughout the hearing is at once unbecoming and
disgraceful; but we must remember that he is not yet eighteen, and that,
in the second place, he is the son of a much respected clergyman, who is
our neighbor. The matter is serious enough for him as it stands, and he
is certain to have a very heavy sentence.
“Mr. Thorndyke, who takes no part in our deliberations, is most anxious
that the prisoner's father should be spared the agony of his son being
placed on trial on a capital charge, though I do not think that there
would be the smallest chance of his being executed, for the judges would
be certain to take his youth into consideration. Had there been prima
facie evidence of concealment, we must have done our duty and sent him
to trial on that charge; but as there is no such evidence, I think that
it will be in all respects better to send him on a charge on which the
evidence is as clear as noonday. Moreover, I think that Mr. Thorndyke's
wishes should have some weight with us, seeing that it is entirely due
to him that the important capture of these highwaymen, who have long
been a scourge to this neighborhood, has been effected.”
Mr. Bastow had not been called as a witness. John Thorndyke had brought
him down to Reigate in a closed carriage, and he had waited in the
justices' room while the examination went on; but the magistrates agreed
that the evidence given was amply sufficient for them to commit upon
without given him the pain of appearing. John Thorndyke had taken him to
another room while the magistrates were consulting together, and when he
heard the result drove him back again.
“I have fully made up my mind to resign my living, Thorndyke. I could
not stand up and preach to the villagers of their duties when I myself
have failed so signally in training my own son; nor visit their houses
and presume to lecture them on their shortcomings when my son is a
convicted criminal.”
“I quite see that, old friend,” the Squire said. “And I had no doubt but
that you would decide on this course. I will try not to persuade you to
change your decision, for I feel that your power of usefulness is at an
end as far as the village is concerned. May I ask what you propose to
do? I can hardly suppose that your savings have been large.”
“Two years ago I had some hundreds laid by, but they have dwindled away
to nothing; you can understand how. For a time it was given freely, then
reluctantly; then I declared I would give no more, but he took it all
the same--he knew well enough that I could never prosecute him for
forgery.”
“As bad as that, eh?” Thorndyke said sternly. “Well, we won't talk
further of him now; what I propose is that you should take up your abode
at the Hall. I am not satisfied with the school where Mark has been for
the last two years, and I have been hesitating whether to get a private
tutor for him or to send him to one of the public schools. I know that
that would be best, but I could not bring myself to do so. I have some
troubles of my own that but two or three people know of, and now, that
everything is going on smoothly on the estate and in the village, I
often feel dull, and the boy's companionship does me much good; and as
he knows many lads of his own age in the neighborhood now, I think that
he would do just as well at home.
“He will be taking to shooting and hunting before long, and if he is
to have a tutor, there is no one I should like to have better than
yourself. You know all the people, and we could talk comfortably
together of an evening when the house is quiet. Altogether, it will be
an excellent arrangement for me. You would have your own room, and if I
have company you need not join us unless you like. The house would not
seem like itself without you, for you have been associated with it as
long as I can remember. As to your going out into the world at the age
of sixty, it would be little short of madness. There--you need not give
me an answer now,” he went on, seeing that the Rector was too broken
down to speak; “but I am sure that when you think it over you will come
to the same conclusion as I do, that it will be the best plan possible
for us both.”
CHAPTER IV.
The trial of the two highwaymen and Arthur Bastow came off in due
course. The evidence given was similar to that offered at Reigate, the
only addition being that Mr. Bastow was himself put into the box. The
counsel for the prosecution said: “I am sorry to have to call you, Mr.
Bastow. We all feel most deeply for you, and I will ask you only two or
three questions. Was your son frequently out at night?”
“He was.”
“Did you often hear him return?”
“Yes; I seldom went to sleep until he came back.”
“Had you any reason to suppose that others returned with him?”
“I never saw any others.”
“But you might have heard them without seeing them. Please tell us if
you ever heard voices.”
“Yes, I have heard men's voices,” the clergyman said reluctantly, in a
low voice.
“One more question, and I have done. Have you on some occasions heard
the sound of horses' hoofs in your yard at about the time that your son
came in?”
Mr. Bastow said in a low voice: “I have.”
“Had you any suspicion whatever of the character of your son's
visitors?”
“None whatever. I supposed that those with him were companions with whom
he had been spending the evening.”
Mr. Bastow had to be assisted from the witness box, so overcome was
he with the ordeal. He had not glanced at his son while giving his
evidence. The latter and his two fellow prisoners maintained throughout
the trial their expression of indifference. The two highwaymen nodded
to acquaintances they saw in the body of the court, smiled at various
points in the evidence, and so conducted themselves that there were
murmured exclamations of approval of their gameness on the part of the
lower class of the public. The jury, without a moment's hesitation,
found them all guilty of the offenses with which they were charged.
Bastow was first sentenced.
“Young man,” the judge said, “young as you are, there can be no doubt
whatever in the minds of anyone who has heard the evidence that you have
been an associate with these men who have been found guilty of highway
robbery accompanied by murder. I consider that a merciful view was taken
of your case by the magistrates who committed you for trial, for the
evidence of your heartbroken father, on whose gray hairs your conduct
has brought trouble and disgrace, leaves no doubt that you have for some
time been in league with highwaymen, although not actually participating
in their crime. The words overheard by Mr. Thorndyke show that you were
prepared to hide their booty for them, and it is well for you that
you were captured before this was done, and that no proceeds of other
robberies were found in the house. The evidence of the Bow Street
officers show that it had for some time been suspected that these men
had an accomplice somewhere in the neighborhood of Reigate, for although
arrested several times under circumstances forming a strong assumption
of their guilt, nothing was ever found upon them. There can now be
little, doubt who their accomplice was. Had you been an older man
I should have sentenced you to transportation for life, but in
consideration of your youth, I shall take the milder course of
sentencing you to fifteen years' transportation.”
The capital sentence was then passed in much fewer words upon the two
highwaymen. As they were leaving the dock Bastow turned, and in a clear
voice said to John Thorndyke, who had been accommodated with a seat in
the well of the court:
“I have to thank you, Thorndyke, for this. I will pay off my debt some
day, you make take your oath.”
“A sad case, Mr. Thorndyke--a sad case,” the judge, who had greatly
complimented the Squire on his conduct, said to him as he was disrobing
afterwards. “I don't know that in all my experience I ever saw such a
hardened young villain. With highwaymen it is a point of honor to assume
a gayety of demeanor on such occasions; but to see a boy of eighteen,
never before convicted, exhibiting such coolness and effrontery is quite
beyond my experience. I suppose his record is altogether bad?”
“Altogether,” the Squire said. “His father has, during the last two
years, been quite broken by it; he owned to me that he was in bodily
fear of the lad, who had on several occasions assaulted him, had robbed
him of his savings by means of forgery, and was so hopelessly bad that
he himself thought with me that the only possible hope for him was
to get him to enlist. I myself recommended the East India Company's
service, thinking that he would have less opportunity for crime out
there, and that there would be a strong chance that either fever or a
bullet would carry him off, for I own that I have not the slightest hope
of reformation in such a character.”
“I would have given him transportation for life if I had known all
this,” the judge said. “However, it is not likely that he will ever
come back again--very few of them do; the hulks are not the most healthy
places in the world, and they have a pretty rough way with men who give
them trouble, as this young fellow is likely to do.”
Mr. Bastow, as soon as he had given his evidence, had taken a hackney
coach to the inn where he and the Squire had put up on their arrival in
town the evening before, and here, on his return, John Thorndyke found
him. He was lying on his bed in a state of prostration.
“Cheer up, Bastow,” he said, putting his hand upon the Rector's
shoulder. “The sentence is fifteen years, which was the very amount I
hoped that he would get. The more one sees of him the more hopeless
it is to expect that any change will ever take place in him; and it is
infinitely better that he should be across the sea where his conduct,
when his term is over, can affect no one. The disgrace, such as it is,
to his friends, is no greater in a long term than in a short one. Had
he got off with four or five years' imprisonment, he would have been a
perpetual trouble and a source of uneasiness, not to say alarm; and even
had he left you alone we should always have been in a state of dread as
to his next offense. Better that he should be out in the colonies than
be hung at Tyburn.”
“How did he take the sentence?”
“With the same bravado he had shown all through, and as he went out of
the dock addressed a threat to me, that, under the circumstances, I can
very well afford to despise. Now, if you will take my advice, you will
drink a couple of glasses of good port, and then go to bed. I will see
to your being awakened at seven o'clock, which will give us time to
breakfast comfortably, and to make a start at nine.”
“I would rather not have the wine,” the Rector said feebly.
“Yes, but you must take what is good for you. I have ordered up a bottle
of the landlord's best, and must insist upon your drinking a couple of
glasses with me. I want it almost as much as you do, for the atmosphere
of that court was enough to poison a dog. I have got the taste of it in
my mouth still.”
With much reluctance the Rector accompanied him to the private sitting
room that the Squire had engaged. He sat down almost mechanically in an
easy chair. The Squire poured out the wine, and handed him a glass. Mr.
Bastow at first put it to his lips without glancing at it, but he was a
connoisseur in wine, and the bouquet of the port appealing to his latent
senses, he took a sip, and then another, appreciatingly.
“The landlord said it was first rate, and he is not far wrong,” John
Thorndyke remarked, as he set down his own glass.
“Yes, it is a fine vintage, and in perfect condition,” Mr. Bastow
agreed. “I have drunk nothing better for years, though you have some
fine bins.”
“I would take a biscuit, if I were you, before I took another glass,”
the Squire said, helping himself from a plate on the table. “You have
had nothing to eat today, and you want something badly. I have a dish of
kidneys coming up in half an hour; they cook them well here.”
The Rector ate a biscuit, mechanically sipped another glass of wine,
and was even able to eat a kidney when they were brought up. Although
September was not yet out, the Squire had a fire lighted in the room,
and after the meal was over, and two steaming tumblers of punch were
placed upon the table, he took a long pipe from the mantel, filled and
lighted it, then filled another, and handed it to the Rector, at the
same time holding out a light to him.
“Life has its consolations,” he said. “You have had a lot of troubles
one way and another, Bastow, but we may hope that they are all over now,
and that life will go more smoothly and easily with you. We had better
leave the past alone for the present. I call this snug: a good fire, a
clean pipe, a comfortable chair, and a steaming bowl at one's elbow.”
The Rector smiled faintly.
“It seems unnatural--” he began.
“Not at all, not at all,” the Squire broke in. “You have had a
tremendous load on your mind, and now it is lifted off; the thundercloud
has burst, and though damage has been done, one is thankful that it is
no worse. Now I can talk to you of a matter that has been on my mind for
the last three weeks. What steps do you think that I ought to take to
find a successor for you? It is most important to have a man who will
be a real help in the parish, as you have been, would pull with one
comfortably, and be a pleasant associate. I don't want too young a
fellow, and I don't want too old a one. I have no more idea how to set
about it than a child. Of course, I could ask the Bishop to appoint, but
I don't know that he would appoint at all the sort of man I want. The
living is only worth 200 pounds a year and the house--no very great
catch; but there is many a man that would be glad to have it.”
“I have been thinking it over, too, Thorndyke, when I could bring my
mind to consider anything but my own affairs. How would Greg do? He has
been taking duty for me since I could not do it myself. I know that he
is a hard working fellow, and he has a wife and a couple of children;
his curacy is only 70 pounds a year, and it would be a perfect godsend,
for he has no interest in the Church, and he might be years without
preferment.”
“I should think he would do very well, Bastow. Yes, he reads well, which
I own I care for that a good deal more than for the preaching; not
that I have anything to say against that. He gives sound and practical
sermons, and they have the advantage of being short, which is a great
thing. In the first place, it is good in itself, and in the second,
specially important in a village congregation, where you know very well
every woman present is fidgeting to get home to see that the pot is not
boiling over, and the meat in the oven is not burnt. Yes, I will go down
tomorrow afternoon and ask him if he would like the living. You were
talking of selling the furniture; how much do you suppose it is worth?”
“I don't suppose it will fetch above seventy or eighty pounds; it is
solid and good, but as I have had it in use nearly forty years, it would
not go for much.”
“Well, let us say a hundred pounds,” the Squire said. “I will give you a
check for it. I dare say Greg will find it difficult to furnish, and he
might have to borrow the money, and the debt would be a millstone round
his neck, perhaps, for years, so I will hand it over with the Rectory to
him.”
So they talked for an hour or two on village matters, and the Squire was
well pleased, when his old friend went up to bed, that he had succeeded
in diverting his thoughts for a time from the painful subject that had
engrossed them for weeks.
“You have slept well,” he said, when they met at breakfast, “I can see
by your face.”
“Yes, I have not slept so soundly for months. I went to sleep as soon
as my head touched the pillow, and did not awake until the chambermaid
knocked at the door.”
“That second glass of punch did it, Bastow. It is a fine morning; we
shall have a brisk drive back. I am very glad that I changed my mind and
brought the gig instead of the close carriage.”
In the afternoon the Squire drove into Reigate. He found the curate at
home, and astonished and delighted him by asking him if he would like
the living of Crowswood. It came altogether as a surprise to him, for
the Rector's intentions to resign had not been made public, and it was
supposed in the village that he was only staying at the Squire's until
this sad affair should be over. Greg was a man of seven or eight and
twenty, had graduated with distinction at Cambridge, but, having
no influence, had no prospects of promotion, and the offer almost
bewildered him.
“I should be grateful indeed, Mr. Thorndyke,” he said. “It would be a
boon to us. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
And opening a door, he called for his wife, who was trying to keep the
two children quiet there, having retired with them hastily when Mr.
Thorndyke was announced.
“What do you think, Emma?” her husband said excitedly, as she came into
the room. “Mr. Thorndyke has been good enough to offer me the living of
Crowswood.”
Then he recovered himself. “I beg your pardon, sir, for my
unmannerliness in not first introducing my wife to you.”
“It was natural that you should think of telling her the news first of
all,” the Squire said courteously. “Madam, I am your obedient servant,
and I hope that soon we shall get to know each other well. I consider
it of great importance that the Squire of a parish and the Rector should
work well together, and see a great deal of each other. I don't know
whether you are aware, Mr. Greg, that the living is worth 200 pounds
a year, besides which there is a paddock of about ten acres, which is
sufficient for the keep of a horse and cow. The Rectory is a comfortable
one, and I have arranged with Mr. Bastow that he shall leave his
furniture for the benefit of his successor. It will include linen, so
that you will be put to no expense whatever in moving in. I have known
these first expenses to seriously cripple the usefulness of a clergyman
when appointed to a living.”
“That is good of you indeed, Mr. Thorndyke,” the curate said. “We have
been living in these lodgings since we first came here, and it will
indeed make matters easy to have the question of furniture so kindly
settled for us.”
“Will your Rector be able to release you shortly?”
“I have no doubt that he will do that at once. His son has just left
Oxford and taken deacon's orders; and the Rector told me the other day
that he should be glad if I would look out for another curacy, as he
wanted to have his son here with him. He spoke very kindly, and said
that he should make no change until I could hear of a place to suit
me. His son has been assisting him for the last month, since I took the
services at Crowswood, and I am sure he would release me at once.”
“Then I should be glad if you will move up as soon as possible to the
Rectory. I know nothing about the necessary forms, but I suppose that
Mr. Bastow will send in his resignation to the Bishop, and I shall
write and tell him that I have appointed you, and you can continue to
officiate as you have done lately until you can be formally inducted
as the Rector. Perhaps you would not mind going round to your Rector
at once and telling him of the offer you have had. I have one or two
matters to do in the town, and will call again in three quarters of
an hour. I shall be glad to tell Mr. Bastow that you will come into
residence at once.”
On returning at the appointed time he found that the curate had
returned.
“Mr. Pilkington was very kind, and evidently very pleased; he
congratulated me most warmly, and I can come up at once. We don't know
how to thank you enough, Mr. Thorndyke.”
“I don't want any thanks, I can assure you, Mr. Greg. Tomorrow I will
send a couple of women in from the village to get the place in order,
and no doubt Mr. Bastow will want to take away a few things. He is going
to remain with me as tutor to my son. I am sure you and I will get on
very well together, and I only hope that your sermons will be no longer
when you are Rector than they have been while you have been assisting
us. Long sermons may do for a town congregation, but in my opinion they
are a very serious mistake in the case of a village one. By the way, I
think it would be as well for you to get a servant here, and that before
you go up. Mr. Bastow's servant was an old woman, and in a case like
this I always think it is better not to take one's predecessor's
servant. She generally resents any change, and is always quoting how
her last master had things. I mention this before you go, because she
is sure to ask to stay on, and it is much easier to say that you are
bringing a servant with you than to have to tell her she is too old or
too fat. Don't you think so, Mrs. Greg?”
“Yes, I think it will be much better, Mr. Thorndyke. Even if I cannot
hear of one likely to suit us permanently, I will take someone as a stop
gap. One can easily change afterwards.”
“The old woman will do very well,” the Squire said. “She has two married
daughters in the village, and with a shilling or two from the parish she
will manage comfortably. At any rate we shall look after her, and I have
no doubt Mr. Bastow will make her an allowance.”
Never were a pair more delighted than Parson Greg and his wife when two
days later they took possession of their new home. Half a dozen women
had been at work the day before, and everything was in perfect order. To
Mrs. Greg's relief she found that the old servant had already gone, the
Squire having himself informed her that Mrs. Greg would bring her own
maid with her. Mr. Bastow said that he would allow her half a crown a
week as long as she lived, and the Squire added as much more, and as the
woman had saved a good deal during her twenty years' service with the
Rector, she was perfectly satisfied.
“It is a good thing that she should be content,” the Squire said to Mr.
Bastow. “She has a lot of connections in the village, and if she had
gone away with a sense of grievance she might have created a good deal
of ill feeling against your successor, and I am very anxious that he
should begin well. I like the young fellow, and I like his wife.”
“We are fortunate, indeed, Ernest,” Mrs. Greg said the following
morning, as with the children, two and three years old, they went out
into the garden; where the trees were laden with apples, pears, and
plums. “What a change from our little rooms in Reigate. I should think
that anyone ought to be happy indeed here.”
“They ought to be, Emma, but you see Mr. Bastow had trouble enough; and
it should be a lesson to us, dear, to look very closely after the boys
now they are young, and see that they don't make bad acquaintances.”
“From what we hear of the village, there is little fear of that; the
mischief must have begun before Mr. Thorndyke came down, when by all
accounts things had altogether gone to the bad here, and of course young
Bastow must have had an exceptionally evil disposition, Ernest.”
“Yes, no doubt; but his father could not have looked after him properly.
I believe, from what I hear, that Bastow was so dispirited at his
powerlessness to put a stop to the state of things here, that, except to
perform service, he seldom left the house, and the boy no doubt grew up
altogether wild. You know that I was in court on the second day of the
examination, and the young fellow's insolence and bearing astonished
and shocked me. Happily, we have the Squire here now to back us up, the
village has been completely cleared of all bad characters, and is by all
accounts quite a model place, and we must do our best to keep it so.”
The news of the change at the Rectory naturally occasioned a great deal
of talk. At first there was a general feeling of regret that Mr. Bastow
had gone, and yet it was felt that he could not have been expected to
stay; the month's experience that they had had of the new parson had
cleared the way for him. He and his wife soon made themselves familiar
with the villagers, and being bright young people, speedily made
themselves liked. The Squire and Mrs. Cunningham called the first
afternoon after their arrival.
“You must always send up if anything is wanted, Mr. Greg; whenever
there is any illness in the village we always keep a stock of soups and
jellies, and Mrs. Cunningham is almoner in general. Is there anything
that we can do for you? If so, let me know without hesitation.”
“Indeed, there is nothing, Mr. Thorndyke. It is marvelous to us coming
in here and finding everything that we can possibly want.”
“You will want a boy for your garden; and you cannot do better than take
young Bill Summers. He was with me for a bit last year, when the boy I
have now was laid up with mumps or something of that sort, and he was
very favorably reported on as being handy in the garden, able to milk
a cow, and so on. By the way, Mrs. Greg, I have taken the liberty of
sending down a cow in milk. I expect she is in your meadow now. I have
seven or eight of them, and if you will send her back when her milk
fails I will send down another.”
“You are too kind altogether, Mr. Thorndyke!” Mrs. Greg exclaimed.
“Not at all. I want to see things comfortable here, and you will find it
difficult to get on without a cow. I keep two or three for the special
use of the village. I make them pay for it, halfpenny a pint; it is
better to do that than to give it. It is invaluable for the children;
and I don't think in all England you see rosier and healthier youngsters
than those in our schools. You will sometimes find milk useful for
puddings and that sort of thing for the sick; and they will appreciate
it all the more than if they had to look solely to us for their supply.”
“How is Mr. Bastow, sir?”
“He is better than could be expected. He himself proposed this morning
that my boy Mark should begin his studies at once; and, indeed, now
that the worst is over and he has got rid of the load of care on his
shoulders, I hope that we shall have him bright and cheerful again
before long.”
Such was indeed the case. For some little time Mr. Bastow avoided the
village, but John Thorndyke got him to go down with him to call upon
Mr. Greg, and afterwards to walk through it with him. At first he went
timidly and shrinkingly, but the kindly greetings of the women he met,
and the children stopping to pull a forelock or bob a courtesy as of
old, gradually cheered him up, and he soon got accustomed to the change,
and would of an afternoon go down to the village and chat with the
women, after he had ascertained that his successor had no objection
whatever, and was, indeed, pleased that he still took an interest in his
former parishioners. Mark was at first disappointed at the arrangement,
for he had looked forward to going to a public school. His father,
however, had no great trouble in reconciling him to it.
“Of course, Mark,” he said, “there are advantages in a public school.
I was never at one myself, but I believe that, though the discipline is
pretty strict, there is a great deal of fun and sport, and you may make
desirable acquaintances. Upon the other hand, there are drawbacks. In
the first place, the majority of the boys are sons of richer men than
I am. I don't know that that would matter much, but it would give you
expensive habits, and perhaps make you fonder of London life than I
should care about. In the next place, you see, you would be at school
when the shooting begins, and you are looking forward to carrying a gun
next year. The same with hunting. You know I promised that this year you
should go to the meets on your pony, and see as much of them as you can,
and of course when you were at school you would only be able to indulge
in these matters during your holidays; and if a hard frost set in, as
is the case three times out of four, just as you came home, you would be
out of it altogether.
“I must say I should like you to have a real love of field sports and to
be a good shot and a good rider. A man, however wide his acres may be,
is thought but little of in the country if he is not a good sportsman;
and, moreover, there is nothing better for developing health and muscles
than riding, and tramping over the fields with a gun on your shoulder;
and, lastly, you must not forget, Mark, that one of my objects in making
this arrangement is to keep Mr. Bastow with us. I am sure that unless
he thought that he was making himself useful he would not be content
to remain here; and at his age, you know, it would be hard for him to
obtain clerical employment.”
“All right, father. I see that the present plan is the best, and that I
should have but little sport if I went away to school. Besides, I like
Mr. Bastow very much, and I am quite sure that I shan't get so many
whackings from him as I used to do from old Holbrook.”
“I fancy not, Mark,” his father said with a smile. “I am not against
wholesome discipline, but I think it can be carried too far; at any
rate, I hope you will be just as obedient to Mr. Bastow as if he always
had a cane on the table beside him.”
Mark, therefore, went to work in a cheerful spirit, and soon found that
he made more progress in a week under Mr. Bastow's gentle tuition than
he had done in a month under the vigorous discipline of his former
master. Mr. and Mrs. Greg dined regularly at the Squire's once a week.
“Have you had that Indian servant of yours long, Mr. Thorndyke?” Mrs.
Greg asked one day. “He is a strange looking creature. Of course, in
the daytime, when one sees him about in ordinary clothes, one does not
notice him so much; but of an evening, in that Eastern costume of his,
he looks very strange.”
“He was the servant of the Colonel, my brother,” the Squire replied. “He
brought him over from India with him. The man had been some years in his
service, and was very attached to him, and had saved his life more than
once, he told me. On one occasion he caught a cobra by the neck as it
was about to strike my brother's hand as he sat at table; he carried it
out into the compound, as George called it, but which means, he told me,
garden, and there let it escape. Another time he caught a Thug, which
means a sort of robber who kills his victims by strangling before
robbing them. They are a sort of sect who regard strangling as a
religious action, greatly favored by the bloodthirsty goddess they
worship. He was in the act of fastening the twisted handkerchief, used
for the purpose, round my brother's neck, when Ramoo cut him down. The
closest shave, though, was when George, coming down the country, was
pounced upon by a tiger and carried off. Ramoo seized a couple of
muskets from the men, and rushed into the jungle after him, and coming
up with the brute killed him at the first shot. George escaped with a
broken arm and his back laid open by a scratch of the tiger's claws as
it first seized him.
“So at George's death I took Ramoo on, and have found him a most useful
fellow. Of course, I was some little time before I became accustomed
to his noiseless way of going about, and it used to make me jump when
I happened to look round, and saw him standing quietly behind me when
I thought I was quite alone. However, as soon as I became accustomed to
him, I got over all that, and now I would not lose him for anything; he
seems to know instinctively what I want. He is excellent as a waiter and
valet; I should feel almost lost without him now; and the clumping about
of an English man servant would annoy me as much as his noiseless way of
going about did at first. He has come to speak English very fairly. Of
course, my brother always talked to him in his own tongue; still, he had
picked up enough English for me to get on with; now he speaks it quite
fluently. When I have nothing whatever for him to do he devotes himself
to my little ward. She is very fond of him, and it is quite pretty to
see them together in the garden. Altogether, I would not part with him
for anything.”
For some years life passed uneventfully at Crowswood. It was seldom
indeed that the Squire's authority was needed to set matters right in
the village. The substitution of good farmers for shiftless ones in
some of the farms, and the better cultivation generally, had given
more employment; and as John Thorndyke preferred keeping two or three
cottages shut up rather than have them occupied by men for whom no work
could be found, it was rare indeed that there were any complaints
of scarcity of work, except, indeed, on the part of the Rector, who
declared that, what with the healthiness of the village and the absence
of want, his occupation, save for the Sunday duty, was a sinecure. Mr.
Bastow was more happy and much brighter than he had been for many years.
The occupation of teaching suited him, and he was able to make the work
pleasant to his pupil as well as to himself; indeed, it occupied but a
small portion of the day, the amount of learning considered necessary
at the time not being extensive. A knowledge of Greek was thought
quite superfluous for a country gentleman. Science was in its infancy,
mathematics a subject only to be taken up by those who wanted to obtain
a college fellowship. Latin, however, was considered an essential, and a
knack of apt quotation from the Latin poets an accomplishment that
every man who was a member of society or aspired to enter Parliament
was expected to possess. Thus Mark Thorndyke's lessons lasted but two or
three hours a day, and the school term was a movable period, according
to the season of the year and the engagements of the Squire and Mark. In
winter the evening was the time, so that the boy shot with his father,
or rode to the hounds, or, as he got older, joined in shooting parties
at the houses of neighbors.
In summer the work was done in the morning, but was not unfrequently
broken. Mark went off at a very early hour to drive perhaps some twenty
miles with his great chum, Dick Chetwynd, for a long day's fishing, or
to see a main of cocks fought or a fight between the champions of two
neighboring villages, or perhaps some more important battle.
When Millicent Conyers was ten years old she came regularly into the
study, sitting curled up in a deep chair, getting up her lessons while
Mark did his, and then changing seats with him while he learned his
Horace or Ovid by heart. At this time she looked up greatly to him, and
was his companion whenever he would allow her to be, fetched and carried
for him, and stood almost on a level with his dogs in his estimation.
Five years later, when Mark was eighteen, these relations changed
somewhat. He now liked to have her with him, not only when about the
house and garden, but when he took short rides she cantered along on her
pony by his side. She was a bright faced girl, full of life and fun, and
rejoicing in a far greater amount of freedom than most girls of her age
and time.
“It is really time that she should learn to comport herself more
staidly, instead of running about like a wild thing,” Mrs. Cunningham
said, one day, as she and the Squire stood after breakfast looking out
of the open window at Mark and Millicent.
“Time enough, my dear lady, time enough. Let her enjoy life while she
can. I am not in favor of making a young kitten behave like an old
tabby; every creature in nature is joyful and frolicsome while it is
young. She is as tall and as straight as any of her friends of the same
age, and looks more healthy; she will tame down in time, and I dare say
walk and look as prim and demure as they do. I was watching them the
other day when there was a party of them up here, and I thought the
difference was all to her advantage. She looked a natural, healthy girl;
they looked like a set of overdressed dolls, afraid to move or to talk
loud, or to stretch their mouths when they smile; very ladylike and
nice, no doubt, but you will see Millicent will throw them into the
shade when she is once past the tomboy age. Leave her alone, Mrs.
Cunningham; a girl is not like a fruit tree, that wants pruning and
training from its first year; it will be quite time to get her into
shape when she has done growing.”
John Thorndyke had occasionally made inquiries of Mr. Bastow as to
the whereabouts of his son. At the time the sentence was passed
transportation to the American colonies was being discontinued, and
until other arrangements could be made hulks were established as places
of confinement and punishment; but a few months later Arthur Bastow
was one of the first batch of convicts sent out to the penal settlement
formed on the east coast of Australia. This was intended to be fixed
at Botany Bay, but it having been found that this bay was open and
unsheltered, it was established at Sydney, although for many years the
settlement retained in England the name of the original site. As the
condition of the prisoners kept in the hulks was deplorable, the Squire
had, through the influence of Sir Charles Harris, obtained the inclusion
of Bastow's name among the first batch of those who were to sail for
Australia. Mr. Bastow obtained permission to see his son before sailing,
but returned home much depressed, for he had been assailed with such
revolting and blasphemous language by him that he had been forced to
retire in horror at the end of a few minutes.
“We have done well in getting him sent off,” the Squire said, when he
heard the result of the interview. “In the first place, the demoralizing
effect of these hulks is quite evident, and it may be hoped that in a
new country, where there can be no occasion for the convicts to be pent
up together, things may be better; for although escapes from the hulks
are not frequent, they occasionally take place, and had he gained
his liberty we should have had an anxious time of it until he was
re-arrested, whereas out there there is nowhere to go to, no possibility
of committing a crime. It is not there as it was in the American colony.
Settlements may grow up in time, but at present there are no white
men whatever settled in the district; and the natives are, they say,
hostile, and were a convict to escape he would almost certainly be
killed, and possibly eaten. No doubt by the time your son has served
his sentence colonies will be established out there, and he may then be
disposed to settle there, either on a piece of land of which he could no
doubt take up or in the service of one of the colonists.”
CHAPTER V.
The scene in the convict yard at Sydney, five years after its foundation
as a penal settlement, was not a pleasant one to the lover of humanity.
Warders armed to the teeth were arranging gangs that were to go out to
labor on the roads. Many of the convicts had leg irons, but so fastened
as to be but slight hindrance to their working powers, but the majority
were unironed. These were the better behaved convicts; not that this
would be judged from their faces, for the brutalizing nature of the
system and the close association of criminals had placed its mark on
all, and it would have been difficult for the most discriminating to
have made any choice between the most hardened criminals and those who
had been sent out for what would now be considered comparatively trivial
offenses. The voyage on board ship had done much to efface distinctions,
the convict life had done more, and the chief difference between the
chained and unchained prisoners was that the latter were men of more
timid disposition than many of their companions, and therefore less
disposed to give trouble that would entail heavy punishment. But it
was only the comparatively well conducted men who were placed upon road
work; the rest were retained for work inside the jail, or were caged in
solitary confinement. Each morning a number, varying from half a dozen
to a dozen, were fastened up and flogged, in some cases with merciless
severity, but it was seldom that a cry was uttered by these, the most
brutal ruffians of the convict herd. This spectacle was just over: it
was conducted in public for the edification of the rest, but, judging
from the low laughs and brutal jests, uttered below the breath, it
signally failed in producing the desired impression. Two of those who
had suffered the severest punishment were now putting on their
coarse woolen garments over their bloodstained shoulders; both were
comparatively young men.
“I shall not stand this much longer,” one muttered. “I will brain a
warder, and get hung for it. One can but die once, while one can get
flogged once a week.”
“So would I,” the other said bitterly; “but I have some scores to settle
in England, and I am not going to put my head in a noose until I have
wiped them out. The sooner we make arrangements to get back there the
better.”
“Yes, we have talked of this before,” the other said, “and I quite
agreed with you that if we all had the pluck of men we ought to be able
to overpower the warders, in spite of their firearms. Of course some
of us would get killed, but no one would mind that if there was but the
remotest chance of getting away. The question is what we should do with
ourselves when we were once outside the prison. Of course I know that
there are two or three hundred settlers, but there would not be much
to be got out of them, and life among those black fellows, even if they
were civil to us, which I don't suppose they would be, would not be
worth having.”
“We might not have to stay there long; ships with stores or settlers
arrive occasionally, and if a lot of us got away we might seize one by
force, turn pirates for a bit, and when we are tired of that sail to
some South American port, sell our capture, and make our way home to
England. If we were not strong enough to take her, we could hide up on
board her; we should be sure to find some fellow who for a pound or two
would be willing to help us. The thing can be done if we make up our
minds to do it, and I for one have made up my mind to try. I haven't
chalked out a plan yet, but I am convinced that it is to be done.”
“I am with you, whatever it is,” the other said; “and I think there are
twenty or thirty we could rely on. I don't say there are more than that,
because there are a lot of white livered cusses among them who would
inform against us at once, so as to get their own freedom as a reward
for doing so. Well, we will both think it over, mate, and the sooner the
better.”
The two men who were thus talking together were both by birth above the
common herd of convicts, and had gained a considerable ascendency over
the others because of their reckless indifference to punishment and
their defiance of authority. Few of the men knew each other's real
names; by the officials they were simply known by numbers, while among
themselves each had a slang name generally gained on board ship.
Separation there had, of course, been impossible, and when fastened down
below each had told his story with such embellishments as he chose to
give it, and being but little interfered with by their guards, save
to insure the impossibility of a mutiny, there had been fights of a
desperate kind. Four or five dead bodies had been found and thrown
overboard, but as none would testify as to who had been the assailants
none were punished for it; and so the strongest and most desperate had
enforced their authority over the others, as wild beasts might do, and
by the time they had reached their destination all were steeped much
deeper in wickedness and brutalism than when they set sail.
The two men who were speaking together had speedily become chums, and,
though much younger than the majority of the prisoners, had by their
recklessness and ferocity established an ascendency among the others.
This ascendency had been maintained after their arrival by their
constant acts of insubordination, and by their apparent indifference to
the punishment awarded them. At night the convicts were lodged in wooden
buildings, where, so long as they were not riotous, they were allowed to
talk and converse freely, as indeed was the case when their work for the
day was done.
As to any attempt at escape, the authorities had but small anxiety, for
until the arrival of the first settlers, three years after that of
the convicts, there was nowhere a fugitive could go to, no food to be
obtained, no shelter save among the blacks, who were always ready for
a reward of tobacco and spirits to hand them over at once to the
authorities. The case had but slightly changed since the settlement
began to grow. It was true that by stealing sheep or driving off a few
head of cattle a fugitive might maintain himself for a time, but even if
not shot down by the settlers or patrols, he would be sure before long
to be brought in by the blacks.
The experiment had already been tried of farming our better conducted
convicts to the settlers, and indeed it was the prospect of obtaining
such cheap labor that had been the main inducement to many of the
colonists to establish themselves so far from home, instead of going to
America. As a whole the system worked satisfactorily; the men were
as much prisoners as were the inmates of the jail, for they knew well
enough that were they to leave the farmers and take to the bush they
would remain free but a short time, being either killed or handed over
by the blacks, and in the latter case they would be severely punished
and set to prison work in irons, with labor very much more severe than
that they were called upon to do on the farms.
Some little time after the conversation between the two convicts the
prison authorities were congratulating themselves upon the fact that a
distinct change had taken or was taking place in the demeanor of many of
the men who had hitherto been the most troublesome, and they put it down
to the unusually severe floggings that had been inflicted on the two
most refractory prisoners in the establishment. When in the prison
yard or at work they were more silent than before, and did their tasks
doggedly and sullenly; there was no open defiance to the authorities,
and, above all, a marked cessation of drunkenness from the spirits
smuggled into the place.
Only the two originators were aware of the extent of the plot; for they
had agreed that only by keeping every man in ignorance as to who had
joined it could they hope to escape treachery. In the first place,
they had taken into their confidence a dozen men on whom they could
absolutely rely. Beyond this they had approached the others singly,
beginning by hinting that there was a plot for escape, and that a good
many were concerned, and telling them that these had bound themselves
together by a solemn oath to kill any traitor, even if hanged for it.
“No one is to know who is in it and who is not,” the leaders said to
each recruit. “Every new man will be closely watched by the rest, and if
he has any communication privately with a warder or any other official
he will be found strangled the next morning; no one will know who did
it. Even if he succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his comrades at the
time, it would soon be known; for if indulgence of any kind was shown
towards one man, or he was relieved from his ordinary work, or even
freed altogether and suddenly, he would be a dead man in twenty-four
hours, for we have friends outside among the ticket of leave men who
have bound themselves to kill at once any man set free.”
To the question, “What do you intend to do when we get off?” the answer
was, “We shall go straight to the bush, so as to avoid a fight with the
soldiers, in the first place; then we shall join that night, and drive
off all the cattle and sheep from the settlements, take possession of
every firearm found in the houses, then move off a couple of hundred
miles or so into the bush, and establish a settlement of our own.
“Of course, we shall take horses and clothes and any spirits and food
we may find. If the soldiers pursue us, we will fight them; but as there
are only three or four companies of them, and we shall be eight hundred
strong, we shall very soon show them that they had better leave us
alone.
“Oh, yes, no doubt they will send more soldiers out from England, but
it will be over a year before they can get here; and we propose after we
have done with the fellows here to break up into parties of twenty and
thirty, dividing the sheep and cattle among us, and each party going
where it will. The place is of tremendous size, as big as a dozen
Englands, they say, and each party will fix a place it fancies, where
there is good water and a river with fish and so on, and we may live all
our lives comfortably, with just enough work to raise potatoes and corn,
and to watch our stock increasing. Anyhow, we might calculate on having
some years of peace and freedom, and even if in the end they searched
us all out, which would be very unlikely, they could but bring us back,
hang a few, and set the rest to work again; but we think that they would
most likely leave us alone altogether, quite satisfied with having got
rid of us.”
“Those who liked it could, no doubt, take wives among the blacks. The
convict women who are out on service with the settlers would, you may
be sure, join us at once, and an enterprising chap who preferred a white
woman to a black could always make his way down here and persuade one to
go off with him to his farm. That is the general plan; if many get tired
of the life they have only to come down to Sydney, hide up near the
place on some dark night, and go down to the port, seize a ship, and
make off in her, compelling the officers and sailors to take them and
land them at any port they fancy, either in Chili, Peru, or Mexico, or,
if they like, sail west and make for Rio or Buenos Ayres or one of the
West Indian islands. As to when it is going to be done, or how it is
going to be done, no one will be told till it is ready to be carried
out. We have not settled that ourselves, and thus one who was fool
enough to risk certain death could tell the Governor no more than that
there was a plot on hand, and that the man who had sworn him in was
concerned in it.”
So one by one every man in the prison was sworn by a terrible oath to
secrecy, to watch his companions, and to report anything that looked
suspicious. Many joined willingly, the prospect of relief, even should
it only be temporary, being too fascinating to be resisted. Some joined
against their will, fearing that a refusal to do so would be punished
by death; and the fact that two or three men were found strangled in bed
had a very great effect in inducing others to join in the plot.
These deaths caused some uneasiness to the authorities. Their utmost
endeavors failed to discover who were the perpetrators of these
murders; and even when everyone in the same hut was flogged to obtain
information, not one opened his lips.
One night the word was passed round that the time had come. One only in
each hut was familiar with the details, and he gave instructions to each
man individually as to what he was to do. The date had been determined
by the fact that the time which they had been sentenced to wear irons
had terminated the day before, and their unusually subdued and quiet
demeanor having carried them through the interval without, as usual,
fresh punishments being awarded them before the termination of the
former one.
In the morning the whole of the convicts were drawn up to witness the
flogging of the inmates of one of the huts, where a man had been found
strangled the morning before. The first prisoner was taken to the
triangle, stripped to the waist, and tied up. There was a dead silence
in the ranks of the convicts, but as the first blow fell upon his
shoulders there was a loud yell, and simultaneously the whole ranks
broke up, and a number of men sprang upon each of the warders, wrested
their muskets from them, and threw them to the ground. Then there was a
rush towards the Governor and officers, who were assembled in front
of the stone house that faced the open end of the square. Firing their
pistols, these at once took refuge in the house, three or four falling
under the scattered fire that was opened as soon as the muskets of the
warders fell into the hands of the convicts.
Directly the doors were closed the officers appeared at the windows, and
opened a rifle fire upon the convicts, as did the guards near the gate.
As comparatively few of the convicts had muskets, they began to waver at
once. But, headed by the two ringleaders, the armed party rushed at the
guard, shot them down, and threw open the gate.
Then an unexpected thing occurred. The soldiers from the barracks
happened to be marching down to do target practice on the shore, and
were passing the convict prison when the firing broke out. They were
at once halted, and ordered to load, and as the convicts, with exultant
shouts, poured through the gate they saw a long line of soldiers, with
leveled muskets, facing them.
“At them!” one of the leaders shouted. “It is too late to draw back now.
We have got to break through them.”
Many of the convicts ran back into the yard; but those armed with
muskets, the more desperate of the party, followed their leaders. A
moment later a heavy volley rang out, and numbers of the convicts fell.
Their two leaders, however, and some twenty of their followers, keeping
in a close body, rushed at the line of soldiers with clubbed muskets,
and with the suddenness and fury of the rush burst their way through
the line, and then scattering, fled across the country, pursued by a
dropping fire of musketry.
The officers in command, seeing that but a fraction had escaped, ordered
one company to pursue, and marched the rest into the prison yard. It was
already deserted; the convicts had scattered to their huts, those who
had arms throwing them away. Dotted here and there over the square were
the bodies of eight or ten convicts and as many warders, whose skulls
had been smashed in by their infuriated assailants as soon as they had
obtained possession of their muskets. Close to the gate lay the six
soldiers who had furnished the guard; these were all dead or mortally
wounded.
The Governor and the officials issued from the house as soon as the
soldiers entered the yard. The first step to do was to turn all the
convicts out of the huts and to iron them. No resistance was attempted,
the sight of the soldiers completely cowing the mutineers. When the
bodies of the convicts that had fallen were counted and the roll of the
prisoners called over, it was found that eighteen were missing, and of
these six were during the course of the next hour or two brought in by
the soldiers who had gone in pursuit of them. The rest had escaped.
The convicts were all questioned separately, and the tales they told
agreed so closely that the Governor could not doubt that they were
speaking the truth. All had been sworn in by one of two men, and knew
nothing whatever of what was intended to be done that day, until after
they were locked up on the evening previous. Each of those in the huts
had received his instructions the night before from the one man.
There were eighteen huts, each containing fifteen convicts. Of the men
who had given instructions six had fallen outside the gate, together
with sixteen others; five had been overtaken and brought in; altogether,
twelve were still at large. Among these were the two leaders. The next
day six of the prisoners were tried and executed. The rest were punished
only by a reduction in their rations; sentence of death was at the same
time passed upon the twelve still at large, so as to save the trouble of
a succession of trials as they were caught and brought in.
The two leaders had kept together after they had broken through the line
of soldiers.
“Things have gone off well,” one said as they ran through. “Those
soldiers nearly spoilt it all.”
“Yes, that was unlucky,” the other agreed; “but so far as we are
concerned, which is all we care about, I think things have turned out
for the best.”
Nothing more was said until they had far outstripped their pursuers,
hampered as these were by their uniforms and belts.
“You mean that it is not such a bad thing that they have not all got
away?”
“Yes, that is what I mean. It is all very well to tell them about
driving off the sheep and cattle and horses, and going to start a colony
on our own account, but the soldiers would have been up to us before we
had gone a day's journey. Most of the fellows would have bolted directly
they saw them. As it is, I fancy only about a dozen have got away,
perhaps not as many as that, and they are all men that one can rely
upon. One can feed a dozen without difficulty--a sheep a day would do
it--and by giving a turn to each of the settlers, the animals won't be
missed. Besides, we shall want money if we are ever to get out of this
cursed country. It would not be difficult to get enough for you and me,
but when it comes to a large number the sack of the whole settlement
would not go very far.
“My own idea is that we had best join the others tonight, kill a few
sheep, and go two or three days' march into the bush, until the heat of
the pursuit is over. We are all armed, the blacks would not venture to
attack us, and the soldiers would not be likely to pursue us very far.
In a week or so, when we can assume that matters have cooled down a bit,
we can come down again. We know all the shepherds, and even if they were
not disposed to help us they would not dare to betray us, or report a
sheep or two being missing. Of course, we shall have to be very careful
to shift our quarters frequently. Those black trackers are sure to be
sent out pretty often.”
“As long as we are hanging about the settlements there won't be much
fear of our being bothered by the blacks. Of course, we shall have to
decide later on whether it will be best for us to try and seize a ship,
all of us acting together, or for us to get quietly on board one and
keep under hatches until she is well away. That is the plan I fancy
most.”
“So do I. In the first place the chances are that in the next two or
three months at least half the fellows will be picked up. To begin with,
several of them are sure to get hold of liquor and make attacks upon the
settlers, in which case some of them, anyhow, are sure to get killed. In
the next place, most of them were brought up as thieves in the slums of
London, and will have no more idea of roughing it in a country like this
than of behaving themselves if they were transported to a London drawing
room. Therefore, I am pretty sure that at the end of three months we
shall not be able to reckon on half of them. Well, six men are not
enough to capture a ship, or, if they do capture it, to keep the crew
under. One must sleep sometimes, and with only three or four men on deck
we could not hope to keep a whole ship's crew at bay.”
“Then there is another reason. You and I, when we have got a decent rig
out, could pass anywhere without exciting observation; while if we had
half a dozen of the others, whatever their good qualities, they would be
noticed at once by their villainous faces, and if questions were to be
asked we should be likely to find ourselves in limbo again in a very
short time. So I am all for working on our own account, even if the
whole of the others were ready to back us; but, of course, we must keep
on good terms with them all, and breathe no word that we think that each
man had better shift for himself. Some of those fellows, if they thought
we had any idea of leaving them, would go straight into Sydney and
denounce us, although they would know that they themselves would be
likely to swing at the same time.”
As none of the convicts were acquainted with the bush, they had been
obliged to select as their rendezvous a hut two miles out of the town,
where the convict gangs that worked on the road were in the habit of
leaving their tools. On the way there the two men killed a couple of
sheep from a flock whose position they had noticed before it became
dark. These they skinned, cut off the heads, and left them behind,
carrying the sheep on their shoulders to the meeting.
“Is that you, Captain Wild?” a voice said as they approached.
“Yes; Gentleman Dick is with me.”
“That is a good job. We had begun to think that the soldiers had caught
you.”
“They would not have caught us alive, you may take your oath. How many
are there of us here?”
“Ten of us, Captain. I think that that is all there are.”
“That is enough for our purpose. Has anyone got anything to eat?”
There was a deep growl in the negative.
“Well, we have brought a couple of sheep with us, and as we have carried
them something like a mile, you had better handle them by turns. We will
strike off into the bush and put another three or four miles between us
and the jail, and then light a fire and have a meal.”
Two of the men came forward and took the sheep. Then they turned off
from the road, and taking their direction from a star, followed it for
an hour.
“I think we have got far enough now,” the man called Captain Wild said.
“You had better cut down the bushes, and we will make a fire.”
“But how are we to light it?” one of them exclaimed in a tone of
consternation. “I don't suppose we have got flint and steel or tinder
box among us.”
“Oh, we can manage that!” the Captain said. “Get a heap of dried leaves
here first, then some wood, and we will soon have a blaze.”
His orders were obeyed. Some of the men had carried off the warders'
swords as well as their muskets, and now used them for chopping wood.
As soon as a small pile of dried leaves was gathered the Captain broke
a cartridge and sprinkled half its contents among them, and then dropped
the remainder into his musket. He flashed this off among the leaves, and
a bright flame at once shot up, and in five minutes a fire was burning.
One of the sheep was soon cut up, the meat hacked in slices from the
bones, a ramrod was thrust through the pieces, and, supported by four
sticks, was laid across the fire. Three other similarly laden spits
were soon placed beside it, and in a short time the meat was ready for
eating. Until a hearty meal had been made there was but little talking.
“That is first rate,” one of the men said, as he wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand. “Now one only wants a pipe and bacca and a glass
of grog, to feel comfortable.”
“Well, Captain, are you satisfied with the day's work?”
“It would have been a grand day had it not been for the soldiers passing
just at the time. As it is, Gentleman Dick and I have been agreeing that
as far as we are all concerned it has not turned out so badly. There
would have been a lot of difficulty in finding food if we had all got
away, and some of those mealy mouthed fellows would have been sure to go
back and peach on us at the first opportunity. A dozen is better than a
hundred for the sort of life we are likely to lead for some time. We are
strong enough to beat off any attack from the black fellows, and also to
break into any of these settlers' houses.
“We can, when we have a mind to, take a stray sheep now and then, or
even a bullock would scarcely be missed, especially if our pals in the
settlement will lend us a helping hand, which you may be sure they will
do; in fact, they would know better than to refuse. Then a large party
could be traced by those black trackers at a run, while a small one
would not; especially if, as we certainly will do, we break up into twos
and threes for a time. First of all, though, we must go well into the
bush; at daybreak tomorrow morning we will drive off twenty sheep, and
go right away a hundred miles, and wait there till matters have settled
down. They will never take the troops out that distance after us. Then
we can come back again, and hang about the settlement and take what we
want. The wild blacks don't come near there, and we shall be safer in
pairs than we should be if we kept together; and of course we could meet
once a week or so to talk over our plans. We must borrow some whisky,
flour, tea, tobacco, and a few other items from the settlers, but we had
better do without them for this trip. I don't want to turn the settlers
against us, for they have all got horses, and might combine with the
troops to give chase, so it would be best to leave them alone, at any
rate till we get back again. Another reason for treating them gently is
that even if they did not join the troops they might get into a funk,
and drive their sheep and horses down into Sydney, and then we should
mighty soon get short of food. It will be quite time enough to draw upon
them heavily when we make up our minds to get hold of a ship and sail
away. Money would be of no use to us here, but we shall want it when we
get to a port, wherever that port may be.”
“That sounds right enough, Captain,” one of the convicts said, “and just
at present nothing would suit me better than to get so far away from
this place that I can lay on my back and take it easy for a spell.”
There was a general chorus of assent, and there being neither tobacco
nor spirits, the party very soon stretched themselves off to sleep round
the fire.
In the morning they were up before daylight, and half an hour later
arrived at one of the farms farthest from Sydney. Here they found a
flock of a hundred sheep. The shepherd came to the door of his hut on
hearing a noise.
“You had best lie down and go to sleep for the next hour,” the leader of
the convicts said sharply. “We don't want to do an old pal any harm, and
when you wake up in the morning and find the flock some twenty short, of
course you won't have any idea what has come of them.”
The man nodded and went back into the hut and shut the door, and the
convicts started for the interior, driving twenty sheep before them.
During the first day's journey they went fast, keeping the sheep at a
trot before them, and continuing their journey through the heat of the
day.
“I tell you what, Captain,” one of the men said when they halted at
sunset, “if we don't get to a water hole we shall have to give up this
idea of going and camping in the bush. My mouth has been like an oven
all day, and it is no use getting away from jail to die of thirst out
here.”
There had been similar remarks during the day, and the two leaders
agreed together that it would be madness to push further, and that,
whatever the risk, they would have to return to the settlements unless
they could strike water. As they were sitting moodily round the fire
they were startled by a dozen natives coming forward into the circle
of light. These held out their hands to say that their intentions were
peaceful.
“Don't touch your muskets!” Captain Wild exclaimed sharply, as some
of the men were on the point of jumping to their feet. “The men are
friendly, and we may be able to get them to guide us to water.”
The natives, as they came up, grinned and rubbed their stomachs, to show
that they were hungry.
“I understand,” the Captain said; “you want a sheep, we want water;” and
he held up his hand to his mouth and lifted his elbow as if in the act
of drinking.
In two or three minutes the natives understood what he wanted, and
beckoned to the men to follow. The tired sheep were got onto their legs
again, and half a mile away the party arrived at a pool in what in wet
weather was the bed of a river. A sheep was at once handed over to the
natives, and when the men had satisfied their thirst another sheep was
killed for their own use.
After a great deal of trouble the natives were made to understand that
the white men wanted one of their party to go with them as a guide, and
to take them always to water holes, and a boy of fifteen was handed over
to them in exchange for two more sheep, and at daybreak the next morning
they started again for the interior, feeling much exhilarated by the
piece of luck that had befallen them. They traveled for four days more,
and then, considering that the soldiers had ceased their pursuit long
ago, they encamped for ten days, enjoying to the utmost their recovered
freedom and their immunity from work of any kind. Then they returned
to the neighborhood of the settlements, and broke up, as their leader
proposed, into pairs.
They had been there but a short time before the depredations committed
roused the settlers to band themselves together. Every horse that could
be spared was lent to the military, who formed a mounted patrol of
forty men, while parties of infantry, guided by native trackers, were
constantly on the scent for the convicts.
“This is just what I expected,” Captain Wild said to his lieutenant. “It
was the choice of two evils, and I am not sure that the plan we chose
was not the worst. We might have been quite sure that these fellows
would not be able, even for a time, to give up their old ways. If they
had confined themselves, as we have done, to taking a sheep when they
wanted it, and behaving civilly when they went to one of the houses and
begged for a few pounds of flour or tea, the settlers would have made no
great complaint of us; they know what a hard time we have had, and you
can see that some of the women were really sorry for us, and gave us
more than we actually asked for. But it has not been so with the others.
They had been breaking into houses, stealing every thing they could lay
their hands upon, and in three or four cases shooting down men on the
slightest provocation.
“The money and watches were no good to them, but the brutes could not
help stealing them; so here we are, and the settlement is like a swarm
of angry bees, and this plan of handing over most of their horses to the
military will end in all of us being hunted down if we stay here. Two
were shot yesterday, and in another week we shall all either be killed
or caught. There is nothing for it but to clear out. I am against
violence, not on principle, but because in this case it sets people's
backs up; but it cannot be helped now. We must get a couple of horses
to ride, and a spare one to carry our swag. We must have half a sack of
flour and a sheep--it is no use taking more than one, because the meat
won't keep--and a good stock of tea and sugar. We must get a good supply
of powder, if we can, some bullets and shot. We shall have to get our
meat by shooting.
“There is no time to be lost, and tonight we had better go to that
settler's place nearest the town. He has got two of the best horses out
here--at least so Redgrave, that shepherd I was talking to today, told
me--and a well filled store of provisions. If he will let us have them
without rumpus, all well and good; if not, it will be the worse for
him. My idea is that we should ride two or three hundred miles along the
coast until we get to a river, follow it up till we find a tidy place
for a camp, and stop there for three or four months, then come back
again and keep ourselves quiet until we find out that a ship is going to
sail; then we will do a night among the farmhouses, and clean them out
of their watches and money, manage to get on board, and hide till we
are well out to sea. We must get a fresh fit out before we go on board;
these clothes are neither handsome nor becoming. We must put on our best
manners, and tell them that we are men who have served our full time,
and want to get back, and that we were obliged to hide because we had
not enough to pay our full passage money, but that we have enough to pay
the cost of our grub, and are ready to pull at a rope and make ourselves
useful in any way. If we are lucky we ought to get enough before we
start to buy horses and set ourselves up well in business at home.”
“I think that is a very good plan,” the other agreed, “and I am quite
sure the sooner we make ourselves scarce here the better.”
CHAPTER VI.
While arranging for young Bastow being sent out with the first batch of
convicts John Thorndyke had been introduced to several of the officials
of the Department, and called upon them at intervals to obtain news of
the penal colony. Three years after its establishment a Crown colony had
been opened for settlement in its vicinity. As the climate was said to
be very fine and the country fertile, and land could be taken up without
payment, the number who went out was considerable, there being the
additional attraction that convicts of good character would be allotted
to settlers as servants and farm hands.
Six years after Arthur Bastow sailed the Squire learned that there
had been a revolt among the convicts; several had been killed, and the
mutiny suppressed, but about a dozen had succeeded in getting away.
These had committed several robberies and some murders among the
settlers, and a military force and a party of warders from the prison
were scouring the country for them.
“Of course, Mr. Thorndyke,” the official said, “the Governor in his
report does not gives us the names of any of those concerned in the
matter; he simply says that although the mutiny was general, it was
wholly the work of a small number of the worse class of prisoners. By
worse class he means the most troublesome and refractory out there.
The prisoners are not classified according to their original crimes.
A poacher who has killed a game keeper, or a smuggler who has killed
a revenue officer, may in other respects be a quiet and well conducted
man, while men sentenced for comparatively minor offenses may give an
immense deal of trouble. I will, however, get a letter written to the
Governor, asking him if Arthur Bastow was among those who took part in
the revolt, and if so what has become of him.”
It was more than a year before the reply came, and then the Governor
reported that Arthur Bastow, who was believed to have been the leading
spirit of the mutiny, was among those who had escaped, and had not yet
been recaptured. It was generally believed that he had been killed by
the blacks, but of this there was no actual proof.
Mr. Bastow was much disturbed when he heard the news. “Suppose he comes
back here, Mr. Thorndyke.”
“I won't suppose anything of the sort,” the Squire replied. “I don't say
that it would be altogether impossible, because now that vessels go from
time to time to Sydney, he might, of course, be able to hide up in one
of them, and not come on deck until she was well on her way, when, in
all probability, he would be allowed to work his passage, and might be
put ashore without any information being given to the authorities.
I have no doubt that among the sailors there would be a good deal of
sympathy felt for the convicts. No doubt they have a hard time of it,
and we know that the gangs working on the roads are always ironed.
Still, this is very unlikely, and the chances are all in favor of his
being in hiding in the bush.
“The shepherds and other hands on the farms are chiefly convicts, and
would probably give him aid if he required it, and there would be no
difficulty in getting a sheep, now and then, for, as all reports say,
one of the chief troubles out there are the wild dogs, or dingoes, as
they are called; any loss in that way would readily be put down to them.
As to money, he would have no occasion for it; if he wanted it he would
get it by robbing the settlers, he would know that if he came back here
he would run the risk of being seized at once on landing or of being
speedily hunted down as an escaped convict. I don't think that there is
the slightest occasion for us to trouble ourselves about him.”
But though the Squire spoke so confidently, he felt by no means sure
that Arthur Bastow would not turn up again, for his reckless audacity
had made a great impression upon him. The proceeds of the robberies in
the colony, in which he had no doubt played a part, would have furnished
him with money with which he could bribe a sailor to hide him away
and, if necessary, pay his passage money to England, when discovered
on board, and perhaps maintain him when he got home until he could
replenish his purse by some unlawful means. Lastly, the Squire argued
that the fellow's vindictive nature and longing for revenge would act as
an incentive to bring him back to London. He talked the matter over with
Mark, who was now a powerful young fellow of twenty, who, of course,
remembered the incidents attending Bastow's capture and trial.
“I cannot help fancying that the fellow will come back, Mark.”
“Well, if he does, father, we must make it our business to lay him by
the heels again. You managed it last time, and if he should turn up you
may be sure I will help you to do it again.”
“Yes, but we may not hear of his having returned until he strikes a
blow. At any rate, see that your pistols are loaded and close at hand at
night.”
“They always are, father. There is no saying when a house like this,
standing alone, and containing a good deal of plate and valuables, may
be broken into.”
“Well, you might as well carry them always when you go out after dark.
I shall speak to Knapp, and request him to let me know if he hears of a
suspicious looking character--any stranger, in fact--being noticed in
or about the village, and I shall have a talk with Simeox, the head
constable at Reigate, and ask him to do the same. He is not the same
man who was head at the time Bastow was up before us, but he was in
the force then, and, as one of the constables who came up to take the
prisoners down to Reigate, he will have all the facts in his mind. He is
a sharp fellow, and though Bastow has no doubt changed a good deal since
then, he would hardly fail to recognize him if his eye fell upon him. Of
course we may be alarming ourselves unnecessarily, but there are several
reasons why I should object strongly to be shot just at the present
time.”
“Or at any other time, I should say, father,” the young man said with a
laugh.
“I shall know him, Squire, safe enough,” the head constable replied when
John Thorndyke went down to see him on the following day; “but I should
think that if he does come back to England he will hardly be fool enough
to come down here. He was pretty well known in town before that affair,
and everyone who was in the courthouse would be sure to have his face
strongly impressed upon their minds. You may forget a man you have seen
casually, but you don't forget one you have watched closely when he is
in the dock with two others charged with murder. Five out of my six men
were constables at that time, and would know him again the minute they
saw him; but anyhow, I will tell them to keep a sharp lookout in the
tramps' quarters, and especially over the two or three men still here
that Bastow used to consort with. I should say that Reigate is the last
place in the world where he would show his face.”
“I hope so,” the Squire said. “He has caused trouble enough down here as
it is; his father is getting an old man now, and is by no means strong,
and fresh troubles of that kind would undoubtedly kill him.”
A month later the Reigate coach was stopped when a short distance out
of the town by two highwaymen, and a considerable prize obtained by the
robbers. Soon afterwards came news of private carriages being stopped on
various commons in the South of London, and of several burglaries taking
place among the houses round Clapham, Wandsworth, and Putney. Such
events were by no means uncommon, but following each other in such quick
succession they created a strong feeling of alarm among the inhabitants
of the neighborhood. John Thorndyke, going up to town shortly
afterwards, went to the headquarters of the Bow Street runners, and had
a talk with their chief in reference especially to the stoppage of the
Reigate coach. Mr. Chetwynd had lately died, and John Thorndyke had been
unanimously elected by his fellow magistrates as chairman of the bench.
“No, Mr. Thorndyke, we have no clew whatever. Our men have been keeping
the sharpest watch over the fellows suspected of having a hand in such
matters, but they all seem keeping pretty quiet at present, and none of
them seem to be particularly flush with money. It is the same with these
burglaries in the South of London. We are at our wits' end about them.
We are flooded with letters of complaint from residents; but though the
patrols on the common have been doubled and every effort made, we are as
far off as ever. As far as the burglaries are concerned, we have every
reason to think that they are the work of two or three new hands. The
jobs are not neatly done, and certainly not with tools usually used by
burglars. They seem to rely upon daring rather than skill. Anyhow, we
don't know where to look for them, and are altogether at sea.
“Of course it is as annoying to us as it is to anyone else; more so,
because the Justices of the Peace are sending complaints to the Home
Secretary, and he in turn drops on us and wants to know what we are
doing. I have a sort of fancy myself the fellows who are stopping the
coaches are the same as those concerned in the burglaries. I could not
give you my reasons for saying so, except that on no occasion has a
coach been stopped and a house broken into on the same night. I fancy
that at present we shan't hear much more of them. They have created such
alarm that the coaches carry with them two men armed with blunderbusses,
in addition to the guards, and I should fancy that every householder
sleeps with pistols within reach, and has got arms for his servants. At
many of the large houses I know a watchman has been engaged to sit in
the hall all night, to ring the alarm bell and wake the inmates directly
he hears any suspicious sounds. Perhaps the fellows may be quiet for a
time, for they must, during the last month, have got a wonderful amount
of spoil. Maybe they will go west--the Bath road is always a favorite
one with these fellows--maybe they will work the northern side of the
town. I hope we shall lay hands upon them one day, but so far I may say
frankly we have not the slightest clew.”
“But they must put their horses up somewhere?”
“Yes, but unfortunately there are so many small wayside inns, that it
is next to impossible to trace them. A number of these fellows are in
alliance with the highwaymen. Some of them, too, have small farms in
addition to their public house businesses, and the horses may be snugly
put up there, while we are searching the inn stables in vain. Again,
there are rogues even among the farmers themselves; little men, perhaps,
who do not farm more than thirty or forty acres, either working them
themselves, or by the aid of a hired man who lives perhaps at a village
a mile away. To a man of this kind, the offer of a couple of guineas a
week to keep two horses in an empty cowshed, and to ask no questions, is
a heavy temptation.
“We have got two clever fellows going about the country inquiring at
all the villages whether two mounted men have lately been heard going
through there late at night, or early in the morning, so as to narrow
down the area to be searched, but nothing has come of it, although I am
pretty sure that they must have three or four places they use in various
directions. My men have picked up stories of horsemen being heard
occasionally, but they come from various directions, and nowhere have
they been noticed with any regularity. Besides, there are other knights
of the road about, so we are no nearer than we were on that line of
inquiry.”
A month later John Thorndyke had occasion to go up again to town. This
time Mark accompanied him. Both carried pistols, as did the groom,
sitting behind them. The Squire himself was but a poor shot, but Mark
had practiced a great deal.
“'Tis a good thing to be able to shoot straight, Mark,” his father had
said to him three years before. “I abhor dueling, but there is so much
of it at present that any gentlemen might find himself in a position
when he must either go out or submit to be considered a coward. Then,
too, the roads are infested by highwaymen. For that reason alone it
would be well that a man should be able to shoot straight. You should
also practice sometimes at night, setting up some object at a distance
so that you can just make out its outline, and taking a dozen shots at
it. I know it is very difficult when you cannot see your own pistol, but
you can soon learn to trust to your arm to come up to the right height
and in the right direction. Of course you must wait until morning to
find out where your bullet has gone.”
Two days after they had reached town the Squire received a letter from
Mrs. Cunningham.
“DEAR MR. THORNDYKE:
“Knapp has been up this morning to tell me that a stranger dismounted
yesterday at the alehouse, and while his horse was being fed he asked a
few questions. Among others, he wished to be told if you were at home,
saying that he had known you some fifteen years ago, when you lived near
Hastings, and should like to have a talk with you again. In fact, he had
turned off from the main road for the purpose. He seemed disappointed
when he heard that you had gone up to town, and hearing that you might
not be back for three or four days, said he should be coming back
through Reigate in a week or ten days, and he dared say he should be
able to find time to call again. Knapp did not hear about it until this
morning; he asked the landlord about the man, and the landlord said he
was about thirty, dark, and sparely built. He did not notice his horse
particularly, seeing that it was such as a small squire or farmer might
ride. He carried a brace of pistols in his holsters. The landlord was
not prepossessed with his appearance, and it was that that made him
speak to Knapp about him. I have told the men to unfasten the dogs every
night, and I have asked Knapp to send up two trustworthy men to keep
watch.”
“It may mean something, and it may not,” the Squire said, as he handed
the letter to Mark. “It is a suspicious looking circumstance; if
the fellow had been honest he would surely have said something about
himself. There is no doubt these housebreakers generally find out what
chance there is of resistance, and, hearing that we were both away,
may have decided on making an attempt. I have pretty well finished our
business and ordered nearly all the provisions that Mrs. Cunningham
requires. But I have to call at my lawyer's, and that is generally a
longish business. It is half past two o'clock now; if we start from
here at five we shall be down soon after eight, which will be quite soon
enough. We shall have a couple of hours' drive in the dark, but that
won't matter, we have got the lamps.”
“I am quite ready to start, father. I am engaged to sup with Reginald
Ascot, but I will go over this afternoon and make my excuses.”
At five o'clock they started. “You have got your pistols in order,
Mark?” the Squire asked, as they drove over London Bridge.
“I have them handy, father, one in each pocket.”
“James, are your pistols charged?”
“Yes, sir.”
At six o'clock it was beginning to get dusk, and they stopped while the
groom got down and lit the lamps; then they resumed their journey. They
were within five miles of Reigate when suddenly two horsemen rode out
from a side road with a shout of “Stand and deliver!”
The Squire lashed the horses, and a moment later a pistol was fired, and
the ball went through his hat. By the light of the lamps Mark saw
the other man raise his hand, and, leveling his pistol, fired on the
instant; then, as there was no reply to his shot, he discharged the
second barrel at the first who had fired, and who had at once drawn
another pistol. The two reports rang out almost at the same moment, but
Mark's was a little the first. There was a sharp exclamation of pain
from the highwayman, who wrenched round his horse and galloped down the
lane from which he had issued, the groom sending two bullets after him.
“Where is the other man?” Mark exclaimed, as his father reined in the
horses.
“Somewhere on the ground there, Mark; I saw him fall from his saddle as
we passed him.”
“Is it any use pursuing the other, father? I am pretty sure I hit him.”
“I am quite sure you did, but it is no good our following; the side
roads are so cut up by ruts that we should break a spring before we had
gone a hundred yards. No, we will stop and look at this fellow who is
unhorsed, Mark.”
The groom got down, and, taking one of the carriage lamps, proceeded to
a spot where the highwayman's horse was standing. The man was already
dead, the bullet having hit him a few inches above the heart.
“He is dead, father.”
“I think you had better lift him up on the foot board behind; James can
ride his horse. We will hand the body over to the constable at Reigate.
He may know who he is, or find something upon him that may afford a clew
that will lead to the capture of his companion.”
“No, I don't know him, Squire,” the constable said as they stopped
before his house and told him what had happened. “However, he certainly
is dead, and I will get one of the men to help me carry him into the
shed behind the courthouse. So you say that you think that the other is
wounded?”
“I am pretty sure he is. I heard him give an exclamation as my son
fired.”
“That is good shooting, Mr. Mark,” the constable said. “If every
passenger could use his arms as you do there would soon be an end to
stopping coaches. I will see what he has got about him, and will come up
and let you know, Squire, the first thing in the morning.”
“I will send Knapp down,” John Thorndyke said, as they drove homewards.
“I am rather curious to know if this fellow is the same Mrs. Cunningham
wrote about. I will tell him to take Peters along with him.”
“I hardly see that there can be any connection between the two.
Highwaymen don't go in for house breaking. I think they consider that to
be a lower branch of the profession.”
“Generally they do, no doubt, Mark; but you know I told you that the
chief at Bow Street said that he had a suspicion that the highway
robbers and the house breakers who have been creating so much alarm are
the same men.”
“It is curious that they should have happened to light on us, father, if
they were intending to break into our house.”
John Thorndyke made no reply, and in a few minutes drove up to the
house. Their return, a couple of days before they were expected,
caused great satisfaction to Mrs. Cunningham and Millicent. The former,
however, had wisely kept from the girl the matter on which she had
written to the Squire, and the suspicion she had herself entertained.
“It is very dull without you both,” Millicent said. “I was telling Mrs.
Cunningham that I thought it would be a good thing, when you got back,
for us two to take a run up to town for a week, just to let you see
how dull the place is when two of us are away. You are looking quite
serious, uncle. Is anything the matter?”
“Happily nothing is the matter with us, dear, but we have had an
adventure, and not a very pleasant one.”
“What was it?” the girl asked.
“If you examine my hat closely, Millicent, it will tell you.”
The girl took up the hat from a chair on which he had put it, and
brought it to the light. “There are two holes in it,” she said. “Oh,
Guardy, have you been shot at?”
“It looks like it, dear. Two gentlemen highwaymen--at least, that is
what I believe they call themselves--asked us pressingly to stop, and
as we would not comply with their request, one fired at me, and, as you
see, it was an uncommonly good shot. The other was about to fire when
Mark's pistol put a stop to him, and his second barrel stopped the
fellow who had fired first; he was hit, for we heard him give an
exclamation of pain, but before any more shooting could be done he
turned and rode off down a narrow lane where we could not follow.”
“And what became of the first?” Millicent asked with open eyes.
“He was dead before we could get down to examine him; he will not
disturb the King's peace again. It happened about four miles from home,
so we brought him in and gave him and his horse into the charge of the
constable at Reigate.”
“And you have really killed a man?” Millicent said, looking up with an
awestruck expression to Mark.
“Well, as the man would have killed us if I hadn't, I cannot say,
Millicent, that his death weighs in any way heavily on my mind. If he
were as good a shot as the other, my father's life would not have been
worth much, for as we were driving fast, he was not above half as far
away as the other had been when he fired. Just the same, I suppose, as
it would be in a battle; a man is going to shoot you, and you shoot him
first, and I don't suppose it ever troubles you afterwards.”
“Of course I don't mean that I blame you, Mark; but it does seem
shocking.”
“I don't suppose you would think that, Millicent, if a burglar, who had
taken one shot at you and was about to finish you with another, was cut
short in the operation by a shot from my pistol. I believe that your
relief and thankfulness would be so great that the idea that it was a
shocking thing for me to do would not as much as enter your head.”
“I wish you had shot the other man as well as the one you did, Mark,”
the Squire said, as he walked with his son down to Reigate to attend the
inquest the next morning on the man he had brought in. Mark looked at
his father in surprise.
“There is no doubt I hit him, father,” he said; “but I should not think
that he will be likely to trouble us again.”
“I wish I felt quite sure of that. Do you know that I have a strong
suspicion that it was Arthur Bastow?”
Mark had, of course, heard of Bastow's escape, but had attached no great
importance to it. The crime had taken place nearly eight years before,
and although greatly impressed at the time by the ill doings of the man,
the idea that he would ever return and endeavor to avenge himself on
his father for the part he had taken had not occurred to him. Beyond
mentioning his escape, the Squire had never talked to him on the
subject.
“It was he who bade us stand and deliver, and the moment he spoke the
voice seemed familiar to me, and, thinking it over, I have an impression
that it was his. I may be mistaken, for I have had him in my mind ever
since I heard that he had escaped, and may therefore have connected the
voice with him erroneously, and yet I cannot but think that I was right.
You see, there are two or three suspicious circumstances. In the first
place, there was this man down here making inquiries. Knapp went down
early this morning with the innkeeper, and told me before breakfast that
Peters at once recognized the fellow you shot as the man who had made
the inquiries. Now, the natural result of making inquiries would have
been that the two men would the next evening have broken into the house,
thinking that during our absence they would meet with no resistance.
Instead of doing this they waylaid us on the road, which looks as if it
was me they intended to attack, and not the house.”
“But how could they have known that it was us, father? It is certainly
singular that one of the two men should have been the fellow who was up
at the inn, but it may be only a matter of coincidence.”
“I don't know, Mark; I don't say that singular coincidences don't occur,
but I have not much faith in them. Still, if they were journeying down
to attack the house last night they would hardly have stopped travelers
by the way when there was a rich booty awaiting them, as they evidently
believed there was, or that man would not have come down specially to
make inquiries. My own impression is that when they heard that we should
return in two or three days one of them watched us in London, and as
soon as they learned that we were to start for home at five o'clock they
came down here to stop us. They would hardly have done that merely to
get our watches and what money we had in our pockets.”
“No, I should think not, father; but they might be friends of men who
have got into trouble at Reigate, and, as you are chairman of the bench,
may have had a special grudge against you for their conviction.”
“That is, of course, possible, and I hope that it is so.”
“But even if Arthur Bastow had escaped, father, why should he come back
to England, where he would know that he might be arrested again, instead
of staying quietly out in Australia?”
“There are two reasons. In the first place the life out there would not
be a quiet one; there would be nothing for him but to attack and rob the
settlers, and this, as they are sure to be armed, is a pretty dangerous
business. Then there are perils from the blacks, and lastly, such a
life would be absolutely devoid of comfort, and be that of a hunted dog;
living always in the bush, scarcely venturing to sleep lest he should
be pounced upon either by the armed constables of the colony or by the
blacks. It is not as if the country were extensively populated; there
are not a very large number of settlers there yet, and therefore very
small scope for robbers. These people would keep very little money
with them, and the amount of plunder to be got would be small indeed.
Therefore, I take it that the main object of any escaped convict would
be to get away from the place.
“That is one of the reasons why the fellow might come back to England
in spite of the risks. The other is that I believe him to be so
diabolically vindictive that he would run almost any peril in order to
obtain revenge upon me or his father. Twice he has threatened me, the
first time when we captured him, the second time as he left the court
after he had received his sentence. I am not a coward, so far as I know,
Mark, but I am as certain as I stand here that he meant what he said,
and that, during these years of imprisonment and toil out there, he has
been cherishing the thought of coming home some day and getting even
with me. You see, he is said to have been the leader of this convict
revolt. There is no doubting his daring, and to my mind the attack upon
us last night, when they knew that they could have managed a successful
robbery here, points to the fact that it was the result of personal
animosity, and strengthens my belief that it was Arthur Bastow who
called upon us to stand and deliver.”
“It is a very unpleasant idea, father.”
“Very unpleasant, and it seems to me that we should at any rate spare no
pains in hunting the man you wounded down.”
“I will undertake that if you like. I have nothing particular to do, and
it would be an excitement. You have a lot to keep you here.”
“I don't fancy that you will find it an excitement, Mark, for of course
the detectives will do the hunting, but I should certainly be glad if
you would take a letter for me to the head of the Detective Department,
and tell him what I think, and my reasons for thinking so, and say that
I offer a reward of a hundred pounds for the capture of the man who
tried to stop us, and who was, we are certain, wounded by you. Unless
he has some marvelously out of the way hiding place, it ought not to
be difficult. A wounded man could scarcely lie hidden in the slums of
London without it being known to a good many people, to some of whom
a reward of the sum of a hundred pounds would be an irresistible
temptation.”
By this time they had reached Reigate. The inquest did not last
many minutes, and the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of
justifiable homicide.
CHAPTER VII.
The next morning Mark went up to London.
“Of course, Mr. Thorndyke,” the chief at Bow Street said, “your father's
suspicions as to the man's identity may or may not be justified; that,
however, makes no difference to us. Here is a highwayman who has been
wounded, and would certainly be a valuable capture: I will set my men to
work at once; if he is in London they will get news of him before many
days. My men in any case would do their duty, but your father's offer
will certainly stimulate their energy. Where are you stopping?”
“At the Bull, in Holborn.”
“Very well; I will be sure to let you know as soon as we get any clew to
the man's identity.”
Mark remained in London a week, and at the end of that time he received
a note from Bow Street saying that the superintendent wished to see him.
“I am sorry that I have no news for you, Mr. Thorndyke,” the officer
said, when he called upon him. “Every place where such a man would be
likely to be in hiding has been searched, and no clew whatever has been
obtained. We shall now circulate notices of the reward throughout the
country. If the man was at all severely hit, we may assume that he must
be somewhere in the neighborhood of London, whereas, if the wound was
a slight one, he might be able to go a long distance, and may be now
in York, for aught we know. However, now that the search in London has
terminated, I can really see no use in your staying here any longer; we
will let you know directly we have any news.”
Three months later John Thorndyke received a letter from the Detective
Office asking him to call the next time he came up to town, as although
no news had been obtained that would lead to the man's immediate
arrest, news had at any rate been obtained showing that he was alive. It
happened that Mark was intending to go up on the following day, and his
father asked him to call for him at Bow Street.
“Well, Mr. Thorndyke, we have heard about your man, and that after we
had quite abandoned the search. I had come to the conclusion that the
wound you gave him had been a fatal one, and that he had been quietly
buried by some of the people with whom he was connected. The discovery
was, as half these discoveries generally are, the result of accident.
Last week a gentleman entered the Bank and asked for change in gold for
a fifty pound note. The cashier, looking at the number, found that it
was one of those that had been stolen from a passenger by one of the
south coaches several months ago. The gentleman was at once taken into
a private office, and questioned as to how he had obtained the note.
The account that he gave was that he was a surgeon in practice at
Southampton. A gentleman had arrived there on a date which we found to
be the day after that on which you were stopped; he was well dressed,
and had the air of a gentleman; he had come down by coach, and was
evidently very ill. He told the surgeon that he had been engaged in a
duel, that the pistols had been discharged simultaneously, and that he
had killed his man, but had himself been severely wounded. He said that
the person whom he had killed had influential connections, and that it
would be necessary for him to remain in seclusion for a time, and he
asked him to take charge of his case, as he had ample means of paying
him handsomely. The surgeon examined the wound, and found it to be
indeed a serious one, and, as he thought, probably fatal. However,
having no doubt as to the truth of the story, he had taken the gentleman
in, and he remained under his charge until a week before he came up to
town.
“For the first month he had been dangerously ill, but he completely
recovered. The surgeon had no reason whatever for doubting his patient
being a gentleman; he was fashionably dressed, and had evidently changed
his clothes after the duel, as there were no bloodstains upon them. He
was, however, glad when he left, as his con
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