“You may regard all I have done for you as a loan,” were his parting words, “and repay me when I come to America,” a thing I am glad to say I was able to do.
I left Watford with little fear of detection, and enjoyed to the full my ride across the country to St. Helen’s, a small town a few miles out of Liverpool. The stage reached there just at dark, and, as I had done a half dozen times before, I descended from its top and entered the tavern to order supper and a room for the night. Two feet over the threshold a hand was laid upon my shoulder and a voice I instantly recognized said:
“Master Dunn, you are my prisoner.” It was the recruiting sergeant whom I had heard in Cheapside, London, telling of the war with the colonies.
Resistance was useless, for behind the officer stood four soldiers with their muskets ready for instant use, so I submitted to my arrest with the best grace I could muster.
In a few minutes they mounted me upon a horse, surrounded me with a squad of troopers, and hurried me off towards Liverpool. Reaching the city, they hastened along its narrow streets to a huge stone building on the river’s edge before which they stopped. Tumbling me unceremoniously from the beast I rode, they led me through the heavy portals, and along the dark corridors to a room in the rear, into which they thrust me and swung to its stout door with a clang that still echoes in my ears. I did not need to be told where I was—the structure, its form, its appearance, its interior arrangements, spoke louder than human words. It said in a silent but unmistakable language, “You are in a British prison.”
CHAPTER VII
I MEET A NEW FRIEND
I will not attempt to describe my feelings as I stood there in the darkness, with those stout walls shutting me from the liberty I craved—craved that I might give myself to the service of my struggling country. I am quite sure I could not at that time separate the mingled feelings of chagrin, regret, and hopelessness that oppressed me. One word alone can express the condition of my mind and heart just then—despair. I could have shed tears if it would have been of any use; it may be a sob did escape me, but if so it was speedily checked, for a heavy voice spoke from the farthest corner of the room, demanding:
“Who are you?”
I had supposed I was alone in the cell. Surprised now to find I was sharing it with another, I nevertheless was able to answer promptly:
“An unfortunate prisoner like yourself.”