In the Days of Poor Richard Part 33

"Too late for what?"

"To turn, to be redeemed, loved, forgiven. Think it over, sir. Think it over."

Jack's name and age and residence were registered. Then Pinhorn took his arm and walked with him down the corridor toward an open door.

About half-way to the door he stopped and put his hand on Jack's shoulder and said with a look of great seriousness:

"A sinking cause! Death! Destruction! Misery! The s.h.i.+p is going down. Leave it."

"You are misinformed. There is no leak in our s.h.i.+p," said Jack.

Mr. Pinhorn shut his eyes and shook his head mournfully. Then, with a wave of his hand, he p.r.o.nounced the doom of the western world in one whispered word:

"Ashes!"

For a moment his face and form were alive with exclamatory suggestion.

Then he shook his head and said:

"Doomed! Poor soul! Go out in the yard with your fellow rebels. They are taking the air."

The yard was an opening walled in by the main structure and its two wings and a wooden fence some fifteen feet high. There was a ragged, dirty rabble of "rebel" prisoners, among whom was Solomon Binkus, all out for an airing. The old scout had lost flesh and color. He held Jack's hand and stood for a moment without speaking.

"I never was so glad and so sorry in my life," said Solomon. "It's a h.e.l.l-mogrified place to be in. Smells like a blasted whale an' is as cold as the north side of a grave stun on a Janooary night, an'

starvation fare, an' they's a man here that's come down with the smallpox. How'd ye git ketched?"

Jack briefly told of his capture.

"I got sick one day an' couldn't hide 'cause I were makin' tracks in the snow so I had to give in," said Solomon. "Margaret has been here, but they won't let 'er come no more 'count o' the smallpox. Sends me suthin' tasty ev'ry day er two. I tol' er all 'bout ye. I guess the smallpox couldn't keep 'er 'way if she knowed you was here. But she won't be 'lowed to know it. This 'ere Clarke boy has p'isoned the jail. n.o.body 'll come here 'cept them that's dragged. He's got it all fixed fer ye. I wouldn't wonder if he'd be glad to see ye rotted up with smallpox."

"What kind of a man is Pinhorn?"

"A whey-faced hypercrit an' a Tory. Licks the feet o' the British when they come here."

Jack and Solomon lay for weeks in this dirty, noisome jail, where their treatment was well calculated to change opinions not deeply rooted in firm soil. They did not fear the smallpox, as both were immune. But their confinement was, as doubtless it was intended to be, memorably punitive. They were "rebels"--law-breakers, human rubbish whose offenses bordered upon treason. The smallpox patient was soon taken away, but other conditions were not improved. They slept on straw infested with vermin. Their cover and food were insufficient and "not fit fer a dog," in the words of Solomon. Some of the boys gave in and were set free on parole, and there was one, at least, who went to work in the ranks of the British.

There is a pa.s.sage in a letter of Jack Irons regarding conditions in the jail which should be quoted here:

"One boy has lung fever and every night I hear him sobbing. His sorrow travels like fire among the weaker men. I have heard a number of cold, half-starved, homesick lads crying like women in the middle of the night. It makes me feel like letting go myself. There is one man who swears like a trooper when it begins. I suppose that I shall be as hysterical as the rest of them in time. I don't believe General Howe knows what is going on here. The jail is run by American Tories, who are wreaking their hatred on us."

Jack sent a line to the rector of the Church of England, where he had seen Preston and Lady Howe, inviting him to call, but saw him not, and no word came from him. Letters were entrusted to Mr. Pinhorn for Preston, Margaret and General Sir Benjamin Hare with handsome payment for their delivery, but they waited in vain for an answer.

"They's suthin' wrong 'bout this 'ere business," said Solomon. "You'll find that ol' Pinhorn has got a pair o' split hoofs under his luther."

One day Jack was sent for by Mr. Pinhorn and conducted to his office.

"Honor! Good luck! Relief!" was the threefold exclamation with which the young man was greeted.

"What do you mean?" Jack inquired.

"General Howe! You! Message to Mr. Was.h.i.+ngton! To-night!"

"Do you mean General Was.h.i.+ngton?"

"No. Mister! t.i.tle not recognized here!"'

"I shall take no message to 'Mr.' Was.h.i.+ngton," Jack answered. "If I did, I am sure that he would not receive it."

Mr. Pinhorn's face expressed a high degree of astonishment.

"Pride! Error! Persistent error!" he exclaimed. "Never mind!

Details can be fixed. You are to go to-night. Return to-morrow!"

The prospect of getting away from his misery even for a day or two was alluring.

"Let me have the details in writing and I will let you know at once,"

he answered.

The plan was soon delivered. Jack was to pa.s.s the lines on the northeast front in the vicinity of Breed's Hill with a British sergeant, under a white flag, and proceed to Was.h.i.+ngton's headquarters.

"Looks kind o' neevarious," said Solomon when they were out in the jail yard together. "Looks like ye might be grabbed in the jaws o' a trap.

n.o.body's name is signed to this 'ere paper. There's nothin' behind the hull thing but ol' Pinhorn an'--who? I'm skeered o' Mr. Who? Pinhorn an' Who an' a Dark Night! There's a pardners.h.i.+p! Kind o' well mated!

They want ye to put yer life in their hands. What fer? Wal, ye know it 'pears to me they'd be apt to be car'less with it. It's jest possible that there's some feller who'll be happier if you was rubbed off the slate. War is goin' on an' you belong to that breed o' pups they call rebels. A dead rebel don't cause no hard feelin's in the British army. Now, Jack, you stay where ye be. 'Tain't a fust rate place, but it's better'n a hole in the ground. Suthin' is goin' to happen--you mark my words, boy. I kind o' think Margaret is gittin'

anxious to talk with me an' kin't be kept erway no longer. Mebbe the British army is goin' to move. Ye know fer two days an' nights we been hearin' cannon fire."

"Solomon, I'm not going out to be shot in the back," said the young man. "If I am to be executed, it must be done with witnesses in proper form. I shall refuse to go. If Margaret should come, and it is possible, I want you to sit down with her in front of my cell so that I can see her, but do not tell her that I am here. It would increase her trouble and do no good. Besides, I could not permit myself to touch her hand even, but I would love to look into her face."

So it happened that the proposal which had come to Jack through Mr.

Pinhorn was firmly declined, whereupon the astonishment of that official was expressed in a sorrowful gesture and the exclamation: "Doomed! Stubborn youth!"

2

Solomon Binkus was indeed a shrewd man. In the faded packet of letters is one which recites the history of the confinement of the two scouts in the Boston jail. It tells of the coming of Margaret that very evening with an order from the Adjutant General directing Mr. Pinhorn to allow her to talk with the "rebel prisoner Solomon Binkus."

The official conducted her to the iron grated door in front of Solomon's cell.

"I will talk with him in the corridor, if you please," she said, as she gave the jailer a guinea, whereupon he became most obliging. The cell door was opened and chairs were brought for them to sit upon. Cannons were roaring again and the sound was nearer than it had been before.

"Have you heard from Jack?" she asked when they were seated in front of the cell of the latter.

"Yes, ma'am. He is well, but like a man shot with rock salt."

"What do you mean?"

"Sufferin'," Solomon answered. "Kind o' riddled with thoughts o' you an' I wouldn't wonder."

"Did you get a letter?" she asked.