Chapter 12 | Prisoners | The Adventures of Don Lavington

“What’s the matter?” cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness.

Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep.

As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse.

He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners.

“Hold the lanthorn here,” he said sharply. “Now let’s have a look at you.”

He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly.

“All right, my lad,” he said to Don; “you will not die this time. Now you.”

He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand.

“Been rather rough with this one, my lads.”

“Couldn’t help it,” said one of the sailors; “he fote so hard. So did this young chap too.”

“Nothing wrong with him, I daresay,” said the bluff man. “No bones broken. All right in a day or two.”

Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily.

“Now, sir!” he exclaimed, “have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage.”

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried the bluff man.

“It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men.”

“Well crowed, my young cockerel,” said the bluff man, laughing. “They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue.”

“Insulting us now you have us down will not save you,” cried Don fiercely.

“No, my lord,” said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don.

The men laughed.

“You coward!” cried Don in hot anger; “but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished.”

“Really, this is growing serious,” said the bluff man in mock alarm.

“You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once.”

“Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain,” said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; “but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, ‘short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship Great Briton, and help me till I’ve settled my quarrel with my enemies,’ so we have persuaded you.”

“You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir.”

“What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly.”

“Here, I’m all right again now, Mas’ Don. Press-gang, eh?” cried Jem. “Here, let me get at him.”

Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard.

“Ah, I wish we had fifty of you,” said the bluff man. “Don’t hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can’t do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king.”

“You cowards!” cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light.

“Come along,” he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out.

“Do you hear?” cried the bluff man again. “Come along!”

“How can I, when he’s sticking on like a rat?” growled the man who held Don. “Did you ever see such a young ruffian?”

The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold.

“Don’t be a young fool,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “It’s plucky, but it’s no good. Can’t you see we’re seven to one?”

“I don’t care if you’re a hundred,” raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly.

“Bravo, boy! That’s right; but we’re English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that.”

He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem.

“You’ll do,” he said. “I thought we’d let you go, because you’re such a boy, but you’ve got the pluck of a man, and you’ll soon grow.”

He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked.

“The cowards!” panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. “Why, Jem!”

“Yes, Mas’ Don.”

“They won’t let us go.”

“No, Mas’ Don, that they won’t.”

“I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this.”

“I did, sir. They’d press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance.”

“But what are we to do?”

“I d’know, sir.”

“We must let my uncle know at once.”

“Yes, sir, I would,” said Jem grimly; “I’d holloa.”

“Don’t be stupid. What’s the good?”

“Not a bit, sir.”

“But my uncle—my mother, what will they think?”

“I’ll tell yer, sir.”

“Yes?”

“They’ll think you’ve run away, so as not to have to go ’fore the magistrates.”

“Jem, what are you saying? Think I’m a thief?”

“I didn’t say that, sir; but so sure as you don’t go home, they’ll think you’ve cut away.”

“Jem!” cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open.

“Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk,” said Jem ill-naturedly—“oh, how my head do ache!—and now you’ve got your chance.”

“But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don’t want to go. What will they say?”

“Dunno what they’ll say,” said Jem dolefully, “but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn’t want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas’ Don. She only shows a bit o’ temper.”

“Jem, she’ll think you’ve run away and deserted her.”

“Safe, Mas’ Don. You see, I made up a bundle o’ wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn’t, because I was so waxy.”

“And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I—I did half think of going away.”

“Then you’ve done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I’ve forsook her.”

“And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool—fool—fool!”

“What’s the use o’ calling yourself a fool, Mas’ Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!”

“Jem, we must escape.”

“Escape? I on’y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache.”

“They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up.”

“What’s the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!”

“Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where’s your hand?”

“Gently, my lad; that’s my hye. Arn’t much use here in the dark, but may want ’em by-and-by. That’s better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight.”

“Can’t you stand, Jem?”

“Stand, sir? Yes: but what’s the matter? It’s like being in a round-about at the fair.”

“You’ll be better soon.”

“Better, sir? Well, I can’t be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I’d got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I’d give him such a roll up and down the ware’us floor as ’ud make him as giddy as me.”

“Now try and think, Jem,” said Don excitedly. “They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away.”

“No, sir; my Sally mustn’t think that.”

“Then what shall we do?”

“Try to get out, sir, of course.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well, sir, if I can’t, I’ll crawl. What yer going to do?”

“Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked.”

“Not likely,” said Jem. “Wish I’d got a candle. It’s like being a rat in a box trap. It is dark.”

“This way, Jem. Your hand.”

“All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don’t grow out o’ my back.”

“That’s it. Now together. Let’s get to the wall.”

There was a rustling noise and then a rattle.

“Phew! Shins!” cried Jem. “Oh, dear me. That’s barrel staves, I know the feel on ’em. Such sharp edges, Mas’ Don. Mind you don’t tread on the edge of a hoop, or it’ll fly up and hit you right in the middle.”

Flip!

“There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?”

“Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let’s go all round the place, perhaps there’s another way out.”

“All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn’t be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o’ the night.”

“Now I am touching the wall, Jem,” said Don. “I’m going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?”

“Only you speaking, my lad.”

“Come along then.”

“All right, Mas’ Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it.”

Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by running: his hands over the damp bricks; but there was nothing but bare wall till he had passed down two sides, and was half-way along the third, when he uttered a hasty ejaculation.

“It’s all right, Jem. Here is a way into another cellar.”

“Mind how you go, sir. Steady.”

“Yes, but make haste.”

“There’s a door,” whispered Don. “Loose my hand.”

He hastily felt all over the door, but it was perfectly blank, not so much as a keyhole to be found, and though he pressed and strained at it, he could make no impression.

“It’s no use, Jem. Let’s try the other door.”

“I don’t believe there are no other door,” said Jem. “That’s the way out.”

“No, no; the way out is on the other side.”

“This here is t’other side,” said Jem, “only we arn’t over there now.”

“I’m sure it can’t be.”

“And I’m sure it can be, my lad. Nothing arn’t more puzzling than being shut up in the dark. You loses yourself directly, and then you can’t find yourself again.”

“But the door where the men went out is over there.”

“Yah! That it arn’t,” cried Jem. “Don’t throw your fisties about that how. That’s my nose.”

“I’m very sorry, Jem. I did not mean—”

“Course you didn’t, but that’s what I said. When you’re in the dark you don’t know where you are, nor where any one else is.”

“Let’s try down that other side, and I’ll show you that you are wrong.”

“Can’t show me, my lad. You may make me feel, but you did that just now when you hit me on the nose. Well? Fun’ it?”

“No, not yet,” said Don, as he crept slowly along from the doorway; and then carefully on and on, till he must have come to the place from which they started.

“No, not yet,” grumbled Jem. “Nor more you won’t if you go on for ever.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Jem.”

“I’m right, and I arn’t afraid,” said Jem; “leastwise, save that my head’s going on aching for ever.”

Don felt all round the cellar again, and then heaved a sigh.

“Yes; there’s only one door, Jem. Could we break it down?”

“I could if I’d some of the cooper’s tools,” said Jem, quietly; “but you can’t break strong doors with your fisties, and you can’t get out of brick cellars with your teeth.”

“Of course, we’re underground.”

“Ay! No doubt about that, Mas’ Don.”

“Let’s knock and ask for a pencil and paper to send a message.”

Jem uttered a loud chuckle as he seated himself on the floor.

“I like that, Mas’ Don. ’Pon my word I do. Might just as well hit your head again the wall.”

“Better use yours for a battering ram, Jem,” said Don, angrily. “It’s thicker than mine.”

There was silence after this.

“He’s sulky because of what I’ve said,” thought Don.

“Oh, my poor head!” thought Jem. “How it do ache!”

Then he began to think about Sally, and what she would say or do when she found that he did not come back.

Just at the same time Don was reflecting upon his life of late, and how discontented he had been, and how he had longed to go away, while now he felt as if he would give anything to be back on his old stool in the office, writing hard, and trying his best to be satisfied with what seemed to be a peaceful, happy life.

A terrible sensation of despair came over him, and the idea of being dragged off to a ship, and carried right away, was unbearable. What were glorious foreign lands with their wonders to one who would be thought of as a cowardly thief?

As he leaned against a wall there in the darkness his busy brain pictured his stern-looking uncle telling his weeping mother that it was a disgrace to her to mourn over the loss of a son who could be guilty of such a crime, and then run away to avoid his punishment.

“Oh! If I had only been a little wiser,” thought Don, “how much happier I might have been.”

Then he forced himself to think out a way of escape, a little further conversation with Jem making him feel that he must depend upon himself, for poor Jem’s injury seemed to make him at times confused; in fact, he quite startled his fellow-prisoner by exclaiming suddenly,—

“Now where did I put them keys?”

“Jem!”

“Eh? All right, Sally. ’Tarn’t daylight yet.”

“Jem, my lad, don’t you know where you are?”

“Don’t I tell you? Phew! My head. You there, Mas’ Don?”

“Yes, Jem. How are you?”

“Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas’ Don, and—”

“Hist! Here they come,” cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. “Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?”

“No, Mas’ Don, not now. My head’s all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Don despairingly.

“But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door’s open. That’s how to get away.”

Cling! clang!

Two bolts were shot back and a flood—or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood—of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor.

A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,—

“That’s the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they’ll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty’s Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober.”

Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man’s words had swept all that away.

Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm.

“You are not going to keep us, sir?” he said quietly. “My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem—our man, has a young wife.”

“No, no; can’t listen to you, my lad,” said the bluff man; “it’s very hard, I know, but the king’s ships must be manned—and boyed,” he added with a laugh.

“But my mother?”

“Yes, I’m sorry for your mother, but you’re too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap’s young wife will have to wait till he comes back.”

“But you will let me send a message to them at home?”

“To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don’t give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long.”

He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused.

“Not very nice for a lad like you,” he said, not unkindly. “Here, bring these two out, my lads; we’ll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along.”

A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor.

“Where shall we put ’em, sir?” said a sailor.

“Top floor and make fast,” said the bluff man.

“But you will let me send word home?” began Don.

“I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons,” said the man sternly. “Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!—”

There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear.

The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next.

“There’s a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads,” said the bluff man. “There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp’s the word.”

They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head.

The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away.

“This is a happy sort o’ life, Mas’ Don,” said Jem, breaking the silence. “What’s to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!”

“I don’t know, Jem,” said Don despondently. “It’s enough to make one wish one was dead.”

“Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It’s bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?”

“I don’t know, Jem.”

“Well, let’s look. I want to lie down and have a sleep.”

“Sleep? At a time like this!”

“Why not, sir? I’m half asleep now. Can’t do anything better as I see.”

“Jem,” said Don passionately, “we’re being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear.”

“But we must bear it, sir. That’s what you’ve got to do when you’re punished. Don’t take on, sir. P’r’aps, it won’t seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about.”

Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account.

“Justly punished,” he kept muttering; “justly punished, and now it is too late—too late.”

“Here y’are, Mas’ Don,” cried Jem; “lots of ’em, and I can’t help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off.”

Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks.

“There!” Jem cried at last; “that’s about it. Now, Mas’ Don, I’ve made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down.”

“No, Jem, no; I’m not sleepy.”

“Then I must,” muttered Jem; and after a little more scuffling noise all was still for a few minutes, after which there was a regular heavy breathing, which told that the great trouble he was in had not been sufficient to keep Jem Wimble awake.

Don stood for some time in the darkness, but by degrees a wretched feeling of weariness came over him, and he sat down painfully upon the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin, embracing them, and laying his head upon them.

He wanted to think of his position, of his folly, and of the trouble which it had brought upon him. Jem’s heavy breathing came regularly from somewhere to his left, and he found himself, as he crouched together there in the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured.

“But then he has not so much on his mind as I have,” thought Don. “Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be.”