Works of Ellen Wood, page 976
“Not particularly so. There may be a hundred Tom Heriots in the world.”
“That’s what Archibald said — or something to the same effect. But, do you know, I cannot get it out of my head. And Tom’s not writing to us from India has seemed to me all day more strangely odd than it did before.”
“India is a regular lazy place. The heat makes people indolent and indifferent.”
“Yes, I know. Besides, as papa said to me in the few minutes we were talking together before he went away, Tom may have written, and the letters not have reached us. The mail from India is by no means a safe one, he says; letters often get lost by it.”
“By no means safe: no end of letters are lost continually,” I murmured, seconding old Carlen’s invention, knowing not what else to say. “Let us go on, Blanche. It is I who begin, I think— ‘I’ve wandered in dreams.’”
Wandered in dreams! If this misery connected with Tom Heriot were only a dream, and not a reality!
VOLUME III.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE WATCH.
Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar sat at dinner in his house in Russell Square one Sunday afternoon. A great cause, in which he was to lead, had brought him up from circuit, to which he would return when the Nisi Prius trial was over. The cloth was being removed when I entered. He received me with his usual kindly welcome.
“Why not have come to dinner, Charles? Just had it, you say? All the more reason why we might have had it together. Sit down, and help yourself to wine.”
Declining the wine, I drew my chair near to his, and told him what I had come about.
A few days had gone on since the last chapter. With the trouble connected with Mrs. Brightman, and the trouble connected with Tom Heriot, I had enough on my mind at that time, if not upon my shoulders. As regarded Mrs. Brightman, no one could help me; but regarding the other ——
Was Tom in London, or was he not? How was I to find out? I had again gone prowling about the book-stall and its environs, and had seen no trace of him. Had Leah really seen him, or only some other man who resembled him?
Again I questioned Leah. Her opinion was not to be shaken. She held emphatically to her assertion. It was Tom that she had seen, and none other.
“You may have seen some other sailor, sir; I don’t say to the contrary; but the sailor I saw was Captain Heriot,” she reiterated. “Suppose I go again to-night, sir? I may, perhaps, have the good luck to see him.”
“Should you call it good luck, Leah?”
“Ah well, sir, you know what I mean,” she answered. “Shall I go to-night?”
“No, Leah; I am going myself. I cannot rest in this uncertainty.”
Rest! I felt more like a troubled spirit or a wandering ghost. Arthur Lake asked what had gone wrong with me, and where I disappeared to of an evening.
Once more I turned out in discarded clothes to saunter about Lambeth. It was Saturday night and the thoroughfares were crowded; but amidst all who came and went I saw no trace of Tom.
Worried, disheartened, I determined to carry the perplexity to my Uncle Stillingfar. That he was true as steel, full of loving-kindness to all the world, no matter what their errors, and that he would aid me with his counsel — if any counsel could avail — I well knew. And thus I found myself at his house on that Sunday afternoon. Of course he had heard about the escape of the convicts; had seen Tom’s name in the list; but he did not know that he was suspected of having reached London. I told him of what Leah had seen, and added the little episode about “Miss Betsy.”
“And now, what can be done, Uncle Stillingfar? I have come to ask you.”
His kindly blue eyes became thoughtful whilst he pondered the question. “Indeed, Charles, I know not,” he answered. “Either you must wait in patience until he turns up some fine day — as he is sure to do if he is in London — or you must quietly pursue your search for him, and smuggle him away when you have found him.”
“But if I don’t find him? Do you think it could be Tom that Leah saw? Is it possible that he can be in London?”
“Quite possible. If a homeward vessel, bound, it may be, for the port of London, picked them up, what more likely than that he is here? Again, who else would call himself Charles Strange, and pass himself off for you? Though I cannot see his motive for doing it.”
“Did you ever know any man so recklessly imprudent, uncle?”
“I have never known any man so reckless as Tom Heriot. You must do your best to find him, Charles.”
“I don’t know how. I thought you might possibly have suggested some plan. Every day increases his danger.”
“It does: and the chances of his being recognised.”
“It seems useless to search further in Lambeth: he must have changed his quarters. And to look about London for him will be like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. I suppose,” I slowly added, “it would not do to employ a detective?”
“Not unless you wish to put him into the lion’s mouth,” said the Serjeant. “Why, Charles, it would be his business to retake him. Rely upon it, the police are now looking for him if they have the slightest suspicion that he is here.”
At that time one or two private detectives had started in business on their own account, having nothing to do with the police: now they have sprung up in numbers. It was to these I alluded.
Serjeant Stillingfar shook his head. “I would not trust one of them, Charles: it would be too dangerous an experiment. No; what you do, you must do yourself. Once let Government get scent that he is here, and we shall probably find the walls placarded with a reward for his apprehension.”
“One thing I am surprised at,” I said as I rose to leave: “that if he is here, he should not have let me know it. What can he be doing for money? An escaped convict is not likely to have much of that about him.”
Serjeant Stillingfar shook his head. “There are points about the affair that I cannot fathom, Charles. Talking of money — you are well-off now, but if more than you can spare should be needed to get Tom Heriot away, apply to me.”
“Thank you, uncle; but I don’t think it will be needed. Where would you recommend him to escape to?”
“Find him first,” was the Serjeant’s answer.
He accompanied me himself to the front door. As we stood, speaking a last word, a middle-aged man, with keen eyes and spare frame, dressed as a workman, came up with a brisk step. Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar met the smile on the man’s face as he glanced up in passing.
“Arkwright!” he exclaimed. “I hardly knew you. Some sharp case in hand, I conclude?”
“Just so, Serjeant; but I hope to bring it to earth before the day’s over. You know — —”
Then the man glanced at me and came to a pause.
“However, I mustn’t talk about it now, so good-afternoon, Serjeant.” And thus speaking, he walked briskly onwards.
“I wonder what he has in hand? I think he would have told me, Charles, but for your being present,” cried my uncle, looking after him. “A keen man is Arkwright.”
“Arkwright!” I echoed, the name now impressing itself upon me. “Surely not Arkwright the famous detective!”
“Yes, it is. And he has evidently got himself up as a workman to further some case that he has in hand. He knew you, Charles; depend upon that; though you did not know him.”
A fear, perhaps a foolish one, fell upon me. “Uncle Stillingfar,” I breathed, “can his case be Tom’s? Think you it is he who is being run to earth?”
“No, no. That is not likely,” he answered, after a moment’s consideration. “Anyway, you must use every exertion to find him, for his stay in London is full of danger.”
It will readily be believed that this incident had not added to my peace of mind. One more visit I decided to pay to the old ground in Lambeth, and after that — why, in truth, whether to turn east, west, north or south, I knew no more than the dead.
Monday was bright and frosty; Monday evening clear, cold and starlight. The gaslights flared away in the streets and shops; the roads were lined with wayfarers.
Sauntering down the narrow pavement on the opposite side of the way, in the purposeless manner that a hopeless man favours, I approached the book-stall. A sailor was standing before it, his head bent over the volumes. Every pulse within me went up to fever heat: for there was that in him that reminded me of Tom Heriot.
I crossed quietly to the stall, stood side by side with him, and took up a handful of penny dreadfuls. Yes, it was he — Tom Heriot.
“Tom,” I cried softly. “Tom!”
I felt the start he gave. But he did not move hand or foot; only his eyes turned to scan me.
“Tom,” I whispered again, apparently intent upon a grand picture of a castle in flames, and a gentleman miraculously escaping with a lady from an attic window. “Tom, don’t you know me?”
“For goodness’ sake don’t speak to me, Charley!” he breathed in answer, the words barely audible. “Go away, for the love of heaven! I’ve been a prisoner here for the last three minutes. That policeman yonder would know me, and I dare not turn. His name’s Wren.”
Three doors off, a policeman was standing at the edge of the pavement, facing the shops, as if waiting to pounce upon someone he was expecting to pass. Even as Tom spoke, he wheeled round to the right, and marched up the street. Tom as quickly disappeared to the left, leaving a few words in my ear.
“I’ll wait for you at the other end, Charley; it is darker there than here. Don’t follow me immediately.”
So I remained where I was, still bending an enraptured gaze upon the burning castle and the gallant knight and damsel escaping from it at their peril.
“Betsy says the account comes to seven shillings, Mr. Strange.”
The address gave me almost as great a thrill as the sight of Tom had done. It came from the man Lee, now emerging from his shop. Involuntarily I pulled my hat lower upon my brow. He looked up and down the street.
“Oh, I beg pardon — thought Mr. Strange was standing here,” he said. And then I saw my error. He had not spoken to me, but to Tom Heriot. My gaze was still fascinated by the flaming picture.
“Anything you’d like this evening, sir?”
“I’ll take this sheet — half a dozen of them,” I said, putting down sixpence.
“Thank you, sir. A fine night.”
“Yes, very. Were you speaking to the sailor who stood here?” I added carelessly “He went off in that direction, I think,” pointing to the one opposite to that Tom had taken.
“Yes,” answered the man; “’twas Mr. Strange. He had asked me to look how much his score was for tobacco. I dare say he’ll be back presently. Captain Strange, by rights,” added Lee chattily.
“Oh! Captain of a vessel?”
“Of his own vessel — a yacht. Not but what he has been about the world in vessels of all sorts, he tells us; one voyage before the mast, the next right up next to the skipper. But for them ups and downs where, as he says, would sailors find their experience?”
“Very true. Well, this is all I want just now. Good-evening.”
“Good-evening, sir,” replied Caleb Lee.
The end of the street to which Tom had pointed was destitute of shops; the houses were small and poor; consequently, it was tolerably dark. Tom was sauntering along, smoking a short pipe.
“Is there any place at hand where we can have a few words together in tolerable security?” I asked.
“Come along,” briefly responded Tom. “You walk on the other side of the street, old fellow; keep me in view.”
It was good advice, and I took it. He increased his pace to a brisk walk, and presently turned down a narrow passage, which brought him to a sort of small, triangular green, planted with shrubs and trees. I followed, and we sat down on one of the benches.
“Are you quite mad, Tom?”
“Not mad a bit,” laughed Tom. “I say, Charley, did you come to that book-stall to look after me?”
“Ay. And it’s about the tenth time I have been there.”
“How the dickens did you find me out?”
“Chance one evening took Leah into the neighbourhood, and she happened to see you. I had feared you might be in England.”
“You had heard of the wreck of the Vengeance, I suppose; and that a few of us had escaped. Good old Leah! Did I give her a fright?”
We were sitting side by side. Tom had put his pipe out, lest the light should catch the sight of any passing stragglers. We spoke in whispers. It was, perhaps, as safe a place as could be found; nevertheless, I sat upon thorns.
Not so Tom. By the few signs that might be gathered — his light voice, his gay laugh, his careless manner — Tom felt as happy and secure as if he had been attending one of her Majesty’s levées, in the full glory of scarlet coat and flashing sword-blade.
“Do you know, Tom, you have half killed me with terror and apprehension? How could you be so reckless as to come back to London?”
“Because the old ship brought me,” lightly returned Tom.
“I suppose a vessel picked you up — and the comrades who escaped with you?”
“It picked two of us up. The other three died.”
“What, in the boat?”
He nodded. “In the open boat at sea.”
“How did you manage to escape? I thought convicts were too well looked after.”
“So they are, under ordinary circumstances. Shipwrecks form the exception. I’ll give you the history, Charley.”
“Make it brief, then. I am upon thorns.”
Tom laughed, and began:
“We were started on that blessed voyage, a cargo of men in irons, and for some time made a fair passage, and thought we must be nearing the other side. Such a crew, that cargo, Charles! Such an awful lot! Villainous wretches, who wore their guilt on their faces, and suffered their deserts; half demons, most of them. A few amongst them were no doubt like me, innocent enough; wrongfully accused and condemned — —”
“But go on with the narrative, Tom.”
“I swear I was innocent,” he cried, with emotion, heedless of my interruption. “I was wickedly careless, I admit that, but the guilt was another’s, not mine. When I put those bills into circulation, Charles, I knew no more they were forged than you did. Don’t you believe me?”
“I do believe you. I have believed you throughout.”
“And if the trial had not been hurried on I think it could have been proved. It was hurried on, Charles, and when it was on it was hurried over. I am suffering unjustly.”
“Yes, Tom. But won’t you go on with your story?”
“Where was I? Oh, about the voyage and the shipwreck. After getting out of the south-east trades, we had a fortnight’s light winds and calms, and then got into a steady westerly wind, before which we ran quietly for some days. One dark night, it was the fifteenth of November, and thick, drizzling weather, the wind about north-west, we had turned in and were in our first sleep, when a tremendous uproar arose on deck; the watch shouting and tramping, the officers’ orders and the boatswain’s mate’s shrill piping rising above the din. One might have thought Old Nick had leaped on board and was giving chase. Next came distinctly that fearful cry, ‘All hands save ship!’ Sails were being clewed up, yards were being swung round. Before we could realize what it all meant, the ship had run ashore; and there she stuck, bumping as if she would knock her bottom out.”
“Get on, Tom,” I whispered, for he had paused, and seemed to be spinning a long yarn instead of a short one.
“Fortunately, the ship soon made a sort of cradle for herself in the sand, and lay on her starboard bilge. To attempt to get her off was hopeless. So they got us all out of the ship and on shore, and put us under tents made of the sails. The skipper made out, or thought he made out, the island to be that of Tristan d’Acunha: whether it was or not I can’t say positively. At first we thought it was uninhabited, but it turned out to have a few natives on it, sixty or eighty in all. In the course of a few days every movable thing had been landed. All the boats were intact, and were moored in a sort of creek, or small natural harbour, their gear, sails and oars in them.”
“Hush!” I breathed, “or you are lost!”
A policeman’s bull’s-eye was suddenly turned upon the grass. By the man’s size, I knew him for Tom’s friend, Wren. We sat motionless. The light just escaped us, and the man passed on. But we had been in danger.
“If you would only be quicker, Tom. I don’t want to know about boats and their gear.”
He laughed. “How impatient you are, Charles! Well, to get on ahead. A cargo of convicts cannot be kept as securely under such circumstances as had befallen us as they could be in a ship’s hold, and the surveillance exercised was surprisingly lax. Two or three of the prisoners were meditating an escape, and thought they saw their way to effecting it by means of one of the boats. I found this out, and joined the party. But there were almost insurmountable difficulties in the way. It was absolutely necessary that we should put on ordinary clothes — for what vessel, picking us up, but would have delivered us up at the first port it touched at, had we been in convict dress? We marked the purser’s slop-chest, which was under a tent, and well filled, and — —”
“Do get on, Tom!”
“Here goes, then! One calm, but dark night, when other people were sleeping, we stole down to the creek, five of us, rigged ourselves out in the purser’s toggery, leaving the Government uniforms in exchange, unmoored one of the cutters, and got quietly away. We had secreted some bread and salt meat; water there had been already on board. The wind was off the land, and we let the boat drift before it a bit before attempting to make sail. By daylight we were far enough from the island; no chance of their seeing us — a speck on the waters. The wind, hitherto south, had backed to the westward. We shaped a course by the sun to the eastward, and sailed along at the rate of five or six knots. My comrades were not as rough as they might have been; rather decent fellows for convicts. Two of them were from Essex; had been sentenced for poaching only. Now began our lookout: constantly straining our eyes along the horizon for a sail, but especially astern for an outward-bounder, but only saw one or two in the distance that did not see us. What I underwent in that boat as day after day passed, and no sail appeared, I won’t enter upon now, old fellow. The provisions were exhausted, and so was the water. One by one three of my companions went crazy and died. The survivor and I had consigned the last of them to the deep on the twelfth day, and then I thought my turn had come; but Markham was worse than I was. How many hours went on, I knew not. I lay at the bottom of the boat, exhausted and half unconscious, when suddenly I heard voices. I imagined it to be a dream. But in a few minutes a boat was alongside the cutter, and two of its crew had stepped over and were raising me up. They spoke to me, but I was too weak to understand or answer; in fact, I was delirious. I and Markham were taken on board and put to bed. After some days, passed in a sort of dreamy, happy delirium, well cared for and attended to, I woke up to the realities of life. Markham was dead: he had never revived, and died of exposure and weakness some hours after the rescue.”
