Why Henry Jones Did Not Go to Canada

I HAD a call from Colonel Fred the other day. Fred has been in the Southwest for the last three or four years. He went there as soon as his regiment was mustered out at the close of the war. I had not seen him since we parted at the Jersey City Ferry, before the battle of the Wilderness, — yes, before Gettysburg, before Antietam, before the seven days’ fight near Richmond, away back in that dreary past which seems now so long ago, and is growing so dim and shadowy. The events which he brought to my mind are more dim and shadowy still.

We had been chatting together over a hundred matters, when I chanced to speak of Charleston, S. C., and asked him if he had been there.

“Yes, Ned, I was, when I came up the coast with Sherman after we took Savannah ; and more than that, I found something there you may like to see.”

He opened a well-worn pocket-book and took from it a scrap of newspaper. It was simply an obituary notice worded as follows : “Killed on the 13th, at Atlanta, Major James Seagrave, 21st S. C. Regiment.” I read over one or two lines which followed, about “dying in the arms of victory,” “ the Vandal hordes of the invader,” and other like flowers of Confederate rhetoric, till my eye rested upon the concluding sentence : “ Major Seagrave is the last of his family.”

“Well ?” said I, not at all knowing what to make of it. Then the Colonel took out of another division of his pocket-book a carte de visite which he handed me. It was the half-length photograph of an officer in Confederate uniform. The moment I saw the face I knew it (I had reason to), and the whole story I am about to tell came back to me.

“ I thought you 'd know it,” said the Colonel. “ It gave me a start when I came upon it, though I had been through almost everything and grown tolerably hardened against surprises.”

“ Where did you find it ? ” said I.

“ O, in Charleston, in one of those fine old stately houses which our shells knocked so cruelly to pieces. I was strolling through the streets when the fancy took me to go into this house. It stood alone somewhat, and I hoped to get a look out toward Sumter and Wagner from the roof. It was fearfully riddled, and the work of devastation had been completed by plunderers. Windowsashes, balusters, even the stairs, had been torn away for fuel, and I had to climb up by a sort of Jacob’s ladder, more picturesque than convenient. However, I got aloft on to the roof and had my view. As I was coming down again, I looked into one of the large, dismantled rooms. Of course all the furniture was gone, but there was a heap of odds and ends on the floor, such as you would make by emptying a trunk of the rubbish one puts away. I just looked it over for a souvenir ; I would n’t take anything of value,— I never could do that, — but some abandoned trifle I like to pick up at such places. There was a little, shabby-looking book in the heap,-—‘The Poetry of Flowers,’ or some such title. The binding was all loose and some leaves had been torn out. I looked at the flyleaf. It had, in a school-boy hand, this inscription : ‘ Lucy, from James, Christmas, 18—.”I was just about to throw it down, when these two, the photograph and the scrap of newspaper, dropped out. When I saw our friend’s name here and his pleasant-looking countenance, I felt as if I had rather a right to those documents, if to nothing else. So I just took possession. I picked up a ragged veil also, which the owner could have had no further use for, — it was much more hole than veil, —but left it. I am sorry I did now ; it was made of that very fine linen thread which the Fayal women use, and it afterwards occurred to me that it had a history in connection with the other trifles.”

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

What that history was I then and there learned from Fred’s lips ; and the next day I bade the Colonel good by, and he went off to Omaha and I to my office in Jauncey Court, Wall Street.

After he had gone, I fell a-thinking over old times, and the matters which the sight of that picture had brought to mind. I do not think harm can come to any living being from my mentioning them now, but for a season they were very religiously kept buried in secrecy.

Well, in the year when they happened, the Colonel was practising law in a seaport town in Massachusetts. I call it Massachusetts, for as that has the most people in it of any New England State, the reader who may happen to have an idea of the true facts in the case will not so readily guess what place I mean. If I should say Rhode Island, for example, it would be like crying, “ You burn,” when the hidden article is just under one’s nose. So I say, in Massachusetts. I was a student in the Colonel’s office. I do not like to say I was studying law with him, because I am not sure that I was. But I was in his office ; and my status, profession, calling, style, or title was certainly “ student ” ; i. e. one who has an opportunity of studying. I had an opportunity of doing many other things, that I liked equally well. The Colonel was not so much my senior as one might suppose from our relation ; but he had gone early into the law school, where he graduated, while I travelled into various regions and saw “men and cities,” till quiet and a seaside retreat like Russellville became a pleasant contrast. There was a charming society there then, and Fred had an unlimited right of entry into it. Of course as an old chum he took me with him, and a nice time I had. It makes me sad enough to go back there and see all the fine young fellows settling into middle-aged business men ; and as for their wives, when they trot out for inspection certain miniature copies, who are already beginning to walk and talk like the lovely girls we used to dance with and drive to Aramouska and Hardhead Beach, why I feel my bachelor loneliness inexpressibly forlorn. So I go back there very seldom. But at this rate I never shall get to my story.

So to make a beginning; the time was just after the passage of the Fugitive Slave Bill. That event created no little excitement in our place. As in most other New England towns, the antislavery sentiment was pretty decided there ; but there was another cause which made the new law especially obnoxious. Owing to the peculiar religious tenets of a large majority of the inhabitants, or to its out-of-the-way situation, it had become a sort of city of refuge for the errant black population. The élite of these went into domestic service. The rich merchants of the old families were never without a full retinue,— Hetty or Matilda presiding in the kitchen, Solomon or Augustus serving you in the dining-room with unrivalled dexterity, respectfulness, and zeal, and Tom or Edward as proud of the family turnout as ever in his plantation days he had been of “ Mas’ Colonel Wilton’s grays.” There were many of them who had acquired considerable property, and, take them altogether, they were not a troublesome population. I think they suited the easy-going, unbustling habits of the place. A great many things were done well in Russellville, but nothing that I ever remember was done in a hurry. The chief business of the place was one which revolved in orbits of three or four years. There were spring and fall spasms of activity, but these were provided for by long and constant preparations. This suited the negro race well, for they, as a rule, do not like to be hurried. Another thing which suited them was that they encountered less of prejudice than elsewhere. The citizens had many of them sailed over distant seas and become familiar with all sorts of complexions. Even the stay-at-home inhabitants were wont to see the Maori of New Zealand and the Kanaka of Hawaii side by side in their streets with the hardly less swarthy Manuels and Josés of Fayal.

No wonder that the Fugitive Slave Bill caused a stir. With diabolical ingenuity its provisions seemed framed to afford the minimum of protection to the sought and to give the maximum of facility to the seekers. There was a good deal of wild talk among those most interested, especially when it was rumored that the law was to be first tested in our vicinity.

Fred and I debated the matter constantly. I do believe that I got my first clear idea of a legal principle by the effort I made to find a loophole through which to drag any accused fugitive. I owe my present valuable practice mainly to the waking up it gave me. Fred felt as strongly as I did, but reasoned more coolly. However, days passed on. One or two public meetings were held, of which came only rather vague resolutions. The Russellville people were not given to very vehement talk, except when going alongside of eightybarrels of best sperm oil in that utterly unmanufactured state in which it might be met with on the off-shore ground. Even then they usually did more than they talked. They were commonly diffident on occasions when mere talk was the current commodity. Matters quieted down, not however till more than one man of property and standing had delivered the dictum that “ on the whole it would not be best to try to take Paul Duffy or John Higgs away into slavery.”

These things happened in the summer time, when we kept the office windows open and the blinds closed. I remember that, because I was looking through the blind toward the harbor, on the very morning of the day when my story begins. I saw that one of the government coast-survey steamers had come in and was anchored directly opposite our front windows. I suppose the same thing had happened a dozen times before, without our thinking twice of it. This time it made me uncomfortable. It did seem as if she had her broadside bearing right upon the very blind I was peeping through. I was afraid Fred would laugh at me if I said anything, but I could n’t keep in, and at last I broke out with, “ Fred, I say, can that survey steamer be in here for any mischief ? ”

“ Nothing more than usual, I fancy. After standing off for a week near the old South Shoal, you would be glad to come even to Russellville, if you were a navy man.”

“ But, Fred,” said I, “ I do not like her looks.”

“No more does any one else, especially old Wheeler, her captain. He confided to me the other day that an uglier old tub did n’t float the seas, and that he was in mortal terror whenever the weather was heavy, lest she should n't float the seas any longer. She is bad as she is ugly, so you have warrant for your dislike.”

“ But, I say, I do feel that she means mischief about the F. S.”

(We always used initials when speaking of the thing.)

“ Nonsense, my boy ! she has been in here a dozen times this month ; just remember your law : De non apparentibus et non existentibus eadem est ratio. Things we don’t see are in the same category as things that are not; so just compose your mind over Fearne and do not bother me.”

I made the required effort, but as my usual seat was where I could look out of the window if I wished, I managed to see a tall man, clad somewhat after an un-New England and anti-Russellville pattern, standing at the corner opposite. Then he lounged down the street to the wharf. In a little while he came back talking earnestly (I saw him gesticulate) with two of the naval officers, who had just come ashore. I was on the point of breaking out once more, when one of the sheriff’s officers made his appearance in our doorway.

“You ain’t a United States Commissioner are you, Mr. Clay ? ” said he to Fred.

“No, I’m a notary public and commissioner for several States, if that will do ! ” replied Fred.

“ Not this hitch,” said the constable, and was off again in something of a hurry. Our constables were the only Russellvillians who ever did hurry, and were notoriously slow in serving process and arresting rogues.

I was trying to put this and that together, when there glided, rather than walked, —she came so noiselessly, — a woman into our office. She shut the door behind her nervously, and looked first at Fred and then at me. She was a neatly dressed and well-looking colored girl, what used to be called a bright mulatto ; and she was manifestly in great agitation. She seemed to know us two, and to be reassured, though I did not recognize her. Fred laid down his book, and offered her a chair; and presently she found her tongue.

“ O Mr. Clay,” she said, “ I’ve seen him, — Master Seagrave, with whom Henry used to live. Henry—Henry Jones was his boy, and he’s below on the street. You know me, Mr. Clay,— Martha Jones, Henry’s wife, — the waiter at Mr. C——’s. I lived next door to General Seagrave’s until I came North with my mistress. They got me away from her at Newport, and that was why Henry came North too ; and now Master James has come after him. I know he has, and I’ve come to you to see if you can help me ; for I ca-cacan't let Henry go back.” And here she broke down into a regular sobbing fit.

There was a red flush came to Fred’s forehead and his lips were set in an ominous way ; much as he must have looked when he led that charge at Mission Ridge, I fancy. He spoke very calmly and gently though, and told Martha to go directly up to Mrs. C——’s and take a note which he wrote on the spot. As soon as she was gone, he turned to me and said : “ I want you to take this notice of trial in Withers v. Sikes, and find Carter as soon as you can. He is the only United States deputy marshal in town. Tell Carter he must serve it before six o’clock to-night on Sikes. That will require him to start immediately, in order to get to Mittewam, and that will put him out of the way. The other officers understand very well that they won’t find it for their good to touch any United States writs. We shall gain twenty-four hours, and in that time a good deal may happen.”

After I was gone, Fred started at once for the Ambler House, where Seagrave would be likely to put up. When I got back to the office, I found Fred gone. I was a little vexed, for I had seen Carter, and had the satisfaction of hearing him say that he should not be able to return the notice into our office before the night of the next day. However, my business was to sit still and keep shop till one o’clock. So I picked up Fearne, but the “ remainders " in my brain were very remotely “contingent,” I fear. As the clock struck twelve I heard a step on the stairs. A tall man came into the office, and glanced about in a hesitating way. He looked like a sailor on shore ; that is, he had that peculiar way of wearing the clothes of a landsman, which only a sailor has. First, he asked if I was Mr. Clay. Then he took a seat, and said perhaps I would do as well. I told him I would take any instructions necessary, if he would tell me his business. He wanted to make his will. He was going to sea to-morrow,—boat-steerer in the Pallas, on a three years’voyage. He had only one person to leave his property to, and that property consisted of his voyage.

I said, “ Why not give an order on the owners, in the usual way ?” Then he told me his story. The intended devisee oi his will was his sister. She was here in Russellville, living a life of shame in one of the low dance-houses with which the Alsatia of the town swarmed. Fie would not give her anything unless she reformed, and he was afraid to trust her with an order. He had arranged with the owners to have a certain amount paid her if she would break off her evil life, but now he wanted to give her his all if anything happened to him. Then he went into some provisions. She was to have all, out and out, if she reformed ; otherwise, it was to go into the savings bank, and she to have it if she reformed later on. If she died first, then it was to go to the Seamen’s Bethel. I did not feel quite up to such a will, but I took it all down carefully, and said I would put it in Mr. Clay’s hands. He then asked me if I would bring the will to his boardinghouse at nine that night for him to sign. He was going on board at eleven, for the ship was out in the stream, and would sail at daylight.

I had a good chance to study his face well. He was tall and not badlooking, only with a scar on his forehead, just over one eye, running down into the eyebrow. He looked as if he had been rather “hard,” as we used to say. And he told me frankly of his own accord that he had been so, and that he should not go to sea any more, but for this sister. He had met her at BillyBrown’s, and the shock had made him resolve to lead a straight life. He had run away from home as a lad, and this sister had been better educated than himself. She had an uncle who would receive and provide for her if she would go back. He seemed to have a wonderful regard for her, though he was evidently cut to the heart by her disgrace. Said he: “ I told her if she would only go back to uncle’s (he is her uncle, not mine ; she is my halfsister), I would get work on a farm, and as soon as I could make a home she should come and live with me.”

“ But you’ve shipped for the voyage,” I said.

“O I’ll manage all that, — that’s none of your affair. If I send back my advance to the owners, that’s all right, and the bloody outfitter will make it up off the next ship.”

So I let him go, and went up to the hotel to dinner. In the hall by the Clerk’s desk stood Fred, talking to a man the very image of the client I had just left. He was dressed differently,— as a gentleman, but rather “ loud ” in the pattern of his vest and pantaloons. But his face, hair, whiskers, and expression were just those of the man I had left. There was the very scar on his face, cutting down into the eyebrow and starting up toward the temple ; only I thought over the right eye instead of the left. Fred merely nodded to me as much as to say he did n’t care to speak to me now, and I took the hint, — being used to Fred’s hints and ways, ever since we fraternized as Sophs, in Stoughton 16, in our college days.

When I got back to the office Fred was not there, but in about ten minutes he came in. I said at once, “ Was that Seagrave ? ”

“ Yes,” said Fred, “it was”; and there he stopped.

I saw I was not to talk any more ; so I gave him the paper of instructions for the will, answered the questions Fred put to me, and in wonderfully few words he got the matter all straight. Then he set to whistling and drawing the will. When he had finished he merely said : “ You go with me to witness it, and we can pick up two others at the boarding-house.”

Then he began to whistle again, till I got so nervous that I could stand it no longer, but went out for a walk. I came up behind two of the steamer’s officers, and overheard one of them say : “It will come off, for Jim has telegraphed to Boston for the marshal to come down in the morning train. I wish we could get the steamer out into the shoals again, I don’t like the business, but we shall have to obey orders. The old tub is enough of a prison-ship now without having to take runaway niggers.” So I turned the corner and posted back to tell Fred. Fred merely nodded and said nothing. When we shut up at six, Fred said, “ Call at my room at half past eight, for that will business, and don’t be late; I ’m not going up to tea.”

I was n’t late, on the contrary was rather early; and just as I got to Fred’s door it opened, and out came two men I knew by sight. One was a colored boatman, who owned a very fast yacht sail-boat, and was one of the most daring men on the water we had in all the harbor, strong as a lion and taciturn as the sphinx. The other was the notorious Bill Brown, — dog-fancier, prizefighter, gambler, and sailor dance-house keeper. Fred detained me for a moment, and then we started. He would not talk at first, but, as soon as I began to speak, interrupted me to give me instructions how to witness the will properly. I had witnessed dozens and knew all about it, but Fred went on laying down the law as minutely as if I had just come into the office, and was as green as a court satchel. I was beginning to be a little annoyed when we reached River Street. However, I had my revenge when we went into the sailor boarding-house, and were shown up into our client’s room. Fred had no sooner locked him in the face, than he turned perfectly pale. I had forgotten to tell him of the wonderful likeness to Seagrave. However, when Curwen — that was his name — spoke, the different sound of his voice seemed to reassure Fred. Sitting in the room with Curwen was a woman. She was tawdrily dressed, — like the women you see commonly about the low haunts of sailors, but was strikingly handsome. She had evidently been in tears. Curwen turned to us as we entered, and said huskily, “ This is my sister, gentlemen,” and then added : “ I ’ve gained my point at last, but O Helen, Helen, it is too late ; I can’t give them the slip ; there’s black Bill Baker and a dozen others of the sharks watching round this house, and I don’t leave it except to go aboard the Pallas. If Helen had only come round an hour ago, we’d have been off where all the land-sharks in Russellville could n’t find us. So just let me sign the will and I ’ll leave it with you, and poor Helen will know where to find a friend when I ’m gone.”

Fred produced the paper and then said : “ I must have two more witnesses. Your sister here is a party and cannot sign. The witnesses must see you sign it and must sign it in your presence.”

“What’s to be done? There’s nobody in the house I’d be willing to have sign this,” Curwen said ; “and the folks are all abed. As for having any shark up here, I ’ll go without first.”

Then the sister spoke for the first time. “ There is Charley Wilcox and Hank Smith both over at Bill’s, and they are sober enough to sign. I can get them in a moment.”

“ What ! ” said Fred, like a flash, — “what ! is there a way over to Bill Brown’s place from here ? ”

“ O yes, there’s an alley-way easy enough as far as Bill’s, but there’s no road out of that for men that have to get on board ship at midnight. You could n't get off that way if you tried. O John, John ! ” she cried, bursting into passionate weeping, and falling on his lap.

By the light of the candle on the table, I saw Fred’s face all at once clear up wonderfully.

“ Miss Curwen,” he said, and he could not have addressed a duchess more courteously, “ can we not get over to Bill’s place and have a look into the dance-hall without being seen ourselves ? ”

“ Yes,” said she, — and she seemed to gather strength and meaning from his look, strangely,— “ I can take you right into one of the bedrooms.”

“ And we can have any one in to sign that we please ? ”

“ O yes.”

“ Then,” said Fred, “show us over, please, and may be we ’ll see our way through this business.”

She took the candle and led us down a back stairway, and along a covered alley-way, and up into Bill Brown’s place. We could hear the sound of a fiddle and the shuffle and tramp of the dancers. The girl led us into a little bedroom, and blew out the candle as she did so. Then she opened a closet door, and opposite us was a window through which came the light from the dance-hall. It was covered with a thin stuff through which one could, unseen, see all that went on. The floor of the hall was some feet lower than that of the rooms, so that we looked down on the noisy crowd. At the other end was the bar, and in front of it stood Bill Brown, talking eagerly with a man whom I recognized as Seagrave. A fine bull terrier of pure breed was between Bill’s feet, and was evidently the theme of discussion. Fred turned to Helen Curwen and led her back into the room, and then, shutting the closet door, said scarcely above his breath : " I want you to go into the hall, see that gentleman talking to Bill, and come back to me. Take a good full look at him, but keep perfectly cool; can you do it? Your brother’s liberty and yours depends upon it.”

She was gone in a moment. I slipped to the hall window and saw her come into the room by another door, saw her thread her way with perfect ease and grace among the dancers, repulsing one or two of the halftipsy sailors who tried to draw her into the dance. She passed right before Seagrave, gave him a saucy smile and then drew Bill Brown aside and whispered to him a moment. Then lingering a little she contrived to catch Seagrave’s eve again and give him another look. The next minute she was back in the room. She could not speak, she was almost fainting, and her breath came and went as if she would break into hysterics. Fred’s voice calmed her.

“ Do you see your way now ? ” he said.

“Yes, I do, but there is no time to lose. I swore to John on my bended knees to-night, that, if he would only get me out of this place and take me home,

I would never go back to that awful life ; but John, dear John, for both our sakes I ’ll do no wrong thing, but you must let me manage just this once more, and then I ’ll be just a child to do whatever you say.”

“ Let her go, Mr. Curwen,” said Fred. “Men’s lives are hanging on this thing.”

She drew herself up, gave a sort of shudder, and the next minute she was back in the ball-room. I remained in the closet watching her. Fred drew Curwen into the outside passageway, toward the boarding-house. I saw her go up to Seagrave, and put a hand lightly on his shoulder. Of course I could not hear what was said, but after a moment she turned to the bar and made a sign to Bill. Two glasses of liquor were set before them. He sipped a little, but she made him empty the glass. I thought she would have gone on drinking, with him ; but no, she appeared to be simply talking. Presently she led him across the hall. I could see his face as he passed before my window, and his eyes were already vacant, and his step mechanical. By the time she got him into the room, he fell helplessly upon the bed. Then she lighted the candle, and signed to me to leave the closet and close the door. She took a long look at his features as he lay there, and a shiver passed over her whole frame as she murmured, “ So like John, — so like ! ” Then she summoned Fred and Curwen and me, and we just lifted him like a log, and carried him through the alley-way into the boarding-house, and up into the chamber. I think we all took in the situation, and there was hardly a word more uttered. “ I 'll go back to the room at Bill’s ; you won’t keep me long, John, we must be quick,” was all Helen Curwen said. The rest of us hardly spoke.

Then Fred and Curwen and I undressed the sleeper, — who lay like a log, the drugged liquor had such a hold upon him,—and dressed him up again in Curwen’s suit. We laid him on the bed, and then made our way down stairs. Curwen’s voice was heard bidding us good night. Then he called to the landlord to see the gentlemen out. These were his lawyers ; he had been making his will, and now he was going back into Bill’s for a spell, but when the boats went off, he’d be in his room.

It was then toward ten, and the clear air felt inexpressibly refreshing; the thought of it comes back to me as I write, — how good it was !

“ Now,” said Fred, “ I’ve done with you, Ned, to-night; just stop at Brace’s, the black boatman’s, and tell him I 'll not want him to-night, and then go up to the hotel, and if you ’re not too sleepy wait for me.”

I did so, but I got tired of waiting, and went to bed at last. The next morning when Fred came down to breakfast, he asked for Mr. Seagrave. " Gone to Boston in the early train,” was the answer, at which Fred expressed some astonishment. About noon, as we were walking up street, we met one of the owners of the Pallas.

“ Do you get the Pallas off to-morrow ? ” said Fred, “ I’ve a little matter of business with one of your boatsteerers, Curwen, and should n’t like to have him slip me.”

“ You "ll have to wait a while, then,” said the chuckling ship-owner, delighted at catching a lawyer napping. “ The wind came out of the nor’-nor’east this morning, and by ten o'clock the Pallas was clear of the land, and the pilot out of her. Curwen they had to take aboard drunk, though. By the time he turns out, he 'll be off on blue water.”

It was only the other day that I heard the finale. Fred never breathed a word of it till last week, when he told me all.

Helen Curwen took her brother out of the dance-hall as soon as the ship’s company of the Pallas went off, at eleven. Bill Brown was as much deceived as any one ; he never doubted but that it was Seagrave, and, as Curwen was shamming drunk, it was natural enough for Helen to insist on taking him home to his hotel. He only wondered why she did not return. She told him that she had got her brother shanghaied away to sea, because he would force her to return home, and I think, if Bill still lives, he supposes that she went away as Seagrave’s mistress. They went together, John and she, and are now living happily in the West. Where, is no matter.

“ But, Fred,” said I, after he had told me all this, " why did Seagrave never come back to plague us. I have been in a cold sweat many a night at the bare thought of it.”

“All that was cared for. I met the crew as they were going down to the boat that night. I told them that I had some papers belonging to Curwen to give him, and made one of the others pledge himself to watch the poor fellow, and give the letter to him as soon as, he came to. I said he might do himself a mischief if he did not get it. I never heard the particulars, but the letter was to the effect that he, Seagrave, had killed a man in a brawl at Bill Brown’s, and, as the man was very like him in size and face, he had been smuggled off to sea, and the man’s death concealed. He would get a letter at Fayal containing a draft, enabling him to get his discharge from the ship, and telling him if it would be safe for him to return home ; but he must let nobody know that he was other than Curwen the murdered man. I also told him that Curwen was the brother of the girl he met at Bill Brown’s, and had been trying to get her away from him when the affray occurred. I advised him to sail for England from Fayal, and then to go direct to Charleston. I did not sign this letter for obvious reasons, but it did its work. I told him again, in a P. S., on no account to let it be known that he was not Curwen till he was clear of the Pallas.”

“But, Fred,” said I, “how could you plan out the thing so skilfully ? ”

“ My dear boy,” said the Colonel, “ I did n’t. It was just like one of our battles, the thing did itself. My plan, up to the moment I saw the likeness between our client and Seagrave, was to get him made drunk at Bill Brown’s, and then be taken to Noman’s Land, and kept till we could get Henry Jones and his wife to Canada. I had arranged with Brace to take him, and had given Bill Brown a hint that Seagrave would pay up handsomely if he was made drunk at his house. I told him that a sporting bet between us rendered it necessary that he should be got out of the way for a week. I saw Bill that night, and told him that the bet was off, and Seagrave might go home when he got ready. My plan was a desperate one, but I was driven to it, for Seagrave had hinted to me that poor Henry was to be made an example of when taken back to Charleston, to stop any more running away.

“ How Seagrave managed to pass for a boat-steerer I don’t know; but he had been to sea in his own yacht a good deal, and could manage as a seaman indifferent well. When the Pallas came home, I put a question or two about Curwen ; but all the officers seemed to remember was that he was ailing most of the run out, and they were glad to discharge him at Fayal when he paid up his advance.”

I wish I could find out whether the Pallas was one of the stone fleet sunk in Charleston Harbor.