The Detections of Dr. Sam Johnson

by Lillian de la Torre

  “Why, my poor dear, what’s to be done? Can I step between your lover and the muskets?”

  “There must be a way—there must be a way!”

  “There’s the Leyden battery,” pronounced Miss Williams in her old voice like the rustling of a leaf. “We may electrize the young man after he’s—hem, when I assisted Dr. Gray, the noted Electrician, the Leyden battery worked wonders with deceased frogs.”

  “Tut, Miss Williams,” said Dr. Johnson testily, “this is not a matter of frogs.”

  Miss Williams bridled, but said no more.

  “I’ll fix the captain a dose,” volunteered Mr. Levett.

  “You mean the sergeant?” I enquired.

  “No, sir, the captain, him that hollos Fire!”

  “Now, sir,” said Johnson severely, “you’ve taken leave of your senses, to propose so coolly to give a soldier of the King a poison dose.”

  “No, sir, no poison dose, but say a great purge or a sleepy draught, shall occupy him otherwise till the stroke of noon be past.”

  “Foh,” says Johnson, “there’s officers enough in the regiment to hollo Fire, I warrant you. We must go another way to work.”

  “Allan protests his innocence,” said Lucinda. “We must prove it.”

  “Prove it, my dear? In four hours? This is a labour of Hercules.”

  “And who so fit for the part of the Greek hero?” I enquired, viewing the great frame, the massive limbs, the large shapely hands of my friend.

  “Well, well, as yet the cause of Allan Macdonald is Greek to me. But I will try to construe it. Pray, Mr. Boswell, you’re a lawyer, detail me the case against him.”

  “Sir,” said I, “the case against him is simple and damning. Allan goes on watch at Cumberland Gate. Midnight is scarce past when along comes Sergeant Thacker on his rounds. He finds Allan sleeping away at his post.”

  “He lies,” cried Lucinda. “He hates Allan. He is wishful to lie his life away.”

  “What says Allan? Has he no counter-proof?”

  “Only,” said I, “the stroke of 13.”

  “Thirteen? How is this proof?”

  “Sir,” said I, “Allan Macdonald avers that, waking as he stood his watch, he heard the great bell of St. Paul’s strike 13.”

  “And others heard it?”

  “Nay, I know not.”

  “There’s one, that’s certain. Sergeant Thacker.”

  “Nay, sir, he denies it.”

  “So he would,” cried Luanda hotly. “Yet there must be a way to prove it. There must be a way!”

  She started to her feet, all languor shed.

  “Why do we sit here wasting time? Let us go at once!”

  “Go? Whither?”

  “To St. Paul’s! To Hyde Park! To Allan! Anywhere, save sitting here while the sands run out!”

  “Child, child,” said Dr. Johnson mildly, “not in those garments.”

  “You are right, sir. I’ll send for woman’s gear. But there’s no time to lose. Do you and Mr. Boswell go at once, and send me word where we may meet.”

  St. Paul’s clock was striking 9 as we entered Hyde Park Corner. A small bandy-legged sentry admitted us to the park without parley.

  ’Twas a sight to warm the blood. The conical red-topped white tents, the showy uniforms, the stands of arms, the waving standards, the park of artillery, the rows of picketed horses, and all the other paraphernalia of military life sparkled in the sunshine on the greensward and shimmered under the broad shade of the trees.

  “A camp,” observed Johnson sententiously, “is one of the great scenes of human life.”

  ’Twas so indeed. Here a gallant grenadier in sugar-loaf cap dallies with some trim milliner’s apprentice. There a sutler’s booth displays a board “Pool’s intire Butt Beer. Fine Ale and Amber,” and the soldiers gather round. Hard by, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, clad en militaire, epauletted and cockaded, stands siege of a dozen red coats.

  Soon we drew rein before the tent of the court-martial. ’Twas a brave sight in full sun, with the company standard waving before it, and the red of its peak repeated in a bed of flowers sparkling beside it like a pool of blood, a wave of full-blooded ruffled blooms like scarlet silk, with blackness at the heart.

  Before the tent sat Captain Donellan. His cockaded hat lay upon the bench beside him. His waistcoat was unbuttoned; he wore a red flower over his ear, and sat reading upon an octavo in red leather.

  When we presented ourselves, the Captain was eager to welcome us. He had heard of Dictionary Johnson. He must needs display his domain, and Dr. Johnson willingly observed the little niceties of life in the field. He much admired the patent camp bed and the chair that folded so neatly, the ingenious writing-stand and the rack of books. As was his wont, he lingered to read the titles, holding one book after another close to his near-sighted eyes and muttering: a Shakespeare, a Pope, Wolfe’s Instructions, Dodd’s Sermons, Linnaeus’ Genera Plantarum, the physical volumes of Mead.

  As we withdrew, to take our ease upon the bench, Dr. Johnson leaned with a grunt and picked up from the ground, where Allan and the sergeant had locked in combat, a little instrument of unknown use. ’Twas four sharp-clawed prongs bound together with a handle of cord. He extended it to the captain. The soldier’s brows drew down.

  “What’s this instrument of torture?” he muttered. “And whence came it? If Thacker—” He broke off. “Pray, gentlemen, be seated.”

  As Johnson seated himself, he indicated with a smile the rippling pool of crimson flowers.

  “‘Not poppy, nor mandragora,’” he quoted from Othello, “‘Shall ever med’cine thee to that sweet sleep that thou owed’st yesterday’ … or should I rather cite Linnaeus? For which, poet or philosopher, do you give camp-room to this red-coat regiment?”

  “For Linnaeus,” replied Donellan, giving smile for smile. “’Tis sheer necessity that has set me a-gardening and a-soldiering in one summer, for I brought these with me from the East Indies, and I was unwilling to let their propagation lapse, even in the field. But come, sirs, how can I serve you?”

  “You can serve Lucinda Locke.”

  Captain Donellan started.

  “What do you know of Lucinda Locke?”

  When he heard, he was filled with compunction.

  “’Pon honour, Dr. Johnson, I would give £1000 that matters had taken another turn. But how comes Lucinda to be running about thus in boy’s attire? Upon young Macdonald’s misfortune, I sent her a message, on no account to keep our rendezvous.”

  “Then your message miscarried.”

  “’Sdeath and blood (scowling darkly), if my messenger failed me I’ll have the hide off his back!”

  “Well, well, sir, but will you serve Miss Locke and save young Allan?”

  Captain Donellan lifted shoulder and brow, and slowly and ruefully shook his head.

  “I have done all I could. The lad’s offence, being in time of war, is not to be extenuated; he must be shot as an example.”

  “But if he be innocent?”

  “Who can say he is innocent? When he leaned incapable, snorting like a pig? When he reeked of rum? When he was scarce to be shook awake?”

  “Yet he avers he was waking.”

  “Waking? And heard the great bell of St. Paul’s—”

  “This is not impossible,” said Johnson quickly, “if the wind sets right.”

  As if to prove his contention, at this moment the great bell gave voice: 10 o’clock.

  “But he avers it struck 13!”

  “And did it?”

  “How could it?”

  “That’s to be seen. I shall make it my first point of inquiry.”

  “Well said, Dr. Johnson!” exclaimed Donellan, fired with hope. “For if he’s innocent, he may yet be saved.”

  “I’ll set about it. Where’s Thacker?”

  “Thacker? Thacker is cock-sure. You’ll get no help from Thacker.”

  “Yet I’ll see him. Where is he?”

  �
�He’s on duty.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Hercules’ Pillars.”

  “Happy he, to be posted at a publick house!” cried Johnson, smiling. “And where’s the prisoner?”

  “I regret, Dr. Johnson; you cannot see the prisoner.”

  “Yet (sternly) you’d not hurl him out of this world unprepared? I’ll send him a man of God. Where is he?”

  “At the Hercules’ Pillars.”

  “Surely this is irregular?”

  “He is committed to the nearest place of safety. Stay, this writing—” Captain Donellan scrawled a line on his tablets—“this writing will admit your man of God.”

  Our man of God was the Rector of All Hallows Staining, for whom we had done some slight service in the matter of the manifestations in Mincing Lane. We sent a sedan chair for him, with command to turn in at Bolt Court and fetch Lucinda Locke on the way. Then we betook ourselves to the Hercules’ Pillars.

  ’Twas a snug little tavern at the edge of Hyde Park. The first sight that met our eyes as we entered the tap-room was Sergeant Thacker. He was alternating a pull at his ale-pot and a pull at the bar-maid, whom he held clipped about her ample waist as she sat on his brawny knee. His broad phiz had a hard shine, and he breathed heavily through his nose. His armament was set by, his waistcoat gapped unbuttoned. Opposite him, grinning into a pot of ale, sat a skinny soldier as unbuttoned as he.

  We made bold to stand them a fresh pot. The bar-maid flounced off to fetch it. At the prospect the grins broadened, but a scowl superseded when we named Allan Macdonald.

  “Him? Gentleman Macdonald?” grunted the sergeant. “He’ll come to no good in the ranks—so I said to Captain Donellan.”

  “And so it fell out,” concurred his red-coated toady.

  The sergeant glowered with a sense of grievance.

  “Handle him easy, says the captain, he’s a gentleman. Ho! A gentleman! I found means to harden him up, I’ll lay my davy—there’s no place for a gentleman in my squad, so there isn’t.”

  “Aye, Ned, so there isn’t,” seconded his chorus.

  “’Stow your jaw! But he’d a lily liver, did young Macdonald. Sleeping on sentry-go! Cry for your Nannie, do, says I. Well, I’m rid of him, or shall be within the day.”

  The callous brute took a long swig at his pot and exhaled with satisfaction.

  “You’re certain he slept?” Dr. Johnson put it to him.

  Thacker looked my venerable companion flat in the eye.

  “Aye, I’m certain, and I’ll thank you to mind your business, old square-toes.”

  “Aye, mind your business, old put, for the sergeant is certain, and so am I.”

  Dr. Johnson ignored the double affront.

  “You at least were waking, sergeant—did Paul’s clock strike 13?”

  “What a pox,” cries the sergeant rudely, “has all the world gone mad? When did any man ever hear tell of a clock that could strike 13? No, sir. I counted the strokes, it being then time for my rounds; and the number of strokes was 12.”

  “It was so,” chimed in the grinning soldier, “for so did I count ’em too, more by token I had just flung the captain’s note over the young lady’s gate, and as I came away Paul’s clock struck 12 as I’m alive; ’twas 12, I’ll stand to it, eh, Ned?”

  “I misdoubt you can count to twelve,” his companion crushed him, “so stubble your whids, do.”

  “As a man stands watch under the arch of Cumberland Gate,” I struck in, “is there never an echo might gather in the concavity?”

  “Echo, concavity, bah!” cried the sergeant. “Give over! The pot’s dry, and so am I.”

  As the pot was replenishing, the door was pushed slowly open, and there entered, looking mighty out of place, a thin, apologetic clergyman, our friend the good rector. He handed Miss Locke, now doubly beautiful in a pale gown of India muslin with round sash, like a good child.

  Sergeant Thacker scowled over the rector’s paper of permission, but he honoured it.

  “This way, sir,” said the bar-maid.

  The rector followed her, and we boldly followed him. Nose in pot, the sergeant made no move to stop us as we all four descended the rough stone stair together.

  We found Allan Macdonald in the ale-cellar, still in his red coat, with three of his comrades to guard him. Having broached a butt of ale, they were warmed with its contents. They admitted us with a right good will. Lucinda Locke went straight into the prisoner’s arms.

  “O Allan, Allan,” cried she, “why did you leave me? Why did you ’list?”

  The young soldier held her off at arms’ length.

  “I leave you?” he cried. “When you turned me off without a word of farewell? When you sent me back my gifts and would see me no more? What should I do but ’list and die?”

  “I never, I!” cried the girl. “They were taken from me. My father tricked you. But let be, you shan’t die. Captain Donellan is our friend, he’ll save you yet.”

  “He’d best be quick,” said the young Scot drily.

  “He had all in train to obtain your discharge, but for the difficulty of the war,” lamented Lucinda. “We were consulting daily, and you were as good as free. Why did this happen?”

  “Who knows?” asked Allan gently. “I know I have done no wrong. Keep up your heart, my sweeting.”

  Lucinda clung without speech to the scarlet bosom.

  “Pray, sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “answer me a question or two.”

  “Your servant, sir. Ask what you please.”

  “Are you certain you heard the clock strike 13?”

  “As I stand here. I was watching a sinking star, and musing upon Lucinda, and upon the long ill luck of the house of Keppoch. I feared to hear a taisk, a voice of ill omen at the midnight, and when I heard the great bell tolling I counted each stroke—’twas the unlucky number, ’twas 13, clear upon the dark air, and as it were coloured crimson.”

  “Coloured crimson!” I ejaculated. “Were you drunk?”

  “No, sir. I hope I am a better soldier than to go drunk to my duty.”

  “Did you reek of rum?”

  “There was rum issued, it being the captain’s birth-day; but the captain’s my witness I took but the one tot, he desiring me to pledge his health in it, and all the guard did the same.”

  Lucinda stirred and stood off.

  “I must go to Captain Donellan. But first we have some business.”

  “Business?”

  “For what do you think I came to the camp before the dawn? ’Twas for this.”

  She drew from her bosom a paper and a pair of rings and extended them wordlessly. The paper was a special license for the marriage of Allan Macdonald, bachelor, with Lucinda Locke, spinster. The young soldier gave it one glance, fell to his knee, and kissed her hand. She touched his red head tenderly.

  “I tired,” she said softly, “of sending you messages and having no answer, and hearing that the sergeant detained you at your duties. I resolved to have you at once or let you go forever. I came too late. They had you at the drumhead, and instead of the words of marriage I heard you condemned to die.”

  “Though I die you shall have me,” cried the boy passionately, “since now I learn that that is your will.”

  “We have missed the rendezvous with my clergyman, by some hours missed it,” said Lucinda, “but here’s a man of God may tie the knot, and I beseech you, sir,” (turning to the dumb-founded rector) “to make us one this instant, for there’s little time left to lose.”

  So saying, she sank to her knees beside her lover, and the rector plucked out his book and began:

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God and this company …”

  I looked about at the company. Never was a stranger wedding scene. The fat soldier slid down from the butt where he sprawled and shouldered his piece in deference to the solemnity of the occasion. The two on the stone step set down their pots and stared. The greenish, damp walls glistened in the h
alf dark. The young soldier knelt like marble, the blonde lass lifted her head proudly. Only as she uttered “… till death do us part” did her clear voice break into a sob. When rings had been exchanged they clung together as if they had been made one indeed.

  “Sir and madam,” said Dr. Johnson, signing the paper as witness, “I give you joy, and if God wills it and I may prevail, for many years. I must be off; but if you be gone from hence before my errand is done, then look for me before Cumberland Gate.”

  So saying, he departed, leaving Mistress Lucinda to my charge; and as he mounted the stair in the half dark, the great bell tolled the hour: 11 o’clock.

  Captain Donellan was not to be found. Lucinda was nigh despair as at last we turned our way toward Cumberland Gate. The ill-omened “three-legged mare,” the triangular gallows of Tyburn, was in our eye as we neared the place where, saving a miracle, Allan Macdonald must die. The girl’s knees buckled, and but for my support she would have fallen, as we heard from the park the long drum roll of the Dead March.

  We pushed our way through the starers clustered at Cumberland Gate. There was Captain Donellan’s company drawn up in full regalia before the rifle butts. Many a recruit looked greenish and sick, many an old soldier was liquored; but they stood stiff and sombre to see their comrade die. Only on Sergeant Thacker’s greasy face was the grin still fixed.

  I supported Lucinda forward. Behind us other footsteps came on, and then Mr. Levett stood beside us. He wore an old broad-brimmed hat, and carried a large green baize bag, to which with many a jerk and beck he invited my attention. Lucinda spared him not a glance. Her widened eyes were fixed on the firing squad, standing waiting with muskets a-trail, while Captain Donellan, hand to sword, waited too.