Kitabı oku: «The Manchester Rebels of the Fatal '45», sayfa 21
BOOK V.
JEMMY DAWSON
CHAPTER I.
THE ESCAPE AT WIGAN
The prisoners were treated very considerately on their journey to London. Whenever the waggons stopped at an inn, their occupants were allowed to alight and order what they pleased, and as they had plenty of money, they were served with the best the house could afford. At night they sometimes slept in the waggons, sometimes at an inn, if sufficient accommodation could be found. In the latter case, of course, a guard was placed at the doors.
Passed in this way, the journey might not have been disagreeable, if it had not been for the indignities to which they were occasionally exposed. None of the officers felt any great uneasiness as to their fate. Despite what the Duke of Cumberland had said to Colonel Townley, they were led to expect that they would be treated as prisoners of war, and regularly exchanged.
Entertaining this conviction, they managed to keep up their spirits, and some of them led a very jovial life.
A great change, however, had taken place in Colonel Townley's deportment. He had become extremely reserved, and associated only with Captain Deacon, Captain Dawson, and Atherton. The two latter would have been far more cheerful if they had obtained any tidings of those to whom they were tenderly attached.
On the third day after leaving Carlisle, the prisoners arrived at Lancaster, and on the following day they were taken to Preston. Here the feeling of the inhabitants was so strong against them that they had to be protected by the guard.
At Wigan, where the next halt was made for the night, Atherton remarked that John Holgate, the host of the Bear's Paw, the inn at which they stopped, looked very hard at him. He thought he knew the man's face, and subsequently remembered him as a tradesman in Manchester.
In the course of the evening Holgate found an opportunity of speaking to him privately, and told him not to go to bed, but to leave his window slightly open – as something might happen. Having given him these directions, Holgate hastily left him.
On entering his room, which was at the back of the house, Atherton found it looked into the inn-yard, where the waggons were drawn up, and as some men were going in and out of the stables with lanterns, he perceived that several of the troopers were preparing to take their night's rest in the waggons.
Immediately beneath the window, which was at some height from the ground, a sentinel was posted.
Having made the observations, Atherton withdrew, leaving the window slightly open, as he had been enjoined, and put out the light.
In about an hour all became quiet in the yard – the troopers had got into the waggons, and no doubt were fast asleep, but he could hear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro.
Another hour elapsed, and the sentinel being still at his post, Atherton began to fear that Holgate might fail in his design. But his hopes revived when the footsteps could no longer be heard, and softly approaching the window he looked out.
The sentinel was gone. But in his place stood another person, whom Atherton had no doubt was the friendly landlord.
Having intimated his presence by a slight signal, Holgate retreated, and Atherton instantly prepared to join him. Emerging from the window as noiselessly as he could, he let himself drop to the ground, and achieved the feat so cleverly, that he was only heard by Holgate, who immediately took him to the back of the yard, where they clambered over a low wall, and gained a narrow lane, along which they hastened.
"I think you are now safe," said Holgate. "At any rate, you will be so when we reach our destination. I have brought you this way because it would have been impossible to elude the vigilance of the sentinel placed in front of the house. I have given the man who was stationed in the yard a pot of ale, and he has retired to the stable to drink it."
"You have proved yourself a good friend to me, Holgate," said Atherton; "but I fear you are running great risk on my account."
"I don't mind that," replied the other. "The moment I saw you, I determined to liberate you. I dare say you've forgotten the circumstance, but I haven't. You saved me from being drowned in the Irwell – now we're quits. I'm going to take you to the old Manor House in Bishopsgate Street. It belongs to Captain Hulton, who is in the king's army, but he is away, and my aunt, Mrs. Scholes, who is his housekeeper, has charge of the house. She is a staunch Jacobite. I have seen her and told her all about you. You may trust her perfectly."
Proceeding with the utmost caution, they soon came to Bishopsgate Street, in which the old Manor House was situated.
Taking his companion to the back of the premises, Holgate tapped at a door, which was immediately opened by a very respectable-looking middle-aged woman, who curtsied to Atherton as she admitted him. Holgate did not enter the house, but with a hasty "good-night," departed, and the door was closed and bolted.
Mrs. Scholes then took Atherton to the kitchen, and explained that she meant to put him in the "secret room" in case the house should be searched.
"You will be indifferently lodged, sir," she said; "but you will be safe, and that's the chief thing."
Atherton entirely concurred with her, and without wasting any further time in talk, she led him up a back staircase to a bedroom, from which there was a secret entrance through a closet, to a small inner chamber. The latter was destined for Atherton, and scantily furnished as it was, he was very well content with it, and slept soundly in the little couch prepared for him.
Next morning, when the prisoners were mustered, the greatest consternation was caused by the discovery that Captain Legh was missing. It was quite clear that he had got out of the window, and it was equally clear that the sentinel must have neglected his duty, or the prisoner could not have escaped; but no suspicion attached to the landlord.
Of course the departure of the waggons was delayed, and strict search was made for the fugitive throughout the town. A proclamation was likewise issued, announcing that any one harbouring him would be liable to severe penalties. But the notice had no effect.
In consequence of some information received by the officer in command of the escort that two persons had been seen to enter the Manor House in Bishopsgate Street late at night, the house was strictly searched, but the secret chamber was not discovered, nor was anything found to indicate that the fugitive was concealed there.
CHAPTER II.
THE MEETING AT WARRINGTON
At Warrington, where the visitors were conveyed next day, a meeting took place between Jemmy and Monica, who had come over from Rawcliffe Hall to see her unfortunate lover. She was accompanied by Father Jerome.
Jemmy was alone in a little parlour of the inn at which the waggons had stopped, when Monica was admitted by the guard, who immediately withdrew, and left them together.
Springing forward, Jemmy clasped her to his heart.
So overpowered were they both, that for some minutes they could not give utterance to their feelings, but gazed at each other through eyes streaming with tears.
"Alas! alas!" cried Monica, at length. "Is it come to this? Do I find my dearest Jemmy a prisoner?"
"A prisoner of war," he replied, in as cheerful a tone as he could assume. "I am sure to be exchanged. We shall be separated for a time, but shall meet again in another country. You imagine we shall all be put to death, but believe me the Elector of Hanover has no such intention. He dare not execute us."
"Hush! Jemmy – not so loud. I have been wretched ever since the retreat from Derby took place, for I foresaw what it would come to. I have never ceased to reproach myself with being the cause of your destruction."
"You have nothing to reproach yourself with, dearest girl," he rejoined, tenderly. "'Tis a pity the prince did not march to London. 'Tis a still greater pity the regiment was left at Carlisle."
"Yes, you have been sacrificed, Jemmy – cruelly sacrificed. I shall never think otherwise."
"Such imputations, I am aware, are laid to the prince's charge, but he doesn't deserve them – indeed he doesn't. He is the soul of honour. No one believed the Duke of Cumberland would stop to besiege the town; and those best informed thought it could hold out for a month. However, fortune has declared against us. But I won't allow myself to be cast down." Then lowering his tone, he added, "You know that Atherton has escaped?"
"Yes, I know it," she rejoined. "And so does Constance. Oh, that you had been with him, Jemmy!"
"I shall find means to follow – never doubt it," he rejoined. "But it won't do to make the attempt just yet, for we shall be much more strictly watched than before. But I have a plan, which I mean to put in practice when an opportunity offers, and I hope it will succeed."
"Can I aid you, Jemmy?" she asked, anxiously.
"No," he replied. "But don't be surprised if you see me some night at Rawcliffe Hall."
"Now, indeed, you give me fresh spirits," she cried. "Heaven grant I may see you soon! But there may be danger in your coming to Rawcliffe, and you mustn't run any needless risk on my account."
"The first use I shall make of my liberty will be to fly to you, dearest girl. Of that you may be quite sure. But we are talking only of ourselves. You have scarcely mentioned Constance or your mother. How are they both?"
"They have been full of anxiety, as you may easily imagine. But Constance has somewhat revived since she heard of Atherton's escape, and the tidings I shall be able to give her of you will make her feel more easy. As to my mother, whatever she may suffer – and I am sure she suffers much – she is perfectly resigned. Father Jerome is without. Will you see him?"
"No. I will devote each moment to you. Ah! we are interrupted!" he exclaimed, as the guard came in to say that the time allowed them had expired.
Again they were locked in each other's arms, and when they were forced to separate, it seemed as if their hearts were torn asunder. Even the guard was moved by their distress.
Nevertheless, Monica returned to Rawcliffe Hall in far better spirits than she had quitted it in the morning. She had now some hopes that her lover would escape.
Shortly after her departure Jemmy was obliged to take his place in the waggon, and for some time felt very wretched; but at length he consoled himself by thinking that his separation from the object of his affections would not be long.
The waggons proceeded so slowly on their journey to London, that before they reached Dunstable news was received of the defeat of General Hawley, at Falkirk, by the prince. These tidings caused great alarm throughout the country, as the opinion generally prevailed that after the siege of Carlisle the rebellion had been completely suppressed.
Though the prisoners rejoiced at the prince's success, they felt that their own peril was considerably increased by the event, and that in all probability the severest measures would now be adopted against them.
Hitherto, such strict watch had been kept that Jemmy Dawson had found no means of executing his plan of escape.
CHAPTER III.
ATHERTON TAKES REFUGE AT RAWCLIFFE HALL
On the third day after Atherton's escape at Wigan, as Constance and Monica, who had been tempted forth by the fineness of the weather, were walking in the park, a young man, in a plain country dress that gave him the appearance of a farmer, made his way towards them.
From the first moment when they beheld this personage their suspicions were excited, but as he drew nearer they perceived it was Atherton. Constance would have hurried forward to meet him, but feeling the necessity of caution she restrained herself. Presently, he came up, and thinking he might be noticed by some observer, he adopted a very respectful and distant manner, consistent with the character he had assumed, and took off his hat while addressing them.
"Of course you have heard of my escape," he said. "I did not attempt to communicate with you, for I had no one whom I could trust to convey a message, and I did not dare to write lest my letter should fall into wrong hands. For two days I was concealed in the old Manor House at Wigan, and most carefully attended to by the housekeeper, who provided for all my wants. I had some difficulty in getting away, for the house was watched, but on the second night I ventured out, and soon got clear of the town. Before I left, Mrs. Scholes procured me this disguise, without which I should infallibly have been captured, for my uniform must have betrayed me. Even thus attired, I have had more than one narrow escape. If I can only get into the house unobserved I shall be perfectly safe."
"You must wait till night and all shall be ready for you," rejoined Constance. "As soon as it grows dark Markland shall come out into the park."
"He will find me near this spot," replied Atherton.
"But what will you do in the interim?" asked Constance, anxiously.
"Give yourself no concern about me," he rejoined. "You may be sure I will not expose myself to any needless risk. Adieu!"
With a rustic bow he then moved off, and the two damsels returned to the hall.
Constance's first business was to summon Markland and tell him what had occurred.
The old butler did not manifest much surprise at the intelligence, for when he had first heard of Atherton's escape he felt certain the young gentleman would seek refuge at the hall, and he had already made some quiet preparations for his concealment. He therefore expressed the utmost readiness to carry out his young mistress's instructions, and declared that he could easily manage matters so that none of the servants should be aware that Captain Legh was hidden in the house.
"Even if he should remain here for a month," he said, "with common caution I will engage he shall not be discovered."
"I am very glad to hear you speak so confidently, Markland," she rejoined; "for I feared it would be impossible to conceal him for more than a day or two."
Having made all needful arrangements, Markland stole out quietly as soon as it became dark, and found Atherton at the spot indicated.
"You are so well disguised, sir," he said, "that if I hadn't been prepared I should certainly not have known you. But don't let us waste time in talking here. I must get you into the house."
The night being very dark their approach to the hall could not be perceived. On reaching the drawbridge Markland told his companion to slip past while he went into the gate-house to speak to the porter, and by observing these instructions, Atherton gained the court-yard unperceived.
The butler then gave orders that the drawbridge should be raised, and while the porter was thus employed, he opened the postern and admitted Captain Legh into the house. Having first satisfied himself that no one was in the way, Markland then led the young man along a passage to his own room on the ground floor.
All danger was now over. The small room into which Atherton had been ushered looked exceedingly snug and comfortable. Thick curtains drawn over the narrow window facing the moat prevented any inquisitive eye from peering into the chamber. A bright fire burnt on the hearth, and near it stood a table on which a cold pasty was placed, with a bottle of claret.
"I have prepared a little supper for you, sir," said Markland. "Pray sit down to it. I'll take care you shan't be disturbed. You will please to excuse me. I have some other matters to attend to."
He then went out, taking the precaution to lock the door, and Atherton partook of the first quiet meal he had enjoyed for some time.
Old Markland did not return for nearly three hours, and when he unlocked the door, he found Atherton fast asleep in the chair. Great havoc had been made with the pasty, and the flask of claret was nearly emptied.
"I have got a bed ready for you, sir," he said. "It isn't quite so comfortable as I could wish, but you will make allowances."
"No need of apologies, Markland. I could sleep very well in this chair."
"That's just what I mean to do myself, sir," replied the butler, laughing.
With this, he took Captain Legh up a back staircase to a disused suite of apartments, in one of which a bed had been prepared, while a wood fire blazing on the hearth gave a cheerful air to the otherwise gloomy-looking room.
"I have had this room got ready as if for myself, sir," observed Markland; "but as I have just told you, I mean to sleep in a chair below stairs. I wish you a good-night, sir. I'll come to you in the morning."
So saying, he quitted the room, and Atherton shortly afterwards sought his couch, and slept very soundly.
Next morning, the old butler visited him before he had begun to dress, and opening the drawers of a wardrobe that stood in the room, took out two or three handsome suits of clothes – somewhat old-fashioned, inasmuch as they belonged to the period of George the First, but still attire that could be worn.
"These habiliments belonged to your father, Sir Oswald," said Markland; "and as you are about his size, I am sure they will fit you."
"But are they not out of fashion, Markland?" cried Atherton. "People will stare at me if I appear in a costume of five-and-twenty years ago."
"Well, perhaps they might," rejoined the butler; "but there can be no objection to this dark riding-dress."
"No, that will do very well," said Atherton, in an approving tone, after he had examined it.
"You will find plenty of linen in this drawer – laced shirts, solitaires, cravats, silk stockings," continued the butler; "and in that cupboard there are three or four pairs of jack-boots, with as many cocked-hats."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Atherton. "You have quite set me up, Markland. But now leave me for a short time, that I may try the effect of this riding-dress."
The butler then withdrew, but returned in about half an hour with a pot of chocolate and some slices of toast on a tray.
By this time Atherton was fully attired, and everything fitted him – even to the boots, which he had got out of the cupboard.
"Why, I declare, you are the very image of your father!" exclaimed Markland, as he gazed at him in astonishment. "If I had not known who you are, I should have thought Sir Oswald had come to life again. If any of the old servants should see you, you will certainly be taken for a ghost."
"That's exactly what I should desire," replied Atherton; "and should it be necessary, I shall endeavour to keep up the character. However, I don't mean to qualify myself for the part by eating nothing, so pour me out a cup of chocolate."
The butler obeyed, and Atherton sat down and made a very good breakfast.
Before he had quite finished his repast, the butler left him, and did not reappear.
CHAPTER IV.
AN ENEMY IN THE HOUSE
Not having anything better to do, Atherton began to wander about the deserted suite of apartments, with which his own chamber communicated by a side door.
As the windows were closed, the rooms looked very dark, and he could see but little, and what he did see, impressed him with a melancholy feeling; but the furthest room in the suite looked lighter and more cheerful than the others, simply because the shutters had been opened.
It was a parlour, but most of the furniture had been removed, and only a few chairs and a table were left.
Atherton sat down, and was ruminating upon his position, when a door behind was softly opened – so very softly that he heard no sound.
But he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, and, looking up, beheld Constance standing beside him.
When he met her in the park with Monica, he had not noticed any material alteration in her appearance; but now that he gazed into her face, he was very much struck by the change which a week or two had wrought in her looks.
Dressed in deep mourning, she looked much thinner than heretofore, and the roses had entirely flown from her cheeks; but the extreme paleness of her complexion heightened the lustre of her magnificent black eyes, and contrasted forcibly with her dark locks, while the traces of sadness lent fresh interest to her features.
Not without anxiety did Atherton gaze at her, and at last he said:
"You have been ill, Constance?"
"Not very ill," she replied, with a faint smile. "I am better – and shall soon be quite well. My illness has been rather mental than bodily. I have never quite recovered from the terrible shock which I had to undergo – and, besides, I have been very uneasy about you. Now that you are safe I shall soon recover my health and spirits. At one time I feared I should never behold you again, and then I began to droop."
"I thought you possessed great firmness, Constance," he remarked.
"So I fancied, but I found myself unequal to the trial," she rejoined. "I had no one to cheer me. Monica's distress was even greater than my own, and her mother did not offer us much consolation, for she seemed convinced that both you and Jemmy were doomed to die as traitors."
"Well, your apprehensions are now at an end, so far as I am concerned," said Atherton; "and I see no cause for uneasiness in regard to Jemmy, for he is certain to escape in one way or other. I hope to meet him a month hence in Paris. But I shall not leave England till I learn he is free, as if he fails to escape, I must try to accomplish his deliverance."
"Do not run any further risk," she cried.
"I have promised to help him, and I must keep my word," he rejoined.
"I ought not to attempt to dissuade you, for I love Jemmy dearly, but I love you still better, and I therefore implore you for my sake – if not for your own – not to expose yourself to further danger. I will now tell you frankly that I could not go through such another week as I have just passed."
"But you must now feel that your apprehensions were groundless; and if I should be placed in any fresh danger you must take courage from the past."
"Perhaps you will say that I am grown very timorous, and I can scarcely account for my misgivings – but I will not conceal them. I don't think you are quite safe in this house."
"Why not? Old Markland is devoted to me, I am quite sure, and no one else among the household is aware of my arrival."
"But I am sadly afraid they may discover you."
"You are indeed timorous. Even if I should be discovered, I don't think any of them would be base enough to betray me."
"I have another ground for uneasiness, more serious than this, but I scarcely like to allude to it, because I may be doing an injustice to the person who causes my alarm. I fear you have an enemy in the house."
Atherton looked at her inquiringly, and then said:
"I can only have one enemy – Father Jerome."
She made no answer, but he perceived from her looks that he had guessed aright.
"'Tis unlucky he is established in the house. Why did you bring him here?"
"I could not help it. And he has been most useful to me. But I know he does not like you; and I also know that his nature is malicious and vindictive. I hope he may not find out that you are concealed in the house. I have cautioned Markland, and Monica does not require to be cautioned. Ah! what was that?" she added, listening anxiously. "I thought I heard a noise in the adjoining chamber."
"It may be Markland," said Atherton. "But I will go and see."
With this, he stepped quickly into the next room, the door of which stood ajar.
As we have mentioned, the shutters were closed, and the room was dark, but still, if any listener had been there, he must have been detected. The room, however, seemed quite empty.
Not satisfied with this inspection, Atherton went on through the whole suite of apartments, and with a like result.
"You must have been mistaken," he said on his return to Constance. "I could find no eaves-dropper."
"I am glad to hear it, for I feared that a certain person might be there. But I must now leave you. I hope you will not find your confinement intolerably wearisome. You will be able to get out at night – but during the daytime you must not quit these rooms."
"Come frequently to see me, and the time will pass pleasantly enough," he rejoined.
"I must not come too often or my visits will excite suspicion," she replied. "But I will send you some books by Markland."
"There is a private communication between this part of the house and the library. May I not venture to make use of it?"
"Not without great caution," she rejoined. "Father Jerome is constantly in the library. But I will try to get him away in the evening, and Markland shall bring you word when you can descend with safety."
"Surely some plan might be devised by which Father Jerome could be got rid of for a time?" said Atherton.
"I have thought the matter over, but no such plan occurs to me," replied Constance. "He rarely quits the house, and were I to propose to him to take a journey, or pay a visit, he would immediately suspect I had an object in doing so. But even if he were willing to go, my Aunt Butler I am sure would object."
"Is she not aware that I am in the house?"
"No, Monica and I thought it better not to trust her. She could not keep the secret from Father Jerome."
"Then since the evil cannot be remedied it must be endured," said Atherton.
"That is the right way to view it," rejoined Constance. "Not till the moment of your departure must Father Jerome learn that you have taken refuge here. And now, adieu!"
