CHAPTER XVII
We had a tedious passage, for the wind was light, and we missed the advantage of the tide; so it was after six o'clock when we arrived. My guards took me to a large house in Mytongate, adjoining a butcher's shop, the butcher, Acton by name, being the lessee of the prison. When I had been some time in a little den which smelled vilely, my jailer appeared—a lewd fellow, far gone in liquor.
"And you're come to pay us a visit once more," said he, with oaths which I need not repeat. "We have not much accommodation to spare just now, but we must find you a garret somewhere on the old terms, I suppose."
This talk of accommodation was Greek to me. "I don't understand," said I, "not having the honour of your acquaintance."
Acton laughed until his red face turned purple. "Oh, that's good—'nation good! Gentleman Jim—Jim the bully-boy, hasn't the honour of my acquaintance!"
As I stared at him he broke into laughter again, and gave me a resounding smack on the shoulder.
"You do it so well, Jim! Might ha' been born with a coronet on your head! 'Not having the honour of your acquaintance!'" Again he roared. "You are going out as governor of the colony, are you! Oh, you'll be the death of me with your jests!"
The fellow babbled on of the doings of Ulceby, of cheating at play and other frauds, of street brawls and manslaughter, until he talked himself dry and called for brandy, which was brought by a sluttish wench and placed on the table, the only furniture of the room, save a rickety chair which I occupied. Acton ceased his jabbering in order to drink, and I tried to get in a word; but as soon as he had gulped his dram, he went on unheeding me.
"The old man has more chink than ever, chandling and stockfish bring him in a pretty penny; but now he's gone in for whale fishing in the Greenland sea, and he has the devil's own luck. They say he is down for sheriff next year, but whether he can get you out of this scrape, Lord only knows."
"Of whom do you speak?" I asked.
Acton, seated on the table, was in the act of swallowing more brandy, but my question brought him to his feet, laughing, sputtering and coughing well-nigh to suffocation. When he regained breath, he vowed I was the drollest fellow living. Then he changed his tone to one of drunken gravity, inquiring what money I had, and continued—
"Look ye, Jim, a jest is all very well, but I must see your father's money, or have his word for it, or out you go into the cellars."
I had hard work to draw a plain meaning out of the man, his tipsy head being filled with the notion that I was the "Gentleman Jim" with whom he had such familiarity; but little by little I gathered that Ulceby the elder lived not far away, a man of substance and standing, who had paid his son's debts two or three times, from whom Acton had received a good deal of money for prison fees and food and lodging. This gave me hope of liberty, so I demanded paper and pen and ink, and wrote a few lines, asking Mr. Ulceby of his charity to come to see one, who was falsely imprisoned under the name of his son.
This letter Acton undertook to despatch and relieved me of his presence. Some two hours I spent alone in the darkening room, the wind howling outside with a most melancholy sound, and hearing fitfully a noise of talk and laughing from some room near, whenever a door was opened. About eight o'clock, Mr. Ulceby came in, Acton attending him with much obsequiousness. When the jailer had placed candles on the table and a chair for the visitor, Mr. Ulceby signified his desire to be left alone with me. On the first glance my spirits rose. He was a tall man, somewhat portly, silver-haired, and bore himself with natural dignity. He heard what I had to say of my capture and imprisonment at Melwood, my escape and recapture, with grave attention, two or three times asking a pertinent question, and at the end of it said smiling half sadly—
"One thing can be easily proved. My testimony that you are not my son should suffice, after legal forms have been observed, to obtain your release. That shall be my first business to-morrow morning. Possibly it may take a few days to set you free."
I thanked him heartily for his kindness in coming so speedily to my help; but he cut short my thanks, making light of the matter of his trouble.
"I wish I could take you out of this den of wretchedness," he went on; "but as that is not possible, you must allow me to offer such hospitality as may be had here." He rapped on the table with his cane, and Acton entered. "Can you let us have a more comfortable room and a bit of cheerful fire?" he asked.
Acton intimated that anything could be done which would be well paid for; and Mr. Ulceby sent out to the Saracen's Head for the best supper that could be furnished.
"Mr. Vavasour does me the honour to sup with me," he said to Acton, who favoured me with a knowing wink and went about the business.
Presently we were in a room more spacious and airy, and after supper, Mr. Ulceby gave me a short account of his son, which is no part of my story, except that it was given so tenderly and sorrowfully as to make me sure that here was a good man indeed. He ended by saying—
"There seems little doubt of his death, but I must be certified of it, and if he met with foul play, bring his murderers to justice. My duty to him can best be fulfilled by a partnership with you. Will you give me confidence for confidence? You have told me of your imprisonment and the horrible practice of your enemies, but nothing of the reason. Since the desire of money, or the love of woman is at the bottom of most mischief, perhaps there is a lady in the case. Believe me, though I am hoary-headed, I am not too old to feel with a true lover."
Of that I felt well assured and poured out all my tale, to which he listened with no sign of weariness, nodding and smiling now and then, and once rising from his chair to pace the room and murmur something to himself. At the end he stretched out his hand, saying—
"Let us strike a bargain. We two are partners: until we know the truth concerning the fate of my poor, misguided lad, and you are avenged of your enemies. Now that means," said he, as I put my hand in his, "that there is no distinction between meum and tuum for the term of our partnership. Nay, hear me," observant of the flush in my face as I thought of my destitute condition. "I may have to ask you for more than money can buy before we are at the end of our joint business. The first thing I offer is counsel. Write a letter to Mistress Goel, assuring her of your safety and of your speedy coming, but saying nothing further, not even where you are, lest the letter should fall into other hands. I will send it by a trusty messenger as fast as good horseflesh ought to be ridden. To-morrow I will bring you a skilful surgeon, who should be able to do somewhat to repair the injury to your face. There will be no loss of time thereby, for your liberation can scarcely be effected to-morrow; and if you have to go plaistered and bandaged, there may be advantage in the disguise. We might dress you like a shipmaster too. We must pounce on the enemy, if we may, for they will stick at nothing, now that you hold their liberty, perhaps their lives, in your hand."
I had nothing to say against these counsels, being in truth very thankful to have a friend capable of advice and one so forward in my cause. Mr. Ulceby laid his purse on the table.
"Such men as you have here to do with, will be the more respectful if they know you have money at command, and you may have unforeseen occasion for it."
When I had written a few words to my love, Mr. Ulceby left me, again assuring me he would bestir himself about my business early in the morning. It was long before I sought sleep, which indeed would have been hard to come by until after midnight, for my fellow-lodgers in the room next to mine, and in the one overhead, kept up such a noise of shouting and singing and laughter as astounded me, seeing they were prisoners. On Mr. Ulceby's departure, a maid looked in to ask whether I had need of anything; and, as I had no orders to give, locked and bolted the door on the outside, and I was left alone to my meditations.
Hitherto I had not been much given to reflection, and in these later days I had been concerned with the present danger and what might impend in the instant future, but now that the strain was relieved, thought came upon me like a flood. A few hours ago I had been threatened with the fate of a plantation slave. If any man had foretold on my coming of age that such a peril would befall me, how incredible it would have appeared! And I had been saved from such a doom not by the things in which I had pride, not by my name or place, not by my strength or courage, or by the staunchness of my friends, but by the kindness of a stranger. How much reason I had for thankfulness to him, and how much more to the Providence which had sent him for my deliverance! A great awe crept on me of the eye which had been upon me when I had thought myself buried out of sight, and of the hand which had brought me help when I was most helpless; and I felt how utterly undeserved was the kindness of God, and at the same time assuredly confident therein. These things I hold are not to be much spoken of, but some record I am bound to make of that which changed the face of the world to me, and filled my heart with a new, strange, and solemn gladness.