University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
“THE CONVERTED MONK.”

As Ralph ascended the stairs, followed by
Stewel, a crowd of opposing thoughts struggled
through his busy brain.

“There's a trap door in the ceilin' and I
might get through that ar' door into the loft
and from the loft out upon the roof, and then
good mornin' to ye Mister Stewel Pydgeon!”

So Ralph determined to escape from Stewel
by the trap-door, in the ceiling of the third story.
He passed through the room on the second
floor. It was wrapped in darkness.

“Where are you feller?” cried Stewel and
Ralph heard the click of his pistol: “The
fust sign o' foul play, and I shoot —”

“'Nother story higher,” answered Ralph:
“Come on! Here's the stairs! You shall
have yer tin box, or my name's not Jonesey.”

They were ascending the stairway which led
upward into the death room. Ralph's heart
beat wildly under its ragged jacket, as he
saw the light shining through the chinks of the
door. He laid his hand upon the latch.

“Wonder how mother is?” he said, and
opened the door.

Stewel followed him into the room, closed
the door, and calmly surveyed the various details
of the scene.

The Corpse resting upon the ragged bed,
with a red gleam of light playing upon its
disfigured features. The dark figure kneeling
beside the bed, with one hand grasped by the
hand of the dead. The light flickering in its
socket, now shooting up in a vivid flash, and
suddenly dying away, until the blank walls and
the miserable bed, were wrapped in vague twilight.

Stewel beheld the scene, and uttered, in his
surprise a blasphemous oath. His hands sank
by his side; both mace and pistol were pointed
to the floor.

As for Ralph he did not seem to heed the
kneeling figure, nor remark the tattered coverlet,
which gave such a look of utter misery to
that scene of death.

The first sight, the only sight that enchained
his gaze, was the face of the dead woman, the
cold eyes fixed upon the ceiling and the black
hair, streaked with silver, floating over her
clammy forehead.

Ralph passed his hands through his hair.
He picked the buttons of his ragged coat.
And standing by the bed with large, lack-lustre
eyes, he continued to thread his matted hair,
and pull the buttons of his coat, while Stewel
remained like one spell-bound at his side.

“I guess the old woman's dead. Don't you
think she's dead?” he whispered, turning to
Stewel, with a strange grimace on his face.
“Kicked the bucket — eh?”

And then he laughed. Such a laugh! Low,
and growling through his set teeth, it even made
Stewel start aside, as though something unpleasant
had stricken him in the face.

“What a cuss!” muttered Stewel — “aint
got no nateral feelin's.”

Ralph, who in good sooth, felt in every nerve
that Death was in the room, but who did not
know how to control or to express his feelings,
seated himself quietly upon the bed, and laid
his hand upon the head of the corpse.

“So you're gone, old woman,” he muttered,
with an idiotic grin upon his face: “Left us
for good — hey? No more hard work, and
slavin' and starvin' where you're gone to?”

Thus saying Ralph pulled his matted hair
over his eyes, and Stewel by the uncertain

light, saw a large tear glitter down the cheek
of the ruffian boy.

Stewel began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable.
He felt that the dignity of the Magistracy
was in danger.

“Come, hand us over the tin box, and we'll
say no more about it,” he said, with some
effort, for there was a thick and choking sensation
in his throat.

“Go round 'tother side o' th' bed,” answered
Ralph — “Feel under the pillow.”

Stewel without a word, passed the figure of
the kneeling Priest, and in a second stood between
the bed and the wall.

“What's the matter with that Preacher?”
he exclaimed, pointing to the unconscious man
—“Where did you say? Under the pillow?”

“Y-a-a-s,” muttered Ralph.

Stewel laid both mace and pistol upon the
bed, while his eyes began to tremble with an
expression of serene complacency. Stewel
muttered, “the tin box is here — is it?” and
placed one hand beneath the pillow, bending
very low in the action.

Ralph silently tore the hand from the wrist
of the Priest, and lifted the body of the dead
woman in his arms. When Stewel looked up
he was confronted by that half-covered form;
that face, stricken by pestilence in its most
loathsome phase, was right before his eyes.
The fixed eyeballs were glaring upon him; the
naked arms dangling by the side of the corpse,
only half concealed by the streaming hair,
touched his hands.

At this moment the light died away and
flashed up wildly, giving the raised corpse, a
look which bore a ghastly resemblance to life.

“There! Take yer tin box!” shouted
Ralph, and pushed the corpse against the
breast of the Police officer. At the same intant
he seized the mace and pistol, and started
to the door.

“Follow me, and you'll git jesse!” cried
Ralph as he opened the door, levelling the pistol
at the face of Stewel.

“How do you like it, old hoss? Come and
ask for a tin box when there's a dead woman
about?”

Stewel shrank back horror-stricken from the
cold touch of the corpse, and in his effort to
release himself from that loathsome contact,
he missed his footing and fell to the floor. The
body of the dead woman, fell heavily upon
him, its face close to his own, its hair streaming
over his shoulders.

“Good bye, old boy!” he heard the voice
of Ralph, and then felt the jar of the closing
door.

You may imagine that it was some time,
ere the Police officer could recover sufficient
presence of mind, to extricate himself from his
unpleasant situation. Shuddering, in every
fibre of his corpulent frame, he raised the
corpse, and placed it once more upon the
couch. Stewel's face was no longer red:
every vestige of color had fled from his round
fat cheeks.

He uttered an oath, and came round the bed,
with unsteady steps, passing his hand over his
eyes, as though he was the victim of some
horrible dream.

“Why cuss the thing, the boy is gone!” he
ejaculated at last: “Where's the pistols?
Hello? I'm sold — reglar'ly sold. Fire! murder!
Stop thief!”

He was hurrying to the door, when his footsteps
were arrested by the Priest, who aroused
from his swoon by the action of Ralph, now
stood silent and pale, in the centre of the room,
his arms folded over his narrow chest. He
lifted his eyes to the face of Stewel, without
raising his downcast head.

“You here? Lemuel Gardiner! That is to
say, Father John, alias Converted Priest, alias
Monk of Blarney! Why I thought you was
a firin' at the Pope — aint this your lectur'
night?”

Stewel stopped suddenly, and surveyed the
man of a dozen aliases from head to foot. In
this slender personage, with that coarsely featured
face, surmounted by a black skull cap,
Stewel recognized an old friend, whose real
name long lost to the mass of Philadelphians,
was vividly remembered by the Police Officer.

Lemuel Gardiner — whose name was uttered
with curses by the dying woman — has
returned to the Quaker City, after many years
absence, and in a new character. Once known
as a Converted Priest, then as a fugitive for
Justice — behold him now, in the character of
a Converted Monk. For Lemuel has taken
the No-Popery people by the inmost heart, and
Lemuel delivers lectures against the Pope, to
audiences composed of boys and girls, at a

quarter of a dollar per head. Sweet lectures,
too, composed of all that is foul in thought or
language, and refreshingly spiced with a fervent
hate of Rome, and all that appertains to
the very name of Rome.

And now, Lemuel Gardiner, otherwise
called Father John, and more frequently the
Converted Monk, regarded Stewel with a cautious
and searching look. His small eyes
sunk deeper in their sockets, and his lips, remarkable
for their gross expression, were agitated
by a violent grimace.

“Stewel,” he whispered, “We knew one
another in other times — many years ago.”

“We did hoss,” was the quick response of
the Police officer.

“You know me well, and I know you. To
come to the question at once, did you ever
hear of the Ship Falcon?”

His face was animated by a look of sudden
malignity; his voice grew hard and strident.

“The Ship Falcon?” responded Stewel,
“Why bless you `Monk,' that's the slave ship,
as has been seized by the 'Nited States authorities.
She was brought in from the coast
o' Brazil by an American Frigate. She's
now layin' safe and snug, over yonder, in the
bay o' New York.”

“Very well,” continued Lemuel, “Did you
ever hear of Captain Bradburne?”

Stewel could not restrain an ejaculation,
which was more remarkable for its nervous
force then for its elegance or polish:

“Burn my time! Of course I have!
Don't you think I read the papers? Wonder
if he overheerd my talk with Ralph? Does
he know anythin' about the tin box!” The
italicised words were uttered to himself, in a
tone which was unintelligible to the `Converted
Monk.'

“Captain Bradburne was the commander
of the Slave vessel,” quietly remarked Lemuel.

“He escaped, just afore his ship was taken
off Brazil,” interrupted Stewel.

“The authorities have been in pursuit of
him, for at least three months. They are
very anxious to secure him, as he made himself
notorious as the Captain of a Slave
Ship —”

“Not mentionin' the half a million he's
made by that very rispectable business,” again
interrupted Stewel.

Lemuel, without heeding this interruption,
continued in a lower voice — “He has been
heard of, since the seizure, in various parts of
the Union. Under various names too, and in
all kinds of disguises. Come, Stewel, what
do you think his capture would be worth?”

He placed his hand abruptly upon Stewel's
shoulder, as his small eyes, buried in their
sockets, shone with a sudden and sinister lustre.

“Worth?” echoed Stewel, with a vacant
stare, “Does he know anythin' o' th' tin
box?” he added to himself.

“Why you know Stewel, that his capture
will be worth at least ten thousand dollars to
his captors. Suppose him once taken, and
the proofs of his guilt brought clearly home to
him?”

“He'd give ten thousand to get off — hey?”

“Or, the Government would give ten thousand,
for proof, which would convict him.
Do you understand Stewel?”

Stewel as if impressed by a new thought
uttered an ejaculation, and struck his forehead
violently with his clenched hand:

“Stoopid! Captain Bradburne of the Falcon!”
he said in a low voice — “Did not I
hear that name to-night somewhere? Where?
Was it at Goodleigh's house?”

“Goodleigh?” cried Lemuel, “I think you
uttered that name?”

“Caleb Goodleigh, the man what owns a
mint or two of the dimes,” answered Stewel,
“He lives in — street and —”

“Caleb Goodleigh and Captain Bradburne
are the same person,” Lemuel's voice sank,
while his eyes lifted up with a sudden lustre:
“Do you understand me, now?”

“Ho, ho! Now I know what the tin box
contained. Valleyable papers; indeed! I
rather guess so. Why Lem, my dear, this
Captain Bradburne 'ud give thirty thousand,
yes fifty thousand to get off!”

One word in these somewhat incoherent remarks
of the Police Officer arrested the attention
of the `Converted Monk:'

“The tin box? What do you know of the
tin box?”

“It was stolen to-night from Goodleigh's

house. As we're chums now, I'll tell you the
whole story. The boy what jist escaped stole
it — I was arter him, when you started up
afore me. That box, that identical box, contained
the proofs of Goodleigh's connection
with the Slave trade? Hey? Come — there's
no time to be lost. Let's make tracks arter
him —”

“Hush!” said the `Converted Monk,' raising
his right hand with a gesture of caution: “The
tin box contained valuable papers, but the most
valuable are concealed in Goodleigh's house, in
— Street. Do you want to arrest him tonight?
Come with me. I have a key to his
front door. You can secure him in his bed,
while I search the Iron Room, where these
papers are concealed.”

He moved a step toward the door, but
Stewel grasped him by the arm:

“Wait a minnit,” he whispered, regarding
the sinister face of the “Monk” with a suspicious
glance: “You don't mean any foul
play? If you do —” he paused and muttered
in a vague manner — “The Iron Room! I
think you mentioned a place o' that name.
Where is it?”

“Come with me,” was the answer of Lemuel.
“Once in Goodleigh's house, we can
quietly arrange the plan of this important affair.
Come —”

“Had not we better sarch for the tin box
afore we leave?” suggested Stewel: “It's
somewheres in this room —”

“Pooh, pooh! When we obtain the papers
in the Iron Room, we will not need either the
tin box or its valuable papers. Come — in an
hour Goodleigh can be arrested and the proofs
of his guilt secured.”

“We go sheers, don't we?” suggested Stewel,
closing one eye.

“That rests with you. Money is not my
object. I have an old account to settle with
Captain Bradburne. That is all. When he
is arrested, you may do what you please with
the reward —”

“But suppose he makes an attempt to buy
off? You said something about that?”

`Did I?” the face of Lemuel was agitated
by an expression of doubt and wonder; “That
must not, cannot be!” He placed his hand
upon his forehead — “You must not think of
anything of this kind, Stewel. The money,
which I will place in your hands, at Goodleigh's
house, money which you can pocket
without danger, will far exceed any bribe that
he can offer you. But we lose time. Let us
be going.”

He took his broad rimmed hat from the
table, and as he turned to the door, his face was
reddened by a sudden gleam of the waning
light. Every feature was convulsed by emotion.
The Corpse also warmed by the sudden
flash, into a hideous mockery of life, lay stiff
and gaunt before him.

“Ann Clark!” he muttered, “When I first
saw you, in the home where you supported
your aged mother, by the slavery of the needle,
I little thought that we would ever part, to
meet at last, in a scene like this!”

“None o' your nonsense `monk' — move
on,” exclaimed Stewel. By the bye hoss, jist
explain the mystery o' that Iron Room as we
go along.”