University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

One morning, when Gordon had just recovered
from one of those terrible visitations which almost
amounted to madness, at an unusual hour, for it was
not yet time for his midday meal, the wards of his
prison doors were undrawn, and the jailor conducted
into his presence no other person than Mr. Bronson.

That worthy stepped back as he gazed on the haggard
face of Gordon, on which the light from the
solitary window fell with strong and contrasting force.
He could hardly recognise in his altered features the
reckless sportsman, who was in the habit of lounging
about his store.

Gordon nodded his head to Bronson in token of recognition,
and, turning to the jailor, asked—“For
God's sake, put lighter fetters on me than these—and
give me a little brandy, just a drop—or some opium—
laudanum.”

“Gordon!” exclaimed the jailor in an angry tone,
“you are the most agravatingest feller I ever had to
deal with. You want me turned out of my sitivation
as jailor to this 'ere establishment, don't you? I've
told you fifty times afore that the sheriff says to me—
you know, Mr. Bronson, that our sheriff is a man of
mettle and stern, an' he always keeps his word—Pike,
says he to me, put the heaviest fetters in the jal on
that Gordon, and grant him no indulgences whatever—

saving what the rules allow; if he escapes you loose
your place.”

“Why should he feel that way towards me?”
asked Gordon.

“That's the question you must ask yourself,” replied
the jailor. “Our sheriff is a first rate gentlement;
but he's notional—very notional, indeed; and
once he gets a notion into his head there's no getting
it out. To Bobby Gammon, from the first, he gave
all kinds of indulgencies. Why, he used to make me
let that black feller Pompey in here to see him. My
notions are, that every man what has the keys turned
on him for a particular offence should be treated
alike.”

“Why should he dislike me?” said Gordon again.
“I never electioneered against him; I would have
voted for him had I been here.”

“If you had made him sheriff it would ha' been the
same thing,” returned the jailor. “Now I'm for having
stand-by rules, but he told how this thing would turn
out from the first; he said that Bob would get off—at
least that he wasn't guilty. He thinks hard of you on
that account; an' after I locked you up the first night,
and went over to the tavern, I finds Ross and him together.
Ross wanted to bet him a ten dollar hat that
you'd break out. The sheriff said he never bet
upon the discharge of his duties, but he said he did'nt
think you would, and he turned to me and told me to
mark what Ross said; and I've got to mark it or
loose my sitivation—an' I've a wife and family.”

“Well,” said Gordon, “it's hard—hard—O! God.”

“It's harder for me,” retorted the jailor. “You
say you can't sleep at nights; and I know you don't
much, from the way I hear your fetters rattling; but,
man, don't you think that keeps me awake, too?
Don't it make me think that you're trying to break
jail? and don't I think of the loss of my sitivation, and

the sufferings of my wife and family, if such should
be? Here I have thirty dollars a month, and houserent
free in the best built and strongest place in the
town. The biggest storm that ever bursted couldn't
fase this ere establishment—you might as well just
keep yourself quiet a little more o' nights. I tell you,
man, you can't get out of this jail; and hang it, what's
the use of your groaning and grunting so through the
night. If you want a doctor, say so. You're not the
first man that I've turned the key on in this very room
—Bobby Gammon was locked up here.”

“Was he?” said Gordon, starting.

“Fact, sir,” replied the jailor, and turning to Bronson,
he continued: “Would you believe it now,
Mr. Bronson, that this here feller, just 'cause he's in
here for passing counterfeit money and one or two
other things—though they're not down in the commitment—would
you believe that sometimes at night
he hollows and yells as if ten thousand devils had got
hold on him? No longer an' last night I had a great
mind to come down here at midnight with a cowhide,
and flake him 'til he couldn't say boo to a goose. I
takes it very unkind on him, indeed, a breaking o' my
natral rest in this way—particulary considering that
Mrs. Pike is, as you know she is, sir—an' I don't
know at what time I may have to be off for Doctor
McVittee. He's frightened my wife several times, so
that I thought he would hurry on the interesting
event—and maybe play the devil with matters and
things. Besides, that everybody in Springdale—
for they can hear him plainly all through the village
these still nights—thinks he does it out of deviltry—to
defy them, an' disturb 'em of their natral rest, too.
There's only one person as I've heard of that defends
him at all, and that's Bobby.”

“What did he say?” eagerly inquired Gordon.

“Why,” replied the jailor, with a knowing grin, “he

puts it down to your conscience. He says he was
passing the jail one night from a little quilting frolic
at Bill Hardy's mother, an' they heard you, and felt
so for you, that his Cousin Peggy stopped her ears
with her hands and cried. Now, you know it's all
gammon, Gordon,” continued the jailor, looking at
him as if he perfectly understood him, “all gammon,
for last night I myself with my own ears heard you
laugh the most devilishest, cunningest laugh that ever
I heard tell of—my wife was certain that you were
laughing that'ere way cause you were breaking jail
and was jist on the pint of making off. Then you see
I had to get up an' look round, an' the loss of my
sitivation crossed my mind, and my wife's sitivation—
and I dreamed all night damned unlucky dreams. I
tell you, if you don't quit it you'll catch the worst
flogging you ever heard of. Here you are, nothing
to do upon yarth but sleep all day and cut up your
deviltries all night. Why don't you keep awake in
the day-time and sleep at night. I just advise you
for your own good to quit. I tell you, man, if the
sheriff would only tell me once to give you a taste of
my brown Betty—you know I'm used to the business
—there would'nt be a single man in Springdale that
heard you, who would take you to be at your deviltries
then. I tell you, man, it's outragus, an' I leave it
to Mr. Bronson here if it ain't, to disturb a whole,
large, respectable place like this in spite an' me, and
considering the sitivation of my wife.”

Gordon gazed half vacantly on the wall, but said
not a word.

“Well, say your say,” said the jailor to Bronson
and Gordon.

“Can't you let us have a little talk alone, Mr.
Pike?” asked Gordon. “You know, sir, that I may
want to say some things to him—he's a kind-hearted
man—concerning my defence, and what lawyer to

employ, which in your responsible situation as jailor
it would not be proper for me to say before you.”

The jailor shook his head doubtfully.

“My respected and respectable friend,” said Bronson,
insinuatingly, to Pike, “perhaps you had better
let us have a little private talk. You remember
when that counterfeiter was here before, I gave him
some ghostly consolation. This unfortunate man—
for any man may be unfortunate—temptation is an
awful snare—may wish to communicate something
to me of his spiritual state, besides messages to send
to his distant friends.”

“Then,” said the jailor, “I must lock you up
together.”

“Must you!” said Bronson, starting, and looking
round the black and charcoal scribbled walls, “you
didn't lock me up before.”

“Orders, strict this time, Mr. Bronson; must be
obeyed.”

“Well, well,” said Bronson; “but, Pike, my respected
and respectable friend, don't stay long.”

“Never fear, Mr. Bronson,” said Pike, laughing;
“never fear—there's no authority to keep you here
—an' I never acts but by authority.” So saying, the
jailor withdrew, deliberatively locking the doors after
him.

Not until the last key was turned in the outer passage
door was silence broken between the two, when
Bronson asked:

“Gordon, what did you want with me?”

“When did you get here?” asked Gordon.

“Late last night; I saw Pike this morning just as
I was going to my store, and he said you kept pestering
him to come and tell me that you wanted to
see me.”

“Yes, yes,” said Gordon.

“Well; what for?” inquired Bronson, impatiently.

“Mr. Bronson, I want you to go my bail.”

“Go your bail, Mr. Gordon!”

“Call me Jack, call me Jack—like you used to.”

“Jack, then—there's no bail—they won't allow
bail. Under present existing circumstances if they
would allow bail they'd put it up so high as to swamp
the biggest estate in the state; and as for taking me,
they wouldn't do it.”

“But will you try—will you try?” asked Gordon,
half angrily, half imploringly.

“Mr. Gordon,” said Bronson, after some hesitation,
“I don't know that you have any particular
claims on me.”

Gordon looked at Bronson, searchingly, and said:

“Don't know! Yes, you do know, Mr. Bronson.”

“What are they?” enquired Bronson, in a tremulous
tone, approaching nearer the speaker, yet
assuming indifference; “what are they? speak low.”

“Mr. Bronson, we often bought goods of you at a
thousand times their value.”

“We! what we? You chose to give me my
prices—you had your money's worth.”

“Money's worth! that may be—but you knew the
money,” replied Gordon, quickly.

“Knew the money! to be sure I knew the money;
it was good money, wasn't it? Have a care, Gordon,
don't make me a witness against you,” said
Bronson in a friendly tone. “I may be called upon,
as you have been frequently at my store. I know
nothing against you—make no confession.”

After a moment's pause, and a steady look at Bronson,
Gordon asked:

“Where's Benbow?”

“Benbow!” exclaimed Bronson, with a triumphant
smile; “He's off—no one knows where. I understand,
sir, that since my absence from Springdale—
business took me away southard—I have been absent

some time—in that time, sir, I understand that
a gang of counterfeiters have been discovered, and
that it was asserted that Squire Benbow was one
of them. I knew him very slightly; but I can't
believe it.”

“You knew him well, Mr. Bronson.”

“Mr. Gordon, I shall not quarrel with you as to
what constitutes an intimate acquaintance,” retorted
Bronson.

Gordon's face fell. He shook impulsively his fetters,
as if he would renew his courage, and then remarked:

“Mr. Bronson, you knew all about us.”

“Knew all about you!” echoed Bronson; “what's
the use of speaking so loud. Do you want to compel
me to be a witness? I assure you, Mr. Gordon,
I know nothing of you but what is good, and unless
you inform me otherwise yourself, I have not said
that I would not testify to the fact. Have you anything
against me, Mr. Gordon? speak it out, sir,”
said he, sinking his voice.

“Mr. Bronson, you knew about us,” reiterated
Gordon.

“I am not certain that I did, sir; on the contrary,”
replied Bronson, “which is to your advantage; but
suppose I did, it was not for me, a Christian man,
who believes in mercy, and who practices it—it was
not for me upon suspicion, very slight suspicion—I
don't say even that I suspected—it was not for me to
have the fearful penalties of the law inflicted upon a
fellow-being—a frail, human creature like myself.”

“I'm here—I'm here!” exclaimed Jack Gordon,
in a desperate tone, “and the rest are all scattered;
but I'm a desperate man. I can tell tales, you know—
I can tell tales.”

“Tales!” exclaimed Bronson, but in a much lower
voice; “not so loud, my respected friend: what tales

can you tell? Who'd believe your tales!” he exclaimed,
in a more assured tone. “You are here an
accused man; I don't know whether you will be convicted
or not. I trust not; but who would believe
your tales. It would make a man more popular if
you were to tell them against him, as it did that unfortunate
youth, Robert Gammon, who has grown
bolder than ever since his acquittal. I wonder you
don't appear against him. But you see immediately,
Mr. Gordon, that tales are nothing. There's, in all
respect, I say it, sir, no shifting of responsibility in
these matters. Tales have advanced that Robert
Gammon in this community in a manner that's perfectly
astonishing. Sir, I believe they would elect
him to office, were he eligible. Tales! what could
they do against a man like me, Mr. Gordon. I am a
member of the church under grace, a leading member,
sir; a character unimpeached; have given
greatly to the poor; and never missed from the service,
unless kept back by sickness, or something unavoidable;
have sustained this character for years:
when I go to purchase goods, bear the highest testimonials—the
highest—have unlimited credit. Tales,
indeed! I want to be your friend, Mr. Gordon. I
trust in mercy; and for your own sake, you will not
compel me to be your foe.”

“Will you at any rate help me?” said Gordon, in
a tone that proved he had not much chance of
operating upon his fears.

“That was spoken rightly, my respected and
respectable friend, Mr. Gordon!” exclaimed Bronson,
rubbing his hands, and adjusting his wig—“that was
in the correct tone. The rumours against you, sir, I
never have believed; I always held you to be an honest
man, sir, and on all proper occasions I have said so. I
shall say so again, sir, on all proper occasions. You
must not be down-hearted, my friend; I will help you—

yes, I will; and though you should be convicted, Mr.
Gordon, and sentenced to the penitentiary—don't let
any angry feelings of the moment induce you—nor
threats nor promises—to say a word against your
true friends—such you shall find me to be, sir. I
assure you, sir, that Robert Gammon's popularity is
astonishing. But as I was about to remark, even
though they should send you to the penitentiary, remember
the governor has the power of pardoning—
ha! don't you see—and some men that you and I
know of, have influence. Who, I ask you, was the
very last man in this prison—ay, in this room?
Strong. What was he here for? counterfeiting.
Was he not convicted? But did his friends despair?
Who, I ask you, Mr. Gordon, got up the petition for
his pardon, and rode this county night and day for
signers, and got him off. They had scarcely got his
head shaved, sir, before he was off. Mr. Gordon,
that individual always sticks to his friends.”

“You promise me, then, to do what you can for
me?” said Gordon.

“I do, sir,” replied Bronson; “be discreet, say
nothing to criminate yourself or others; for your
friends that are scattered may be caught. Now I
must leave you—I'll have some clothes sent to you by
our charitable society; at least, I'll get a friend to propose
it and I'll carry it through; I'd speak to the
sheriff, but we are not on the best terms—so give me
your hand—God bless you! Why don't that fellow
Pike come; does he mean to keep me here forever.
There's such a thing as false imprisonment I'll learn
him, and I believe it may be done by a jailer as well
as by anybody else. Pike, I say,” he continued,
kicking and shouting at the door. “Pike, O! Pike.”

Slowly the steps of Pike were heard echoing along
the passage, and then the unlocking of the doors succeeded,
and the gaoler stood in their presence. “Hope

I didn't keep you waiting much, Mr. Bronson,” said
Pike, with a grin; “but I stepped to the 'pothecaries
for something for my wife, and left the keys in her
charge. I've just got back.”

“Friend Pike, whenever I can do a service to an
unfortunate fellow-creature, I do it—I think it is the
duty of all of us. If Mrs. Pike wants any baby's
clothes cheap, and of the latest pattern, ask her to
call over. We shan't quarrel about the time of payment.
Good-bye, Mr. Gordon, be of good cheer.
The Lord is everywhere, as much with you in this
prison as he is in the sanctuary.”

So speaking, Bronson withdrew, and, hastening out
of the jail, left Pike to lock his solitary charge up at
his leisure.

After glancing round the room to see that all was
right, and peering into the corner and at Gordon's
manacles and himself, Pike requested him, as he
valued the comfort of his bodily condition so long as
he remained in that jail, to cut up no more capers
with his fetters, and not to laugh so loud when he felt
disposed to merriment in the middle of the night, but
just to take a quiet laugh to himself, and to reflect
upon Mrs. Pike's present “hinteresting sitivation.”
After making this admonition, the affectionate Mr.
Pike securely locked up his charge, and forthwith repaired
to the presence of Mrs. Pike, to enjoy himself
in the bosom of domestic felicity, which, it appeareth,
may be found even in a jail.