Taking Tales Part 4

"Where is he, then?" asked the man.

Mark could not tell, nor when he would return.

"You know then what he is wanted for, Mister Page?"

Mark bent his head, and put his fingers to his lips, that the man might not speak before Mary. He then told her to go out of the room and look after Sam Green, whom she had not visited for some time.

"Yes; it's about the matter at Snaresborough, with the keepers, I suppose," said the miller. "But I don't know that he had anything to do with it."

"Hope not, for his sake; he'll be sooner out of limbo," said the constable. "But you'll excuse me, Mister Page, we must search the house for your son; we have a couple of hands to look out outside, so he'll not escape if he attempts it."

Of course Mark could offer no objection to this. The constable and his companions searched the house from top to bottom, looking into and under the beds, and into every cupboard and corner to be found. Then they searched the mill and all the outhouses, but no Ben was to be found.

Mistress Page went nearly into fits when she saw them. Mary cried bitterly, her worst fears were become real. When Sam Green saw them, a look not often seen on his face came over it, as he lay on his bed of pain--for his leg hurt him much.

"Ah! if the lad had been better taught he wouldn't have been in this trouble," he said to himself. "I might have done him some good, and I never did but harm."

These words showed that Sam Green was changing, if not changed. The constables were still in the house, when a horse was heard coming along the road. Mary, looking out, saw that it was Ben. She waved to him to go back, but he did not see her. She tried to cry out, but her voice failed her, and he had entered the court-yard and thrown himself from his saddle before he heard her warning. Then he understood that something was wrong. His horse was dusty, hot, and trembling. He was about to leap into his saddle when one of the constables who had been watching outside and had seen him enter the yard, ran into it and seized his bridle, shouting out to his comrades in the house.

Ben struck right and left with a heavy whip, and tried to break away; but the man held him fast. The other constables then coming out, he was secured. Poor Mary felt as if she should die when she saw Ben seized, but she could do nothing to help him. He was brought into the house, and handcuffs were put on his wrists.

"Now we have caged our bird we must be off," said the chief constable.

"Oh, treat him kindly," said poor Mary, with the tears in her eyes. "He is not as bad as you may think--indeed, indeed he is not."

"Never knew one on 'em as was," said the man. "But for your sake, miss, I'll do my best to make my young master comfortable, May be it's the first time he has been had up; and, if he gets off, may be it will be the last."

Mary could say nothing to this remark. Her mother, who had come in, wrung her hands, and cried, and then called the constables all sorts of hard names, while the miller looked as if he would have struck them.

More than once he glanced up at his gun, which hung over the mantelpiece. The constable looked at him, and observed--

"Say what you like with your tongue, Mistress Page; I'm accustomed to much worse than that; but don't you, Mister Page, touch me--that's all.

I'm in the execution of my duty--mind that."

The miller had to curb his temper, and to say no thing, while his only son was carried off a prisoner. Mrs Page wrung her hands, and bewailed her hard lot. Whilst out, she had heard of the murder of the gamekeepers, and with good reason feared that Ben was guilty of the crime. Ben did not speak. He could not say, "Rouse up, father; I am not guilty of the crime laid to my charge."

With handcuffs on his wrists, as a felon, he was carried off by the officers of justice. When he was gone, the miller sat with his head bowed down, and his hands clasped between his knees. All he could say was, "Has it come to this? has it come to this?" The miller seemed to be really humbled and broken in spirit.

The next day Farmer Grey called to tell Mary that he had heard from James, and that he was safe. More he could not tell her. She begged him to see her father.

"Rouse up, neighbour," he said in a kind voice; "you have still much to do for your son. Secure a good lawyer to defend him. The use of a lawyer is not to get him off, if he is guilty, but to take care that he is not condemned unless his guilt is clearly proved. The expense will be great. I will share it with you."

"You are too good; I don't deserve it, Farmer Grey," answered Mark.

"And yet I would not have my son condemned, if he can be got off."

"And I would not have him condemned, if he is not guilty," said the farmer.

Farmer Grey went into the town to secure legal advice. His satisfaction was very great to find that the gamekeeper who had been shot was not dead, and that the one who had been knocked down was in a fair way of recovery. Still the magistrates had committed Ben and three other men to prison; and even if the man who was shot recovered, if Ben was found guilty, he could not expect less than a sentence of transportation for fourteen years. Still the news he had to take back to Mary was better than he expected.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 6.

Neither Mark Page nor his man, Sam Green, had been in the habit of attending public wors.h.i.+p. Many years, indeed, had pa.s.sed since Sam had last attended. Now Mark was ashamed to go, and Sam could not. They had not either had prayers in their families, nor did they pray privately.

It seems strange that any men should think that they can get on without prayer. They find out their sad mistake when the day of trial comes.

These two men did so; had it not been for Farmer Grey and for Mary, they would have been badly off indeed.

Mark Page went about the mill, as usual, and got a man to do Sam's work; but he never went outside the gates; and when he was in his own house, he sat with his head bowed down and his hands between his knees, not speaking a word. Sam Green lay on his bed, and growled and groaned with pain, except when Tiny Paul, his grandchild, was with him; then he cheered up and spoke pleasantly, and even laughed at what the little fellow said or did.

Tiny Paul was a bright, merry little chap, with light curling hair and blue eyes. He would sing, and talk, and play, all day, and tell grandfather stories, which no one but Sam himself could understand. Sam smiled when he saw Tiny Paul, but at no other time. "If I had always had Tiny Paul with me, I don't think that I should have been so bad as I am," said Sam to himself; but Sam was wrong. Neither Tiny Paul, nor any other human being, would have made Sam a better man than he was. It was his own evil heart was to blame; that wasn't right with G.o.d.

The miller was one evening looking out from the window of his mill, when he saw in the distance a bright light in the sky. It grew brighter and brighter, and now flames could be seen darting up out of the dark ground, as it were. "It is a house on fire," said the miller; "whose can it be?" He thought over all the houses in that direction. In the day he would not have gone out, but at night no one would know him. He was curious to learn whose house was burning. It was not his way to think how he might best a.s.sist the sufferers. So, saddling his horse, he rode out towards where he saw the fire burning. The flames lessened as he got nearer. It was clearly only a cottage. He thought of turning back; still he went on. He soon after reached a cottage, the walls only of which were standing. A number of people were gathered round it. He heard cries and exclamations of sorrow. A man had been burnt to death, and another had been much hurt. Then he heard his own name mentioned.

He went a little nearer.

"It was all that wild young Page's fault," said some one. "If he hadn't wounded poor Thomas Harvey, so that he could not help himself, Thomas would have fled from the cottage and not have been burnt to death. And his poor wife, too; they say she'll not recover." The miller durst ask nothing further, but, turning his horse's head, rode back to his home.

The day of Ben's trial came at last. He was well defended, but one of those who were with him turned king's evidence, and swore to his having fired the shot which struck Thomas Harvey. It was proved, however, that Thomas Harvey did not die of his wound, as the surgeon was of opinion that he was getting well when the cottage in which he lived had caught fire and he was burned to death. Did he then die of his wound, or was his death caused by the fire? Had he been well, it was argued, he might have escaped, as did the rest of those living in the cottage; but as it was, his wife and a friend nearly lost their lives in trying to save him.

The trial took up the whole day. Some were of opinion that Ben Page was guilty, and that he would be condemned to be hung. Still, as it was not quite certain that Thomas Harvey died by his hand, he gained the benefit of the doubt, and was condemned to be transported for fourteen years.

Some thought his punishment light, but they little knew what his sentence meant in those days. The miller and his wife were thankful that their son was not to be hung. They were allowed to see Ben before he was sent off. They would not have known him in his yellow dress, and with his hair cropped short, and chains on his arms and legs. This sight caused them more grief than even the thought that he was to be sent away from them for so many years. Poor Mary also went to see him.

He shocked her by the way he spoke of those who had tried him, and at James Grey for leaving him in the lurch. Mary was thankful to find that James's name had not once been mentioned during the trial, and that he was not suspected of having been mixed up in the matter. In vain she spoke of religion to her brother. He turned a deaf ear to all she said.

With grief at her heart she bade him good-bye, and her grief was greater because he seemed so hardened and indifferent to his fate.

So Ben Page was carried on board a convict s.h.i.+p, with nearly three hundred other men convicted of all sorts of crimes. They were placed under strict discipline on board s.h.i.+p. Soldiers with loaded arms stood over them, and if any one broke the rules, he was severely punished.

Only a few were allowed to come on deck at a time to enjoy the fresh air and the sight of the sea. They had books, however; and the surgeon, who was a Christian man, taught those who wished to learn to read and write.

He also begged them to repent, and to turn to Jesus Christ that their sins might be forgiven.

Thus day after day the convict s.h.i.+p sailed on. Once they were in a fearful storm, and the convicts were all kept shut up below. The big s.h.i.+p was tossed about, and lightning struck one of her masts and set her on fire, and the water washed over her and carried away her boats, and a leak was sprung, and all thought that they were going to the bottom.

Some got into their beds and shut their eyes, as if they could shut out the death they thought was coming. Others tried to break on deck; a few broke out into loud, wild songs; and some, but very, very few, strove to pray; and even fewer still could pray. Those who put off prayer till death comes close to them, find, when too late, that they cannot pray.

Those who had talked the loudest, and boasted of their ill deeds, now showed themselves the greatest cowards.

In a short time the fire was got under, and the wind and sea went down, and there was a chance that their lives might be saved. When they were once more safe, most of those who had tried to pray forgot their fears and again hardened their hearts.

At last the s.h.i.+p reached the distant land to which she was bound-- Australia. The convicts were put into barracks, and then formed into road-gangs to make new roads through the country. They had first to build their huts, and then to work all day in the hot sun with pick-axes, and spades, and wheelbarrows. They were watched by overlookers, of whom many had themselves been convicts, and were very harsh and savage. When the day's work was done, the men were marched back to the huts, where they had to fetch water and firewood, and to cook their food. Day after day they led the same life; there was no change, no amus.e.m.e.nt; the sun rose, and the sun set, and the convicts rose to toil, but not for themselves; and lay down again at night, weary with their labour. Often and often Ben Page wished himself dead.

"Is this to last for thirteen more long years--all the best of my days?"

he asked himself.

Another convict asked Ben if he would try to escape. They might be shot, but that was better than living on where they were. Ben agreed.

They got off, and took to the woods--the bush it is called. They could only live by robbing. They watched a hut when the hut-keepers were out, stole some guns and powder and shot, and set up as bush-rangers--that is robbers. They lived on for some months in the bush, now in one place, now in another. They stole horses and food and clothes. It was a very hard life though. Every man's hand was against them, and a price was set on their heads. They were afraid of the natives also, and suffered much from hunger and thirst. Ben sometimes wished himself back with the road-gang. They at last did so much mischief that parties were sent out against them. Ben's comrade was taken, and Ben was wounded, but escaped by the speed of his horse.

On--on he went. He dared not turn back, for his foes were behind him.

Night came on, and he was obliged to stop, for his horse could go no farther. There was no water near; he had no food. He lay down and fell asleep, holding the bridle in his hand. When he awoke his horse was gone. He felt weary and stiff, and his wound pained him. The sun rose, scorching down on his head. In his flight he had lost his hat. His thirst was great. "Water, water," he cried for. Not a drop could he find. He walked on, and on, and on. No water; no signs of water. He sat down under a tree to rest, but he could not rest till he had found water. Again he sat down. He could walk no farther. A mist came over his eyes. He could not think--he could not pray. His throat was dry, his lips parched. He fell back with his arms stretched out, never again to rise.

Some months afterwards some travellers, in search of a new sheep run, came in the bush on the bones of a man. A bullet near the side made them guess that he had died of a wound he had just before received. In a pocket-book in his jacket was found the name of Benjamin Page; and a brace of pistols, a gun and powder-flask, were recognised as having been stolen from a hut by two bush-rangers, one of whom had been taken and hung.

Not till years afterwards did the Miller of Hillbrook learn how his unhappy son died--Mary never knew.

"Oh that I had brought him up to fear G.o.d! how different might have been his lot," said the miller. "It was I--I, that let my son be a castaway."