The 2nd Golden Age of Mystery and Crime MEGAPACK ™: Ruth Chessman

by Ruth Chessman

  Walter took the farthing, which was indeed old and tarnished. It had come from a miser’s hoard that Coogins had stolen, although that was not the theft which had brought the old man to the gallows.

  “You come as close to a father as I have ever known,” Walter said. “Until this moment, Coogins, no man ever held his hand out to me in friendship. I feel it will soften all the rest of my life.”

  “Then I name you all the son I shall ever know,” said Coogins.

  With no more parting than this they shook hands in final farewell.

  Walter had hoped to break free once he was away from the prison, but he soon found himself heavily manacled, and even the sweet smell of freedom was his for only two hours. After that he was filing into the hold of a ship, already stinking with the smells of some two hundred wretches who were to be his companions. There were thirty transportees, and these were to sail bound hand and food. All thirty had taken the hope of bondage in exchange for the hemp. The rest were a mixture of children, boys and girls up to fifteen, who had been kidnapped for the traffic.

  They set sail with the tide during the next night, and when they were out of sight of land the transposes were turned loose. Many times during the eleven weeks that followed Walter was to wonder if he had been wise in leaving Coogins and the quick end they could have shared. Such slop as they were given for food! Such tainted air as they must breathe, for none were allowed on deck! Such crowding as they must endure! And then finally the fever, the sickness which swept through the hold and carried off all but two of the children, and enough others to cut their whole number almost in half.

  “At least now we have breathing space,” one felon said cynically.

  “I would not have purchased it at such cost,” Walter declared passionately. He had become fond of the youngsters, such frightened mites so needy for kindness, and once he was back on his feet himself, no matter how shaky, he had nursed those children he could, even past the time when it was clear no nursing could help. Nor did he change towards them even when he found his farthing on the body of a shrunken boy he prepared for a sea burial. As he slipped the coin back into the pocket of his jacket he thought only, it would not have been in me, at this poor boy’s age, to rob my benefactor—but how do I know, he added, for at his age I had no benefactor.

  The deaths of the children, which he put down to the Captain’s callous negligence, did not make the sound of “master” sweeter to his cars. As the voyage neared its end he began to wonder what was the best he could hope for.

  “I hear escape is easy,” one brute said. “But dangerous, for it is an escape from the master to the devilish Indians who lie in wait for scalps. And,” he continued with a natural feeling of superiority over the half-savage Colonial, “it is only in reason that they would prize nothing higher than an English scalp.”

  From this another concluded that a city master would be best, far better than a farmer. “With a city master we can escape to the wharves, and ship on a vessel homeward bound, and so work passage back to England.”

  The word “work” fell on Walter’s cars with a disheartening sound, for it was a pastime of all things foreign to him; but since he must choose between the loss of his bright hair to the wild Indians on the one hand, and the lot of labor on the other, he said simply, “In that case, I choose me a city master.”

  “Oh, aye, easily said,” one rascal pointed out. “It is but a question of how you mean to come by your city man.”

  “I cannot rightly say at the moment,” Walter admitted thoughtfully, “but I do not doubt that somehow I can bring it about.”

  The night before the ship docked, seven of the transportees fell upon Walter—it would take seven, he thought proudly, even as he struggled. Their purpose was to rob him. All they found, for it was all he had, was poor Coogins’ farthing.

  “Fah!” said one. “Naught but an old Harrington farthing.”

  The others crowded about to see the coin. “I never saw a Harrington—I know only the rose farthing. I heard there was one which bore a harp and crowned harp,” they said, fingering the blackened coin, and forgetting Walter who softly, in cat motions, rose to his feet and in an instant had two of them by the throat.

  “I’ll have the hearts of all of you lest I get my farthing,” he declared, and the coin was hastily returned.

  “I should have known no man is safe with such cutthroats!” he said. “But the more fool I, I trusted you.”

  “Oh, aye, and well you might,” cried one. “You and your airs, and we wondering what man in this hold could feel the right to be so proud and sure, and so we laid it to a secret store of money. But now we see you carry yourself so by nature, and need no gold to build you higher.”

  The ship docked in mid-morning of a chill April day at a place called by the strange name of Philadelphia. Here there was such a bustle as could be heard to the very hold itself.

  “It must be a large city indeed,” Walter concluded, with as much satisfaction as he was to feel for some time.

  He had thought they would be put on the block and auctioned off, as he heard was done; but the matter, by this Captain at least, was handled differently. Men came on board and purchased the bondsmen in large groups, as if to stock a servant-shop. Thus one little man picked the finest looking, a lot of ten men and women, and paid over a sum to the Captain. Walter was in this lot, and two other men; the rest were comely young women.

  “You’ve skimmed the cream off, Beaton,” the Captain grumbled even as he took the silver. “The rest are worthless.”

  “That’s your lookout,” Beaton said gleefully. “You’re well paid, and rid of ten at once. Pity me now, for I must peddle them from door to door.”

  “Ah, poor Beaton!” the Captain said. “My heart is wrung for you! Well I know the prices you’ll get—and that I would get myself had I but the time for such things.”

  Beaton was such a small man that Walter was sure now there would be no problem in escaping even before they were sold to any master, for with ten of them he must be easily overpowered. But this hope too must die. They were tied to one another with ropes, and led by Beaton and two sailors to a cart waiting on the dock. Here they were tied to the cart itself, so tight that one of the sailors protested, “It will take a knife to cut them free, sir. You are a-wasting of good rope, sir.”

  “Protecting my investment,” Beaton replied cheerfully, and proceeded to drive so rapidly from the docks that Walter roared, “What’s your hurry, man? We are having the very life shaken from us!”

  Beaton grinned at Walter over his shoulder. “There’s money to be saved, young sir,” he replied with mock respect. “The sooner I sell all you noble ladies and gentlemen, the less likely I am to have to pay for your keep.”

  He stopped soon before a red brick house, tied his horse carefully to the hitching post, said mockingly, “Don’t go off, now,” and vanished inside. Shortly he returned with a lady of grim mien. She selected three of the women, remarking, “They look strong enough. But are they willing to work?”

  “You can see I have none but the best,” Beaton told her. “Only wanting to make their fortunes, and all from good families in the old country.”

  The girls were cut free, and went after their mistress into the house. The woman looked like a Tartar, and Walter did pity two of the girls from his heart. The third, though, had a tongue on her and was going to give the mistress more than she had bargained for.

  In this manner the women were all disposed of, for all Philadelphia seemed pleading for serving-women. One of the men, he who could read and write, was snatched up by a merchant as a clerk. Now there remained only Walter and one other, a dark, ill-favored man whose great virtue was meekness.

  “Now for you, my great fellow,” Beaton said to Walter, and drove the cart to a grand place called Parke’s Hotel. Here they were a long time waiting, for the man Beaton had come to see had gone off on a matter of business, and only returned after the sun had begun to set.

  “Mr
. Kenny, sir,” Beaton called almost before the man’s carriage had come to a stop. “I have the man you spoke for, a fine strong young fellow who’ll turn your land with one hand.”

  “A farmer!” Walter breathed. “I’ll have to scotch this.”

  “Oh, aye, and how you mean to, is what I wonder,” muttered his companion.

  Until that moment Walter could not have said, but catching sight of a pretty young woman leaving the carriage and going straight into the Hotel, and seeing in Mr. Kenny a man of stout middle age, he waited calmly until his prospective master came closer, whereupon he said boldly, “It is all very well for you to be satisfied with me, sir, but I have my wants as well. Plague me if I serve any master and there be no pretty young woman about. I am a man no woman would look at twice, to be sure,” he added, drawing himself up as straight as his bonds would let him, his fine blue eyes belying his words by their sparkle, “but I cannot work if there are no pretty women about for me to admire—respectfully, of course, I vow I cannot work else!”

  “Hold your rogue’s tongue!” Beaton almost screamed in his rage. “Pretty women indeed! A pretty lash is what he needs, Mr. Kenny, sir. The lash, and hard work.”

  Mr. Kenny looked at Walter coldly. “I am afraid this man will not do at all,” he said, and looked past him at his ugly companion. “I fancy that one.”

  Beaton was a little mollified by the sale of at least one, but when he was alone with Walter he was still angry enough to promise him, “I’ll find you a cruel master now, you royal highness, never you fear.”

  “Do that, and I’ll break you in half as soon as you cut me loose,” Walter promised him genially.

  Beaton snorted. For all his small size he was not a timid man, and he had arms and hands of iron. He was not so skilled in tying knots as a sailorman, but he was able to pull a tight rope nevertheless. His anger began to mount higher as the sun dipped lower.

  “Now I must pay for a bed for you, you lumbering fool!” he snarled. “Never think but that I’d let you sleep in the cart, only for fear you’d sicken and be a total loss to me instead.”

  “Oh, then, your worries are over,” Walter told him. “I am willing to do you a kindness and sleep in this very hotel. Yes, I like the Parke Hotel. You may bed me down here, and inconvenience yourself no further. Indeed, to make it simpler still, you may sleep in the cart, since I care not a farthing if you sicken, even unto death.”

  Beaton whipped up his horse without another word and they rattled out of the city in all haste against full sunset. Even so it was dark when they drew up before a small inn.

  “Here at least it will be cheap,” Beaton told him, as he began to work on Walter’s ropes. “I have heard of the place. The innkeeper is a simpleton who charges too little, but I do not wish to quarrel with him for that.”

  Before he untied a single knot Beaton took fresh rope and secured Walter’s feet at the ankles so that he could take only short steps—he was hobbled, like a horse! His hands were still firmly tied, so Beaton could now safely cut him loose from the cart. Leading him with a bit of rope as if he were a tame animal, Beaton went inside.

  The room was empty save for a young woman who greeted them pleasantly, with a look of inquiry at Walter. A fine spectacle he must make indeed, shackled hand and foot and led by a man half his size! He was in a sudden rage, and the young woman being of the dark sprightly sort he had always favored made his indignity all the greater.

  “To be sure we have room for you,” she said. “My husband will be back shortly, if you need help with your—prisoner.”

  “No prisoner I!” Walter disclaimed. “Your obedient servant, Ma’am!”

  Beaton laughed loudly. “A fine joke that, your highness. Her obedient servant.” He looked thoughtfully at the young woman, who seemed quite willing to be amused, then said seriously, “Tell your good husband, Ma’am, that I have here a man, his services for sale for a term of fourteen years, and I will let him go cheap since the place and—and all about here seem to please my aristocratic transported.”

  “You may tell him yourself, sir. He has only stepped out to the barn to see to a fretful cow.”

  “No—no—” Beaton said quickly. “I shall take my servantman above stairs, and when your husband returns, you may tell him of the great bargain you have found for him.”

  “I am hungry,” Walter announced. “See that I am fed, Beaton, or you’ll have no slave to sell by morning.”

  Grudgingly Beaton ordered bread and milk for both, but had the young woman, who told them she was called Hitty Curtis, carry the meal to their room. When she left them Beaton said, “I must keep you alive till you are sold, that I must. But there’ll be no more of this pretty woman talk if I am to gag you to put an end to it.”

  “You need have no fear,” Walter assured him as he ate. “I would prize this place. It is well situated, with all its other merits, so close to the docks that I believe a strong man on foot could make it in half a day.”

  “Oh, aye,” said Beaton sagely. “I see your hopes, and it is no matter to me what you do once you are out of my hands. But still it will be better if Innkeeper Curtis buys you sight unseen, for that is a handsome young wife he has. He might be a simpler oaf than I’ve heard, and still have sense enough to worry at having you too near her. I believe we may safely leave it to milady herself to sell you to her husband, for it did seem to me her eyes brightened famously at the sight of you. I think we may sleep the night secure that we will awaken to a new master for you.”

  Both men were so well satisfied with the prospect that after Walter had been securely bound to the bedposts, hand and foot, they fell asleep side by side. But the discomfort of his rigid position awakened Walter after only a nap, and he lay listening to Beaton’s snoring. After a little, idly, he began to fumble at his hand bonds, with no other idea than to loosen them for more comfort in sleeping. Beaton’s cords were tied in no sailor’s knots and he found, to his pleasure, that it was simple for him to untie them. Once free of the bedpost, he worked at his shackled wrists with his teeth and soon they too surrendered. After that it was only a matter of course to free himself entirely. He got off the bed slowly, but with little danger of awakening Beaton, for who sleeps so well as he who knows his bedmate is tied hand and foot to the bed?

  Walter thought briefly of robbing his owner, but it was too risky a business. Instead he left the room, shutting the door softly behind him, and went to the steps to survey the large room below.

  Hitty was gone now, and the fire had burned low. A large, unpleasant-looking man went about clumsily, snuffing the candles. Walter drew back and in so doing made a little sound that in the night stillness was enough to cause the man to look up. There was no help for it now—Walter came down the short flight of stairs readily, prepared to overpower the fellow if need be, and hoping for no more than it be done with no outcry.

  “Ah, you must be that Beaton my wife’s told me of,” Curtis said, staring. “She did not speak of your being so large.”

  “I do not wonder at it,” Walter said promptly. “My size terrifies the ladies.”

  “So you have a man for sale, she says,” Curtis went on with transparent carelessness.

  “Oh, aye,” Walter said, matching his carelessness. “Your wife—is she about?”

  “No, the infant awakened, and that is all Hitty cares about, the babe. Always the babe.”

  And no wonder, you stupid brute, Walter thought; but he was grateful for the womanly behavior of Hitty Curtis, whose presence would only have betrayed the truth to her husband.

  Walter then proceeded with great politeness to sell Beaton to the innkeeper. There must be as little haggling as possible, for although Walter wanted the whole business made short and would have given Beaton up for the asking, still he must seem the normal servant-seller, and had seen enough of the negotiations to know that a first offer was never accepted. The time seemed endless before they reached the sum of five pounds English, with Curtis still hesitating, when Wal
ter suddenly remembered Coogins’ farthing. With a mental bow of gratitude to the man who had foreseen this evil day, he tossed the coin to Curtis and said, “There, now, you may say you bought fourteen year’s of a man’s life for less than five pounds.”

  It turned the trick. Curtis paid over five English coins which he took from the till.

  “Now the man—and his papers,” Curtis said.

  “It will not do to awaken him now,” Walter said. “He needs his rest to do his best work.”

  “He’ll work for me, never fear,” Curds said savagely. “They all work for me.”

  His wife, too, I’ll take my vow, Walter thought, and was not pleased at the idea.

  “I’ll take his papers now,” Curtis said.

  “Oh, aye, if you will,” said Walter. “I’ll go up and get them.” By opening the shutters of the upstairs hall window Walter clambered in safety to the ground. He tried to think as Beaton would, and decided the slayer would expect him to take off at once for Philadelphia. Accordingly he made his way to the barn. Here he felt his way past horse flanks and cow udders to the loft ladder, and climbed up. Under a fine hill of hay he fell into his first refreshing sleep since leaving London.

  He wakened to the sounds of voices, and the sight of torch-bearing men in the barnyard. It was still dark, and he could not question but they were after him. He was being sought too soon after his escape to hope they would believe he was on his way to Philadelphia—indeed, within a few breaths’ time, they came to the foot of the ladder and called out, “We know you are there, Walter Paige. Come down or we fire the barn.” It seemed a drastic step to take to recover a mere servant, but this was a strange country—who knew how the Americans valued their bondsmen? Walter submitted, and was collared by two strangers. Walking between them he was forced back to the inn.

  He was not surprised to see Beaton pacing about angrily.

  “Ah, you’ve caught the rogue!” he exclaimed.

  “Rogue, am I?” Walter protested boldly. “Made a sale for you, I did, for all the thanks I get. Sold myself to Curtis for five English pounds.”