With John Paul Jones

In the pale dawn of the early morning the tender dropped anchor in a small cove, and the two prisoners were brought upon the deck. The leg irons had been removed, but their arms were still chained behind them.

Once more they were placed in a small boat, and were rowed ashore. Under guard of Danvers and a couple of seamen they were marched through the streets of a small, poor-looking town, and at last brought to a halt before a gloomy, half-ruined stone building. Danvers knocked loudly upon the door.

“This,” said he, turning to Ethan and Longsword as he waited for the door to be opened, “is to be your place of residence until such time as you make up your mind to tell me what has become of the dispatch.”

“Have you not said that you thought Captain Jones had it?”

“But the Lascar said that you were to deliver it to the earl; and I think that that was why the landing was made.” The man paused a moment, then added with a great deal of eagerness in his voice, “Tell me, did you conceal it anywhere upon St. Mary’s Isle before you were taken?”

“I have told you that I know nothing of the dispatch save that Siki took it from the cabin of the Ranger.”

There was plain disbelief upon the face of the spy; but before he could make any reply, the door opened slightly, as though upon a chain, and a woman’s face appeared—a bony, fierce-looking countenance with a mop of unkempt hair above it.

“What is wanted at this hour?” she demanded harshly.

“It’s I, Meg,” replied Danvers; “I’ve brought some lodgers for you.”

The woman seemed to recognize the voice, for she at once threw the door wide, and stood before them. She was a huge, raw-boned creature, and looked as strong as a man; she was attired in a tattered gown, and a cloak was wound about her shoulders. Gazing sharply at the two prisoners, she burst into a grating chuckle.

“Yankees, eh,” she said, as though highly pleased. “But, no,” gazing at Longsword once more, “this one is Irish, even the scar does not hide that, though it covers the greater part of his face.”

“I’ll thank ye,” growled the dragoon, “not to indulge in any personal remarks, mam.”

The woman laughed gleefully, and wagged her head.

“The Irish all have tempers,” she said, “but that don’t do them any harm. I like them the better for it.”

She then gave her attention to another examination of Ethan.

“This one is younger,” she said, “but he’ll give the most trouble; I can see it in his face. A strong room with a grated door will be needed here, Mr. Danvers,” she chuckled. “If the young gentleman is not provided with these luxuries he may slip through my fingers.”

“That must not happen,” said Danvers, sharply. “None of your nonsense, Meg! Put them in a place where they will be safe.”

“But that will cost more, Mr. Danvers,” said the woman, with a grin, “a very great deal more, sir.”

“Let it,” returned Danvers, shortly. “But don’t keep us standing here until wide daylight.”

The woman favored him with no mild look; nevertheless she did as she was bidden. A moment later they found themselves in a narrow, low-ceilinged room, cluttered with broken furniture and cooking utensils; then the woman opened a heavy door, disclosing a flight of steep steps leading into a deep cellar; descending these, Meg still leading the way and holding a reeking oil lamp above her head, they brought up before a wall of massive stone work into which were set some heavy grated doors of iron.

“I love to look at them,” cried the woman, setting the lamp upon the floor and fumbling at her belt for the bunch of keys that hung there. “Ah, they are beautiful doors, as safe and as strong as any in Europe. Any one whom they ever closed upon has been held as fast as a rat in a trap. Not one has ever escaped. The great noble whose private prison this was in the old days, Mr. Danvers, knew how to build. Ah, yes, indeed. But,” with a chuckle, “he never dreamed how his handiwork was to bring me my living long years after he was in his grave. Oh, no, he never knew that.”

She unlocked the door before which she stood, and slowly swung it open, creaking and groaning. Then she stood aside and bowed mockingly to Ethan.

“Enter,” she invited with a grin. “Enter, my young Yankee, and never hope to leave this pretty cell until Mr. Danvers gives me the word.”

The boy glanced into the dungeon; the pale light of the lamp showed that the walls were of rough stone, and that years of dampness had made them a hideous, slimy black. A rat scurried across the floor as the light rays penetrated; there were no windows and no furniture of any sort, not even a stool. In one corner was a heap of foul-looking straw, presumably to be used as a bed.

Ethan hesitated upon the threshold of this den, and the woman laughed.

“What!” she cried. “You don’t seem pleased. Perhaps my lord would like a rug upon the floor and paintings upon the walls.”

“You see what is in store for you,” said Danvers. “And you’ll remain here until you tell me what you have done with the dispatch.”

Then the spy made a sign; the seamen from the schooner pushed the boy roughly into the dungeon. Longsword was about to follow, but Meg prevented him.

“Oh, no,” she cried with her mirthless laugh. “I never have two together. Mischief is apt to be plotted that way. Here is your room, my brave Irelander; it is just next door. You may talk as much as you like. But I’ll give you no chance to join your strength. Oh, no, no.”

Another door was swung open and Longsword stepped into a cell as damp and as unwholesome as Ethan’s. The irons were then taken from their arms and the doors were securely locked; and as they stood staring through the gratings they saw Meg pick up her lamp and prepare to lead the men from the cellar.

“Have you much smuggled goods in the place just now, Meg?” said the spy, looking about.

“Ah, Mr. Danvers, sir, you will have your little joke. The king’s revenue never loses anything through me, as you know.”

Danvers laughed.

“You have changed your way of making a living, then,” said he. “When I was on the cutter that patrolled this coast there was no hiding-place that required more watching than this.”

He did not wait for the woman’s reply, but turned to the dungeon door behind which Ethan stood and said:

“For the last time, will you answer?”

“I have nothing to say,” answered the boy.

“In a week I will return,” said the spy. “Let us see how you stand this place. I fancy that by that time you will be ready to tell me anything I desire to know.”

And with a disagreeable laugh he followed the others. Ethan heard the stamping of their feet as they climbed the stairs; the light from the receding lamp flickered dimly along the stone passage; then a door slammed heavily and all was dark.

“Well,” called the voice of Longsword, “what do ye think of this, Master Ethan?”

“It looks as though we were in for it, Shamus,” answered Ethan.

Longsword rattled at the grated door of his cell and laughed.

“It was hung here to stay, sure enough,” he said. “It would take a blast of powder to budge it.”

“Have you any rats over there with you?” asked Ethan, after a time.

“Faith and I have; I can see a dozen pairs of little, red, shining eyes looking at me from the corners now.” Longsword stamped heavily upon the stone floor and then chuckled. “Sure they are easy frightened, though. They run off at a sound.”

The day passed slowly. They became heavy-eyed and weary of talking through the darkness, and stretching themselves upon the damp floor they slept. They were awakened by the rays of the woman’s lamp shining in upon them. Meg stood in the passage without, and in her hands were some mouldy, hard-looking crusts, and two cracked stone jugs containing water.

“Good-evening, my gallant rebels,” she saluted, grinning.

“Is it evening?” asked Longsword, his eyes blinking at the light.

“Ay, that it is; and I’ve brought your suppers.” She passed the bread and water through small openings at the bottoms of their cell doors. “Bread and water,” she chuckled. “Hah, you’ll not grow very plump upon such fare as that.”

“Plump,” growled the Irish dragoon, regarding the crust in his hand with high disfavor. “Why a rat would starve upon such stuff. And it’s as hard as a block of wood.”

He hammered the bread against the wall as he spoke; it gave out a sound not unlike that which a block of wood would give. The woman writhed with laughter.

“Ah, you are a rogue, I can see that,” she cried. “And like all the Irish, you will joke. But this one,” and she turned to the door of Ethan’s cell, “is different.”

Somehow the laughter had gone out of her voice now, and she held up the lamp so that she might get a better view. Ethan stood silently leaning against the damp wall, and her eyes snapped with dislike as she regarded him.

“This is the sullen one,” she continued. “This is the one who is thinking—thinking, always thinking how he can give me trouble. But I’ll tame your spirit, my lad, if you are here long. I’ve done it with your betters when the smugglers brought them here for safe keeping. So don’t be high and mighty with me or you’ll rue it.”

Ethan made no answer; he stood watching her quietly, and this seemed to rouse her anger; she went muttering away, after a space, and once more left them in darkness.

They grew to know when morning and evening came, for the woman always brought them the bread and water at these times. And with each visit her spite against Ethan seemed to increase; the silence of the young American seemed to anger her beyond measure; once she thrust her arm through the grating and struck at him.

“Faith and you’re no favorite of hers,” chuckled Longsword, when Ethan told him of this after the woman had gone. “It’s too select ye are for her. She seems to like her boarders to be talkative and sociable.”

But the incident gave Ethan an idea. They had been confined in this unwholesome underground den for a week, and the boy had become almost desperate, and was inclined to try almost anything that gave even the faintest hope of escape.

The next time the woman came with their food, he made it a point to stand close to the grating, silent, cold-mannered, watchful. He could see Meg’s eyes snap with anger as she glanced in at him. She shoved the food into his cell; then in a sudden fit of cat-like fury she thrust her arm through the grating once more and aimed a blow at him.

Like lightning the boy grasped her by the wrist, and throwing the full weight of his sinewy young body into the effort, he dragged her close against the cell door and held her fast. She struggled and fought like a tigress, but it was useless. He had but to wrench her arm slightly backward in order to bring a shriek from her.

“Let me go,” she panted, glaring through the grating at him in a fury. “Let me go, I say.”

“I will when you unlock this door.”

“Let go,” cried Meg, resuming her frantic struggles. But a backward twitch of the fast held arm brought a scream of pain from her, and she was quiet once more.

“The key,” demanded Ethan, firmly. “Unlock the door.”

“I have no key.”

“I see it among those at your belt,” said Ethan.

With a snarl, Meg whipped out a murderous looking knife with her free hand, and reaching through the grating made a lunge at him. But, held as she was, she could not touch him, and another severe twist at the arm caused her to drop the knife and writhe with pain.

By this time Longsword was storming up and down in his cell. He could hear what they said, but, because of his situation, could not see anything of what was transpiring; his repeated calls to Ethan received no answer, for Ethan was too engrossed in his work to heed him.

“Once more,” said he, ignoring the woman’s cries, “give me the key.”

“I can’t reach it,” she said. “Let my arm go and I’ll give it to you.”

“You’ll give it to me now,” he replied steadily.

“I’ll give you my word,” she whimpered.

But he knew better than to let slip his advantage; for once free she would laugh at him. So he persisted in his demand, his strong fingers clasped like steel about her wrist; and finally, groaning and lamenting the fate that would be meted out to her by Danvers, she selected the key from the bunch at her belt, fitted it in the lock and turned it. Slowly the door swung open, then Ethan released her and sprang out into the passage.

“Hurra!” shouted Longsword, as he caught sight of him. “Well done, Master Ethan.”

“Now the other key,” said the youthful American.

The woman hesitated, casting a look at the knife upon the floor; but Ethan kicked it beyond her reach and snatched the keys. She then sullenly indicated the one that opened Longsword’s dungeon, and in a moment the Irish ex-dragoon was free also.

But scarcely had the latter executed the first intricate steps of a joyful Irish jig upon the flags of the passage, when there came the sound of a closing door from above, followed by footfalls upon the floor directly over their heads. The woman uttered a cry of delight.

“They have come!” she cried.

“Whom?” asked Ethan.

“Mr. Danvers and his men,” she answered exultantly. “This was the day which he had set for a visit to you.”

“Caught,” cried Longsword, his hands clinching and his tall raw-boned body growing tense for the struggle which he knew was sure to come.

“Ay, caught like rats!” chuckled the woman. “You thought to give me the slip, did you?” to Ethan. “But you are going to fail. I’ll have you here for many a day yet; and I’ll be even with you for the little trick you played upon me just now.”

“What’s to be done?” asked Ethan of the dragoon.

“Fight,” answered that worthy with great promptness.

Ethan smiled.

“Good for you, old fire eater,” he said. “So we will. There may not be so many of them after all.”

“But they are armed, and we have nothing but our bare hands,” mourned Longsword.

“But we’ll have the advantage of a surprise,” said Ethan.

All hope of this advantage, however, was blasted a moment later, for the woman, upon hearing the boy’s words, uttered a warning shriek that rang through the cellar with ear splitting shrillness.

Instantly there came a trampling of feet upon the floor above, and Meg laughed in their faces triumphantly. But the laugh had scarcely died upon her lips when Longsword pushed her into one of the open cells and closed and locked the door.

“Now, then,” cried Ethan, “let’s meet them at the foot of the stairs.”

As he spoke he kicked over the lamp, plunging the cellar into complete darkness. As they reached the foot of the stairs the door at the top opened, and the yellow rays of a candle, in the hands of Danvers, dimly lit up the narrow way. Ethan drew Longsword under the stairs out of sight.

“Hello,” called the British spy. “What is the matter?”

The cries of the woman from the dungeon and the rattling of the grated door answered him.

“Something is wrong,” said he, hurriedly. “Come along, two of you; the other two remain here, and keep your eyes open.”

As Danvers led the way into the cellar, Ethan nudged Longsword.

“Only two in the room above,” said he in a whisper.

“One apiece,” said the grim dragoon with a chuckle.

Danvers and the two seamen passed quickly along toward the dungeons; instantly Ethan and his companion were out of their hiding-place and softly climbing the stairs. When they reached the top, they suddenly flung open the door and leaped into the room. In the middle of the floor stood the two remaining sailors from the tender; and before they could recover from the surprise which the sudden appearance of the prisoners occasioned, they were beaten down by a series of swift stunning blows. Then Ethan and Longsword pushed into the street and went speeding away through the silent town toward the sea.