Yankee Ships and Yankee Sailors: Tales of 1812 Part 18

DARTMOOR

The word "Dartmoor" means little to the ear of the American of this generation, for it is the name of a town on the bleak open stretches back from the sea in Devons.h.i.+re. But during our war with England, and for a long time afterward, the word "Dartmoor" brought up much the same kind of recollections that "Andersonville" or "Libby" does to-day. It was the prison where England kept in confinement those unfortunates that the fate of war had thrown upon her hands. It was a safe seclusion, indeed, and for the better explanation of the story that is to be told here, it might be well worth the while to tell in a few words what manner of place it was. Surrounding an enclosure, circular in shape, and containing about eight acres, was a high stone wall, where the sentries patrolled their beats, where they could look down into the courtyards of the gloomy prison buildings some twenty feet below them. The enclosure was divided into three part.i.tions, by walls that crossed the main s.p.a.ce diagonally, and through which there were grated gateways leading from one department to the other. The buildings, seven in number, radiated from a common point like wheel spokes. They were built of brick, with small iron-barred windows, and in the entrance archway, leading from one yard to another (each building had a separate yard), there were always stationed after sunset two armed sentries with primed muskets. While the occupants of any one building had access to all parts of it and to the others during the daytime, it was difficult, indeed, to make a journey, or pay a visit, after nightfall.

Here were confined six thousand prisoners, and here were suffered hards.h.i.+ps without number. There would be scarcely s.p.a.ce to tell of the prison life, but some there were there who had been immured so long that they had almost forgotten that they had lived anywhere else. They had become so resigned to the lot of a prisoner of war, that they had begun to doubt if they should ever see their own beautiful country again. From the upper windows of the prisons, the view above the walls was nothing but a stretch of bleak, rolling country, treeless and barren--the Dartmoor heaths. The inmates had formed a government among themselves; as was done in most military prisons, many worked at their trades, as well as they could; they had markets in which they sold their wares; they had theatrical companies, which served to keep up their spirits, and lighten the dreary hours; but there was one thought in the hearts of all: the day when they should receive their liberty.

Many were never to see that day.

There was a young sailor confined in the prison building known as No.

5. His strong const.i.tution and his youth had kept him in a fair state of health for one who had been so long in close confinement, for he had been captured in a privateer in the first year of the war. Many times had he thought of his far-away home on the hills above the old town of Salem. He was popular with his fellow-prisoners, and had been a leader among them in their sports and pastimes. George Abbott was his name. He was but six and twenty years of age, and yet he had followed the sea for over twelve. When he had been captured there had been taken with him a young lad of but eighteen, who had run away from a comfortable home and a loving family, to enlist on board the privateer, but he was not of the tough fibre of which the sailor should be made, and since his arrival in prison he had been gradually succ.u.mbing to the effects of his long imprisonment. Between Abbott and this young man there had grown up a deep affection. The sailor had s.h.i.+elded the landsman from much of the rough treatment of the forecastle while on board s.h.i.+p, and now that they were prisoners together, they had been constant companions; but it was plain to see that the younger of the two would not last long enough to see the dawn of liberty unless it came quickly.

He had grown so weak that by the middle of February, 1815, it was expected by all that every day he would be taken from the prison buildings and sent to the Depot Hospital, from which, alas, few ever returned. But Abbott nursed him carefully, and watched over him with all the care of an elder brother, trying to be always cheerful.

March came, and with it the gloomy mists that rose from all around settled down on the gloomy heaths, shrouding the prison buildings in impenetrable clouds. It was hard to keep either dry or warm. Those fortunates who owned little stoves would huddle around their handful of fire, but the prisons being unheated and unprovided with chimneys, the stoves were very small, their little pipes being led out of the windows.

Lying in a hammock that had been swung low, so that its occupant almost lay upon the floor, was the young landsman. He stretched out his hand toward the roughly made brazier of sheet iron, and so thin were they that they looked more like claws than the fingers of a human being.

"Lord help us and deliver us," he murmured.

"Hallo, Harvey," cried a voice, breaking in upon his prayer. "I didn't expect to be so long. We've waited a long time, but here it is, my lad, and now let's begin. Shall I pitch in first? I ain't much of a reader."

He held aloft in his hand a copy of a smudgy, dog-eared book, smirched and torn by constant handling.

"We've been waiting our turn on this for three weeks, now. Sam Jordan, he promised to get it for me though, and so he did."

"What's the name?" inquired the pinched-faced lad in the hammock.

"It's R-a-s-s-e-l-a-s," was the response. "I dunno how to p.r.o.nounce it, but they say as how it's good reading. Say the word, and I'll fire away."

He flung himself down on the floor and opened the pages. It was storming hard outside, and the rain beat against the roof and poured from the gutters down on the stone courtyard. There was just enough light to see the print, if one was not afraid of ruining one's eyes, and Abbott began:--

"'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue'----" He had read as far as the first half-page, when suddenly the sick man put out his hand and touched him on the shoulder.

"Listen," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "what's that going on below?"

Some one on the floor beneath had given a loud staccato whoop. It was followed by another, and then by an increasing murmur of voices. The sailor had risen to his knees and dropped the book.

"Some skylarking or tomfoolery," he said; "or perhaps it's the Rough Alleys," he added.

The "Rough Alleys" was the name given to the gangs of hard customers and those of the lower order of prisoners who had been compelled by their more circ.u.mspecting and better behaved companions to mess by themselves, and to generally toe the mark, as much as possible.

Occasionally, however, they would break out in some sort of raid or riot that would require suppressing, and it was to this habit of theirs that Abbott referred. But this time he was mistaken.

"Listen to that!" he cried, all at once springing to an erect position.

A roaring, rousing cheer came up from below, and then from the other buildings they heard it echoed.

The invalid arose from his hammock.

"Stay here," cried Abbott; "I'll fetch the news to you."

He hastened to the head of the stone stairway. A breathless man dressed in fantastic rags met him half-way up.

"What's the row, Simeon?" asked Abbott, in excitement.

"Heard the news, messmate?" the man cried in answer. "Heard the news?

There's peace between America and England!"

There came a strange sound from the head of the stairs. The young prisoner had heard the words, and Abbott was just in time to catch him in his arms as he plunged forward senseless.

What had these men expected? These prisoners who had danced and sung and gone wild with delight and joy at the message that had been brought to them that bleak March day? Why, liberty at once. They were going to return to their homes. It was freedom! And did they get it? Listen!

There is more to tell. Here begins the story:--

Of course it was not to be supposed that the British government should at once set these prisoners free, as one might set free birds from a cage by opening the door and allowing them to fly. It was a grave question what was to be done with them, and there is no use denying the fact that the United States, or at least its representative in England, was in a great measure responsible for what subsequently occurred. Ten days went by, and there was nothing done. In that s.p.a.ce of time the men's spirits sank to zero. Had their country deserted them? Had their fellow-citizens forgotten them? It was past believing that such things could be. And it was just at this time that there was most complaint, arising from the quality of the bread and the insufficiency of the food supplied by the prison authorities. The Governor of the Depot, as it was called by the English, was a Captain Shortland, a man so well hated and despised by those under him that if murderous looks had the power to kill, he would long ago have been under the sod. Many of the prisoners, as they had caught glimpses of him, had longed to sink their fingers into his throat, and now they hated him worse than ever before.

In the beginning of the second week information was sent the rounds of the prison, that the delay was occasioned by the difficulty that the representative of the United States government found in obtaining cartels, or vessels, to bring the released ones back to their own again. But the delay was bitter.

The poor sick boy had rallied a little during the first days after the arrival of the news of peace. Probably he supposed that he would be released at once, but as the days dragged on, and there were no signs of any change in their condition, he sank again into the unfortunate path of the men who slowly died because they had no hope.

From a condition of joyousness, the majority of the prisoners had relapsed into sullen anger--anger at their own country, and an increased hatred for the red coats who guarded them. Among so many prisoners of all cla.s.ses there were, of course, men of all kinds and character: there were the ignorant and degraded, and those who could well lay claim to education and enlightenment. Harvey Rich, who was now so weak that he could scarcely totter from his hammock to the head of the stairway, had been prepared to enter Harvard College, when he had caught the fever of adventure and had run away to sea. At the request of the inmates of Prison No. 5, he had drawn up a letter addressed to Mr. B.---- (the American agent), requesting him to make all haste; and, at least, if he could do no more, to secure to them an additional supply of provisions, or make a monthly allowance of some kind to save the men from actual starvation. Anxiously was an answer awaited, but none came.

One day late in the month, when, for a wonder, the sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly, there was a strange group gathered near one of the open windows on the top floor of Prison No. 5. Propped up by blankets, so as to get as much of the suns.h.i.+ne that came in at the grated window as possible, was Harvey Rich. Beside him sat the young seaman, and squatted on the floor near by was a remarkable-looking human being. His face was black, his dark hair was shorn close to his head, and a bandage made of a torn bandanna handkerchief was pushed up on his forehead. At first glance, one would have taken him for a negro, although his features showed no trace of African descent. The torn s.h.i.+rt that he wore was unloosed and open at the bosom. The skin which showed through from underneath was fair and white. Every now and then he would give a nervous start and look back over his shoulder.

"They almost had you last night, Simeon," said Abbott to the half-black man.

"Yes," returned the other; "I thought my jig was up, for sure; but, confound it! now that there is peace, I don't see why they wish to hound me any more. 'Tis that brute,--Shortland. He's angry at his lack of success as a man-catcher. I'd like to get my hands upon him,--only once, just once,--that's all."

Abbott happened to look out of the window at this instant.

"Egad!" said he, "your friends are out again."

From the grated bars, a view of the neighboring courtyard could be obtained. There was a sight that, when seen, used to make the prisoners' blood boil hotly. Three men, heavily manacled, were walking with weak steps to and fro along the narrow s.p.a.ce enclosed between the high brick walls. The clanking of their chains could be heard as they moved. But as if this were not enough, beside them walked three sentries, with bayonets fixed. For half an hour each day, they made this sorrowful parade. It was their only glimpse of the sky and the sunlight, their one breath of fresh air during the twenty-four; and, as soon as it was over, they were hustled back to their place of confinement,--a dungeon known as the Cachet,--where no light could penetrate, and the only air that reached them was through the shaft of a disused chimney. No wonder that their eyes blinked and the tears rolled down their cheeks when they emerged into G.o.d's bright sunlight.

No wonder that their haggard, pale faces grew each day more deathlike.

These men were being killed by inches. For what crime? It will be shown. The man whom Abbott had addressed as "Simeon" had crawled to the window and was peeping cautiously out. A wild curse broke from him, as he viewed the sight.

"Look at poor Whitten," he said; "take note of him; he's not for long.

He used to tell me that he knew that he was going mad. He's that already. See the poor devil jabbering."

He gave a shudder. It was only six weeks since he had walked to and fro in that same courtyard. There was a grated gateway at one end. It came within a few feet of the archway at the top. A silent crowd of prisoners were gathered there, closely watching the unfortunates. Well did they all remember the day when there were four of them; that day when, just as the prisoners turned, in following the footsteps of the sentries, one of them had left his companions, and, making a great leap of it, had clambered up the iron gate, and, manacled as he was, had thrown himself down among them.

Immediately they had carried him into one of the prison houses, where they had filed and removed his shackles, and had since hidden and protected him at great cost and sacrifice. Many of their privileges had been withdrawn because they would not give up this man; they had been routed out at night by files of soldiers; they had been counted and mustered, over and over again, and yet, among the many thousand who knew where Simeon Hays was hiding, there was not one so base as to betray him, not one to point the directing finger. All honor to them.

Many were the disguises that Simeon had been forced to a.s.sume. He had been a mulatto mess-cook, speaking with the French accent of Louisiana; he had appeared as a black-faced yawping Sambo, who had cracked guffawing jokes on the heads of the searchers; he had pa.s.sed a day and a night in a coffin-like s.p.a.ce between the floor-beams, when they had him cornered, and yet they had not caught him.

And for what crime were these men treated thus? For a crime that was never proved against them. They had been taken by a British frigate from a recaptured prize, and shortly afterward the vessel had been found to be on fire. These men had been accused of attempting to blow up the s.h.i.+p and her company, and when they were sent to Dartmoor they were under sentence to close confinement. Here was Shortland's opportunity. His cruel and vindictive spirit rejoiced in carrying out the order, and it chagrined him deeply that one should have made his escape, and every day he attempted to locate his hiding-place and return him to the prison--to the torture of the dreaded Cachet.

Soon the half-hour's breathing s.p.a.ce had expired, and the manacled ones had been withdrawn from sight. The prisoners flocked to their buildings for their midday meal. Hays, who had descended to the courtyard, had made all haste to return to No. 5, where he was then supposed to be hiding, although, owing to his bold disposition, he oftentimes made the range of the lot; and as he pa.s.sed by the open s.p.a.ce on this day, although he did not know it, a turnkey recognized him, and soon those in No. 5 Prison were alarmed by the cry "The guard is coming! Lie low, lie low!" But they found that the entrances were held by a squad of armed soldiers, and that this time Hays appeared certain to be apprehended. But search here or there, the soldiers could not find him.

Many times had they stepped over his hiding-place in the floor.

Captain Shortland, who had been afraid to enter the building to personally conduct the search, remained outside with a strong guard.