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Story 2-Chapter II.
The Pursuit
Hahn. My lord, he has escaped.
Otto. Have thou no fear; he shall be prisoner.
I know the bird, his ways, where he frequents;
And I shall lime a twig, upon the which
I’ll easily entice him to alight.
– Oldenheim.
The noise of the footsteps passing out of the door brought from the cellar a tall and slender elderly man, with black eyes, and dark hair thickly interspersed with grey. This individual seemed to be in a state of much excitement.
“What is the matter, Captain Vance?” he asked. “What has happened?”
“Nothing of much importance,” answered the dark man with the black slouched hat, who was again leaning, as when first seen by John Alvan Coe, against the door, which opened upon the sands. “I caught sight of a man looking in upon us just now through the back window.”
“Do you consider that fact as of not much importance?” said the elderly man from the cellar. “If you were in my position, I think that you would entertain a different opinion.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the captain in a careless manner, “he was only ‘A chiel amang us takin’ notes.’ I am very sure that he will never ‘prent ’em.’ I shall take especial pains that he shall never have a chance of doing so.”
“The men who went out just now then,” remarked the elderly man, in an interrogative manner, “were sent to catch him?”
“Yes,” was the laconic reply.
“God grant that they may catch him!” exclaimed the grey-headed man, in an earnest tone.
“If I were you, I would not call upon God in such a case,” said Captain Vance, whose coolness and self-possession afforded a complete contrast to the excitement and alarm conspicuous in the bearing of his elder companion. “You had better turn your face downward than upward when you call for help; for you are more likely to have sympathy, in the present business, from the powers below than from the powers above. If prayer is the longing of the heart rather than the speech of the lips – as I heard the man who was looking in at the window say a year or so ago – you would have more chance for help by praying to the devil, Mr Ashleigh; that is, if his infernal majesty should think that any more assistance to you is needed to buy you.”
“It is evident, captain,” retorted Mr Ashleigh, “that you are now in one of your philosophical moods, as Billy Bowsprit calls them. I cannot see, however, that, even in the view of our relative positions which you are now taking, you have any advantage of me. I have long been familiar with the saying that ‘the receiver is as bad as the thief;’ but I have never heard, if my memory serves me rightly, that the receiver is worse than the thief.”
“Nevertheless, I have the advantage of you,” quietly answered Captain Vance. “I do not pretend to be any better than I am; I do not ‘wear the livery of heaven to serve the devil in.’”
“Not in ‘your vocation, Hal,’” said Mr Ashleigh; “that is, not here, on shipboard; but at home you are, I am sure, just as much a hypocrite as I am.”
“There is some pith in that retort,” replied Captain Vance, in a somewhat yielding tone. “Ah! we are all more or less hypocrites, Mr Ashleigh; as the poet says, ‘we are all shadows to each other.’”
“Besides,” continued Mr Ashleigh, “nobody in this neighbourhood would recognise you in that disguise and by this light; whereas, this building is known to belong to me, and the discovery of the business which is carried on here would, therefore, ruin me.”
“Pardon the lightness of my manner of speaking,” said the young man, in an earnest tone of voice. “My real reason for speaking so was not on account of want of concern in your interests, but because there is, in fact, no danger to you, or to any one of us, in any discovery made by the individual who just now peeped in upon us.”
“I think that you intimated, a few moments ago,” remarked Ashleigh, “that you know the person who was reconnoitring us. Who is he?”
“John Alvan Coe,” was the answer; “son of old Mr Coe, who owns a plantation at the head of Saint John’s Creek, a few miles from this place.”
“Then I am lost,” exclaimed Ashleigh, in increased alarm. “No man in this county – I may say in this State – can surpass him in ferreting out a secret, when once he has obtained a hint of it.”
“I am as familiar with that peculiarity in his character as you are,” remarked Captain Vance. “But I have a plan partly formed in my head, which, I am almost sure, will not only render him harmless, but will also add a very brave and intelligent member to my ship’s company. I have but little hope that those who have gone in pursuit of him will overtake him. He is the fleetest runner that I ever knew; and sailors make but poor comparative headway on land.”
“What is your plan?” asked Ashleigh.
“It is not yet perfectly formed,” answered Vance. “It is still in the crucible of the brain; and I cannot tell what shape it will take until it has come out complete.”
“You had better be in a hurry then,” said the elder speaker. “There is but little time to act; when he has once told what he has witnessed here to another, the information will spread and spread, and there will be no stopping it. And then the consequences – ah! ‘that way madness lies.’”
“Feel no uneasiness,” said Captain Vance, in a tone of perfect confidence. “He shall take his breakfast on board of the Falcon to-morrow morning.”
“It is some relief to me to hear you speak so confidently,” remarked Ashleigh. “Still I cannot help fearing that trouble will grow out of this thing. I wish that my advice in one respect had been followed, and that we had waited for a few days, until the moon will set before daylight, so that we might have had an hour or two of absolute darkness for our work.”
“I have before represented to you,” replied Captain Vance, “that we should have run still greater risk by such a course, perhaps have had the revenue officer down upon me, while I had all these men on board, and such a quantity of goods for which I have no bill of lading. What suspicions would have been aroused by my lingering round here for a week at least, with no excuse on account of stress of weather for the delay!”
“Well,” observed Ashleigh, with an uneasy sigh, “there is some force in what you say; and it is too late now to discuss the matter.”
“Oh!” said Vance, in a light and cheerful manner, “there is no need of sighing, I assure you. This affair of young Coe does not disturb me at all. It only determines me to do at once what I have often thought of undertaking. I have no doubt, as I said before, that it will only result in adding a new and unusually valuable member to our force. He is remarkably intelligent, and as brave as a lion.”
“I hope that your impressions may prove correct,” remarked Ashleigh, in a manner that still expressed uneasiness.
At this moment the door was opened from the outside, giving entrance to a male individual of a somewhat comical appearance. He was rather under five feet in height, and was what is called “square built,” that is, his form and limbs were very stout, or rather, perhaps, thick; and his waist was nearly as wide as his shoulders or his hips. His hair was of a reddish-brown or tawny colour, of exuberant growth, and worn in long, clustering curls which swept his shoulders. His face was deeply tanned by sun and weather; and the scar of a sabre-cut above his left eye caused the eyebrow on that side to be below the line of its fellow. The eyes were of a reddish hazel colour, and their expression showed that their possessor had an appreciation of the humorous, but that there was also “a lurking devil” in his composition. He was dressed in the ordinary sailor costume of that as well as of the present period, of blue cloth roundabout, with many small brass buttons, coarse Osnaburg trowsers, considerably soiled, light pumps, and a tarpaulin hat.
“Well, Billy,” said the captain, “what luck?”
“No luck at all, as far as I am concerned,” was the answer. “A short, broad-beamed lugger like me has no more chance of overhauling a trim, well-rigged craft like that long-legged fellow, who has been taking liberties with our harmless secrets, than a Dutch drogger has to beat upon a wind a Baltimore clipper.”
Baltimore was even then, the reader will recollect, famed for the fleetness of her vessels.
“Where are the other two?” asked Captain Vance.
“I don’t know, indeed, captain,” replied Billy. “When I got to the top of the hill they were all hull down; and I thought that I had better steer for port before I had lost all my bearings. So here I am. I think, by-the-bye, that that long-legged fellow will get the weather-guage of all of them. Do you know his name, captain?”
Billy was a privileged character with his captain, who, in fact, was generally more familiar with his men than is usual with officers in chief command.
“Yes,” answered Captain Vance; “his name is Coe.”
“That’s just the very name for him,” said the sailor. “I have often heard that, in the merchant-houses, ‘Co.’ sometimes stands for more than one man; and I know that this fellow is fully equal to two. Indeed, I think that he’ll prove himself too much for all of us to-night. He runs like a clipper before the wind.”
The door again opened, and two seamen entered, both dressed in costumes similar to that of the last-comer before them. One was evidently a common sailor; the other was a stout, compactly-built man, about five feet six or seven inches in height, of a swarthy complexion, with dark and lowering eyes, and a generally stern and forbidding expression of countenance. His dark hair, somewhat mingled with grey, was, contrary to the usual sailor fashion, cut closely to his head; but he wore all of his grizzled, straight, and uncurling beard long. He seemed to be about forty years of age.
This man interlarded his talk with many oaths of the rudest character. I prefer to omit them in reporting his conversation.
“Well, Mr Afton,” said Captain Vance, in a pleasant tone, addressing this individual, “where is your prisoner?”
“Prisoner?” was the rough answer, “I once was told of a man who was such a fool as to undertake to run a race with the moon; but he had a sight more chance of winning his race than we had of winning ours. We overtook, in the pursuit, two stupid negroes carrying a load of fish. I thought that they had probably seen him, and could, therefore, give us some information with regard to our chase; but though I cut some tough hickory rods, and they were both well thrashed, we could get nothing out of them.”
“That was useless, to say the least of it,” said the captain, with some sternness. “Of course, if they had seen him, they would have told you without having been cruelly beaten.”
Mr Afton indulged himself in a few more oaths, and a heavy frown came upon his face. The captain seemed to take but little notice, however; and there was silence for a few moments. This silence was broken by Mr Afton.
“If I knew who that spying fellow is, and where he lives, captain,” he said, with more respect in his tones and manner, “I would, with your consent, take a few of the men, storm the house, capture him, and bring him aboard.”
“I know the man,” replied Captain Vance, “and also where he is to be found. But there is no need of resorting to the violent means which you recommend – which, by-the-bye, would destroy our trade here, by making it unsafe for us to visit this harbour or its neighbourhood any more. I think that I have a better plan. I know well the character of the man who was watching us, and since you started in pursuit of him, have thought of a plan by which I shall have him peaceably on board of the brig early to-morrow morning, before he shall have an opportunity of communicating with any one. Trust the matter to me; I feel not the least doubt of my success. I will speak to you further on the subject presently.”
From the time that Afton, Billy, and the other sailor had gone in pursuit of young Coe, the process of removing the bales and boxes of goods to the cellar had been unremittingly continued. Soon after Billy Bowsprit’s return, Mr Ashleigh had gone down into the cellar again, to resume the superintendence of the storage of the merchandise. Shortly after the close of the conversation recorded above, between the captain and the first-mate, the merchant reascended to the store-room, and announced that the goods were all safely put away. He was followed by the sailors who had been engaged in carrying down the packages.
“Come, boys,” said the store-keeper, addressing those who had come with him out of the cellar; “let us put the slide and the counter back into their places, and put the store-room again in order. Our night’s work will then be finished. I, for one, shall be glad of it, for I am both tired and sleepy.”
In a few moments afterwards, and while Captain Vance was holding a short, whispered conversation with Mr Afton, his first-mate, the doors and windows of the store-room were made fast. Then the merchant took his way up the hill to his house, and the seafaring people, all but one, returned to the brig.
Story 2-Chapter III.
The Early Visitor
Teler. ’Tis a brave venture, our good master Jansen,
And needs a man of pluck to carry it.
Jansen. Danger, say you? and mystery to back it!
Say no more, Teler – I’m the man for you.
– Old Drama.
Millmont, the residence of Thomas Coe, Esq, on his plantation of the same name, near the head of Saint John’s creek, was a large, two-storey frame building, with single-storey wings. Each of these wings contained one room, with an attic above, and was connected with the main building by a short and narrow passage or entry. In one of these wings was the chamber of John Alvan Coe. It was a large room, with windows sheltered by Venetian blinds, and opening almost to the floor. A large yard, shaded by several old trees, extended from the front of the house and from the gables of the wings; the garden, in the usual fashion when attached to plantation houses of that time, was on the fourth side, or in the rear of the buildings.
John Alvan Coe not only escaped from his pursuers, but arrived home before the two negro men who had accompanied him. He at once entered his room, and in a few moments – having first loaded his pistols and placed them on a table near the head of his bed, and having seen that the window-shutters were all made fast – sprung into bed, and was soon deep in that sound and refreshing sleep which fatigue always assures to healthy youth.
About four o’clock, or at the earliest “peep of day,” the young man was aroused from his slumbers by a light, grating noise, made by running a stick or a finger down along the outside of the Venetian shutters of one of the windows of his room. He immediately started from his sleep.
“Who is there?” he exclaimed.
“Get up, John, and let me in, quickly,” said a voice from the outside of the window. “I have something interesting to tell you.”
“Is that you, Harry Marston?” asked John. “Wait a moment till I get on some of my clothes.”
In a few minutes the early visitor was admitted into the chamber. It was, as John had supposed, Henry Marston, the son of a wealthy planter in the neighbourhood. Being of an adventurous and roving disposition, he had been unwillingly allowed by his parents, some years before, to enter upon a seafaring life. He had risen rapidly in his chosen profession, and was now captain of the Sea-bird, a merchant vessel in which his father owned an interest, and which was engaged in trading between Baltimore and certain ports in the West Indies and along the Spanish main.
Young Marston was tall and handsome. His hair and the slight moustache which shaded his upper lip were of dark brown hue. His dark, hazel eyes were expressive, at the first glance, of both gentleness and resolution; but a second, and more observant look, discovered something more in them – a something that created uneasiness and a want of trust. Every movement of his body seemed instinct with grace. His voice was soft and musical, but it did not at all remind you of the singing of birds or of the tones of other cheerful and innocent creatures. Still, there was a peculiar fascination in his speech and manner, which possessed a great influence over certain natures. The young man was on this occasion dressed in a handsome suit of black broadcloth.
“How are you, Harry?” exclaimed John, as soon as his visitor entered the room. “This is, indeed, a surprise, and a delightful one. When did you get back home?”
“Last night,” was the answer, “or, rather, I should say this morning, since it was fully one o’clock when I got home. Everybody was aroused from sleep by my arrival; and the old folks insisted upon dressing and coming down to see me at once. All the little ones, too, came out of their nests to see the long-absent Harry. Thus, it was nearly three o’clock before I got a chance of retiring to my chamber, by which time the excitement of seeing so many loved ones banished from me all weariness and inclination to sleep. And this brings me to the cause of my so early visit to you.”
“In the delight of seeing you,” said John, “I had forgotten that subject entirely.”
“When I entered my chamber,” continued Henry Marston, “I found upon the floor, directly in front of the door by which I had come in, this singular and enigmatical card, enclosed in an envelope directed to my address – ‘Captain Henry Marston, Blue Oldfields’ – the name of my father’s place, you know. Remembering your fondness for adventure – we are alike in that respect, in truth – I came over here at once, to ask your assistance in developing the mystery. There is no time for delays, you see, as to-day is the twenty-first.”
The young sailor handed to his friend a card, on which was written, in letters imitating print, these words:
May 21st, 1817, at 5:12 a.m.
At the Spout.
The number is eight.
Be Prompt – Be True.
Forget not the Pass. “A F E.”
“What do you want to do?” asked John, after reading the words on the card. “I can make but little meaning out of this.”
“Why, of course,” replied Marston, “I want you to go with me to this rendezvous. I am determined to find out the mystery. You see, there will be eight there – seven besides myself; at any rate, that is what I understand the card to mean. If anything be wrong, I can scarcely hope to contend successfully against seven men. At an hour so early, few upon whom I could call for help will be about – probably not one at that lonely place. Yet I am determined, at all hazards, to solve the mystery. If you think there is too much risk in the affair, John, I will go by myself.”
“As to that matter,” said John, “you know that I don’t care about the risk, as you call it; so that if you are determined to go I will accompany you. But the affair may be only a joke; and I don’t wish to do anything that will make me the subject of laughter.”
“It may be a joke to try my courage,” observed Marston. “In any view of the case,” he continued, after a pause, “I am determined to make the venture.”
“And I shall accompany you,” said John. “The place designated, I suppose, is the Spout on Saint Leonard’s Creek?”
“Of course it is,” was the answer. “There is no other place in this neighbourhood called the Spout.”
“But my going with you,” said John, reflectively, “may be the very cause of danger to you, since I have received no card of invitation. By the way, what is that piece of paper on the floor behind you near the door. Bless my life!” he continued, picking up the paper; “it is addressed to me, and contains, word for word, a card like the one addressed to you.”
“You will go now, I suppose, unhesitatingly,” said Captain Marston.
“Certainly,” was the reply. “But I had better awaken one of the servants, and leave a message for the family.”
“There is no use in doing that,” said Henry. “I left no message at home. We shall be back, in all probability, by the time they are up. Have you not a pair of pistols? I remember that we each bought, in Baltimore, a pair precisely alike, during my last visit home. We should go well armed, and in that condition, I think, as we are both good shots, and not at all nervous, that we shall be very nearly, if not quite, a match for the other six.”
“My pistols,” answered young Coe, “are here on the table, and ready for use. I loaded them immediately on my return from a drum-fishing excursion last night, on account of an adventure which befell me on my way home. This card may have something to do with that adventure.”
“Ah! What is that adventure to which you refer!” asked Captain Marston, with much expression of interest.
While young Coe was relating to his friend the incidents of the night, he was also engaged in dressing. During the process of dressing, while young Coe’s eyes were turned for a moment or two away from Marston, the latter took up the pistols which had been lying upon the table, and placed them in his pockets, and immediately afterwards put upon the table in their place another pair of pistols which were precisely similar in appearance to the former, and which he had withdrawn from another pair of pockets in his dress.
“What befell you last night,” remarked the captain, when John had concluded his narrative, “can have nothing to do with the present affair, because they could not have recognised you under the circumstances; and, besides, I should not have received a card as well as you, since I had nothing to do with that adventure.”
“True,” replied John. “Yet I may have been recognised; who knows but that one or more persons of this neighbourhood who knows me are engaged in this smuggling business, and were there disguised? Moreover, the card sent to you also may be intended to put me off my guard.”
“If you feel any uneasiness about the matter,” said Captain Marston, “you had better, perhaps, not go. I shall go, however, at all risks.”
“Oh!” exclaimed John, in an easy tone; “my thinking the affair a plot will not prevent me from trying to discover its meaning. If it be a trap to catch me, that trap is well set; for what is more apt to draw one on to adventure than mystery, especially when that mystery is awaited on by apparent peril? I am determined to solve the riddle, let it be attended by what danger it may be.”
“Come, then,” said the captain, “are you ready? If so, let us go at once. Time is pressing.”
The two men then left the house, and proceeded to the stable, where John soon saddled two horses for the ride. Mounting, they rode slowly, for fear of disturbing the sleep of the household, down a land bordered with old cherry-trees, which led from the dwelling at Millmont to the public road at the distance of a few hundred yards; but on gaining this road their horses were urged to a fast gallop.
The daylight was now shining broad and bright, although there was nearly half an hour to sunrise. The sky was softly blue, and clear of clouds, save a few light and fleecy ones, which sailed slowly along, seemingly far away in the depths of ether. “A dewy freshness filled the air,” which was cool and bracing, and made sweet by the fragrant breath of grasses and leaves, and of the humble wild flowers which grew on either side of the road.
The stimulating character of the atmosphere, and the elastic motion of their steeds, stirred the blood of the young men to a more, rapid circulation, and aroused them to a full enjoyment of the adventure in which they were engaged.
“What a strange and inexpressible pleasure there is in danger!” said John. “There seems to me to be no enjoyment in life, unless there be obstacles to overcome, and perils to meet.”
“I agree with you,” said Captain Marston. “But it requires caution as well as courage to win for us in the battle of life. Has it occurred to you that we have not the password to admit us to the rendezvous?”
“No,” replied John. “But what is the use of it? We have received cards of invitation, and we know the place and hour of meeting.”
“So we do,” said Marston; “yet a want of knowledge of this password may give us inconvenience as well as trouble.”
“Probably,” suggested Coe, “the letters ‘A F E’ are the password.”
“But,” objected Captain Marston, “perhaps they are only the initials of it; and in that case, the question arises, what do they stand for? It is well to be armed against all contingencies.”
“True,” consented John. “But I am sure I have no idea what they can mean. Let me think for a minute or two.”
“Don’t you remember,” asked Marston, “the English story, which we read together when we were schoolboys, about a mysterious secret society? Can you recollect the initials of their password?”
“Yes,” was the ready reply; “they are ‘O F A – A F O,’ which, being interpreted, mean ‘One for All, All for One.’ Let me see! ‘A F E.’ All for each. I wonder if that is not the password in this case?”
“Very probable,” assented Marston. “If necessary, let us try it, at all events.”
This proposition was agreed to. As the distance between Millmont and the Spout, over a road which traversed, in rapidly succeeding alternations, fields and forests, hills and plains, was fully nine miles, the two young men were obliged to put their horses to a tolerably high speed to reach the place of their destination in time. But little more conversation passed between them, therefore, until they arrived at the head of the ravine, down which their road led to the shore of Saint Leonard’s Creek.
