University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

THE ATTACK AND THE RESCUE.

The Patrician's Son.

Henry entered the house of Mr. Abbot —
now no more a home to him — and proceeded
to the parlor which he had always entered
with a light and buoyant step. The family
were seated round the centre-table, and Mrs.
Abbot, with her usual kindly greeting, made
a place for Henry. Lucia drew to his side,
and whispered,

“O, I've been wishing you'd come. This
beautiful annual father has given me, and I do
wish you would read from it. Mother would
so like to hear it.”

Henry glancd at Mr. Abbot. He was
intently poring over a newspaper; but there
was a cloud upon his usually placid brow,
and the orphan knew too well the cause.

Lucia remarked the saddened expression
of his countenance. She looked up in his
face with a sweet smile, and said, “Henry,
what is the matter with you?”

Henry answered not, but he could not
check the sigh—it would come!

“Are you not well, Henry?” asked Mrs.
Abbot.

“Yes—that is—yes, I am well—perfectly.”

“Will you not read this beautiful story,
Henry?” said Lucia; “that is, if you would
like—”

“Lucia, it is time to retire; and Henry,
there is much for you to do to-morrow,” said
Mr. Abbot, with a significant glance.

Henry arose, and left the room.

When the orphan reached his chamber, he
could scarcely support himself. But kneeling
down by the bedside, he prayed—prayed to
the Giver of all good, to the Father of mercy,
for strength to bear his trials. He arose
with a feeling of trust and confidence. “But
I cannot stay,” he said to himself, “I cannot
brook distrust.”

Hastily seizing a pen, with trembling hand
he wrote the following letter to Mr. Abbot.

His few arrangements were soon made,
and in an hour he had quietly left the house.
A small bundle of clothes were his whole
incumbrance, with a few dollars, that he had
saved from his salary, in his pocket. It was
a dreadful night. One of those, when the
wind that sweeps along the streets is like a
scythe; when the vanes creak on their icy
pivots, and the sleet is piled up on the deserted
door-stones; a night for deeds of
crime: a night to make the poor groan: a
night in which the houseless—die!

Henry walked along Common street, until
he reached Market. Then he stopped,
and pondered. “Alone!” murmured he;
“a wanderer, and an outcast. Oh, my mother,
my mother!” The clock of Park Street
Church tolled out the midnight hour. He
thought of the last night—of Richard
“Have I deserved this of you—alas!—But
I will forgive him for his mother's sake!”

Suddenly he recollected that he had not
left the letter which he had written to Mr.
Abbot It was in his pocket. “I cannot
return to the house,” thought he; and he
turned down Court street, and took his way
to the store was
watchman, as the young man passed him,
recognised and addressed him: “A raw night
this.” “Yes, sir,” and Henry turned the
corner of Kilby street. How the signs
creaked! How the wind swept up from the
water. He reached the door—the stone—
where a few hours since he had given his
master his keys and his trust. He stooped,
and slid the letter beneath the door. A keen
blast swept at the same time along the street,
and chilled his heart.

With hurried step, Henry left the store,
and retraced his course. He had entered
Flag Alley, searcely minding whither he
went, when a distant cry aroused him—a
short, quick cry, as of one in a struggle. He
grasped his cane firmly in one hand and his
bundle in the other, and sped swiftly in the
direction of the sound. He dashed through
into Dock Square, and the cry was heard
again. It was for help. He rushed on till
he found himself in the dreary and vicious
part of the North End, known then and since
as Hatter's Square.

A moment's glance, as he entered the dim
avenue, revealed the object of his pursuit.
Two ruffians had attacked a stranger in the
streets, and while he defended himself, it
was his sharp cry for succor that had roused
the orphan. His aid indeed was opportune
The stranger had sunk to the ground, and
the knee of one of the villains was upon
his breast. Henry was slight, but his sinews
were strong, and his heart brave. He paused
not, but rushed upon them, and a well-directed
blow struck the foremost senseless to the
ground. The other took counsel of his
fears, and made good his escape, at the same
instant that a watchman's rattle was heard,
in the distance, and a posse advanced to the
spot. Henry knelt beside the stranger, and
took his hand. A dagger was in his breast,
but it had not struck the heart. The sudden
blow of Henry had foiled the murderer's
purpose.

“Hillo, hillo—o—o! here! what's the
row?” cried a burly watchman in a great
box-coat, with hook and rattle in his hand;
“A man killed—what's the matter?'

“Matter—no matter. Come and help this
man here, and take that ruffian into custody,”
said Fowler, as he bent over the fallen
stranger.

“Why, I'm blest if the man an't bleody.
Here's murder—here's assassination in the
streets of Boston!”

The eager lookers-on crowded round to
satisfy themselves that the man was really—
no mistake—bloody; and the individual who
had a moment or two before been prostrated
by Henry's blow, seeing their attention
engaged, quietly gathered himself up from
the ground, and took a station among the
throng.

A tall, slim individual, in a green frock
coat, elbowed his way through the crowd,
who awe-stricken fell back. “I am a gentleman
of the press,” said he; “what are
the facts? who are the individuals?”

Half a dozen windows new flew open;
half a dozen night-caps appeared in them,
and half a dozen cracked trebles shrieked,
“what's the matter?”

In a few minutes the wounded man recovered
sufficiently from his swoon, to thank
his preserver. His short tale was soon told,
the crowd gazing with open mouths upon
him.

“I am captain of the ship Mexique,” said
he, in a foreign accent, “I was attacked by
these ruffians, whom you have delivered me
from; I defended myself as long as I was
able, when an unlucky blow in the temple
stretched me; I can recollect nothing, then,
but a sharp pain in my side, at the same instant
that the ruffian over me reeled, and—
I suppose I must have fainted.”

“Where's the man you struck, sir?” asked
one of the watchmen of Fowler.

`Where is he?' and `where is he?' went
round the ring. `He lay there,' and `I saw
him,' cried several at once.

But he had disappeared. Henry felt a
slight pull at the string of a locket which
hung around his neck, and which contained
a lock of his sister's hair; he turned, but he
saw only the bluff face of a watchman. He
felt in his bosom; the locket was gone, the
string cut.

“He must be an old un',” said the watch,
as Henry made known his loss; “right in
the teeth of the ufficers.”

But it was useless to attempt to find him,
in the crowd that had now collected.

“But shall I not accompany you, sir,” said
Henry, turning to the wounded captain.

“Thanks, brave sir,” and leaning on his
arm he walked with Fowler from the wondering
crowd, and proceeded to the ship of
which he was commander. She was a Callao
bark, and lay in the stream.

“Mexique, a-h-o-y; send your boat ashore.”

The ship's boat soon struck the wharf, and
the captain took his seat within it. Henry
was turning to depart, when the captain said,

“Will you not come aboard, my brave
young man?”

Henry was about to refuse, but the captain
again spoke: “Come, come, amigo. We
must not part thus. I sail in the early morning—come
on board.”

Fowler thus urged, seated himself beside
the captain, and a dozen brawny arms soon
laid the quiverin boat alongside the ship.

After the captain's wound had been attended
to, he had some refreshment spread
before them, and urged Henry to partake.

“Pardon my freedom,” said the captain,
as he filled their glasses for the second time
from a bottle of old Port, and after the conversation
began to be lively, “pardon my
freedom, but may I ask what occupation
you follow?”

“At present, none,” answered Henry.

“Ah, excuse me—a gentleman, as I might
have seen.”

“No, you mistake me,” said the self-exiled
clerk. But this led to inquiries which
resulted in the orphan's relation of his whole
history.

The simple story of Henry Fowler made
a great impression upon Captain Mina. It
bore the stamp of truth, for the agitation of
the poor orphan could not have been feigned.
Yet it seemed strange indeed that a youth
scarcely of age should have renounced his
friends and his home, and fled with the brand
of suspicion upon him, rather than expose
his enemy. Many would have doubted Henry's

truth; but Captain Mina, a man of high
feeling, saw the mainspring of the orphan's
action—a deep and lasting gratitude for the
kindness of his mother's friend, that would
never permit him to injure her child. Fowler
reasoned wrong: exposure of Richard's
character would not then have ruined him
entirely, and it might have saved him from
a darker fate. But Henry was no philosopher.

“Come with me, my brave boy,” said
Captain Mina, after Henry had finished his
recital; “come with me, and I will make
your fortune. My ship sails to-morrow. Go
with me to Lima. I have interest there.”

Henry grasped the hand of the Captain,
and thanked him for his generous offer. It
was no time to hesitate.

“And yet,” said Captain Mina, “would
you return to your employer, I will go with
you. Think well. Much as I should be
gratified in your sailing with me, you shall
do nothing against your inclination.

“Oh, sir! I cannot return. No! even
were my innocence proved, yet he has suspected
me. I cannot return.”

“Well, then, you shall not. Come with
me. Here,” continued he, opening a closet
in the cabin, “are books. You will find
some English ones among them; you—”

“But am I not to do any thing?” asked
Henry.

“Do! I think we shall find employment
enough when we get out. There, I shall
want you to keep log, read to me, and other
things. You will find enough to do. And
another thing; did you ever study Spanish?”

Henry had, in his leisure hours, made
some progress in the language, and the information
pleased his friend exceedingly.
“Well, well; you will master it easily. O,
yes, amigo, we shall find enough to do.”