During the long months of my captivity, I pondered much upon little Ruth. Where had she gone? I thought that England was the destination of the party we had fallen in with. Sometimes I pictured my sister in America, alone in that far off land; but a little thought would convince me that she was not there. Ruth was a hopeful girl. She would never bring herself to think—unless she heard of my actual death—that I should not come to her eventually. In that case, where would I be so likely to look as in England? No, Ruth would not go to the colonies. As I thought about her whereabouts I became more and more sure, and at last I was certain, in my own mind at least, that she had taken refuge in England.
At the end of a year a happy accident opened the way to my escape. I shall never forget the burden that fell from my shoulders, the long breath of unutterable, thankful relief that I drew upon the day I crossed the French frontier into Holland. I left my native land with my mind firmly resolved upon two things: the first was to find Ruth; the second was to bring confusion to the church of Rome, the slayers of God’s people, the tormentors of me and mine. Wherever I should meet a Catholic,—sleeping or waking, in sickness or in health,—he was my enemy.
I made my way at once for England, where I inquired diligently for my sister in all the great cities. A year of this searching brought me no tidings and exhausted my slender means of support. Then I fell back upon military service for a livelihood. My great strength and my skill of fence soon found me employment. I could even choose my master in a way, and managed to take service with those who would lead me into distant parts. You may be sure that during all my foreign campaigns I never lost sight of the darling desire of my heart. But as time wore on and I did not find her, I became less and less positive that Ruth was still alive.
In the years that followed I walked in many strange cities; in all of them I searched the streets hungrily for Ruth. I glanced up into windows; I peered down into cellar ways; but I never saw a familiar face. Once I penetrated in disguise to La Rochelle itself. Even there I could hear nothing of Ruth or of the ship-master who had taken her to England. I began to doubt whether she had escaped at all. At such moments my fierce resentment against our oppressors grew bitter as gall. More than once in those stern, tumultuous times, I fought under the banners of the Protestant chiefs of Europe, and my blade was no sluggard.
At last a new fear began to haunt me day and night. What if I should meet Ruth and not recognize her! She was fifteen years old when I lost her. How a girl changes between fifteen and twenty! I must look now, not for the slim childish figure I remembered, but for the full roundness of a woman. How often I had—and as I grew older it occurred ever the more often—how often I had looked into faces that I felt sure I had seen somewhere before. Then, when it was too late to follow, I would be startled with the idea that perhaps the person I had just seen was Ruth. Such moments wrung my heart.
At last, after eight or nine years of fruitless hunting, I found myself again in England. I had long since abandoned all hope of finding Ruth. I became the trusted servant of an English lord. I was now three and thirty years of age, though people who judged from my appearance thought I was older. King William was on the throne and my master stood well in the sovereign’s graces. Everything, so far as worldly prospects went, gave promise of a happy life. Then of a sudden my master fell under the displeasure of the government. With the quickness of a summer storm, misfortune came upon him. Two months after the first thunder-clap he was a condemned prisoner in the Tower, and I once more masterless and adrift.
This calamity occurred in the year 1698, a twelvemonth before my arrival in New York. I had saved some money and, strange to say, there came to me suddenly and without reason a new conviction that I should yet find Ruth. But where? There was only one place in the world where she might be and in which I had not sought for her: America. My resolution was immediately taken to set out over sea and resume the hunt that I had latterly neglected. With this intent I journeyed to Bristol, where I intended to take ship at once.
CHAPTER II
THE MAID AT THE MARINER’S REST
Bristol was then the second seaport of the kingdom; only London surpassed it in the number of ships sailing from its docks and in the amount of hurly-burly, shuffling traffic in its streets. I arrived in the city near sundown of an evening. As soon as I had had a bite to eat I set out for the water front. The Mariner’s Rest was the principal tavern, and thither I went to begin my inquiry for a passage to New York.
A maid served behind the bar and soon brought me a mug of ale. I could not help but notice her frail figure and sorrowful eyes; she looked some two or three and twenty years of age, and had evidently seen much trouble in her short life. Her refined face was wonderfully out of keeping with her coarse surroundings. Sometimes, when she had been rudely spoken to by a tipsy sailor, she would retreat to the back of the room and rest her head in her hands as if from weariness. Though I pitied her in my heart, I soon fell to musing upon other things. My mind was always on the alert now about New York. I constantly pictured myself wandering along its streets, casting searching glances to this side and that, as I had so often wandered here in England when I still believed that Ruth was somewhere near at hand.