on the fourteenth day of march, 1815, came peace, borne upon the white wings of the favourite: for the president of the united states had ratified the treaty.
but, unhappily, the history of the war prison on dartmoor was not yet written, and the last bloody chapter still remained to tell. ignorant of the complicated task set for authority, the bulk of the americans instantly clamoured to be free; nor could the better instructed among them induce patience at this juncture. letters from mr. blazey cooled enthusiasm; but these were written in a callous spirit, and impatience quickly rose to anger. nothing had as yet been prepared for exodus, and the agent not only gave no promise of immediate liberation, but explained that certain precautions, highly offensive to many of the americans, must first be taken before a man left dartmoor.
"i am informed," he wrote, "that great numbers of you refuse to be inoculated with the smallpox, which i hear has been very mortal among you. i therefore acquaint you that it will be impossible for me to send home any prisoners unless they have gone through the same."
later he wrote again concerning american prisoners taken under the french flag; and then, as no further communication was received for many days, the sailors, like schoolboys on the verge of holiday, began mischievous pranks, flouted their guards and planned all the trouble that ingenuity could devise. many escaped, for discipline was relaxed. then captain short, from carelessness, proceeded to the other extreme, until even those who desired to assist him in the maintenance of order despaired. the prisoners were out of hand, and their commandant knew it. he blamed them, not himself, for his heart would not accuse him, though a soldier's conscience sometimes whispered censure.
one night a strange glare filled the courtyard of no. 4, and lurid lights with inky shadows leapt and fell against the granite walls. in the midst a great bonfire blazed, and round about it thousands of wild figures ran, shouted and yelled. at the grilles stood the officers of the prison, some fearful, some indifferent, some enraged.
sergeant bradridge, off duty, was watching this scene, and beside him stood his nephew, mr. putt.
"there'll be trouble yet," declared the sergeant gloomily, "for they be bent on it. they're mad at the delay, and the party for sense—mr. cecil stark and a grey-head or two, and most of the other gentlemen among 'em—count for nothing."
as he spoke a procession of prisoners appeared, carrying a hurdle on which was seated the semblance of a man. the figure wore a plum-coloured coat, had a scratch wig, a three-cornered hat and knee breeches. its face was red, its nose was scarlet, its great eyes coal-black.
"'tis meant for agent blazey," explained putt's uncle. "they've been playing the fool with that great doll all day. first they tried it for bringing 'em to nakedness and starvation here; then they found it guilty; then they made it confess all its sins, which took a mighty long time; then they hanged it by the neck; and now they'm going to burn it to ashes. so they'd treat the real man if they could get at him. an' they'll break loose afore long, so sure as my name's bradridge, for the devil's in 'em."
with songs and a wild war dance the effigy of reuben blazey was flung upon the flames; then, while it burned, the prisoners roared "yankee doodle" together until the walls vibrated.
apart among them stood burnham, and with him was cecil stark. a sort of friendship still subsisted between them, for the younger man had apologised after their last quarrel as soon as he found himself sober again. relations, however, were strained to breaking, and to-night they broke for ever.
stark, indeed, had lost interest in everything but his own affairs now. he might have left the prison at any moment by the expedient of a bribe to the guard; but, as before, the interests of the great plot had kept him, so now the welfare of the mass of prisoners held him still among them. there was little he could do, for he represented patience, which was an unpopular virtue after peace had been declared; but he saw the futility of this behaviour, and tried as far as possible to make his fellows reasonable. a few begged him to remain to the end, and, knowing from letters pretty regularly received through putt, that all was well with grace, he waited on.
his future line of action was difficult, but he had determined upon it. grace gave him to understand that norcot troubled her no more, and that her father, stricken by a terrible grief, was changed and took a gentler view of life's many-sided problems. therefore, he proposed to return to fox tor farm and attempt a reconciliation between himself and the malherbs. great personal circumstances armed him with strong arguments from a worldly point of view, for his uncle in vermont was dead, and he now stood heir to a notable fortune.
"i wish to god 'twas the living man that roasted there!" cried burnham, pointing to the bonfire. "of all devilish things in this war, our treatment after peace is declared has been the most devilish. 'tis two weeks since we should have been set free, yet here we still are."
"but they are active. three ships have set sail from london for plymouth."
"d'you believe that yarn? ask the soldiers and they'll tell you the ships are held in the downs by contrary winds; then they turn aside and wink at each other."
"you take the conduct of these hirelings too seriously. it is folly to let the vulgarity of turnkeys and guards anger you, or to answer the indifference of the authorities with this buffoonery."
he pointed to the bonfire.
"you're a prig," said the other. "you can't help it, but an infernal prig are you, cecil stark; and now every word you speak shows that you've changed sides and are only an american in name."
"bad company has demoralised a good fellow," answered the other. "you want the discipline of a ship-of-war and a whiff of salt air to make you your own man again, burnham. you pretend it is a fine thing to lead these ignorant, silly fellows; but in your heart you are ashamed, and that makes you break with an old friend. 'tis the same with captain short. he's been weak in the past, and the weakest thing about him is that now he's looking for gratitude for his former good nature. gratitude's the rare virtue of individuals—never of a mob."
"you prose and prose and blink at facts, like an owl blinks at daylight. why don't you escape and get out of it?"
"because i reckon i'm more use here."
"i know better; you're frightened to do it. if you had the pluck of a powder-monkey, and if your love for that girl over there was worth a damn, you'd have vanished long ago; but you know this cursed government is letting us escape now, so that we may fall into the hands of the press-gangs that are hunting all round dartmoor like packs of wolves—you know that, and you're frightened they'll catch you too. nothing makes a man such a coward as coming into a fortune."
"see him—see him!" shouted mr. cuffee, who ran by at this moment. "see him fizzle, gemmen! marse blazey blaze—him blaze—him blaze like dat in hell!"
he rushed screaming past with the other black men, whose rags, gleaming teeth and ferocious faces, suggested the demon throng proper to mr. blazey's future environment.
"you will pick a quarrel, drunk or sober," said stark, "though of late you've sunk to be not worth kicking. as you like—but even at the risk of more nonsense from you, i'd wish to explain that i'm no englishman, though it happens i'm not mad. consider how this nation stands. hardly has it concluded peace with us than comes the news that bonaparte has left elba, and is now in europe at the head of three hundred thousand men."
"don't i know it? doesn't every cur among them turn pale and look over his shoulder like a frightened woman when you cry 'boney is coming'?"
"they are busy and rather preoccupied. i had speech with short yesterday."
"what do i care with whom you had speech? i'm here for nearly six thousand free men, who are shut up and still treated as prisoners. let them see to that. we want our liberty, and we'll take it before many days are done. what do you suppose we are made of?"
"the lord knows," said stark. "you are men no more, but a horde of savage and silly monkeys. how can they get ships to convey six thousand of us to america in a week? you, at least, who pretend to some knowledge of warfare and seamanship, should have patience and do your small part to help the british government, not hinder it."
"i'm not an englishman."
"i wish you were. unfortunately the fact remains that you're an american; but your country's not likely to be proud of you if ever this chapter in your career is written."
at this moment, as the ashes of blazey sank into one glowing mass, and the bonfire slowly died, the americans burst into a mournful dirge that had been written by ira anson the day before, and committed to memory by a hundred men.
stark left his old shipmate, not guessing that he would never speak to him again; but he had caught sight of putt with some soldiers near the grille, and now he approached. they strolled on different sides of the barrier into a dark corner under shadow of a cachot wall. then putt spoke.
"a letter, your honour, an' i think 'tis important, for miss sent it by one of our women with urgent orders to get it to you before to-morrow."
"wait here," answered the other, and, taking the note, he returned within the light of the waning fire and read it.
"dear heart," wrote grace. "yesterday through a villager i had a line from john lee. he is near us, and i fear that he has heard of evil. he sends but two lines: 'meet me after noon to-morrow at leaman cloberry's cot, where i shall lie hid till you come. i must see you. danger. john lee.' i am going. it is his writing, therefore i fear nothing. when are you coming to me? the time of waiting is endless to your grace."
stark reflected rapidly. that lee should not approach him was easily understood; yet that some new danger threatened and john had wind of it, filled him with alarm. he returned to putt, but made no mention of the letter, for thomas was in ignorance of all matters between grace and the prisoner. he glorified in his secret duties as messenger, and in the substantial payment they received; but of john lee he knew nothing, and stark, guessing at lee's personal dangers, did not increase them by whispering of his presence, even to his most faithful friend. he wrote a few words on a leaf from his pocket-book. "my life, trust him, of course; and write to me to-morrow what he tells you. within a week, if all be well, i may reach fox tor farm; but, if necessary, i can be there to-morrow. c."
"i be going to take supper with the soldiers an' my uncle," said mr. putt; "but i'll see miss grace gets this first thing in the morning. mrs. beer will hand it to her at daylight."
the fire was nearly out now, and the great courts deserted. soon lights streamed from the windows of the prison; then they too disappeared. silence fell at last. under night, in their long rows of hammocks, men slept, or tossed and swore; while beneath the stars, the sentries stood like ghosts upon the walls, or tramped backwards and forwards within them.
