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The Story of Jack Ballister's Fortunes
On the second or third day of his stay at Jamestown, he and Lieutenant Maynard went over to Williamsburgh together, to visit the pirate prisoners in the jail at that place. As soon as they had obtained the permit they went straight to the prison, and were admitted by the turnkey to the round-house in which the pirates were confined.
They were all crowded into the one room – the wounded and the unwounded together. At first, Jack could hardly bear the heavy, fetid smell of the place, but the prisoners themselves appeared altogether unconscious of it. There was quite a number of them who had been hurt and who now lay there uncared for in their sufferings; one man, with a cloth tied around his head, looked very pale and ill, and another lay with his face to the wall, perfectly silent all the time that Jack was there.
“Why, ’tis Jack Ballister!” cried one of the men as soon as he had come in at the door. It was Ned Bolles who spoke – the young fellow of about Jack’s age who had been shot in the shoulder when the pirates took the French barque. Then: “Why, Jack,” he said, “what a fine, grand gentleman you are, to be sure!”
Jack laughed. They all crowded around him except Hands and the man with the wounded head, and the other who lay motionless with his face turned toward the wall. Hands sat in a corner upon the floor smoking his pipe, his lame leg stretched out perfectly straight before him. He spoke no word of especial greeting to the visitor. All of the prisoners were handcuffed and wore leg-irons. Some had wrapped rags around the shackles to protect their ankles and wrists from being rubbed by the rough iron. They all seemed very glad to see Jack; apparently glad of any change in the monotony of their imprisonment.
“Well, Jack,” said one of the men, named Dick Stiles, “I tell ‘ee what ’tis, ‘ee be lucky to be here now alive and well. ‘Twas a nigh miss for ‘ee when ‘ee got int’ t’ inlet ahead of us. If ‘ee’d been a minute later ‘ee never ‘a’ got oot t’ be here now.”
“So poor Chris Dred is dead, is he?” another called out.
“Ay,” said Jack, “you did the business for him.”
“Well, Jack,” said one of the men, “you fell into your fortune when you got away. I suppose you’ll be marrying her young ladyship next, won’t you?”
They all burst out laughing. Jack laughed too; but he knew that he was blushing, and was conscious that Lieutenant Maynard was standing at the door, listening to what was said.
“I tell you what ’tis, Jack,” said one of the men; “you be such a grand, great gentleman now, you ought to speak a good word for your old friends. They says our trial is to come off next week, and you ought to ax for our pardon of your new friend the governor, for old times’ sake,” and then they all began laughing.
“Hands says he knows summat’ll save his own neck,” said a voice.
“Ay,” said Hands, from where he sat on the floor, “they daren’t hang me. I know what I know, and they won’t harm me. I’m not afraid of that.”
It seemed very strange to Jack that they should appear to think so little of their approaching trial and the inevitable result that must follow. They must all know that there could be but one end to it, for the governor was determined to make an example of them for the benefit of all other would-be pirates; they seemed to think more of the dullness of their present imprisonment than anything else.
“Lookee, Jack,” one of them said, “do you have any money about ye? Just tuppence or so to buy a twist of ‘baccy; I ha’n’t had a smoke for two days now.” It was the young fellow Bolles who spoke.
“I’ve got sixpence here,” said Jack, “and that’s all. But you’re welcome to it.”
“You wouldn’t give it all to Bolles, would you?” said Salter. “He’s no worse off than the rest on us be.”
As they walked away up the street together, Lieutenant Maynard asked him what it was Hands meant when he spoke to him.
“What do you mean?” said Jack; “I don’t remember what he said.”
“Well,” said the lieutenant, “the talk is that he hath been proclaiming to every one that the governor shall never hang him, and that he knows something concerning Colonel Parker that will save his neck, and that they will never dare to hang him.”
“Does he say that?” said Jack. “Ay, I do remember now what he said to me, though I didn’t think of it at the time. But he knows naught about Colonel Parker – ’tis about Mr. Richard Parker.”
“About Mr. Richard Parker?” said the lieutenant. “Do you know what it is, then? What is it, Jack?”
Jack hesitated for a second or two. “I don’t believe I ought to tell you anything about it,” he said. “I don’t believe Colonel Parker would choose to have me say anything about it to you.”
“Nonsense!” said Lieutenant Maynard. “Why should you not tell me? I’ll not speak about it to a living soul. What hath Mr. Richard Parker been about?”
Then Jack told him.
The lieutenant was listening very silently and intently as he walked along. “Why, what a thing do you tell me?” he cried out. “Of course, if that villain Hands knew aught like this conspiracy of Mr. Richard Parker’s he has reason enough to believe that Colonel Parker won’t choose to have it known. I always misliked Dick Parker; but what a prodigious rascal he must be! ’Tis incredible that one born a gentleman could be such a villain as that. But I tell you what it is, Master Jack, this is a mightily serious secret that you have. You’d best keep it tight locked in your own bosom and say naught of it to any living soul.”
As the lieutenant spoke, a heavy feeling fell suddenly upon Jack that he had been very foolish to speak to such a comparative stranger as the lieutenant about such a thing. He walked on in silence, suffering that singularly bitter feeling that we have maybe all of us sometimes smarted under – a feeling that we have betrayed a friend’s secret to a stranger.
He was destined to feel still more uncomfortable about it in time. For almost immediately upon his return to Marlborough he was called into Colonel Parker’s private cabinet. Colonel Parker had just received a packet from Williamsburgh the day before – a long letter from Governor Spottiswood, inclosing a statement from Hands, and he began at once, almost as soon as Jack had come into the room, to speak about what he had in his mind. “Tell me,” he said, “do you know aught of how Nelly came to be taken away from Marlborough?”
“What do you mean, sir?” said Jack, and then his heart began beating. He knew very well what Colonel Parker referred to.
“I mean,” said Colonel Parker, “do you know aught of who ‘twas put this pirate Blackbeard up to carrying poor Nelly away? Did he do it of his own free will, or did you hear that any one set him to do it?”
Jack hesitated, then he said, “Yes, sir; I did hear there was somebody put him up to doing it.”
“What did you hear?” said Colonel Parker. “Come, speak out plain, and tell me just what you know.”
“Well,” said Jack, “‘twas said down there at Bath Town, – that is, by those who came to see the pirate at his house, – ’twas said that – that Mr. Richard Parker knew about Miss Nelly’s having been taken away. I don’t know anything about it myself, but that was what they all said. I know that Blackbeard writ three or four letters to Mr. Parker while the young lady was there, and I heard them say again and again that Mr. Parker knew that she had been taken away from home and whither she had been taken, and that he was concerned in it.”
Colonel Parker was leaning with his elbow upon the table, and his fingers against his forehead. He was looking very steadily and silently at Jack. He did not speak for a long time after Jack had ended. “Well,” he said, at last, “what then? What else do you know?” And Jack resumed:
“I heard Blackbeard say over and over again that it was Mr. Parker had planned how she should be taken, and that he was to get you to pay for bringing her back again. Mr. Knight the secretary writ three or four letters, too, and sent ‘em to Mr. Parker, and ‘twas said that Mr. Parker was to show the letters to you. But no answer could be got to any of them. Then, by and by, they all began to think that maybe he – Mr. Parker, that is – intended that she shouldn’t come back again at all.”
“Are you sure of all this you’re telling me?” said Colonel Parker.
“I am sure that was what I heard,” Jack said. “‘Twas talked about there in the house betwixt Blackbeard and the others just as things are talked about in a house. They didn’t try to hide the matter or keep it a secret from me, but talked about it always as if ‘twere so.”
Again Colonel Parker sat in silence, and Jack, as he stood there, wished and wished – oh, with what pangs of bitter self-reproach! – that he had not said anything to Lieutenant Maynard about it. He wondered with heavy apprehension what Colonel Parker would say if he knew that he had told such a secret to such a stranger as the lieutenant. Then suddenly Colonel Parker spoke. “Well,” he said, “you can see for yourself without my telling you that naught must be said of all this – no, not to a living soul. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack, weakly.
“Very well,” said Colonel Parker. “Remember, my boy, that you have in your bosom a very dreadful secret that involves the credit of the whole of our family, and that you must not speak of it to a living soul.”
It may be said here that the lieutenant did not betray Jack’s secret – or, at least, it never came to Jack’s ears that he had done so. It may also be briefly said that Hands was pardoned by Governor Spottiswood, and that in a little less than a month later Mr. Richard Parker ran away from Virginia – it was said from his debts – to Jamaica.
CHAPTER XLIX
THE DEPARTURE
THE Attorney Burton wrote to Colonel Parker almost immediately upon his return to England. He said that he had been to see Master Hezekiah Tipton, “and if I had dropped from the stars instead of walking into his office,” he wrote, “he could not have been more amazed to see me.”
After that he wrote frequently, keeping Colonel Parker apprised of all his movements. By January, he had Jack’s affairs so far settled that there was talk of his returning to England. It was finally arranged with Hezekiah Tipton that Jack should go to live at Grampton with Sir Henry Ballister, and a sufficient sum for his maintenance was extorted from the old man. It was also arranged that he should be given such an education as befitted his rank in the world.
Finally, March was settled upon as the date of Jack’s departure. During that month the “Richmond Castle,” a fine, large ship, was to sail for England. Captain Northam was one in whom Colonel Parker felt every confidence, and so it was decided that Jack should take passage in that vessel from Yorktown.
As the time for departure drew nearer and nearer, there was that ever increasing bustle and confusion of preparation that always culminates with such a leave-taking. Even on the very last day the two sea-chests did not seem nearly filled, and there was a mountainous heap of clothes and personal belongings yet waiting to be packed away in them. The negro women-servants were hurrying continually up and down stairs upon this errand and upon that, and there was a ceaseless calling and countermanding of orders. Madam Parker, leaning over the banister, and calling: – “Jack! Jack! Where is Jack? Did you see Master Jack, Chloe?” – “Iss, missy. Him in de office with hes honor.” – “Well, run and ask him where he put those two lace cravats and the lawn sleeves, for we can’t find them anywhere.” “Mamma, mamma!” this from Nelly Parker from the room within, “if that is what you ‘re looking for, I know where they are; they were put into the little chest. I saw Dinah pack them there this morning.”
A dozen times Madam Parker would sink down, suddenly relaxed, into a chair, to say that she was that tired with all this hurry that her feet ached to the bone, and each time Nelly Parker would say, “Why do you vex yourself so much, then, mamma? Surely Dinah and Rose and Chloe are enough to do the packing without your wearing yourself out at it.”
“But, my dear,” Madam Parker would say, with her nervous fussiness, “if I don’t see to it myself, they will never get it done.”
Then Chloe, Madam Parker’s own maid, came to say that Robin and the negro man, Cæsar, were waiting to cord the boxes.
“Well, they’ll have to wait,” said Madam Parker, crossly, “for they’re not ready yet.”
“They might cord the small box, mamma,” said Nelly Parker; “we can pack everything else in the other.”
Meantime, Jack was sitting with Colonel Parker, who was giving him his last instructions. “I have them marked down here,” he said, “on this paper. Keep it carefully by you. Nay; don’t trust it in your pocket that way. Where’s the pocket-book I gave you yesterday to keep such things in?”
“I left it up-stairs on the table, sir,” said Jack.
“You should always carry it with you,” said Colonel Parker, “and not leave it about in that way. Well, put the memoranda into your pocket, now, but be sure you put it in your pocket-book when you get up-stairs.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack.
“Here’s a letter to Captain Northam,” said Colonel Parker. “Give it to him as soon as you go aboard the “Richmond Castle,” and he will extend very particular care to you. It gives him full instruction as to all he is to do for you. When you get to Gravesend he will send you up as far as Broadstairs in a wherry, and there you shall get a hackney coach to take you to my agent at Snow Hill. Here is a letter to him and a packet – Ebenezer Bilton, Esquire. This packet of letters you shall use while you are in London as you need them. You will see by the addresses who they are for. Here is this large packet to give to your uncle. You had better put these larger packets into your chests, but carry the captain’s letter in your pocket-book, so you may give it to him as soon as you get aboard.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack.
How singularly dull and blank is the interval of waiting that follows all rude bustle of preparation – when the boxes have been corded and carried away down to the landing, and the house has again relapsed into its former quietude, and yet the time has not quite come to say farewell. There is something singularly trying in that period of passive waiting.
It was late that last afternoon at Marlborough, and Jack and Nelly Parker stood at the window, in the slant of the winter’s day, looking out down toward the landing. The day before the treacherous March weather had turned suddenly back to winter again, and it had snowed nearly all day; now the slush was melting rapidly in the sun. Everywhere the water was running, trickling, the drops sparkling in the bright slanting light of the sinking sun. The snow still lingered in wide white patches here and there in sheltered places of the grass; but on the pathway and on the steps of the house it had dissolved into a wet, thin sheet of half-frozen slush. She was very silent as she stood there looking out toward the river beyond the screen of winter trees.
“I wonder how much you will miss me?” Jack said.
She turned and looked directly at him, but she did not reply in words.
“I shall miss you,” he said. “I can’t tell how much I shall miss you. I shall be thinking about you all the time.”
“Will you, Jack!”
“Yes, I shall. Will you often think about me?”
“Indeed I shall.” Then she suddenly reached out her hand toward him, and he took it and held it in his, and she let it remain there. It seemed to him that he could hardly breathe, and as she stood there, perfectly still, with her hand in his, he could see her innocent bosom rising and falling with her own labored heavy breathing.
“Will you miss me?” he said, at last, almost whispering. “Will you, then, miss me? I’ll miss you – oh, how I shall miss you!”
“Yes, I’ll miss you,” she whispered.
She stood close to him. Her dress and her arm touched him, and he thrilled and thrilled again and again. It was upon him to say somewhat of that which so swelled his bosom, but the words hung like lead on his lips, and his heart beat so strenuously that he could hardly breathe. She did not withdraw her hand from his as she stood there.
Then suddenly there was the sound of some one coming, and she snatched her hand away from him. It was Madam Parker. “Why, Jack,” she said, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing here?” and she looked from one to the other.
“Doing?” said Jack, stupidly. “I’m not doing anything.” And Nelly Parker moved away from the window.
“Colonel Parker wants to see you in his room for a minute,” said Madam Parker. “You’d better go right away.” And if she thought of anything that had passed, she said nothing concerning it.
Jack did not find a chance to speak to Nelly Parker again that night until the very last minute before she went away to bed. She seemed to him to avoid even looking at him. She sat very silently beside her father, listening to what he said, but saying nothing herself. She went to bed before the others, the negro waiting-woman standing at the door holding the candle. Then she gave Jack her hand. Her father and mother were looking on. “Good-night,” she said; “and ‘twill be good-by.” And then she raised her eyes, and looked slowly and steadily at him.
Jack held her hand, remembering strongly what had passed that afternoon.
“And will you not wake to see me off in the morning?” he said. He was still holding her hand.
“Maybe I will.”
“You will – I know you will.”
“Why, Jack, you’ll be off before we’re awake,” said Colonel Parker. “You’ll have started before seven o’clock.” And then she went away.
Jack was awakened by the rattle of the latch and the echoing footsteps of some one coming into his room, and the sliding light of a candle shining across the walls and then down into his face. It was Colonel Parker’s serving-man, Robin, who had come, bringing a lighted candle and a jug of hot water. “You must get up, Master Jack,” he said, “’tis six o’clock.”
Even in the moment of first awakening from sleep into which he had brokenly drifted the night before, he was conscious of something portentous looming in the background of the coming day; but he could not in the first instant seize upon the coming events of his life. Then it came to him with a flash, and he sprang out of bed upon the cold floor and into the chill of the dark and wintry room. The time had come for him to depart.
Robin helped him as he dressed with chattering teeth and numb, cold fingers. “The boat’s all ready and waiting, Master Jack,” the man said, “and they’ll start as soon as you’ve eaten your breakfast and go aboard.”
“’Tis mightily cold this morning, Robin,” Jack said.
“Ay; ’tis a freezing morning, sir,” said the man.
Presently Jack asked, “Is Miss Nelly up yet?”
“Miss Nelly!” said Robin, in very evident surprise. “Why, Master Jack, she won’t be up for three hours yet.”
“I thought maybe she’d be up to see me off,” Jack said, in a sort of foolish explanation.
He found a solitary breakfast spread out for him down-stairs by the light of a cluster of candles, and he sat down and began immediately to eat, waited on by Robin and a negro man. All the great spaces were chill and raw with frost of the winter morning. Jack’s fingers were still stiff with cold, and his breath blew out like a cloud in the light of the candles. He ate his meal with an ever heavier and heavier certainty that Nelly Parker would not be awake to see him off. As the certainty grew upon him there seemed to be something singularly heartless in such neglect. He would never have so treated her, and at the thought a sudden anger arose within him against her. Then it occurred to him with a fading hope that maybe she might be in the library or drawing-room waiting for him. He finished his scant breakfast and went thither, out across the hall; but there was no one there but the negro man making a fire of logs, the smoke rising in great volumes from the kindled lightwood, part of it coming out into the room, and filling it with a pungent cloud. The wide, cold spaces seemed singularly empty and deserted of their accustomed life. As he stood, lingering, some one came across the hall; it was Robin, and he was carrying the overcoats. “They’re waiting for you at the landing, Master Jack,” he said.
Then Jack, with a crumbling away of the heart, knew for a certainty that he was not to see her again.
Robin held the overcoat for him, and he slipped his arms into it, and then he went out of the house and down toward the landing. The sun had not yet risen, and the air of the morning was keen with the cold and frozen newness of the day. Here and there, where the sodden snow of yesterday had not all melted away, it had frozen again into slippery sheets that crunched beneath his tread. He turned and looked back toward the house. He could see her room; it was closed and dark. Then he turned again and walked on once more toward the landing, his breath coming thick and hot in his throat. To think that she would not come to bid him good-by before he went away!
The boat was waiting for him, and the sailing-master stood upon the wharf, swinging and slapping his arms. Jack climbed down into it, and the other followed him. The men shoved it off with a push of their oars, and then began rowing away toward the schooner, where a light still hung in the stays, burning pallidly in the increasing daylight. Then they were aboard.
Jack went down into the cabin, still gray with the early light. Both his chests were there and his two bundles, and he sat down among them, overwhelmed. By and by he came up on deck again. They were out and away in the river now. The sun had just risen, and the red light lit up the front of the great house, now standing out clear through the leafless trees. Jack stood holding to the stays, looking out at it, and his eyes blurred, and for a moment everything was lost to his sight. She had not come to bid him good-by; that was the bitterest pang of all.
