'Not for the world, my dear brother-in-law. Even from you I could not accept such a favour. Pay me out? Why, it would be no favour: it would be a crime. Do you know that my only detaining creditor is an attorney? Pay an attorney? Never. Remember Probus. Surely you have had enough of attorneys.'
'Indeed I am not likely to forget Probus as long as I live. But then, if you are not paid out, Tom, how will you get out?'
'I shall walk out, Mr. William Halliday. If you let us go out with you I shall send the wife on board with Alice and I shall then walk out with my violin in one hand and a bundle of music in the other on the evening before the ship sails. I shall go on board. When my creditor finds out that I have taken my departure, which may take weeks—or it may take months—that honest attorney will be pained no doubt, for he is of a revengeful spirit. He will then do exactly what he pleases. But I believe he will not venture out to Virginia. If he should dare that attempt I will give him to friendly Indians in order to be—carbonadoed, as I believe you Americans call it. That attorney, Will, shall be carbonadoed over a slow fire.'
Tom, then, was to come with us. So with Jenny, her maid, and her man: Tom Shirley and his wife: Alice, the boy and myself we should make up as pleasant a family party as ever sailed across the Atlantic.
The time approached when we were to go on board. The ship was to drop down with the ebb on Saturday morning at nine with the turn of the tide. Everything was on board; on the forecastle on deck my live stock was gathered: sheep, pigs, turkeys (all of which died in the Channel) geese and poultry: our furniture, books and music were stowed away in the hold: our wine and liquors were laid in bunks around the cabin: the Captain and the mate were to take meals with us: they were also so obliging as to drink up our rum and our wine. We had no leavetakings: on Friday afternoon Alice and her sister-in-law went on board. Tom joined them after sundown. At eight o'clock or thereabouts I was to bring Jenny and her party on board. Lord Brockenhurst had expressed his desire to say farewell to her on the quarterdeck.
A little after seven I repaired to the Gaol. At the gates I saw waiting three large waggons which the people were filling with boxes and bundles tied up in sacking and canvas. I thought nothing of these waggons at the moment: they did not concern me, and I entered the Lodge. There was waiting for me Jenny herself, dressed in splendour as if for a wedding. Surely no prisoner sentenced to transportation ever went on board ship in such a guise. She was taking an affectionate leave of the Governor, who was moved almost to tears by her departure.
'Indeed, Sir,' she said, 'I am grieved to have put you to so much trouble.' So she shook hands, smiling sweetly: then she turned to the turnkeys. 'I am also very much in your debt, my friends,' and walked along the whole line distributing guineas. 'God bless your Ladyship!' they uttered fervently. 'We shall never see the likes of your Ladyship here again.'
Indeed I am sure that they never will.
She mounted the steps of the coach which waited outside, she was followed by the girl, by myself, and by the lad called Jack.
'I am glad,' she said, 'that this child goes out with me to Virginia.' The child—she looked little more—took Jenny's hand and kissed it. 'She is an affectionate little fool,' said Jenny, 'and loves me much. And to think what they were going to do with her! Oh! Fools! Fools!' she cried. 'Oh! monstrous Fools!'