For Faith and Freedom

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  THE MAN OF SAMARIA.

  ''Tis no other than the Fair Maid of Ilminster!' said Mr. Penne,with surprise. 'Madam, with submission, is it safe--is itprudent--for one who walked with the Maids of Taunton on a certainmemorable day, to venture openly into the streets of this city atsuch a time? Judge Jeffreys doth approach to hold his Court. Thyfriends are in prison or in hiding. The Maids are scattered all.'

  'I sought shelter,' I said, 'at the house of Susan Blake, theschoolmistress.'

  'How? You have not heard, then? Miss Susan Blake is dead.'

  'She is dead?'

  'She died in Dorchester Jail, whither she was sent, being speciallyexempted from any pardon. 'Twas fever carried her off. She is dead!Alas! the waste of good lives! She might have bought her freedomafter a while, and then--but--well, 'tis useless to lament thesemishaps.'

  'Alas! alas!' I cried, wringing my hands. 'Then am I in evil plightindeed! All, all are dead!--all my friends are dead!'

  'Madam,' he replied very kindly, 'not all your friends, if I may sayso. I have, I assure you, a most compassionate heart. I bleed forthe sufferings of others; I cannot rest until I have brought relief.This is my way. Oh! I take not credit to myself therefor. It is thatI am so constituted; I am not proud or uplifted on this account.Only tell me your case, entrust your safety to me. You may do sosafely if you reflect for one moment, because--see--one word fromme and you would be taken to prison by yon worthy clergyman, who isnone other than the Rev. Mr. Walter Harte, the Vicar of Taunton.No one is more active against the rebels, and he would rejoice incommitting thee on the charge of having been among the Maids. A wordfrom me would, I say, cause you to be hauled to jail; but, observe,I do not speak that word--God forbid that I should speak that word!'

  'Oh, Sir!' I said, 'this goodness overwhelms me.'

  'Then, Madam, for greater privacy, let us go back into the house andconverse there.'

  So we went back into the empty house and sat in the back parlour.

  'As for the nature of your trouble, Madam,' he began, 'I hope youhave no dear brothers or cousins among those poor fellows in TauntonJail.'

  'No, Sir; my only brother is at Ilminster, and my cousins are faraway in New England.'

  'That is well. One who, like myself, is of a compassionatedisposition, cannot but bewail the grievous waste in jail fever,smallpox, scarlet fever, or putrid throat (to say nothing of thehangings), which now daily happens in the prison. What doth it availto hang and quarter a man, when he might be usefully set to workupon his Majesty's Plantations? It is a most sinful and foolishwaste, I say'--he spoke with great sincerity and warmth--'and arobbing of the pockets of honest merchants.'

  'Indeed, Sir,' I said, 'your words prove the goodness of your heart.'

  'Let my deeds rather than my words prove that. How fare theprisoners with whom you are most concerned?'

  'Alas! Sir Christopher is dead! and my father hath also died of hiswound.'

  'So?--indeed? More waste! They are dead. More waste! But one wasold: had Sir Christopher been sent to the Plantations, his valuewould have been but small, though, indeed, a ransom--but he is dead;and your father, being wounded--but they are dead, and so no moreneed be said. There are, however, others, if I remember aright?'

  'There is my brother in Ilminster Prison, and----'

  'Yes; the two young gentlemen--Challis is their name--in Exeter. Ihave seen them and conversed with them. Strong young men, especiallyone of them. 'Tis sad, indeed, to think that they may be cut off inthe very bloom of their age when they would command so high a pricein Jamaica or Barbadoes. I ventured to beg before their trial thatthey would immediately begin to use whatever interest they might beable to command in order to get their sentence (which was certain)commuted. Many will be suffered to go abroad--why not these younggentlemen? But they have no interest, they assured me; and thereforeI fear that they will die. 'Tis most sad. They cannot hang all--thatis quite true; but then these young gentlemen were officers in thearmy, and therefore an example will be made of them if they have nointerest at Court.'

  'Well, Sir,' I told him, pleased to find him of such a kindly andthoughtful disposition, 'you will be glad to hear that they arealready pardoned, and have been presented by the King to a gentlemanat Court.'

  'Aha! Sayest thou so?' His eyes glittered, and he rubbed his hands.'This is, indeed, joyful news. One of them, Mr. Robin Challis, is agoodly lad, like to whom there are few sent out to the Plantations.He will certainly fetch a good price. The other, Mr. Humphrey, whois somewhat crooked, will go for less. Who hath obtained the gift ofthese young gentlemen?'

  'It is a person named Mr. Nipho.'

  'Mr. Jerome Nipho. I know him well. He is a good Catholic--I mean aPapist--and is much about the Court. He is lucky in having had manyprisoners given to him. And now, Madam, I hope you will command myservices.'

  'In what way, Sir?'

  'In this way. I am, as I have told you'--here he wagged his headand winked both his eyes, and laughed pleasantly--'one of thosefoolish busybodies who love to be still doing good to theirfellow-creatures. To do good is my whole delight. Unfortunately,the opportunities are rare of conferring exemplary benefit upon myfellow-men. But here the way seems clear.'

  He rubbed his hands and laughed again, repeating that the way wasclear before him, so that I believed myself fortunate in falling inwith so virtuous a person.

  'Oh, Sir,' I cried, 'would that the whole world would so live and soact!'

  'Truly, if it did, we should have the prisons cleared. There shouldbe no more throwing away of good lives in hanging; no more wasteof stout fellows and lusty wenches by fever and small-pox. Allshould go to the Plantations--all. Now, Madam, to our business,which is the advantage of these young gentlemen. Know, therefore,that Mr. Jerome Nipho, with all those who have received presents ofprisoners, straightway sells them to persons who engage to transportthem across the seas to his Majesty's Plantations in Jamaica,Virginia, or elsewhere. There they are bound to work for a certainterm of years. Call it not work, however,' he added quickly; 'sayrather that they are invited every day to exercise themselves inthe cotton and the sugar fields. The climate is delightful; thesky is seldom clouded; there are never any frosts or snows; it isalways summer; the fruits are delicious; they have a kind of spiritdistilled from the sugar canes which is said to be finer and morewholesome than the best Nantz; the food is palatable and plentiful,though plain. The masters or employers (call them rather friends)are gentlemen of the highest humanity, and the society is composedof sober merchants, wealthy planters, and gentlemen, like yourbrother, who have had the misfortune to differ in opinions from theGovernment.'

  'Why, Sir,' I said, 'I have always understood that the transportedprisoners are treated with the greatest inhumanity: forced to workin heat such as we never experience, driven with the lash, andhalf-starved, so that none ever come back.'

  He shook his head gently. 'See now,' he said, 'how prejudicesarise. Who could have thought that the Plantations should be thusregarded? 'Tis true that there are estates cultivated by convictsof another kind--I mean robbers, highwaymen, petty thieves, andthe like. Bristol doth every year send away a shipload at least ofsuch. Nay, 'tis reported that rather than hang murderers and thelike the Bristol merchants buy them of the magistrates; but thisis out of the kindness of their hearts. Madam,' he thrust his handinto his bosom and looked me in the face, 'I myself am sometimesengaged in that trade. I myself buy these unhappy prisoners and sendthem to estates where I know they will be treated with the greatestkindness. Do I look like a dishonest man, Madam? As for my name itis George Penne, and I am known to every man of credit in Bristol.Do I talk like one who would make money out of his neighbours'sufferings? Nay, if that is so, let us part at once and say no more.Madam, your humble servant--no harm is done: your humble servant,madam.' He put his hat under his arm, and made as if he would go;but I begged him to remain, and to advise me further in the matter.

  Then I asked him if transported person
s ever came home again.

  'Surely,' he replied, 'some of them come home laden with gold. Some,possessed of places both of honour and of profit, who return tovisit their friends, and then go back to the new country. It is avery Eldorado, or land of gold, to those who are willing to work;and for those who have money and choose to buy exemption from work,it is only an agreeable residence in cheerful society for a certainterm of years. Have you, by chance, Madam, any friends who caninfluence Mr. Jerome Nipho?'

  'No, Sir, I have none.'

  'Then will I myself communicate with that gentleman. Understand,Madam, that I shall have to pay him so much a head for everyprisoner; that I shall be engaged to place every man on board ship;that the prisoners will then be taken across the seas and againsold. But in the case of those who have money, a ransom can beprocured, by means of which they will not have to work.'

  So far he had spoken in the belief that I was at Taunton on mybrother's business, or that of my friends. I told him, therefore,that certain events had occurred which would prevent me fromseeing the prisoners at Exeter. And because I could not forbearfrom weeping while I spoke, he very earnestly begged me to informhim fully in every particular as to my history, adding that hisbenevolence was not confined to the unhappy case of prisoners, butthat it was ready to be extended in any other direction that happychance might offer.

  Therefore, being, as you have seen, so friendless and so ignorant,and so fearful of falling into my husband's hands, and at the sametime so grateful to this good man for his kindly offers (indeed,I took him for an instrument provided by Heaven for the safetypromised in my vision of the night), that I told him everythingexactly, concealing nothing. Nay, I even told him of the bag ofgold which I had tied round my waist--a thing which I had hithertoconcealed, because the money was not mine, but Barnaby's. But I toldit to Mr. Penne.

  While I related my history he interrupted me by frequentejaculations, showing his abhorrence of the wickedness with whichBenjamin compassed his design, and when I finished, he held up hishands in amazement.

  'Good God!' he cried; 'that such a wretch should live! That heshould be allowed still to cumber the earth! What punishment werefitting for this devil in the shape of a man? Madam, your case is,indeed, one that would move the heart of Nero himself. What is to bedone?'

  'Nay, that I know not. For if I go back to our village he will findme there; and if I find out some hiding-place he will seek me outand find me; I shall never know rest or peace again. For of onething am I resolved--I will die--yea, I will indeed die--before Iwill become his wife more than I am at present.'

  'I cannot but commend that resolution, Madam. But, to be plain withyou, there is no place in the world more unsafe for you than Tauntonat this time. Therefore, if you please, I will ride with you toBristol without delay.'

  'Sir, I cannot ask this sacrifice of your business.'

  'My business lies at Bristol. I can do no more here until JudgeJeffreys hath got through his hangings, of which, I fear, theremay be many, and so more sinful waste of good convicts. Let us,therefore, hasten away as quickly as may be; as for what shall bedone afterwards, that we will consider on the way.'

  Did ever a woman in misfortune meet with so good a man? TheSamaritan himself was not of better heart.

  Well, to be brief, half an hour afterwards we mounted and rode toBristol, by way of Bridgwater (this town was even more melancholythan Taunton), taking three days; the weather being now wet andrainy, so that the ways were bad. Now, as we rode along--Mr.Penne and I--side by side, and his servant behind, armed witha blunderbuss, our conversation was grave, turning chiefly onthe imprudence of the people in following Monmouth, when theyshould have waited for the gentry to lead the way. I found mycompanion (whom I held to be my benefactor) sober in manners and inconversation; no drunkard; no user of profane oaths; and towards me,a woman whom he had (so to say) in his own power, he behaved alwayswith the greatest ceremony and politeness. So that I hoped to havefound in this good man a true protector.

  When we reached Bristol he told me that, for my better safety, hewould lodge me apart from his own house; and so took me to a housein Broad Street, near St. John's Gate, where there was a mostrespectable old lady of grave aspect, though red in the cheeks.

  'I have brought you, Madam,' he said, 'to the house of a lady whosevirtue and piety are well known.'

  'Sir,' said the old lady, 'this house is well known for the piety ofthose who use it. And everybody knows that you are all goodness.'

  'No,' said Mr. Penne; 'no man is good. We can but try our best. Inthis house, however, Madam, you will be safe. I beg and implore younot at present to stir abroad, for reasons which you very well know.This good woman has three or four daughters in the house, who aresometimes, I believe, merry----'

  'Sir,' said the old lady, 'children will be foolish.'

  'True, true,' he replied laughing. 'Take care, then, that theymolest not Madam.'

  'No, Sir; they shall not.'

  'Then, Madam, for the moment I leave you. Rest and be easy in yourmind. I have, I think, contrived a plan which will answer your caseperfectly.'

  In the evening he returned and sent me word, very ceremoniously,that he desired the favour of a conversation with me. As if therecould be anything in the world that I desired more!

  'Madam,' he said, 'I have considered carefully your case, and I canfind but one advice to give.'

  'What is it, Sir?'

  'We might,' he went on, 'find a lodging for you in some quiet Welshtown across the Channel. At Chepstow, for instance, or at Newport,you might find a home for a while. But, the country being greatlyinflamed with dissensions, there would everywhere be the danger ofsome fanatical busybody inquiring into your history--whence youcame, why you left your friends--and so forth. And, again, in everytown there are women (saving your presence, Madam), whose tonguestittle-tattle all day long. Short work they make of a stranger. Sothat I see not much safety in a small town. Then, again, you mightfind a farm-house where they would receive you; but your case isnot that you wish to be hidden for a time, as one implicated inthe Monmouth business. Not so; you desire to be hidden all yourlife, or for the whole life of the man who, if he finds you, maycompel you to live with him, and to live for--how long? Sixty years,perhaps, in a dull and dirty farm-house, among rude boors, would beintolerable to a person of your manners and accomplishments.'

  'Then, Sir, in the name of Heaven'--for I began to be wearied withthis lengthy setting up of plans only to pull them down again--'whatshall I do?'

  'You might go to London. At first I thought that London offeredthe best hope of safe retreat. There are parts of London wherethe gentlemen of the robe are never seen, and where you might besafe. Thus, about the eastern parts of the city there are neverany lawyers at all. There you might be safe. But yet--it would bea perpetual risk. Your face, Madam, if I may say so, is one whichwill not be quickly forgotten when it hath once been seen--you wouldbe persecuted by would-be lovers; you would go in continual terror,knowing that one you fear was living only a mile away from you.You would have to make up some story, to maintain which would betroublesome; and presently the time would come when you would haveno more money. What, then, would you do?'

  'Pray, Sir, if you can, tell me what you think I should do, sincethere are so many things that I cannot do.'

  'Madam, I am going to submit to you a plan which seems to me at oncethe safest and the best. You have, you tell me, cousins in the townof Boston, which is in New England.'

  'Yes, I have heard my father speak of his cousins.'

  'I have myself visited that place, and have heard mention of certainEykins as gentlemen of substance and reputation. I propose, Madam,that you should go to these cousins, and seek a home among them.'

  'Leave England? You would have me leave this country and go acrossthe ocean to America?'

  'That is my advice. Nay, Madam'--he assumed a most seriousmanner--'do not reject this advice suddenly; sleep upon it. You arenot going among strangers, but among your own
people, by whom thename of your pious and learned father is doubtless held in greathonour. You are going from a life (at best) of danger and continualcare to a place where you will be certainly free from persecution.Madam, sleep upon it.'