The MS. in a Red Box

by John A. Hamilton

CHAPTER XV

In my sleep I dreamed of what happened when I was seized and carried off. Again I was running up the slope, again I backed against the tree, again I fell through the yielding bark, again my captors bound me and thrust me into the cart.

And I awoke to find myself more tightly bound than before. My arms were held to my sides by a sack, and my legs were fastened to a pole. My head was firmly clamped, I knew not how. I could move my lips and my eyes; otherwise I was like a man of wood. A lamp stood on a projection of the wall, so that its light shone full on my face, and Boswell was stooping over me with a knife in his hand. My cheek was wet, and a smarting there told me the moisture was blood. What could the man be cutting my face for, I wondered, being dazed and not yet out of my dream. Before I had quite come to myself, he had made two slits in my nose, and pressed it to one side. At this I yelled, not so much for pain as from a kind of fright, and with that I regained my senses pretty well.

"What's your devilish game now?" I asked with difficulty, for blood was running into my mouth.

Boswell gave me no answer, but went on with his operation. He laid down his knife, released my head, pulled out of his pocket a narrow strip of cloth, and bound it tightly over my nose, crushing it cruelly. I could not speak now, being near suffocation by the stoppage of my nose with the bandage and of my mouth with blood. When he had taken a good, long look at his surgery, Boswell filled and lighted his pipe, and sat down to full enjoyment of his tobacco. While he sat puffing smoke through his nostrils, I recovered my wits a little, perceiving that I had been overcome by some drug, mixed with the wine I had taken, but what was the intent of the villain in gashing my face I could not surmise. My first thought was that the design might be to make me hideous in Anna's sight.

As I lay, dizzily pondering, Boswell finished his pipe and laid it down to resume his work. He passed a cord several times round my body just above and below my elbows, knotting it securely. Then he slit the sack, and tore open my shirt, laying bare my breast, and taking up a needle and a small pot from the table, he began pricking my chest, dipping the point of the needle often into the pot. The pricking was worse to bear than the slashing with the knife, but I made no outcry, knowing the uselessness of it. So I lay silently shivering under the dab, dab of the needle for what seemed to me a fearfully long time, while he worked some kind of pattern on my breast. At length it came to an end, and when Boswell had examined his handiwork, adding a touch here and there, he laid down his implements, refilled his pipe, refreshed himself from a bottle, and sat down with the air of one well pleased with his achievement.

I thought it plain that this business with knife and needle was intended to give me a deceiving resemblance to some other man, in all likelihood a boatman or sailor, for such fellows had a custom of wearing figures and letters imprinted on breast or arm. The man into whose likeness I was to be changed had, I supposed, a broken nose and a scar on his cheek. But I could not see how this marking and mutilation would avail much, so long as I had the use of my tongue. Still, Boswell must have considered this. He must have thought how easy it would be for me to declare who I was, and to give proof of my identity. Must he not be prepared for such a certain event? There came to my mind stories I had heard of the disappearance of persons who stood between others and a great inheritance, and of the abduction of persons who might be inconvenient witnesses against men of rank and power. Some of these stories ran on to the discovery of such persons in after years, rendered blind or mute, or reduced to idiocy, by the art and craft of gipsies. I had smiled at these fireside tales of the peasantry, but as I lay helplessly bound on this ninth day of my imprisonment within a few miles of home, smarting and aching under wounds inflicted by gipsy tools, I became more credulous. Boswell might deprive me of sight or speech or strength by a knife-thrust, or even the prick of a needle. How I had laughed at the warnings of Bess! But the event had more than justified them. Well, come what might, there was only one course for me, to play the man and trust in God, as I vowed to do to the end.

There is no need to linger over the details of the next few days. Boswell attended closely on me for a week, treating my wounds with salve, and compelling me to drink a quantity of some abominable decoction. He eased my bonds from time to time, but took good heed to prevent my having freedom to use my arms, while I watched closely for any opportunity.

On the sixteenth day of my captivity, Sheffield's negro appeared on the scene, evidently bringing disquieting news for my jailer. He carried a hamper into the adjoining chamber, and there the two conversed in a lingo which I did not understand, but from the tone of their voices I judged that they were hurried, and in perturbation of mind. Now one and now the other went out, and once I heard a great crash overhead. Finally, the negro brought in an iron ball of fifty or sixty pounds' weight, attached by bar and chain to a ring, which Boswell locked on my right ankle, otherwise releasing me entirely. The pair kept their eyes on me, and their weapons handy, when this had been done, but I was not so foolhardy as to attack them. In truth, a great hope had come to me that they meant to leave me alone awhile, and I waited to see whether they would deprive me of the means of deliverance. After a good deal of gibberish had passed between them, and the Moor had done various errands at Boswell's command, both went out together, locking and barring the door in the corridor, and then the outer door behind them.

I picked up the ball, which I could carry in the crook of my arm, lighted a lamp which had been left on the table, and made a tour of inspection, rejoicing to be able to move about, my limbs being stiff and feeble by long constraint. As I had imagined, the negro had brought a store of food. I found bread, salt-beef, tongue, a couple of pasties, several bottles of burgundy, a jar of aqua vitæ, but no water. But I had no great concern about meat or drink. It was more to my purpose that there were eight moderate-sized faggots of sticks, a pile of turves, and a dozen largish logs. These would suffice. I shouted for joy to find a small hatchet, but was disappointed in searching for oil: the jar was empty. My survey taken, I made up the fire, and put my iron ball at the back of it, so that the links of the chain connecting ball and bar might get the full benefit of the heat, and as soon as one grew red, I prised it open with the head of the hatchet. Fire had freed me from a weight, and provided me with a missile, which, if well thrown, would disable an enemy. I had no means of ridding myself of the bar, much though it would be in my way in my next effort, which was to explore the chimney. I removed the fire from the hearth, and had it well blazing in the middle of the floor, before attempting the chimney, for on fire I must now chiefly depend for my liberation.

My climbing brought down such a quantity of soot as almost smothered and choked me, and I found the flue so narrow a little way up, as to forbid all hope of escape in that direction to a man of my width and stature. So I restored the fire to the hearth, and began my second enterprise. I heaped turves and sticks against the door of the corridor on the side on which it was hinged, and set fire to the pile. The flames soon licked the door, but they did no more than blacken it, for it was hard and solid, and moreover, as I have said, protected by bands of iron. It was like to be a slower business than I had expected, and time being precious, I cast about for means to hasten the process. There was a small poker on the hearth in my dungeon, which I made red-hot, and tried to bore holes with it in the upper part of the door, but the poker was thin, and the door was stout and thick. The bar, which dragged at my ankle, would have been more serviceable, but I could not manage to break any of the links which held it to the shackle. In the intervals of reheating my little poker, I chopped at the door with the hatchet, and when my hands grew very sore, varied my employment by hurling the ball against the place where I had chopped and bored.

How long I spent over the work I cannot reckon, but I had used more than half of my stock of fuel when the fire really took hold. When I saw the door begin to burn I turned away, lest in my impatience I should be tempted to meddle, and so hinder the business. I forced myself to eat a few mouthfuls of food and to drink a little wine before I returned. What was my joy to see that the lower hinge-iron had slightly parted from the woodwork! I threw myself against the door with all my strength. It yielded a little, and, at the fourth or fifth rush, it gave completely, and I had cleared the first barrier.

I made haste to heap all the remaining fuel against the outer door, emptying over the pile the contents of the jar of aqua vitæ. The roaring blaze bit the wood almost at once, clean contrary to my expectation; but I suppose it was weather-worn and perhaps worm-eaten. At all events, it was opened in less than half the time required for the other. For a few moments my eyes were blinded by the sudden light, but they quickly recovered, and I stood outside my prison, drinking in the pure, sweet air, and looking at green earth and blue sky with such delight as can be understood only by those who have lacked the sight of them as long as I had done—and regained it on a cloudless September morning. I had never known how beautiful are all the things which God has made. Even the wilderness of arched and twisted brambles that grew about the place was charming to my sight, and I admired with a strange tenderness the tomtits which were flocking and fluttering about the bushes in search of the ripest fruit. From that day forward I have never looked at a caged bird without the desire to set it free. For a while I stood looking about me in a kind of ecstasy, but soon remembered I must be moving, if I would keep my new-found liberty. I judged it safest, on the whole, to keep to the main road, passing through Epworth, where I might be relieved of my fetter, and gather information. I met few people, a little gang of labourers, a boy on horseback, a pedlar carrying his pack, but no one greeted me, and all stood still to look when they had gone some distance past me. When I came to the Bull, I walked into the smithy—Johnson, who kept the inn, being a blacksmith—and asked him to remove the bar and chain. He and his man retained their hammers, and simply stared.

"Come, don't stand staring, my man, but off with this thing, quick," I said impatiently.

"And who are you?" asked he. "My Lord Dirt, from Dunghill Hall?"

"'Tis a poor lunatic 'scaped from Bedlam," growled the other.

Now I remembered my wry nose and scarred face, which I had for the time forgotten; and I remembered also that a head and face which had not been touched with water for more than a night, and had been lately poked up a chimney, and grilled over burning faggots, would certainly have no prepossessing appearance; nor would my coarse clothing, rent and smirched and stained with blood and other liquids, give me the air of a gentleman, whose commands should have instant attention. Doubtless the remembrance of these things caused me a momentary hesitation, but I answered—

"I am Frank Vavasour."

"Be'st a thundering liar!" gasped Johnson.

"'Tis a poor lunatic," said his man. "Else he wouldn't give hisself the name of a dead man."

"Dead! What do you mean, fellow?" I asked.

"I mean what I say," answered he. "Everybody knows Measter Frank Vavasour is dead, AND buried."

My head began to whirl, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself. The smith and his man whispered together.

"Do you know particulars of this pretended death?" at length I asked.

"Particulars? I should think I do," answered Johnson, nodding to his man, who went out. "The young gentleman's body was found in the pool in Belgrave Park a week ago last Sunday, shockingly disfigured, for the eels had been at his face, but he was swore to at the inquest by his manservant and his own father. His friends had been looking for him high and low, for more than a week, when they dragged the pool."

The innkeeper paused at this.

"Go on," I said hoarsely. So Boswell's craft had dressed some other man in my clothes and mangled his face.

"At the inquest, Luke Barnby, who had been the young squire's bodyservant, told how one of the Dutchmen had tried to take his master's life, and how Master Frank went out to fight the Dutchman on Sunday, the very Sunday before the one he was found, and had never been seen or heard of since. So order was given to arrest the Dutchman, and they took him."

Again the narrator paused.

"Well, what next?" I asked.

"They took him," repeated Johnson, "but they didn't keep him long. Some of the Belton and Beltoft people went by night meaning to tear the murderer limb from limb, and even some of the gipsies, that's been thereabout so long, joined 'em. They broke into the outhouse at Squire Stovin's, where he was locked up, but somehow he got away."

What more easy trick could have been played? The gipsies had befooled the rest in the darkness, and smuggled Vliet out of danger.

Fierce rage against my persecutors restored to me the wits which had been scattered in my first consternation.

"All this you have told me is a pack of lies. I don't mean that you have lied," I added, noting the heat in the man's face, "but it is a diabolical plot. Another man has been buried under my name—a man who was dressed in my clothing, and his features obliterated cunningly. I am Frank Vavasour, and have been kept prisoner in the vaults of Melwood Priory while this devilry was doing. Remove this thing from my leg. Let me have a room, and soap and water. Tell your people to get me pen, ink, and paper. Have a lad in readiness to ride to Temple Belwood, and another to go to Tudworth Hall."

"And who's to pay, my lad? The mistress will charge high for letting a room to the like o' you. I don't send horse and man up and down the country till I see the colour of your money. Pay to-day and trust to-morrow is my motto."

"There will be no difficulty about that. My friends will——"

"No, it won't do, my man," said mine host. "Look ye, there's a pump in the yard. You can wash there, and welcome, and then do your own errands on Shanks his pony."

Seeing I should but waste time by tarrying, I got the fellow to release me from the leg-iron, and going to the pump, I made such shift as I could to cleanse my face and hands, and put my clothing into somewhat more decent array. When I saw the image of myself in the water, I no longer wondered that my tale should appear incredible, for I could scarce believe my own eyes. The flattened and twisted nose, and the scar across my cheek, had given me a look simply villainous.

The sooner the better I found myself among those who knew me, thought I, and I hurried forward with a brief good day to mine host, who stood at the smithy door staring and scratching his head, as if in some perplexity.

I made straight for Temple Belwood, where I might find Luke; nor was I quite without hope that my father might be inclined to reconciliation with a son who had come back from the dead. As I passed Belton church I caught sight of a woman seated on a flat tombstone, her back toward me, whose figure and attitude reminded me of Bess Boswell, and I entered the yard to get a nearer view. At the sound of my footfall she turned, and I saw it was the gipsy girl, her face tear-stained and woebegone.

"Ulceby!" she cried. "You here! Do you know there are soldiers about?"

"That is not my name," I answered. "Don't you know me, Bess?"

She rose from the stone, stepped closely up to me, and looked wonderingly into my face, with one hand fluttering about her breast. Then she sank back upon the tombstone, still keeping her eyes fixed on me, and said—

"Oh yes; I know your voice; I know your eyes. But where have you been? And who lies there?"—pointing to a new-made grave. "Your servant swore it was you. Your father swore so. Speak again. Let me touch you."

She rose, trembling all over, and reached out her hand. I took hold of it, and drew her down to the stone, seating myself beside her.

"Who has done that hellish work on your face? No; don't tell me, not yet."

She hid her face in her hands, shuddering.

"That has been done to give me the semblance of the man you named just now. And this too," I said, baring my chest, showing a crown and anchor, and the letters J.U.

"Who is Ulceby?" I asked.

"A soldier, who escaped from Lincoln, after striking one of the officers, and being condemned to be sent to the plantations. He came to us for hiding. He had the ague badly, and was taken to safer and better quarters, so I was told. That was just before I was sent to Horncastle fair, and on to Corby, and Spalding, and Stamford, because my father must stay to attend to Ulceby. And he seemed to be so much concerned about the deserter, that I thought no evil could be brewing against you just then, and so I was far away when mischief was doing. But I don't understand. Where were you?"

I told how I was captured, imprisoned, mutilated, and how I had escaped.

"This Ulceby must have died on your father's, hands," continued I, "and he conceived the design of taking me, putting my clothes on the dead man, corroding his face, and sinking the body in Belgrave pond."

By the girl's face, when I said that Ulceby must have died on her father's hands, I saw she thought of a darker probability. When I had ended my narrative, she remained silent awhile. When she spoke, it was to say that the mystery of my disfigurement was beyond her; why Boswell should have spared my life, when it was so easy to take it, she could not understand.

"He must have been confident of handing you over to the soldiers himself. Perhaps he meant to put a finishing touch to his work. I have heard him say horrible things, boasting of what can be done by a pin-prick."

"Thank God, I am safe from him. I shall be at Temple shortly."

"Ah! but, of course, you don't know that Temple is shut up. Your father left almost as soon as the funeral was over. Some of his neighbours had called upon him to keep his promise of helping to drive out the foreigners as the law was powerless, and he quarrelled with them. He went away, vowing never to return, so they say."

So vanished for the present my hope of reconciliation with him.

"My old tutor?"

"Died a fortnight ago."

"And Luke Barnby?"

"I have heard nothing of him. I know little of what has been doing in the Isle, for I came back only yesterday morning. I did not hear of your death till then."

She paused with some choking in the throat, but in a moment resumed—

"You must lose no time in making yourself known to your friends. If the soldiers find you before that is done, they will drag you off to Hull."

"Where are these soldiers?" I asked.

"Some in Epworth, and some in Crowle," she replied.

Now I understood the by-play at the Bull. The blacksmith's man had gone to seek the officer, and the smith had not ventured to attempt to hold me until the soldiers came. Perhaps he had not felt entirely comfortable at the thought of giving up a poor wretch to life-long misery. I told Bess of the colloquy.

"Oh, you must go," she cried. "They may be on your track already."

"I will push on to my aunt's—to the Crowle vicarage," I answered.

"And I will go toward Epworth, and send the soldiers on a wild-goose chase, if I meet them," said Bess.

"But these men of war cannot all be looking for Ulceby, surely?"

"No, no; the search-party has returned to Lincoln, but these men are billeted hereabout to keep the Islonians in check, because of the attacks which have been made on Sandtoft; but there is a reward offered for the capture of Ulceby, and poor Daft Jack may be taken, if he is found. I meant to try to find and warn him, but now I must go the other way. But you must go at once."

"Stay yet half a minute," I said. "Do you know where Boswell is, and what he is about?"

"To-morrow night at Daft Jack's cottage, I will tell you all I know. You must not lose more time. And take my purse, for you must be penniless."

"In an hour I shall be at the vicarage," said I, declining.

"Then you can give it back to me to-morrow night."

She thrust it into my hand, and we went our different ways.