THE NARRAGANSETT
"Twenty of those confounded Yankees give me more trouble than threedecks full of Frenchmen," remarked Captain Brower of the prison-ship_Spartan_, one of the fleet of dismantled battle-ships that throngedthe harbor of Plymouth, England.
Lieutenant Barnard, commanding the neat little sloop of war _Sparrow_,then on the guard station, laughed.
"They are troublesome beggars, sure enough," he said; "but the funnything is that they behave almost exactly the way our fellows do, or atleast would under the same circumstances; that I verily believe."
"Well, such insolence and impudence I never saw in my life," returnedBrower. "I shall be glad when I get rid of this last batch and willrest easy when they have been sent ashore to Dartmoor. You should haveseen the way they behaved about two weeks ago. Let me see, it was theevening of the fourth, I believe. In fact the whole day through theywere at it--skylarking and speech-making and singing."
It was July, 1814. Many vessels in the government service of GreatBritain, returning from America, or from the high seas, brought intoPlymouth crews of American vessels, and not a few of the troopscaptured about the Lakes and on the Canadian frontier had been broughtover also. They were usually kept on board one of the prison hulks forthree or four months; sometimes it was a year or more before they weretransferred to the military prisons, the largest of which was situatedat Dartmoor, and the second in size at Stapleton, not far from the townof Gloucester. Although the prison-ships and the prisons themselveswere crowded with Frenchmen, the Yankees were three or four times asmuch trouble to control and to command. When they were not planning toescape, they were generally bothering the sentinels, drawing uppetitions, or having some row or other, if only for the fun of turningout the guard.
"I wish somebody else had this position," grumbled Captain Brower,pouring out a glass of port. "I don't think that I was made for it.When I am left alone, I am liable to become too lenient, and when I amangered, perhaps I may be too hasty.... At any rate, I wish some oneelse was here in my place.... I had to laugh the other day, though; youknow old Bagwigge of the _Germanicus,_ here alongside, what ahot-tempered, testy old fellow he is? Well, the other day he waswalking up and down his old quarter-deck, and about fourscore of myYankee prisoners were up on deck for air and exercise. Suddenly theybegan singing. Now, I don't object to that; if they'd never do anythingworse, I'd be happy. They've only cut four holes through differentparts of this ship, and once well-nigh scuttled her; but never mind; togo on: Bagwigge, he walks to the side and shouts across to my vessel:'Hi, there! you confounded Yankees! avast that everlasting row.' Ididn't see that it was any of his business, as it was on my own ship;but the Yankees--I wish you had seen them, Barnard, upon my soul."
"What did they do? Slanged him, I suppose, terrible."
"Well, you see," continued Captain Brower, "the potatoes had just beengiven out for the use of the prison mess cooks, and three big basketsof them lay there on the deck. One of the Yankees threw a potato thatcaught old Captain B. fair and square on the side of his head,capsizing his hat and nearly fetching away his ear. 'You insolentvillains!' he cried, almost jumping up on the rail, 'I'll make yousweat your blood for this.' Well, ha, ha, not only one potato wasthrown this time, but about half a bushel. I' faith, but those rascalswere good shots. Old Bagwigge, he was raked fore and aft. Turning, heran for it, and dove in the cabin."
The younger man laughed. The officer about whom the tale had been toldwas not popular in the service. He had had no Americans on board hisprison hulk, and the Frenchmen who were temporarily his guests trembledat his frown and cringed at his gesture. He was an overbearing,hot-tempered martinet, and was hated accordingly. But this was not theend of Captain Brower's story, and as soon as the Lieutenant hadstopped laughing, he resumed:--
"Let me go on, for I haven't finished yet. When Bagwigge returned, hehad with him a file of marines. Up he marches 'em, and the Yankeesgreeted them with a cheer, and then seeing that the Captain was goingto speak to them, they desisted to let him talk.
"'Now,' he said, 'you impudent scoundrels, below with you; everymother's son of you, or I'll----' He hadn't got any farther than thatwhen the same fellow who threw the first potato hit him again. He wasonly about forty feet away, you know, and with such force was thevegetable thrown that it nearly took his head off his shoulders.'Fire!' he roared. 'Fire at them!' I doubt whether the marines couldhave taken aim, they were so busy dodging potatoes, and as for Bagwiggehimself, he was jumping, bubbling, and sizzling like a blob of butterin a skillet. I rushed forward and jumped on to the forecastle rail.
"'If you dare fire, Captain Bagwigge,' I cried, 'you'll swing for it!'At this, he dove down the companionway again, with his marines afterhim. I turned to the prisoners and ordered them below, where they wentreadily enough. As to Bagwigge, I don't suppose that I'll hear from himagain; I hope that he will attend to his own vessel and leave minealone."
All this conversation, or at least the relation of Captain Brower'sstory, had taken place in the _Spartan's_ cabin, and when the twoofficers left, a detail of the prisoners was on the deck, walkingbriskly back and forth under the eyes of armed sentries, who guardedthe gangways and patrolled narrow board walks, raised some two or threefeet above the hammock-nettings.
"Do you see that tall, brown fellow, there?" asked Captain Brower,pointing. "He is the one who did such sharp shooting with thepotatoes."
"A strange-looking creature, surely," responded the Commander of the_Sparrow_. "He looks a half-tamed man. Well, I wish you less troubleand all success. Good day to you; I have to return to my ship."
Brower turned and went back into his cabin. Although he did not knowit, and would have denied it if he had been told the truth, he wasexactly the man for the position, for he was just and painstaking,humane and careful. Although there had been all sorts of attempts toescape formulated among the Yankees, and almost carried into successfulexecution, Brower had not lost a single prisoner, and his presenceamong them could restore order and quell a disturbance better than theparading of a file of soldiers.
They were a strange lot, these captives. They came from all walks oflife, and from every sort of place. Raw militiamen, who had beensurrendered by Hull (the army Hull, mark you, not the brave Commodore),privateersmen, captured in all sorts of crafts and dressed in allfashions, but now principally in rags, and men-of-warsmen who had giventhemselves up while serving on board English ships rather than fightagainst their country. These last held themselves rather aloof from theothers and messed by themselves. Poor devils, they had never had thesatisfaction, even, of having struck a blow. They had turned from onekind of slavery to another; that was all.
The tall, odd-looking figure that Captain Brower had pointed out,belonged to the wildest mess on the orlop deck. His appearance might,perhaps, be called startling; he was far from ill-looking, withstraight aquiline features, deep-set and quick black eyes that couldlaugh or look cruel almost at the same moment. His teeth werebeautifully white and even, and although he was not heavy or compactlooking, he was as strong almost as any two other men on board theship. He spoke English without an accent, but with an odd form andphrasing that would have attracted attention to him anywhere. His clearskin was the color of new copper sheathing, and his straight black hairthat was gathered sailor fashion into a queue was as coarse as ahorse's mane. The grandson of a chief he was, a descendant of the lineof kings that had ruled the Narragansett tribes--a full-blooded Indian.But he rejoiced in no fine name. A sailor before the mast he had beensince his sixteenth year, and he had appeared on the books of theprivateer brig _Teaser_ as John Vance, A.B. It is a wrong suppositionthat an Indian will never laugh or that he is not a fun-maker. JohnVance was constantly skylarking, and he was a leader in that, as he wasin almost all the games of skill or strength. Every one liked him, andto a certain extent he was feared, for a tale was told in which Johnand a knife figured extensively. The flash that would come into his eyegave warning often when the danger limit was being app
roached, yet hewas popular, and even the detested marine guard treated him with somedeference. In the last attempt to escape, the Narragansett had beencaptured after he had swum half-way to the shore and had dived morethan twenty times to escape musket-balls from the guard-ships. Suddenlythe order came "Prisoners below"--and the ship-bell struck eightsonorous strokes. As the last four or five men left the deck, theIndian touched one of them upon the shoulder.
"Watch me," he said, "and say nothing."
There was a narrow door in a bulkhead close to the companionway, butout of reach unless there was something like a box or barrel on whichto stand. It was closed by a padlock thrust through two iron staples.As John descended, he caught the combing of the hatch and drew himselfup to a level with his chin. Holding himself there with one arm, hereached forward and caught the padlock in his brown, sinewy fingers.Slowly he turned his hand. The iron bent and gave a little. A grincrossed his face. Swinging himself forward, he landed on a man'sshoulders beneath him, and with a wild warwhoop he tumbled a half-dozendown the rest of the ladder, and they sprawled in a heap on the deck.Disdaining to notice the half-humorous curses, he sprang to his feet.Three other men who belonged to his mess followed him.
"Can you do it, Red?" asked one.
"Yes, surely," John replied. "So I can to-night."
The whole of the gun-deck forward of the forecastle hatch had beendivided, by a strong partition, into a sort of storeroom. There was oneentrance into it from above from the topgallant forecastle, where partof the marine guard were stationed, and the other opening onto thehatchway, to be used in case of emergency.
It was just past the midnight watch when four stealthy figures creptout from the shadows into the light of the dingy lantern that hung atthe foot of the companionway. At night there was only one sentrystationed there, and he generally sat halfway up the ladder, and it wasimpossible for the prisoners to tell without crossing the dead-linethat was drawn at night whether he was asleep or not. This was the riskthat had to be undertaken; for if the man should see any one passbeneath that old rope that was drawn across the deck, he would have aright to fire. If the fellow was asleep, yet to gain the deck above,the venturesome prisoner would have to pass within arm's length of him.
Perhaps John Vance had inherited from his long line of red ancestorsthe peculiar knack of moving without sound, the art of crawling on hisbelly like a snake, perhaps he had a acquired it by constant practicesince he had been a prisoner. For it was his boast, and one that hadbeen proved to be true, that contrary to rules he had visited everypart of the ship, and after hours; as has been told, he had beenretaken a number of times when just on the point of making good hisescape.
The three seamen who accompanied him on this occasion could see thelegs of the sentry from the knee down, as he sat on the steps of theladder leading to the berth-deck above. They could also see the butt ofhis musket as it rested beside him. Vance had disappeared in the blackshadow that lay along the starboard side, and now the watchers saw acurious thing take place. The sentry's musket suddenly tilted forward,as if of its own volition, and then disappeared backward into thedarkness, without a sound, much in the manner of a vanishing slide in amagic lantern. The man's legs did not move.
"He is asleep," whispered Ned Thornton to Bill Pratt.
"He's asleep," reiterated Bill Pratt to Gabe Sackett, who made thefourth one of the "constant plotters," as they were termed by the otherprisoners.
But in one minute that sentry was seen to be very wide awake indeed.That is, if movement signified wakefulness. His legs shot out in twovicious and sudden kicks. A hand, with wide-spread, reaching fingers,stretched out as if searching for the missing musket. The man wriggledfrom one side to another and floundered helplessly, with his bodyhalf-way off the edge of the ladder. But not one sound did he utter!
"Red's got hold of him," croaked Thornton, and with the assurance ofhunters who had watched their quarry step into the trap that held himfast, they stepped forward without fear or caution.
It was as Thornton had said. The poor sentry's head was wedged againstthe steps. Around his throat were clasped the fingers of two sinewy,bronze-colored hands that held the victim as closely and in as deadly aclasp as might the strap of the Spanish garrote. The scene was reallyhorrible. Sackett leaned about the edge of the ladder, and then he sawwhat a wonderful thing the Narragansett had done. The combing of thehatchway was fully six feet from where the sentry sat. Below yawned theblack abyss into the mid-hold. Across this Vance had been forced tolean, balancing himself with one hand when he relieved the sentry ofhis musket, and then springing forward he had caught him from behind,about the throat. There the Indian hung as a man might hang over themouth of a well. No wonder the unfortunate marine had been unable tocry out!
"Let go of him, Red," whispered Gabe. "You've choked him enough." TheIndian stretched out one of his feet and hooked it over the hatchcombing. With a supple movement and without a stumble, he stood erectupon the deck. The sentry would have plunged over into the hold, hadnot the two others grasped him firmly by the shoulders. They carriedhim to one side and laid him in the deep shadow against a bulkhead. Hewas breathing, but insensible.
The rest of the escape can be told in a few words: The lock of the doorleading into the storeroom was wrenched away, and noiselessly the fourentered, closing it behind them. They had been just in time, for theycould hear, on the deck above, the new watch coming on. A port on oneside of the storeroom was guarded by three flimsy iron bars. There wasenough light outside from the young moon to show the direction of theopening.
Vance bent the irons double at the first attempt. They were almosttwenty feet above the water, for the old hulk floated high. Buteverything seemed working for the furtherance of their plan. There wasa new coil of rope on the deck, and looking out of the port rightbeneath them, they could see a ship's dingy with the oars in it.Sackett slid down first; the other two followed, and Vance remaineduntil the last. No sooner had he made the boat in safety than a greathubbub and confusion sounded through the ship. There came a sharp blareof a bugle, the rolling of the alarm drum, and they could hear theslamming of the heavy hatches that prevented communication from onepart of the vessel to the other. The prisoners, cooped up below, knewwhat it all meant. Some one was out, and there in the pitch darknessthey fell to cheering.
But to return to the "constant plotters," in the dingy: they had madebut a dozen boat's-lengths when they were discovered, for there waslight enough to see objects a long distance across the water. Therecame a quick hail, followed by a spurt of flame.
"Lord!" Pratt, who was pulling stroke oar with Sackett alongside ofhim, groaned; "I caught that in the shoulder." One of his arms droopedhelplessly, but he continued rowing with the other.
"Let go," grunted Sackett; "I can work it alone--lie down in the sternsheets."
There were three or four vessels, mostly prison or sheer hulks, to bepassed before they gained the shore. From each one there came a volley.Poor Sackett received a ball through his lungs and fell into the bottomof the boat, bleeding badly. And now the boats were after them!
Vance and Thornton pulled lustily at the oars; but the others gained afoot in every four. The dingy was splintered by the hail ofmusket-balls. One of the prison hulks--the last they had to pass--letgo a carronade loaded with grape. It awoke the echoes of the old town.So close was the charge delivered that it had hardly time to scatter,and churned the water into foam just astern of the little boat as ifsome one had dumped a bushel of gravel stones into the waters of theharbor. Not three hundred feet ahead of the foremost pursuing boat, thedingy's keel grated on the shingle.
The Narragansett sprang out, Thornton after him. Sackett could not beraised. Pratt, holding his wounded and disabled arm, staggered up theincline towards some stone steps leading to the roadway above. But hehad hardly reached the foot when there came another shot. He fell facedownward and made no attempt to rise. Sackett and he would join in nomore plots; but Vance and Thornton were now running down a side
street.
They dodged about a corner into an alley; crossed a small common, andjust as they reached the other side they ran, bows on, into a heavycloaked figure, who, seeing their haste, hailed them peremptorily, andsprang a huge rattle, making much the same noise that a small boy doeswhen he runs down a picket fence with a stick. Thornton was laboringahead like a wherry in a tideway. But the Indian was striding alonglike a racehorse, with the easy, springing gait inherited from his ownfather, "Chief Fleetfoot," who, if the story told be true, could rundown a red deer in the woods. He turned to assist his comrade by takinghold of him and giving him a tow. But as he did so, Thornton's footstruck a round stone and he fell forward, and lay there groaning.
"Run on, Red! run on!" he cried breathlessly. "I've broken a leg;something's carried away in my pins; on with you!"
"Come you with me too," answered the Narragansett, pulling Thornton tohis feet with one hand; but the poor lad groaned and fell again.
"Run ahead, curse you!" he said. "Don't stay here and be taken!"
The watchman's rattle had attracted the notice of the people in thehouses. Windows were opened and heads were thrust forth, and from abouta corner came another cloaked figure carrying a lantern, and a big pikewas in his hand.
There was nothing else to do, and, obeying Thornton's angry order, theIndian struck out again into his long distance-covering gait. Which wayhe ran it made little matter to him. He did not know the country; hehad no plans; but the feel of the springy earth beneath his feet wasgood to him. The sight of the stars shining through the branches of thetrees overhead--for he had soon reached the open country and left thetown behind him--made him breathe the air in long, deep breaths, andtempted him to shout. It was freedom; liberty! The dim moonlightsoftened everything, and to his mind he seemed to be flying. He passedby great stone archways leading to private parks and great estates.Twice he had avoided little hamlets of thatched cottages. Once he hadrun full speed through the streets of a little village, and had beenhailed by the watchman, who sprang his harmless rattle. But it wasgrowing light. He must find some place to hide, for travel during thedaytime he knew he could not. Leaping a fence, he made his way into anadjoining field and lay down, panting, beneath some bushes.
Soon cocks began to crow; daylight widened; a bell in an ivy-coveredtower tolled musically. Insects commenced their morning hum; birdstwittered, and people moved out to their toil. From his hiding-placethe Narragansett watched the unusual sight. In a field below him--forhe lay at the top of a small hill--he could see some men and womenworking in a field of grain. One of the girls had placed a basketbeneath the shade of a bush. The Indian was hungry. It required littletrouble to snake himself through the grass and secure the contents ofthe little hamper, a loaf of bread and a large piece of cheese. Then hecarefully replaced the cover and stole back to his former hiding-place.Soon he observed, in the road below him, a man riding along at a fastgait; he pulled in his horse and shouted something to the workers inthe field. This done, he rode at top speed into the village. Very soonanother horseman appeared, and soon quite a little band of them, amongwhom was a mounted soldier or two, and three or four in the pink coatsof the hunting-field.
But near footsteps sounded. A man in leather gaiters, with afowling-piece over his shoulder, was coming down a little path fromsome deep woods on the right. A setter dog played in front of him. Theman was reading a freshly printed notice. The ink was smeared fromhandling. The man spelled it out aloud. "Escaped from the hulks; adangerous prisoner; a wild American Indian; ten pounds reward," andmuch more of it.
All of a sudden the dog stopped; then with a short bark, he sprangforward. At the same instant the gamekeeper dropped the printed noticethat had been handed to him but a minute previously by a horseman onthe road. Surely he could not be mistaken, something had dodged downbehind yonder hedge; and as the setter sprang forward, barkingviciously, a strange figure arose, a man with a copper-colored face,and streaming, unkempt, black locks; he wore big gold ear-rings, and hewas clad in a torn canvas shirt and trousers, with a sailor'sneckerchief around his throat. The dog was bounding forward whensuddenly the figure raised its arm. No cricketer that ever played onthe village green could throw with such unerring force. A large stonestruck the dog and took the fight out of him. Yelping, he sneaked backto his master's heels. The startled gamekeeper raised his gun andfired. Whether it was because of his sudden fright or the quicknesswith which the agile figure dropped at the flash, the charge whistledharmlessly through the leaves. But the sound of the shot had attractedthe attention of the people in the fields. A cry arose, as a weirdfigure broke from the bushes and dashed down the hill, making for thewoods.
"Gone away! gone away! whoop, hi!"--the view hallo of the huntsman.
A man in a red coat had sighted the chase. He leaped a fence, and fouror five other horsemen followed. Soon there came the shrill yelping ofthe dogs as they found the plain trail of the barefoot man running forhis life.
"Over fence and hedge."]
It was a great run, that man-hunt, and one remembered to this day. Overfence and hedge, across ditch and stream, the Narragansett led them. Notrained hurdler that ever ran across country in the county ofDevonshire could have held the pace that Vance kept up. Twice he threwthem off the scent by running up a stream and doubling on his tracks.But the whole countryside was out and after him. The dogs were gainingon him swiftly, and at last at the foot of a great oak they had himcornered. He fought them off with a broken branch, and soon the packsurrounded him in a yelping circle, not daring to come nearer.
Up came the huntsmen. They halted at some distance and talked amongthemselves. Who among them was brave enough to go up and lay hold ofthis strange wild man? They called off the dogs and waited for thesoldiers. Eight or ten yokels and some farmer folks joined the gapingcrowd. Five men appeared with muskets, and one with a long coil ofrope. But all this time the Narragansett had stood there with his backagainst an oak tree, with a sneer on his thin lips. They talked aloudas to how they should capture him. Some were for shooting him down atonce; but as yet no one had addressed a word to him direct. Surely, hemust speak an outlandish foreign tongue! Suddenly, the fugitive took astep forward and raised his hand.
"Englishmen," he said, "listen to me."
All started back in astonishment. Why, this wild man spoke their ownlanguage!
"Who is the chief here? Who is the captain?" Every one looked at amiddle-aged man astride a sturdy brown cob. He was the Squire, andmagistrate of the neighborhood.
"Well, upon my soul," he began, "I suppose----"
But the Narragansett interrupted him. "To you I give myself," he said,advancing. He glanced at the others with supreme contempt. As he cameforward, he held out his hand, and involuntarily the man on horsebackstretched forth his. It was a strange sight, that greeting. The crowdgave way a little, and three or four mounted dragoons came tearing uphill. They stopped in astonishment.
"You gave us a good run," said the Squire, with some embarrassment, notknowing what to say.
"You are too many; I am your prisoner," was the answer.
No one laid hands on him. Walking beside the Squire's horse down to theroad, followed by the gaping, gabbling crowd, who still, however, keptaloof, the Narragansett walked proudly erect. When he reached thehighway, he turned. There was a cart standing there. The Squiredismounted from his horse and spoke a few words to the driver. Then hemounted to the seat. John Vance sprang up beside him. At a brisk pacethey started down the road towards Portsmouth, the soldiers and thehorsemen trailing on behind them. At the landing where the boat fromthe old _Spartan_ met them--for a horseman had ridden on with thenews--was waiting a sergeant of marines. He advanced with a pair ofhandcuffs.
"None of that!" exclaimed the Squire. "This man has given me his word."
"The word of a chief's son," put in the Narragansett. The two men shookhands again; then proudly John Vance stepped into the boat, andunmanacled sat there in the stern sheets.
In twenty minut
es he was once more down in the close, foul-smelling'tween decks.
The only notice taken of the Narragansett's break for liberty was thefact that he was numbered among the next detail bound for Dartmoor; butthe tradition of the man-hunt of Squire Knowlton's hounds, and itscurious ending, lives in Devonshire to-day.