Chapter Seven--One Memorable Night
Two months had elapsed since my arrival at Rivermouth, when the approachof an important celebration produced the greatest excitement among thejuvenile population of the town.
There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School theweek preceding the Fourth of July. For my part, my heart and brain wereso full of fire-crackers, Roman candles, rockets, pin-wheels, squibs,and gunpowder in various seductive forms, that I wonder I didn't explodeunder Mr. Grimshaw's very nose. I couldn't do a sum to save me; Icouldn't tell, for love or money, whether Tallahassee was the capitalof Tennessee or of Florida; the present and the pluperfect tenseswere inextricably mixed in my memory, and I didn't know a verb from anadjective when I met one. This was not alone my condition, but that ofevery boy in the school.
Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporarydistraction, and sought to fix our interest on the lessons by connectingthem directly or indirectly with the coming Event. The class inarithmetic, for instance, was requested to state how many boxes offire-crackers, each box measuring sixteen inches square, could be storedin a room of such and such dimensions. He gave us the Declaration ofIndependence for a parsing exercise, and in geography confined hisquestions almost exclusively to localities rendered famous in theRevolutionary War.
"What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the Englishvessels?" asked our wily instructor.
"Threw it into the river!" shrieked the smaller boys, with animpetuosity that made Mr. Grimshaw smile in spite of himself. Oneluckless urchin said, "Chucked it," for which happy expression he waskept in at recess.
Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, there was not much solid workdone by anybody. The trail of the serpent (an inexpensive but dangerousfire-toy) was over us all. We went round deformed by quantities ofChinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers-pockets; and if aboy whipped out his handkerchief without proper precaution, he was sureto let off two or three torpedoes.
Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universaldemoralization. In calling the school to order, he always rapped onthe table with a heavy ruler. Under the green baize table-cloth, on theexact spot where he usually struck, certain boy, whose name I withhold,placed a fat torpedo. The result was a loud explosion, which caused Mr.Grimshaw to look queer. Charley Marden was at the water-pail, at thetime, and directed general attention to himself by strangling forseveral seconds and then squirting a slender thread of water over theblackboard.
Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley, but said nothing.The real culprit (it wasn't Charley Marden, but the boy whose name Iwithhold) instantly regretted his badness, and after school confessedthe whole thing to Mr. Grimshaw, who heaped coals of fire upon thenameless boy's head giving him five cents for the Fourth of July. IfMr. Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth, the punishment would not havebeen half so severe.
On the last day of June the Captain received a letter from my father,enclosing five dollars "for my son Tom," which enabled that younggentleman to make regal preparations for the celebration of our nationalindependence. A portion of this money, two dollars, I hastened to investin fireworks; the balance I put by for contingencies. In placing thefund in my possession, the Captain imposed one condition that dampenedmy ardor considerably--I was to buy no gunpowder. I might have all thesnapping-crackers and torpedoes I wanted; but gunpowder was out of thequestion.
I thought this rather hard, for all my young friends were provided withpistols of various sizes. Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol nearly aslarge as himself, and Jack Harris, though he, to be sure, was a bigboy, was going to have a real oldfashioned flintlock musket. However, Ididn't mean to let this drawback destroy my happiness. I had one chargeof powder stowed away in the little brass pistol which I brought fromNew Orleans, and was bound to make a noise in the world once, if I neverdid again.
It was a custom observed from time immemorial for the towns-boys to havea bonfire on the Square on the midnight before the Fourth. I didn't askthe Captain's leave to attend this ceremony, for I had a general ideathat he wouldn't give it. If the Captain, I reasoned, doesn't forbid me,I break no orders by going. Now this was a specious line of argument,and the mishaps that befell me in consequence of adopting it were richlydeserved.
On the evening of the 3d I retired to bed very early, in order to disarmsuspicion. I didn't sleep a wink, waiting for eleven o'clock to comeround; and I thought it never would come round, as I lay counting fromtime to time the slow strokes of the ponderous bell in the steeple ofthe Old North Church. At length the laggard hour arrived. While theclock was striking I jumped out of bed and began dressing.
My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy sleepers, and I might havestolen downstairs and out at the front door undetected; but such acommonplace proceeding did not suit my adventurous disposition. Ifastened one end of a rope (it was a few yards cut from Kitty Collins'sclothes-line) to the bedpost nearest the window, and cautiously climbedout on the wide pediment over the hall door. I had neglected to knot therope; the result was, that, the moment I swung clear of the pediment, Idescended like a flash of lightning, and warmed both my hands smartly.The rope, moreover, was four or five feet too short; so I got a fallthat would have proved serious had I not tumbled into the middle of oneof the big rose-bushes growing on either side of the steps.
I scrambled out of that without delay, and was congratulating myself onmy good luck, when I saw by the light of the setting moon the form of aman leaning over the garden gate. It was one of the town watch, who hadprobably been observing my operations with curiosity. Seeing no chanceof escape, I put a bold face on the matter and walked directly up tohim.
"What on airth air you a doin'?" asked the man, grasping the collar ofmy jacket.
"I live here, sir, if you please," I replied, "and am going to thebonfire. I didn't want to wake up the old folks, that's all."
The man cocked his eye at me in the most amiable manner, and releasedhis hold.
"Boys is boys," he muttered. He didn't attempt to stop me as I slippedthrough the gate.
Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached theSquare, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged inbuilding a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms of my hands still tingledso that I couldn't join in the sport. I stood in the doorway of theNautilus Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of myschoolmates. They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in thetwilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice. What a Babel ofvoices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doingeverything wrong!
When all was prepared, someone applied a match to the sombre pile. Afiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the wholefabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully. This was asignal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels,which they did shouting like mad creatures. When the fire had burntdown a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre. In theexcitement of the moment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself inthe thick of the carousal.
Before we were half ready, our combustible material was expended, and adisheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us. The boys collectedtogether here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done.It yet lacked four or five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in thehumor to return to bed. I approached one of the groups standing near thetown pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands thefigures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb,their faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and, their wholeappearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs.
"Hullo! Here's Tom Bailey!" shouted Pepper Whitcomb. "He'll join in!"
Of course he would. The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripefor anything--none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis.After whispering together for a moment the boys motioned me to followthem.
We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way t
hrough aneighboring alley, at the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn,owned by one Ezra Wingate. In former days this was the stable of themail-coach that ran between Rivermouth and Boston. When the railroadsuperseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle wasrolled in the barn, and there it stayed. The stage-driver, afterprophesying the immediate downfall of the nation, died of grief andapoplexy, and the old coach followed in his wake as fast as couldby quietly dropping to pieces. The barn had the reputation of beinghaunted, and I think we all kept very close together when we foundourselves standing in the black shadow cast by the tall gable. Here,in a low voice, Jack Harris laid bare his plan, which was to burn theancient stage-coach.
"The old trundle-cart isn't worth twenty-five cents," said Jack Harris,"and Ezra Wingate ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of theway. But if any fellow here doesn't want to have a hand in it, let himcut and run, and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever after."
With this he pulled out the staples that held the lock, and the big barndoor swung slowly open. The interior of the stable was pitch-dark, ofcourse. As we made a movement to enter, a sudden scrambling, and thesound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start backin terror.
"Rats!" cried Phil Adams.
"Bats!" exclaimed Harry Blake.
"Cats!" suggested Jack Harris. "Who's afraid?"
Well, the truth is, we were all afraid; and if the pole of the stage hadnot been lying close to the threshold, I don't believe anything on earthwould have induced us to cross it. We seized hold of the pole-strapsand succeeded with great trouble in dragging the coach out. The two forewheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to revolve. It was themerest skeleton of a coach. The cushions had long since been removed,and the leather hangings, where they had not crumbled away, dangled inshreds from the worm-eaten frame. A load of ghosts and a span of phantomhorses to drag them would have made the ghastly thing complete.
Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood at the top of a very steephill. With three boys to push behind, and two in front to steer, westarted the old coach on its last trip with little or no difficulty.Our speed increased every moment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlockedas we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged upon the crowdlike a regiment of cavalry, scattering the people right and left. Beforereaching the bonfire, to which someone had added several bushels ofshavings, Jack Harris and Phil Adams, who were steering, dropped on theground, and allowed the vehicle to pass over them, which it did withoutinjuring them; but the boys who were clinging for dear life to thetrunk-rack behind fell over the prostrate steersman, and there we alllay in a heap, two or three of us quite picturesque with the nose-bleed.
The coach, with an intuitive perception of what was expected of it,plunged into the centre of the kindling shavings, and stopped. Theflames sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, which burned liketinder. At this moment a figure was seen leaping wildly from the insideof the blazing coach. The figure made three bounds towards us, andtripped over Harry Blake. It was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhatsinged, and his eyebrows completely scorched off!
Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the back seat before we started,intending to have a neat little ride down hill, and a laugh at usafterwards. But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or wouldhave been, if half a dozen watchmen had not suddenly pounced down uponus, as we lay scrambling on the ground, weak with mirth over Pepper'smisfortune. We were collared and marched off before we well knew whathad happened.
The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to thesilent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like thework of enchantment. We stared at each other, aghast.
"Well," remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, "this is a go!"
"No go, I should say," whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brickwalls and the heavy ironplated door.
"Never say die," muttered Phil Adams, dolefully.
The bridewell was a small low-studded chamber built up against therear end of the Meat Market, and approached from the Square by a narrowpassage-way. A portion of the rooms partitioned off into eight cells,numbered, each capable of holding two persons. The cells were full atthe time, as we presently discovered by seeing several hideous facesleering out at us through the gratings of the doors.
A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from the ceiling threw aflickering light over the apartment, which contained no furnitureexcepting a couple of stout wooden benches. It was a dismal place bynight, and only little less dismal by day, tall houses surrounding "thelock-up" prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from penetrating theventilator over the door--long narrow window opening inward and proppedup by a piece of lath.
As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the benches, I imagine thatour aspect was anything but cheerful. Adams and Harris looked veryanxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had just stopped bleeding, wasmournfully carving his name, by sheer force of habit, on the prisonbench. I don't think I ever saw a more "wrecked" expression on anyhuman countenance than Pepper Whitcomb's presented. His look of naturalastonishment at finding himself incarcerated in a jail was considerablyheightened by his lack of eyebrows.
As for me, it was only by thinking how the late Baron Trenck wouldhave conducted himself under similar circumstances that I was able torestrain my tears.
None of us were inclined to conversation. A deep silence, broken nowand then by a startling snore from the cells, reigned throughout thechamber. By and by Pepper Whitcomb glanced nervously towards Phil Adamsand said, "Phil, do you think they will--hang us?"
"Hang your grandmother!" returned Adams, impatiently. "What I'm afraidof is that they'll keep us locked up until the Fourth is over."
"You ain't smart ef they do!" cried a voice from one of the cells. Itwas a deep bass voice that sent a chill through me.
"Who are you?" said Jack Harris, addressing the cells in general; forthe echoing qualities of the room made it difficult to locate the voice.
"That don't matter," replied the speaker, putting his face close up tothe gratings of No. 3, "but ef I was a youngster like you, free an' easyoutside there, this spot wouldn't hold me long."
"That's so!" chimed several of the prison-birds, wagging their headsbehind the iron lattices.
"Hush!" whispered Jack Harris, rising from his seat and walking ontip-toe to the door of cell No. 3. "What would you do?"
"Do? Why, I'd pile them 'ere benches up agin that 'ere door, an' crawlout of that 'erc winder in no time. That's my adwice."
"And werry good adwice it is, Jim," said the occupant of No. 5,approvingly.
Jack Harris seemed to be of the same opinion, for he hastily placed thebenches one on the top of another under the ventilator, and, climbing upon the highest bench, peeped out into the passage-way.
"If any gent happens to have a ninepence about him," said the man incell No. 3, "there's a sufferin' family here as could make use of it.Smallest favors gratefully received, an' no questions axed."
This appeal touched a new silver quarter of a dollar in mytrousers-pocket; I fished out the coin from a mass of fireworks, andgave it to the prisoner. He appeared to be so good-natured a fellow thatI ventured to ask what he had done to get into jail.
"Intirely innocent. I was clapped in here by a rascally nevew as wishesto enjoy my wealth afore I'm dead.'
"Your name, Sir?' I inquired, with a view of reporting the outrage to mygrandfather and having the injured person re instated in society.
"Git out, you insolent young reptyle!" shouted the man, in a passion.
I retreated precipitately, amid a roar of laughter from the other cells.
"Can't you keep still?" exclaimed Harris, withdrawing his head from thewindow.
A portly watchman usually sat on a stool outside the door day and night;but on this particular occasion, his services being required elsewhere,the bridewell had been left to guard itself.
"All clear," whispered Jack Harris, as he vanished th
rough theaperture and dropped softly on the ground outside. We all followed himexpeditiously--Pepper Whitcomb and myself getting stuck in the window fora moment in our frantic efforts not to be last.
"Now, boys, everybody for himself!"