University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE PRISONER AND HIS VISITORS.

In the vicinity of Wall, and an intersecting
street, at the time of which we write, was an
old stone building, nearly square, of an antiquated
appearance, having massive doors, small
grated windows, and which, on three of its
sides, was shut in by a high wall of masonry.
It needed but a single glance at this gloomy
structure, to convince the most casual observer
that it was one of those necesities of civilized
society, known as a prison.

The front doors opened into the keeper's
office, in the rear of which was another door,
strongly guarded with bolts and locks, which
barred the entrance to the prison itself. There
were two stories of cells above ground, with
some four or five dungeons below ground.
The only ventilation afforded these latter, was
by means of an iron grate, set horrizontally in
the ceiling, and communicating with a narrow
corridor which ran along between the right
and left walls of the first story. This corridor,
having no outlet, save through the keeper's
office, was so dark as to require an artificial
light to enable a person to see his way at noon-day;
and as the subterranean cells received
their only light through a small double-grate
in its solid floor, the reader can easily imagine
the profound gloom in which they were buried,
and the little chance a prisoner had of
making his escape therefrom.

It was in the afternoon following Carlini's
visit to Rosalie, that a private carriage stopped
before the prison, and two personages, enveloped
in overcoats, and well muffled up about
the throat and lower part of the face, alighted,
and ascended the steps to the front entrance
of the building.

One of these gentlemen was short and stout,
and the other tall and well proportioned. Both
were immediately admitted into the keeper's
office, when the stout personage spoke a few
words aside with the jailor.

“Certainly, your excellency,” replied the
latter, with an obsequious bow; and he immediately
hastened to procure a lantern, which
he lighted, and then taking down a large
bunch of keys, added, with another humble
bow: “This way, your excellency—this way,
gentlemen.”

“Let nothing occur to reveal my name or
rank,” said the stout gentleman, as with his
companion he entered the corridor already
mentioned.

Here, having carefully secured the doors
behind him, the jailor advanced a few steps,
and stooping down, applied one of his keys to
a lock set horrizontally in the floor. Presently
he raised a heavy iron door, and turning an
upright iron bolt, gently lowered, by means of
an iron chain, a wooden ladder, which had been
fastened to the ceiling of the subterranean
cells. This done, he carefully descended himself
to the damp, cold ground below, and then
held the light so as to guide the steps of his
visitors. When they had safely reached the
bottom, the keeper ascended the latter, locked

the iron trap above him, and then rejoined
the others.

“You have every security against the escape
of any one plunged into this gloomy
abode,” said the personage who had before addressed
the jailor.

“Yes, your excellency—”

“Hold!” interrupted the other: “did I not
forbid you to address me in this manner!”

“I beg pardon, sir! I will remember in
future.”

“Well, lead the way to the cell, and then
enter and inform the prisoner two persons
wish to speak with him.”

The jailor now advanced along a narrow,
gloomy passage, with a heavy stone wall on
either hand, till he came to an iron door on
the right, which he proceeded to unlock.
Throwing this open, he disclosed a sort of vestibule,
just the size of the door, and about two
feet deep, with another iron door directly before
him. Unlocking this, he entered the cell
with his lantern, leaving his visitors without,
to await the termination of his interview with
the prisoner. The cell he entered was close
and damp. Its size was four feet by eight, and
the only air admitted into it, when the door
was closed, was through the double grate in
the ceiling, which, as before remarked, formed
the ground floor of the corridor above. The
dim rays of the lantern revealed, with a gloomy
indistinctness, four damp walls, a stone floor
littered with dirty straw, a deal table (on
which was a cup of water and a small piece of
stale, coarse bread), and a pale, handsome
youth, heavily ironed, and half reclining on
his hard, filthy bed. Surely, unnecessary precaution
had been adopted to retain in durance
vile one who really seemed devoid of the
strength which usually belongs to persons of
his sex and age.

He was apparently about eighteen, of
slender but graceful build. Though as beardess
almost as one of the other sex, there was
something noble, lofty, and commanding in his
countenance. His forehead was high, broad,
and smooth, surmounted by nut-brown, curly
hair. His eye was a large, dark, bright hazel,
and its glances, quick and piercing, combined
with an expression of active intelligence, made
it very fascinating to the beholder. His nose
was just sufficiently acquiline to give character
to his noble countenance, and his thin lips,
beautiful mouth, and well-turned chin, also denoted
a quick decision and unshaken resolve.

He had been lying down upon the straw;
but as the jailor entered his noisome abode,
he raised himself upon his elbow, and fixing
his dark eyes full on the countenance of that
functionary, said, in a low, melodious, but firm
tone of voice,

“Well, sir, has my time come?”

“That's more than I can say, my lad,” returned
the keeper of the prison, kindly, for in
his heart he sympathized with the poor boy:
“that's more than I can say—but there are
two persons without who wish to speak with
you.”

“Well, show them in, sir.”

The jailor went out, taking his lantern with
him, which, according to the direction of the
spokesman of his visitors, he placed in what,
by way of convenience, we shall term the vestibule,
so that its feeble rays would enable the
new-comers to see their way into the cell without
allowing their countenances to be visible
to the prisoner. Bidding the jailor close the
outer door, and await their pleasure outside,
he, who seemed to be highest in authority,
advanced into the cell, followed by his companion,
and thus addressed the chained tenant
of the dungeon,

“Young man, I have called to request you
to give me a short history of your life.”

The prisoner looked up in surprise at the
singularity of this request, and then, in a firm,
bold tone, demanded,

“Who are you, sir, that wish to make yourself
familiar with my history?”

“A friend.”

“How am I to know that?”

“Will you not take my word for it?”

“First tell me your name, and what object
you have in your inquiry.”

“As to the name, that is of no consequence
—my object of inquiry is to render you a service—to
save your life if possible.”

“And what has my history to do with the
saving of my life?”

“More, perhaps, than you are aware of.”

“Certainly more, if any thing at all.”

“Will you comply with my request?”

“Yes, I will bumor you, for the sake of getting
at the solution of this mystery. Will you
have the outline, or the detail?”

“The outline is sufficient for my purpose.”

“Then I will begin by informing you that
I was born in London, on the 29th of September,
1762.”

“And are therefore just eighteen years of
age,” interrupted the other.

“I shall be in a day or two, sir,” answered
the youth—“that is to say,” he added, in a
tone slightly faltering, “should I live so long.”

He paused a moment, as if in contemplation
of the doom impending, and then continued:

“I am the sole surviver of six children, five
of whom died in infancy. At the age of six
years, my beloved mother followed her off
spring to the tomb. My father, overpowered
with the weight of his affliction, for he loved my
mother dearly, was incapacitated for business by
her loss. At that time he was a thriving shopkeeper,
and had amassed a handsome competence;
but immediately after he sold out, and
amply providing for my education with a distant
relative, made a trip to the continent.
For several years I heard from him regularly,
about once in six months; but he never returned
again, though every letter intimated he
had thoughts of doing so.

“The last letter received, was about six
years ago, and in that he positively declared
he should set out for England in a month. I
was overjoyed at this intelligence, and longed
—oh! sir, you know not how ardently—for
the time to come when I could again throw
my arms around his neck, and pillow my head
upon his breast. Every vessel that arrived
from France was then chronicled by the press,
with the names of the passengers; and these
lists I scanned eagerly, with a wildly beating
heart, in the hope of finding among them the
endeared appellation of my beloved father.

“A month rolled away, and my anxiety became
painful. This was the time my father
had set for returning, and I grew feverish with
impatience to behold him once more. But he
came not Another week of soul harrowing
anxiety passed, and then came the frightful
intelligence of the loss of the packet-ship Alpine,
with the names of those who had found
a watery grave. Oh, heaven! who can describe
my feelings when I found among these
latter, George Nugent, the name of my father!”

The youth paused, burried his face in his
hands, and gave vent to choking sobs. In a
few moments he recovered himself, by a great
effort, and again resumed:

“My father perished with the unfortunate
Alpine. I have never seen him since—never
shall behold him again this side of the grave
For weeks after the sad news, I was confined
to my bed with a brain fever. My life was
for a long time despaired of—but God saw
proper to restore me to reason and health.
But I could not go on with my studies, and I
longed for a change of scene. My guardian, a
cousin of my father, consented to let me visit
America, and promised to take charge of my
property in my absence. I embraced the opportunity,
and was soon bowling over the
broad Atlantic. I landed in Boston, and becoming
short of funds, I wrote to my guardian
for more. Six months passed away, and having
received no answer, I wrote again. Still
no answer came. Several times have I written
since, with the same result. From some
cause, to me unknown, no letter from my
guardian has ever reached me, nor do I know
whether he is living or dead.

“I was soon reduced to penury, and obliged
to seek some means for support. Without
friends, I found this no easy matter to accomplish.
But at last I fell in with a kind-hearted
gentleman, who gave me employment as a
clerk in a store. I remained with him a year,
during which time the war broke out. My
employer immediately took part in the struggle,
and finally sold out his effects, and, I believe,
placed the greater portion of his property
at the disposal of his country, to assist in
carrying on the war. He is now a Colonel in
the American army, and, I have recently
heard, stands fair for higher promotion.

“He made overtures to me, and all in his
employ, to join him. All accepted but myself.
I did not wish to take part in the struggle
on either side, and receiving, some time
after, an offer from an Englishman in this city,
to act in the capacity of a clerk for him, I

gladly embraced this peaceable mode of earning
my living. I came to New York nearly
three years ago, and have been here ever
since, in the employ of Mr. Harding. I say
ever since—I mean till the occurrence of this
affair, in which I have become involved, and
which, I suppose, will terminate my earthly
career.”

“But why,” said the personage, who had
all along been the spokesman of the two visitors—“why,
since, as you say, you did not
wish to take part in the struggle on either side
—why did you allow yourself to be persuaded
into an act which makes your life a forfeit?”

“That is a question, sir, I choose not to answer,”
replied the youth, firmly. “I know
my fate,” he added, with something like a
sigh, “and am prepared to meet it. I shall
leave no kin to mourn me when I am gone.”

“You know not that, sir,” rejoined the
other, quickly; “you know not that. Suppose
I tell you your father is living?”

“Living!” cried young Nugent, with a spasmodic
start. “Living! Oh! no, no—do not
mock me in this terrible manner! Tell me
sir, oh! tell me that it is false, and though you
show me my death-warrant the next moment,
on my knees I will bless you!”

“How, sir! how, young man!” pursued the
other, sternly—“would you rejoice to be confirmed
in your belief of your father's death?”

“Alas! yes, since I must die myself.”

“You are unfeeling, then.”

“Oh! no! no!” cried the youth, a deep
flush mantling his pale features: “no, no, sir
—do not say that!”

“How then am I to account for the strange
hope that your father is dead?”

“Because the knowledge that he is living
would unman me—for then I know he will
sooner or later hear of my ignominious death,
and the news will break his heart.”

“Well, young man, painful as the intelligence
may be to you, I must tell you your
father is living,” rejoined the other.

“Oh, God!” groaned the youth, covering
his face with his hands.

“And what is more,” pursued the strange
visitor, “he is now in this city.”

“Merciful heaven! you are not mocking
me?” exclaimed young Nugent, wildly, with
drawing his hands from his face, and looking
up at the other with an agonized expression,
his dark eyes gleaming as with fire.

“No, on the honor of a gentleman, I am
not mocking you; and unless you stand in
your own light, you shall be free to clasp him
in your arms.”

“On what conditions?” fairly gasped the
prisoner.

“That you reveal who are your accomplices.”

“I thought so,” cried the youth, in a tone
of stern indignation, his features again flushing,
but this time with a very different feeling
than before. “I thought it would come
to this.” And then drawing himself up
proudly, all traces of a tender emotion having
vanished, he continued: “No, sir, I would
not accept the terms of release, though I saw
my father breaking his heart beside me; and
that would be the strongest trial I could possibly
undergo—the torture of the rack would
be nothing to it. You have mistaken me, sir,
and as I wish to hold malice against no one, I
pardon you the error. What I refused to his
excellency, Sir Henry Clinton, you may rest
assured I will not grant to a stranger. Even
were all you tell me true—and, pardon me, if
I now suspect some artifice, to wring from me
an honorable secret—even were my father
now by my side, I do not believe he would
counsel me to this foul dishonor, though it be
the only means by which I can prolong my
life.”

“We shall see,” returned the other; “you
will soon know, for here your father stands.”

“My father!” shrieked the youth; turning
wildly to the other figure; “you my father!”
and he sprang to his feet, like a madman,
making his heavy chains clank and rattle dismally.

“Alas! my poor boy, I am indeed your
father,” answered the other stranger, who now
spoke for the first time since entering the cell;
and he threw his arms around the neck of the
bewildered youth, and sobbed aloud.

“Oh God!” groaned young Nugent, fondly
embracing his parent: “Oh God! that I could
have been spared this heart-rending trial!—
but thy will, oh God! be done.”

“Now will you not accept the proposal I
have made?” asked the other visitor.

Like lightning the youth started from his
father's embrace, and thundered forth:

“No! I tell you once for all, no! even with
my father's entreaties joined to yours.”

“Alas!” said the other, “then your doom is
sealed.”

“Pray, sir, let me speak a few words with
my son in private,” now pleaded the anxious
parent.

“Very well, sir, I grant you five minutes'
conversation,” replied he in authority, and he
immediately quited the cell.

“Noble boy! you are indeed worthy to be
my son,” said the father, in a low tone, as the
heavy iron door banged behind the one who
had just quitted the cell. “Oh, come once
more to my arms, that I may again embrace
you!”

“But are you indeed my father?” queried
the youth, doubtingly, endeavoring to get a
view of the other's features.

“You shall see, George, and judge for
yourself;” and the other proceeded to get
the light, which still remained where the jailor
had placed it. Returning to the youth, he
held it up before his own face, and added:
“Do you now recognize me, George?”

The latter scrutinized the features of his
supposed father, long and earnestly, and then
said, with a sigh:

“No, I can not recognize you. My father's
hair was dark—yours is red: my father's
beard was black—yours is sandy. It seems
impossible you can be the same, though there
is something in the general shape of the features,
like what my memory retains of my beloved
parent. But I was very young when
last I saw my father, and perhaps you can account
for the difference in your complexion,
and the color of your hair.”

“George,” returned the other, speaking in
a low, rapid tone, “time is precious, and so
we will waste no more in idle words. I came
to cheer your drooping spirits, and prepare
you for your release. I am in disguise, and
my disguise must be perfect, since even you
do not recognize your friend Carlini.”

“Carlini!” ejaculated the other with a start.

“Hush! listen, and speak not! The personage
who has just left you, is Sir Henry
Clinton. How I have managed to wheedle
him into coming here with me, I will explain
after you have effected your escape, which
must be to night. You have behaved nobly'
lad, and Carlini is not one to desert his friends'
more especially such as have jeopardized their
lives to save him. Attend to my instructions
Here is a saw, made from the main spring of
a watch; here is a vial of oil, which will enable
it to work without noise; and here is a
composition of the color of the iron, wherewith
to fill the crevices, should the jailor happen
to approach you before your task is completed.
You must work fast. Do not sever
the iron entirely, but only so you can snap it
at a moments' warning. Do you understand
me?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the other, in breathless
amazement.

“Leave the rest to me. Keep a stout heart
and I will not fail you. I have two plans, but
I will tell you nothing now.”

Carlini then produced a composition, of the
consistency of softened putty, and hastily approaching
the iron doors, thrust a portion into
each key-hole. By this means he had the
impressions of the locks of the doors communicating
with the cell of George Nugent.

Scarcely had he resumed his place beside
the prisoner, when the outer door opened, and
Sir Henry entered.

“Weep! weep!” whispered Carlini to
George: and at the same instant he uttered a
heavy moan himself, and then appeared to be
sobbing convulsively, a trick the prisoner was
not slow to imitate.

“Well,” said Clinton, “the five minutes
have expired.” But neither the prisoner, nor
his soi disant father, took any notice of the
other's presence. “I say, my good sir,” pursued
the General, placing a hand on the
shoulder of Carlini, who suddenly started
with well-affected surprise—“the time has
come for you and your son to part—if, as i
conjecture, he still adheres to his determination
to reveal nothing.”

“Alas! it is so,” groaned the other. “My
prayers have been of no avail. Oh George! oh

George! my son—that it should come to this!”
he continued, in a heart-broken tone.

“Father, farewell!” cried George, with a
fresh burst of grief, as he threw his arms
wildly around Carlini's neck, and embraeed
him.

“Farewell!” gasped the other; and tearing
himself away, he rushed from the cell, as if
he feared to trust himself longer in the company
of one so dear to him.

“Farewell, young man,” said Clinton to the
prisoner. “Unless you agree to the terms
proposed, you have probably seen your father
for the last time. Your doom is fixed for to-morrow
at sunrise. You will thus have another
night of solitude in which to reflect; and
should you consent to my proposition, even at
the last moment, you shall be immediately set
at liberty—otherwise, no power on earth shall
save you. Adieu! and think well upon your
father's sorrows.”

Saying this, Clinton strode out of the cell,
the jailor closed and locked the massive doors,
and the whole party ascended to the floor
above in silence, the soi disant father appearing
a good deal agitated.

“May I have one moment's conversation
with your excellency?” said Carlini, as Clinton
was about stepping into his carriage at the
door of the prison.

“Certainly, Mr. Nugent; enter, and we
will talk as we ride, for my time is valuable;
but I warn you not to ask for the pardon, or
even reprieve, of the prisoner.”

“I have a plan,” said Carlini, as the carriage
dashed over the rough pavement, “by
which our object may yet be effected, and the
accomplices of my unfortunate son be discovered.”

“Speak, then, for on this point I am very
anxious—as much so, perhaps, as yourself,
though for a very different reason. To be
frank with you, Mr. Nugent, this business
troubles me more than, from a cursory glance,
would seem at all needful. The case is just
this. Your son was detected in an attempt
to pass our lines near Harlem. On his person
was found a hollow silver ball, and in that
ball a document, drawn up with great care, and
evidently by a master hand, giving a correct account
of the intended treachery of General
Arnold, and the advantage the British expected
to derive from the taking of West
Point. Now as this, at the time, was a protound
secret—or at least supposed to be so—
known only to myself and some three or four
officers in my confidence, you may readily
conceive how anxious I am to find out the
traitor; for that there is a traitor near my
person, I am led by this to believe. Sir, I
would willingly give your son his freedom, and
a thousand pounds besides, for a revelation he
could make in five minutes; and if you have
any plan, short of absolute dishonor to myself,
by which you can get at the truth, rest
assured it shall have my hearty sanction.”

“I have such a plan, your excellency,” returned
Carlini; “and since I shall take the
execution of it wholly upon myself, to save the
ife of my unfortunate son, no dishonor can
possibly accrue to your excellency. It is this:
While left alone with George, vainly urging
him to confess all and save his life, he suddenly
interrupted me, and begged, as a great
favor, that I would send him a confessor of
the Romish Church, and that to him, as a spiritual
adviser, and to no one else, would he
unbosom himself. I was greatly shocked at
this, as your excellency will readily perceive,
when I inform you that I am a strict Protestant
myself, and that George was educated
in the latter faith. The idea then suddenly
occurred to me, that this whole affair might
be the work of Jesuits, banded together to
overthrow the rights of our sovereign, King
George, in this country, in the hope of getting
the new rule into their own hands. It
also occurred to me, at the same moment, that
this confession might be turned to advantage,
by substituting a false priest for a real one.”

“By heavens! a capital idea!” exclaimed
Sir Henry, joyfully. “But the whole affair
must be adroitly managed, or your son will
detect the plot, and thus blast our hopes.”

“If your excellency will be kind enough to
intrust the whole management of it to me
rest assured a father's fears will adopt all necessary
precautions to insure its success.”

“Be it so; but you must be active; for
should your plan fail, your son dies to-morrow
at sunrise.”

“Trust me, your excellency, there shall be

no unnecessary delay. But I must request
your excellency to give me a written permit,
that will admit the priest to the prisoner at
any hour during the night.”

“Ah, yes, certainly,” returned Sir Henry;
and then a new idea seeming to strike him, he
added, quickly: “But suppose I give the jailor
all necessary instructions—will that not answer
as well?”

Carlini instantly perceived that the other
had some slight suspicion of his double-dealing—but
he answered promptly, and apparently
well pleased.

“O, yes, your excellency, just as well: in
fact, now I think of it, I believe it would be
the better way—only, I trust your excellency,
in the multiplicity of business, will not overlook
it.”

“I will not overlook it, Mr. Nugent, but
will dispatch a messenger to the jailor immediately.”
At this moment the carriage stopped,
and the door was thrown open by a servant
in livery. “A! here is my residence—
will you step in, Mr. Nugent?” pursued Clintion,
as he alighted.

“I thank your excellency” answered Carlini—“but
I must set about the business we
were speaking of, as the day is fast wearing
away.”

“Well, Heaven prosper your undertaking!“
rejoined Clinton, as he turned away to enter
his dwelling.

“Amen!” said Carlini, moving quickly up
Broadway—but ere he was out of hearing, he
heard the servant say to Clinton:

“General Arnold is anxiously awaiting
your excellency's return.”

“The vile traitor!” muttered Carlini, his
eyes gleaming fiercely; and then he added,
with a triumphant expression: “So far my
plot works to a charm, and I have even made
the proud and sagacious Sir Henry Clinton
my dupe.”