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Cutlass and Cudgel

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Nine.</h3> That day Jemmy Dadd brought him his food, and the next day, and the next. “What did it mean?” he asked himself. He could understand this man being the bearer while he was employed at the mason work; but when that was over, he felt puzzled at Ram not coming. Then he began to wonder whether the boy was ill in consequence of his fall, and he longed to ask, but, as everything he said to Dadd was received in gloomy silence, he felt indisposed to question the man, and waited, patiently or impatiently, till there should be a change. The change did come, Ram appearing the next day with the basket; but his father and several other men entered the quarry, and something was brought in—what he did not see. Ram came up to him with his basket, but, just as he began speaking, Shackle called him away, and once more the prisoner was left alone. He partook of his meal, feeling more dull and dispirited than ever, and a walk afterwards to the little opening, just big enough to allow of his arm being thrust in, afforded no relief. For he wanted, to talk to Ram about their adventures, and to try whether he could not win over the boy to help him to escape. The next day arrived, and, as of old, Ram came, with Jemmy Dadd left at the door. “He’s grumbling,” said the boy, “about having to help watch over you.” “Then why not put an end to it?” cried Archy, eagerly dashing into the question next his heart, for his confinement now grew unbearable. “How?” “Help me to escape.” The boy laughed. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?” “No; why should I?” “’Cause you made me have that fall, and my head’s been trebble. I’ve been in bed three days.” “I am sorry for you,” said Archy; “but I can only think of one thing—how to get away.” “No good to think about that. Father won’t let you go; I asked him.” “You did, Ram?” “Yes, I asked him—though you wouldn’t be friends and shake hands.” “What did he say?” cried Archy, ignoring the latter part of his gaoler’s remarks. “Said I was a young fool, and he’d rope’s-end me if I talked any more such stuff.” The midshipman did not notice it, but there was a quiet and softened air in Ram’s behaviour toward him, and the boy seemed reluctant to go, but, in the midshipman’s natural desire to get away, he could think of nothing else but self. “It would not be the act of a fool to set one of the officers of the Royal Navy at liberty.” “He says it would, for it would be the end of us all here. The sailors would come and pretty well turn us out of house and home. No; he won’t let you go.” “How long is he going to keep me here?” “Don’t know. Long as he likes.” That last sentence seemed to drive the prisoner into a fit of anger, which lasted till the boy’s next coming. The prisoner had been listening anxiously for the sound which betokened the visit of his young gaoler, and he was longing to have speech with him; but, telling himself that the boy was an enemy, he punished himself, as soon as the lanthorn came swaying through the darkness, by throwing himself down and turning away his head. Ram came up and held the lanthorn over him. “Morning. How are you?” Archy made no reply. “’Sleep?” Still no answer. “You aren’t asleep. Come, look up. I’ve brought you four plum puffs, and a cream-cheese mother made.” “Hang your plum duffs and cream-cheeses!” cried Archy, starting up in a rage. “Didn’t say plum duff; said plum puffs.” “Take ’em away then. Bread and water’s the proper thing for prisoners.” “Oh, I say, you wouldn’t get fat on that.” “Will you let me out?” “No.” “Then I warn you fairly. One of these days, or nights, or whatever they are, I’ll lie wait for you, and break your head with a stone, and then get away.” Ram laughed. “What?” cried the prisoner fiercely. “I was only larfin’.” “What at?” “You. Think I don’t know better than that? You wouldn’t be such a coward.” “Oh, wouldn’t I?” “Not you,” said Ram, sitting down quietly, and making the lid of his basket squeak. “You know I can’t help it.” “Yes, you can. You could let me out.” “Father would kill me if I did. Why, if I let you out, you’d come with a lot o’ men, and there’d be a big fight, and some of our chaps wounded and some killed, and if we didn’t whop you, our place would be all smashed up, and father and all of ’em in prison.” “And serve ’em right!” “Ah, but we don’t think so. That’s what you’d do, isn’t it?” “Of course it is.” “Well, then, I can’t let you go. ’Sides, if I said I would, there’s always Jemmy Dadd, or big Tom Dunley, or father waiting outside, and they’d be sure to nab you.” “But you might come by night and get me out.” “No,” said the boy sturdily, “I couldn’t.” “Then you’re a beast. Get out of my sight before I half kill you!” “Have a puff.” “Take them away, you thieving scoundrel!” cried Archy, who was half mad with disappointment. “You come here professing to be civil, and yet you won’t help me.” “Can’t.” “You can, sir.” “And you wouldn’t like me if I did.” “Yes, I should, and I never could be grateful enough.” “No, you wouldn’t. You’d know I was a sneak and a traitor, as you call it, to father and all our chaps, and you’d never like me.” “Like you! I tell you I should consider you my best friend.” “Not you. I know better than that. Have a puff.” “Will you take your miserable stuff away?” “Have some cream-cheese and new bread.” Archy made a blow at him, but Ram only drew back slightly. “Don’t be a coward,” he said. “You’re an officer and a gentleman, you told me one day, and you keep on trying to coax me into doing what you know would be making me a regular sneak. What should I say when you were gone?” “Nothing,” cried the prisoner. “Escape with me. Come on board, and the lieutenant will listen to what I say, and take you, and we’ll make you a regular man-o’-war’s-man.” “And set me to fight agen my father, and all my old mates?” “No; you should not do that.” “And you’d call me a miserable sneak.” “I shouldn’t.” “Then you’d think I was, and I should know it, so it would be all the same.” “Then you will not help me?” “Can’t.” “You will not, you mean,” said Archy bitterly. “You’d sooner keep me here to rot in the darkness.” “No, I wouldn’t, and I’d let you out if I could,” cried Ram, with animation. “I like you, that I do, because you’re such a brave chap, and not afraid of any of us. S’pose I was a prisoner in your boat, would you let me out?” “That’s a different thing,” said Archy proudly. “I am a king’s officer, and you are only a smuggler’s boy.” “I can’t help that,” said Ram warmly. “You wouldn’t let me go because you couldn’t, and I won’t let you go because I can’t.” “Then get out of this place, and let me be.” “Shan’t. It’s horrid dull and dark here, and lonesome. I shouldn’t like it, and that’s why I get mother to give me all sorts o’ good things to bring for you, and save ’em up. Father would make a row if he knew. I do like you.” “Get out!” “Ah, you may say that, but I’d do anything for you now.” “Then let me go.” “’Cept that.” “Knock me on the head, then, and put me out of my misery.” “And ’cept that too. I say, don’t be snarky with me. You must stop here as long as father likes, but why shouldn’t you and me be friends? I’ve brought you a Jew’s harp to learn to play when you’re alone.” Archy uttered an ejaculation full of contempt, and snatched the proffered toy and hurled it as far as he could. “It was a sixpenny one, and I walked all the way to Dunmouth and back to get it for you—twenty miles. It aren’t much of a thing for an orficer and a gentleman, though, I know. But, I say, look here, would you like to learn to play the fiddle?” “Will you take your chattering tongue somewhere else?” “’Cause,” continued Ram, without heeding the midshipman’s petulant words, “I could borrow big Tom Dunley’s old fiddle. He’d lend it to me, and I’d smuggle it here.” “Smuggle, of course,” sneered Archy. “In its green baize bag. I could teach you how to play one toon.” Archy remained silent, as he sat on a stone, listening contemptuously to the lad’s words. “I thought I could often come here, and sit and talk to you, and bring a light, and I brought these.” He opened the door of the horn lanthorn, and produced from his pocket a very dirty old pack of cards, at which Archy stared with profound disgust. “You and me could play a game sometimes, and then you wouldn’t feel half so dull. I say, have a puff now!” There was no reply. “Shall I bring you some apples?” Archy threw himself down, and lay on his side, with his head resting upon his hand, gazing into the darkness. “We’ve got lots o’ fox-whelps as we make cider of, and some red-cheeks which are ever so much better. I’ll bring you some.” “Don’t,” replied Archy coldly. “Bring me my liberty. I don’t want anything else.” “Won’t you have the Jew’s harp, if I go and find it?” “No.” “Nor yet the fiddle, if I borrow it?” “No.” “I say, don’t be so snarky with me. I can’t help it. I was obliged to do what I did, same as you’d have been if it had been t’other way on. Look here; let you and me be friends, and I could come often and sit with you. I’ll stay now if you like. Let’s have a game at cards.” Archy made no reply, and Ram sighed. “I’m very sorry,” he said sadly; “and I’d leave you the lanthorn if you like to ask me.” “I’m not going to ask favours of such a set of thieves and scoundrels,” cried the midshipman passionately; “and once more I warn you that, if you come pestering me with your proposals, I shall knock you down with a stone, and then escape.” “Not you,” replied Ram, with a quiet laugh. “Not escape?” “I meant couldn’t knock me down with a stone.” “And pray why?” “’Cause I tell you agen you couldn’t be such a coward. I’m going now.” No notice was taken of the remark. “Like another blanket?” No answer. “I’m going to leave the basket and the puffs and cheese. Anything else I can get you?” Archy was moved by the lad’s friendly advances, but he felt as if he would rather die than show it, and he turned impatiently away from the light shed by the lanthorn. “I’ll bring you some apples next time I come, and p’r’aps then you’ll have a game at cards.” There was no reply, so Ram slowly shut the door of the lanthorn, turning the bright light to a soft yellowish glow, and rising to his knees. “Do let me stop and have a game.” “Let me stop and talk to you, then.” There was no reply to either proposal, and just then there came a hoarse— “Ram ahoy!” “A-hoy!” cried the lad. “I must go now. That’s Jemmy Dadd shouting for me.” Archy made no reply, and the boy rose, set down the basket beside where he had been kneeling, and stood gazing down at the prisoner. “Like some ’bacco to chew?” he said. Then, as there was no answer, he went slowly away, with the prisoner watching the dull glow of the lanthorn till it disappeared behind the great pillars, there was a faint suggestion of light farther on, then darkness again, the dull echoing bang of the heavy trap-door and rattle of the thin slabs of stone which seemed to be thrown over it to act as a cover or screen, and then once again the silence and utter darkness which sat upon the prisoner like lead. He uttered a low groan. “Am I never to see the bright sun and the sparkling sea again?” he said sadly. “I never used to think they were half so beautiful as they are, till I was shut up in this horrible hole. Oh, if I could only get away!” He started up now, and began to walk up and down over a space clear of loose stones, which he seemed to know now by instinct, but he stopped short directly. “If that young ruffian saw me, he’d say I was like a wild beast in a cage. He’d call me a monkey again, as he did before. Oh, I wish I had him here!” The intention was for the administration of punishment, but just then Archy kicked against the basket, and that completely changed the current of his thoughts. “The beggar wants to be civil,” he said. “He is civil. It was kind of him to bring the things to amuse me, and better food. Wants to be friends! But who’s going to be friends with a scoundrel like that? I don’t want his rubbish—only to be able to keep strong and well, so as to escape first chance.” “Likes me, does he?” muttered the midshipman, after a pause. “I should think he does. Such impudence! Friends indeed! Oh, it’s insufferable!” Archy’s words were very bitter, but, somehow, all the time he kept thinking about their adventure, and the lad’s bravery, and then about his having saved him. “I suppose he liked that,” said Archy, after a time, talking aloud, for it was pleasant to hear a voice in the solemn darkness, even if it was only his own. He grew a little more softened in his feelings, and, after resisting the temptation for three hours, and vowing that he would keep to bread and water and starve himself before he would let them think he received their gifts, he found himself thinking more and more of the friendly feeling of the boy and his show of gratitude. Then he recalled all that had passed about the proposal to escape—to set him at liberty—to be his companion; and he was obliged to own that Ram had behaved very well. “For him,” he said contemptuously, and then such a peculiarly strong suggestion of its being dinner-time reminded him that he ought to partake of food, that he opened the basket, and the temptation was resisted no longer. Pride is all very well in places, but there is a strength in cold roast chicken, plum puffs, and cream-cheese, that will, or did in this case, sweep everything before it; and, after making a very hearty meal, the midshipman almost wished that he had Ram there to talk to as a humble companion in that weary solitude. “He’s a miserable, contemptible beggar,” said Archy at last, “but I need not have been quite so rough with him as I was.” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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