Heralds of Empire

by Agnes C. Laut

  CHAPTER IV

  REBECCA AND JACK BATTLE CONSPIRE

  'Twas cockcrow when I left pacing the shore where we had so oftenplayed in childhood; and through the darkness came the howl of M.Picot's hound, scratching outside the prison gate.

  As well reason with maniacs as fanatics, say I, for they hide as muchfolly under the mask of conscience as ever court fool wore 'neathpainted face. There was Mr. Stocking, as well-meaning a man as trodearth, obdurate beyond persuasion against poor M. Picot under hischarge. Might I not speak to the French doctor through the bars of hiswindow? By no means, Mr. Stocking assured. If once the great doorwere unlocked, who could tell what black arts a sorcerer might use?

  "Look you, Ramsay lad," says he, "I've had this brass key made againsthis witchcraft, and I do not trust it to the hands of the jailer."

  Then, I fear, I pleaded too keenly; for, suspecting collusion with M.Picot, the warden of the court-house grew frigid and bade me ask EliKirke's opinion on witchcraft.

  "'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,'" rasped Eli Kirke, his sterneyes ablaze from an inner fire. "'A man' also, or woman, that hath afamiliar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death.'Think you M. Picot burns incense to the serpent in his jars for thehealing of mankind?" he demanded fiercely.

  "Yes," said I, "'tis for the healing of mankind by experimentation withchemicals. Knowledge of God nor chemicals springs full grown fromman's head, Uncle Eli. Both must be learned. That is all the meaningof his jars and crucibles. He is only trying to learn what laws Godordained among materials. And when M. Picot makes mistakes, it is thesame as when the Church makes mistakes and learns wisdom by blunders."

  Eli Kirke blinked his eyes as though my monstrous pleadings dazed him.

  "'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,'" he cried doggedly. "Do theScriptures lie, Ramsay Stanhope? Tell me that?"

  "No," said I. "The Scriptures condemn liars, and the man who pretendswitchcraft _is_ a liar. There's no such thing. That is why theScriptures command burning." I paused. He made no answer, and Ipleaded on.

  "But M. Picot denies witchcraft, and you would burn him for not lying."

  Never think to gain a stubborn antagonist by partial concession. M.Radisson used to say if you give an enemy an inch he will claim an ell.'Twas so with Eli Kirke, for he leaped to his feet in a fine frenzy andbade me cease juggling Holy Writ.

  "'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,'" he shouted. "'Tisabomination! It shall utterly be put away from you! Because of thishidden iniquity the colony hath fallen on evil days. Let it perishroot and branch!"

  But Tibbie breaks in upon his declamation by throwing wide the librarydoor, and in marches a line of pale-faced ascetics, rigid of jaw, coldof eye, and exalted with that gloomy fervour which counts burninglife's highest joy. Among them was the famous witch-hanger of afteryears, a mere youth then, but about his lips the hard lines of aspiritual zeal scarce differing from pride.

  "God was awakening the churches by marvellous signs," said one,extending a lank, cold hand to salute Eli Kirke.

  "Have we not wrestled mightily for signs and wonders?" demanded anotherwith jaw of steel. And one description of the generation seeking signswas all but off the tip of my tongue.

  "Some aver there be no witches--so fearfully hath error gone abroad,"lamented young Mather, keen to be heard then, as he always was."Brethren, toleration would make a kingdom of chaos, a Sodom, aGomorrah, a Babylon!"

  Faith, it needed no horoscope to forecast that young divine's darkfuture!

  I stood it as long as I could, with palms itching to knock their solemnheads together like so many bowling balls; but when onecadaverous-faced fellow, whose sanctity had gone bilious from lack ofsunshine, whined out against "the saucy miss," meaning thereby MistressHortense, and another prayed Heaven through his nose that his daughtermight "lie in her grave ere she minced her steps with suchdissoluteness of hair and unseemly broideries and bright colours,showing the lightness of her mind," and a third averred that "acucking-stool would teach a maid to walk more shamefacedly," I whirledupon them in a fury that had disinherited me from Eli Kirke's gracesere I spake ten words.

  "Sirs," said I, "your slatternly wenches may be dead ere they matchMistress Hortense! As for wearing light colours, the devil himself ispainted black. Let them who are doing shameful acts to the innocentwalk shamefacedly! For shame, sirs, to cloak malice and jealousy of M.Picot under religion! New England will remember this blot against youand curse you for it! An you listen to Deliverance Dobbins's lies,what hinders any lying wench sending good men to the scaffold?"

  At first they listened agape, but now the hot blood rushed to theirfaces.

  "Hold thy tongue, lad!" roared Eli Kirke. Then, as if to atone forthat violence: "The Lord rebuke thee," he added solemnly.

  And I flung from the house dumb with impotent rage.

  My thoughts were as the snatched sleep of a sick man's dreams. Againthe hideous nightmare of the old martyr at the shambles; but now theshambles were in the New World and the martyr was M. Picot. Somethingcold touched my hand through the dark, and there crouched M. Picot'shound, whining for its master. Automatically I followed across thecommons to the court-house square. It stopped at the prison gate,sniffing and whining and begging in. Poor dog! What could I do? Itried to coax it away, but it lay at the wall like a stone.

  Of the long service in the new-built meeting-house I remember verylittle. Beat of drums, not bells, called to church in those days, andthe beat was to me as a funeral march. The pale face of the preacherin the high pulpit overtowering us all was alight with stern zeal. Theelders, sitting in a row below the pulpit facing us, listened to thefierce diatribe against the dark arts with looks of approbation thatboded ill for M. Picot; and at every fresh fusillade of texts tobolster his argument, the line of deacons below the elders glanced backat the preacher approvingly. Rebecca sat on that side of thecongregation assigned to the women with a dumb look of sympathy on thesweet hooded face. The prisoners were not present. At the end of theservice the preacher paused; and there fell a great hush in which menscarce breathed, for sentence was to be pronounced. But the preacheronly announced that before handing the case to the civil court of oyerand terminer for judgment, the elders wished to hold it in meditationfor another day.

  The singing of the dismissal psalm began and a smothered cry seemed tobreak from Rebecca's pew. Then the preacher had raised his hands abovebowed heads. The service was over. The people crowded solemnly out,and I was left alone in the gathering darkness--alone with the ghostsof youth's illusions mocking from the gloom. Religion, then, did notalways mean right! There were tyrants of souls as well as tyrants ofsword. Prayers were uttered that were fitter for hearing in hell thanin Heaven. Good men could deceive themselves into crime cloakingspiritual malice, sect jealousy, race hatred with an unctuous text.Here, in New England, where men had come for freedom, was tyrannymasking in the guise of religion. Preachers as jealous of the powerslipping from their hands as ever was primate of England! A poorgentleman hounded to his death because he practised the sciences!Millions of victims all the world over burned for witchcraft,sacrificed to a Moloch of superstition in the name of a Christ who cameto let in the light of knowledge on all superstition!

  Could I have found a wilderness where was no human face, I think I hadfled to it that night. And, indeed, when you come to think of mybreaking with Eli Kirke, 'twas the witch trial that drove me to thewilderness.

  There was yet a respite. But the Church still dominated the civilcourts, and a transfer of the case meant that the Church would throwthe onus of executing sentence on those lay figures who were thepuppets of a Pharisaical oligarchy.

  There was no time to appeal to England. There was no chance of suddenrescue. New England had not the stuff of which mobs are made.

  I thought of appealing to the mercy of the judges; but what mercy hadEli Kirke received at the hands of royalists that he should be merciful
to them?

  I thought of firing the prison; but the walls were stone, and the nightwet, and the outcome doubtful.

  I thought of the cell window; but if there had been any hope that way,M. Picot had worked an escape.

  Bowing my head to think--to pray--to imprecate, I lost all sense oftime and place. Some one had slipped quietly into the dark of thechurch. I felt rather than saw a nearing presence. But I paid noheed, for despair blotted out all thought. Whoever it was came feelinga way down the dark aisle.

  Then hot tears fell upon my hands. In the gloom there paused achildlike figure.

  "Rebecca!"

  She panted out a wordless cry. Then she came closer and laid a hand onmy arm. She was struggling to subdue sobs. The question came in ashivering breath.

  "Is Hortense--so dear?"

  "So dear, Rebecca."

  "She must be wondrous happy, Ramsay." A tumult of effort. "If I couldonly take her place----"

  "Take her place, Rebecca?"

  "My father hath the key--if--if--if I took her place, she might gofree."

  "Take her place, child! What folly is this--dear, kind Rebecca? Would't be any better to send you to the rope than Hortense? No--no--dearchild!"

  At that her agitation abated, and she puzzled as if to say more.

  "Dear Rebecca," said I, comforting her as I would a sister, "dearchild, run home. Forget not little Hortense in thy prayers."

  May the angel of forgiveness spread a broader mantle across ourblunders than our sins, but could I have said worse?

  "I have cooked dainties with my own hands. I have sent her cakes everyday," sobbed Rebecca.

  "Go home now, Rebecca," I begged.

  But she stood silent.

  "Rebecca--what is it?"

  "You have not been to see me for a year, Ramsay."

  I could scarce believe my ears.

  "My father is away to-night. Will you not come?"

  "But, Rebecca----"

  "I have never asked a thing of you before."

  "But, Rebecca----"

  "Will you come for Hortense's sake?" she interrupted, with a littlesharp, hard, falsetto note in her baby voice.

  "Rebecca," I demanded, "what do you mean?"

  But she snapped back like the peevish child that she was: "An you comenot when I ask you, you may stay!" And she had gone.

  What was she trying to say with her dark hints and overnice scruples ofa Puritan conscience? And was not that Jack Battle greeting heroutside in the dark?

  I tore after Rebecca at such speed that I had cannoned into open armsbefore I saw a hulking form across the way.

  "Fall-back--fall-edge!" roared Jack, closing his arms about me. "'TisRamsay himself, with a sword like a butcher's cleaver and a wit like abroadaxe!"

  "Have you not heard, Jack?"

  "Heard! Ship ahoy!" cried Jack. "Split me to the chin like a cod!Stood I not abaft of you all day long, packed like a herring in apickle! 'Twas a pretty kettle of fish in your Noah's ark to-day! 'Tisall along o' goodness gone stale from too much salt," says Jack.

  I told him of little Rebecca, and asked what he made of it. He said hemade of it that fools didn't love in the right place--which was not tothe point, whatever Jack thought of Rebecca. Linking his arm throughmine, he headed me about.

  "Captain Gillam, Ben's father, sails for England at sunrise," vouchedJack.

  "What has that to do with Mistress Hortense?" I returned testily.

  "'Tis a swift ship to sail in."

  "To sail in, Jack Battle?"--I caught at the hope. "Out with your plan,man!"

  "And be hanged for it," snaps Jack, falling silent.

  We were opposite the prison. He pointed to a light behind the bars.

  "They are the only prisoners," he said. "They must be in there."

  "One could pass a note through those bars with a long pole," Iobserved, gazing over the yard wall.

  "Or a key," answered Jack.

  He paused before Rebecca's house to the left of the prison.

  "Ramsay," inquired Jack quizzically, "do you happen to have heard whohas the keys?"

  "Rebecca's father is warden."

  "And Rebecca's father is from home to-night," says he, facing mesquarely to the lantern above the door.

  How did he know that? Then I remembered the voices outside the church.

  "Jack--what did Rebecca mean----"

  "Not to be hanged," interrupts Jack. "'Tis all along o' having toomuch conscience, Ramsay. They must either lie like a Dutchman and bedamned, or tell the truth and be hanged. Now, ship ahoy," says he, "tothe quarterdeck!" and he flung me forcibly up the steps.

  Rebecca, herself, red-eyed and reserved, threw wide the door. Shemotioned me to a bench seat opposite the fireplace and fastened hergaze above the mantel till mine followed there too. A bunch of keyshung from an iron rack.

  "What are those, Rebecca?"

  "The largest is for the gate," says she with the panic of consciencerunning from fire. "The brass one unlocks the great door,and--and--the--M. Picot's cell unbolts," she stammered.

  "May I examine them, Rebecca?"

  "I will even draw you a pint of cider," says Rebecca evasively, withgreat trepidation, "but come back soon," she called, tripping off tothe wine-cellar door.

  Snatching the keys, I was down the steps at a leap.

  "The large one for the gate, Jack! The brass one for the big door, andthe cell unbolts!"

  "Ease your helm, sonny!" says Jack, catching the bunch from my clasp."Fall-back--fall-edge!" he laughed in that awful mockery of theaxeman's block. "Fall-back--fall-edge! If there's any hacking ofnecks, mine is thicker than yours! I'll run the risks. Do you waithere in shadow."

  And he darted away. The gate creaked as it gave.

  Then I waited for what seemed eternity.

  A night-watchman shuffled along with swinging lantern, calling out:"What ho? What ho?" Townsfolks rode through the streets with aclatter of the chairmen's feet; but no words were bandied by thefellows, for a Sabbath hush lay over the night. A great hackney-coachnigh mired in mud as it lumbered through mid-road. And M. Picot'shound came sniffing hungrily to me.

  A glare of light shot aslant the dark. Softly the door of Rebecca'shouse opened. A frail figure was silhouetted against the light. Thewick above snuffed out. The figure drew in without a single look,leaving the door ajar. But an hour ago, the iron righteousness ofbigots had filled my soul with revolt. Now the sight of that littlePuritan maid brought prayers to my lips and a Te Deum to my soul.

  The prison gate swung open again with rusty protest. Two hoodedfigures slipped through the dark. Jack Battle had locked the gate andthe keys were in my hand.

  "Take them back," he gurgled out with school-lad glee. "'Twill be apretty to-do of witchcraft to-morrow when they find a cell empty. Gohire passage to England in Captain Gillam's boat!"

  "Captain Gillam's boat?"

  "Yes, or Master Ben's pirate-ship of the north, if she's there," and hehad dashed off in the dark.

  When Rebecca appeared above the cellar-way with a flagon that reamed toa beaded top, the keys were back on the wall.

  "I was overlong," panted Rebecca, with eyes averted as of old to thefolds of her white stomacher. "'Twas a stubborn bung and hard to draw."

  "Dear little cheat! God bless you!--and bless you!--and bless you,Rebecca!" I cried.

  At which the poor child took fright.

  "It--it--it was not all a lie, Ramsay," she stammered. "The bung washard--and--and--and I didn't hasten----"

  "Dear comrade--good-bye, forever!" I called from the dark-of the step.

  "Forever?" asked the faint voice of a forlorn figure black in thedoorway.

  Dear, snowy, self-sacrificing spirit--'tis my clearest memory of herwith the thin, grieved voice coming through the dark.

  I ran to the wharf hard as ever heels nerved by fear and joy andtriumph and love could carry me. The passage I easily engaged from theship's mate, who dinn
ed into my unlistening ears full account of thenorth sea, whither Captain Gillam was to go for the Fur Company, andwhither, too, Master Ben was keen to sail, "a pirateer, along o' hisown risk and gain," explained the mate with a wink, "pirateer orprivateer, call 'em what you will, Mister; the Susan with white sailsin Boston Town, and Le Bon Garcon with sails black as the devil himselfup in Quebec, ha--ha--and I'll give ye odds on it, Mister, the devilhimself don't catch Master Ben! Why, bless you, gentlemen, who's tojail 'im here for droppin' Spanish gold in his own hold and poachin'furs on the king's preserve o' the north sea, when Stocking, thewarden, 'imself owns 'alf the Susan and Cap'en Gillam, 'is father, ismaster o' the king's ship?"

  "They do say," he babbled on, "now that Radisson, the Frenchjack-a-boots, hath given the slip to the King's Company, he sails fromQuebec in ship o' his own. If him and Ben and the Capiten meet--oh,there'll be times! There'll be times!"

  And "times" there were sure enough; but of that I had then small careand shook the loquacious rascal off so that he left me in peace.

  First came the servants, trundling cart-loads of cases, which passedunnoticed; for the town bell had tolled the close of Sabbath, andMonday shipping had begun.

  The cusp of a watery moon faded in the gray dawn streaks of a muffledsky, and at last came the chairmen, with Jack running alert.

  From the chairs stepped the blackamoor, painted as white as paste.Then a New Amsterdam gentleman slipped out from the curtains, followedby his page-boy and servants.

  "Jack," I asked, "where is Hortense?"

  The page glanced from under curls.

  "Dear Jack," she whispered, standing high on her heels nigh as tall asthe sailor lad. And poor Jack Battle, not knowing how to play down,stood blushing, cap in hand, till she laughed a queer little laugh and,bidding him good-bye, told him to remember that she had the squirrelstuffed.

  To me she said no word. Her hand touched mine quick farewell. Thelong lashes lifted.

  There was a look on her face.

  I ask no greater joy in Paradise than memory of that look.

  * * * * * *

  One lone, gray star hung over the masthead. The ship careened acrossthe billows till star and mast-top met.

  Jack fetched a deep sigh.

  "There be work for sailors in England," he said.

  In a flash I thought that I knew what he had meant by fools not lovingin the right place.

  "That were folly, Jack! She hath her station!"

  Jack Battle pointed to the fading steel point above the vanishingmasthead.

  "Doth looking hurt yon star?" asks Jack.

  "Nay; but looking may strain the eyes; and the arrows of longing comeback void."

  He answered nothing, and we lingered heavy hearted till the sun came upover the pillowed waves turning the tumbling waters to molten gold.

  Between us and the fan-like rays behind the glossy billows--was no ship.

  Hortense was safe!

  There was an end-all to undared hopes.