Lochinvar: A Novel
Page 15
CHAPTER XII
THE PRISON OF AMERSFORT
The prison of the city of Amersfort stood at the corner of one of itsmost ancient streets, and the military portion of it exposed a longscarped wall to the public, broken only by a single line of smallwindows triply barred with iron stanchions of the thickness of a man'swrist. These windows were only separated from the street by a low walland a strong but wide-meshed railing of wrought iron. In the large roomof the jail, where only those prisoners were kept who were detainedfor slight offences, or who awaited trial, the unglazed squares of thewindow were large enough to admit of a pole and small basket beingprotruded, so that it should hang within reach of the passers-by. Oneof the inmates was appointed to stand with this curious fishing-rod inhis hand, and the plaintive wail, "Remember the poor prisoners of theprince!" resounded all day along the ancient thoroughfare.
But Wat was too important a guest to be placed in this common room.By special direction of the provost-marshal he had a cell assigned tohim in a tower only a few yards above the level of the street. Hisapartment had two windows, one of which being in the belly of the towerlooked up and down the thoroughfare. He could see the passengers asthey went to and fro, and if any had cared to stop he might even havespoken with them.
Wat paid little attention to the street for the first day or twowhich he passed in the cell. Mostly he sat on the low pallet bed withhis head sunk deeply in his hands. He gave himself up completely tomelancholy thoughts. During the first day he had expected every hourto be brought before a military tribunal. But the fact that the daypassed without incident more discomposing than the visits of theturnkey with his scanty meals informed Wat that he was not to be triedby any summary method of jurisdiction, though in the angry state of thefeelings of the army against the townsfolk of Amersfort, and especiallysmouldering hatred of the provost-marshal's men, this would doubtlesshave been Wat's best chance.
But his mortal enemy did not wish to run the risk of seeing his rivalset free with but some slight penalty, and, being in a position ofgreat influence, he had his will. Day by day passed in the prison, eachwearier and grayer than the other. Finally, Wat took to his barredwindows and watched the stream of traffic. As the poignancy of hisregret dulled to a steady ache, he became deeply interested in theboys who sported in the gutters and sailed ships of wood and paper inevery spate and thunder-shower. He watched for the rosy-cheeked maids,with their black, clattering sabots, who paused a moment to adjusttheir foot-gear with a swish of pleated skirts and a glimpse of daintyankle; and then, having once stopped, stood a long time gossiping withtheir plain-visaged, flat-capped, broad-breeched lovers. Above all, Watloved the vagrant dogs that wandered lazily about the shady corners andfought one another like yellow, whirling hoops in the dust.
Often he would leave his meagre meal untouched in order to watch them.One dog in particular interested him more than all the human beingsin the Street of the Prison. He was a long, thin-bodied beast of ayellowish-gray color, of no particular ancestry, and certainly withoutpersonal charms of any kind, save as it might be those incident tophenomenal and unredeemed ugliness.
To this ignoble hound Wat daily devoted a large proportion of his doleof bread. It amused him to entice the beast each day nearer to therailings, and then, while other stouter and better-favored animals werefor the moment at a distance, Wat would deftly propel a pellet of breadto this faithful attendant. At first, the pariah of the Street of thePrison suspected a trap. For during an eventful life he had on severaloccasions been taken in with pepper balls and second-hand mustardplasters by the brisk young men of the hospitals and of the Netherlandstrading companies.
Now it chanced that while Wat thus played good Samaritan to a cur ofthe gutter, two women stood at the outer gate of the prison. It was notthe first occasion they had been there, nor yet the first time they hadbeen denied entrance.
Maisie and Kate, with women's generosity and swift repentance, stillblaming themselves deeply for their hastiness, had gone to inquire forLochinvar early on the morning after he had been put in prison.
But neither by persuasions nor yet with all their little store ofmoney could they buy even a moment's interview. The jailer's orderswere too imperative. Some one high in authority had given the sternestinjunctions that no one was to be allowed to see the prisoner on anypretext. Will had accompanied them on one occasion in his new officer'suniform, and even discovered in the chief turnkey an old comrade ofGroningen. But it was vain. Strict obedience to his instructions wasthe keeper's life, as well as his bread and his honor. Simply, he darednot, he said, permit any to see that particular prisoner.
But, had they known it, there was a way of access to Wat. As they cameout of the prison gates they met Barra. The provost-marshal, with agloomy countenance, informed them that the prince took a very seriousview of the affair of their cousin. However, he was in hopes that thesentence, though severe and exemplary, would not in any case be death.Probably, however, it might involve a very long period of imprisonment.
"The prince and his council have resolved that an example must be made.There have been, they say, far too many of these brawls in the army. Itis such occurrences which breed ill-blood betwixt the soldiers and thetownsfolk."
"But in that case," said Maisie, "why not persuade the prince to makean example of somebody else--not, surely, of our cousin Wat?"
Barra shrugged his shoulders.
"I am afraid," he said, softly, "that we cannot always arrange mattersso that the penalties shall fall on shoulders whose sufferings willnot hurt us. But you, dear ladies, can wholly trust me to use all myinfluence, so that your friend may soon find himself again at liberty."
Thus talking, they had turned to the right, and were now walking downthe Street of the Prison. Maisie went a little ahead with her hand onher husband's arm, thinking that perhaps if Kate were left to herselfshe might be able to move the provost-marshal to kindlier purposes.Barra lingered as much as he could, in order to separate Kate andhimself as widely as possible from the pair in front.
They passed close to Wat's window, and the prisoner watched them go bywith black despair in his heart.
As they reached the gloomy angle of the prison, Barra indicated, with awave of his hand, a remarkable gargoyle in the shape of a devil's head,frowning from the battlements of the gray, beetling tower. Through theclosed bars of his window Wat noticed the gesture, as Barra intendedthat he should.
"My God!" he cried aloud, to the deaf walls, "he has brought her thisway to gloat with her over my prison-house!"
And he flew at the bars of his window, striking and shaking them tillhis hands were bruised and bleeding.
"Let me get out! God in heaven! Let me get out--that I may kill him!"he cried, in the madness of agony.
But the bars resisted his utmost endeavor. Not so much as a particle ofmortar stirred, and after spending all his strength in vain, Wat fellback on his hard pallet utterly exhausted, and lay there for hours in avague and dazed unconsciousness.
The sullen, tranced hours verged towards evening, and Wat still laymotionless.
The keeper had twice been to his cell with food. But finding on theoccasion of his second visit the previous supply of bread and wateruntouched, he had merely laid down the small loaf of black bread whichwas served out to the prisoners every night, and so departed.
At intervals a low voice seemed to steal into Wat's cell through thesilence of the prison.
"A friend would speak with you--a friend would speak with you."
The words came up from the street beneath. At the third or fourthrepetition Wat rose wearily and, with a dull and hopeless heart, wentto the window whence he was wont to feed the dog with pellets of breadin the morning. A girl, small and slim of body, plainly attired in ablack dress, stood directly underneath. Wat was about to turn backagain to his couch, thinking that the summons could not have beenintended for him, when the maid eagerly beckoned him to remain.
"Do you not remember me?" she said; "I am the Littl
e Marie. I havenever gone back to the Hostel of the Coronation. I have been verywicked. I know I have brought you here. I know that you cannot forgiveme; but tell me something--anything that I may do for you?"
"It is not at all your fault that I am here," replied Wat Gordon,"only that of my own mad folly. Do not reproach yourself, nor troubleyourself, I pray you. There is nothing at all that you can do for me--"
"No one you love to whom I could carry a message--a letter?" The girllooked wistfully up at him as she said this. "I would deliver it sosafely, so secretly."
A little before, Wat would gladly, eagerly indeed, have accepted theoffer, and sent her at once to the street of Zaandpoort, in spite ofhis dismissal. But now his eyes had seen.
"Nay, Little Marie," he said, smiling sadly. "There is no one whom Ilove, no one who cares in the least to hear of me or of my welfare."
The girl stood still, plucking at the lace on her black sleeve, andlooking down.
"Run home now, Little Marie," said Wat, kindly. "I am glad you haveleft the Hostel of the Coronation. Do not go back there any more."
The girl stood still in her place beneath the window.
At last she said, without looking up, "There is one whom you do notlove, who cares much that you are in prison and alone!"
"And who may that be, Marie--old Jack Scarlett, mayhap?"
The girl looked up for a moment--a sudden, flashing look throughblinding tears.
"Only bad-hearted Little Marie--that would die for you!" she said,brokenly.
And without caring even to wipe away her tears, she walked slowlydown the midst of the Street of the Prison, seeing no one at all, andanswering none of the greetings that were showered upon her.