Newton Forster. Фредерик Марриет

a sign, unperceived by all but Collins, gave him to understand that his appeal had been understood.

      "All's right," said Collins to Newton, as he quitted the grating. "We have friends without, and we have friends within." In about an hour some bread was brought in, and among those who brought it Collins perceived the person who had answered his signal; but no further recognition took place. At noon the door of the prison was again unbarred, and a surgeon came to dress the wounded men. He was accompanied by two or three others, deputed by the governor of the town to obtain intelligence, and the new acquaintance of Collins appeared as interpreter. While the surgeon dressed the wounds of Roberts and Williams, which, although numerous, were none of any importance, many questions were asked, and taken down when interpreted. Each prisoner was separately interrogated; Collins was one of the first examined. The questions put and answers given were carefully intermixed with more important matter. The person who acted as interpreter spoke English too well for a Frenchman: apparently he was a Dane or Russian, who was domiciliated there. He commenced with—

      "No one understands English but me—but they are suspicious: be careful.—What is your name?"

      "John Collins."

      "Comment?" said the French amanuensis, "John Co—lin. C'est bien; continuez."

      "What is your rank—and in your Lodge?"

      "Common seaman—master," answered Collins, adroitly.

      "Comment?" said the party with his pen.

      "Matelot," replied the interpreter.

      "Demandez-lui le nom du bâtiment."

      "What is the name of your ship?—how can we assist you?"

      "Terpsichore—a boat, with provisions."

      "Comment?"

      "Frégate croiseur Terpsichore."

      "Does she sail well?—at what time?"

      "To night, with a guide."

      "Que dit-il?"

      "Elle marche bien avec le vent large."

      "Demandez-lui la force."

      "What number of guns?—how can you get out?"

      "Thirty-six guns.—I have the means."

      "Trente-six canons."

      "Trente-six canons," repeated the Frenchman, writing; "c'est bien—alors, l'équipage."

      "How many men?—I will be here at dark."

      "Two hundred and seventy men; but many away in prizes."

      "Deux cents soixante-dix hommes-d'équipage; mais il y a beaucoup dans les bâtimens pris."

      Newton and the others were also interrogated, the names taken down, and the parties then quitted the prison.

      "Now, if we make a push for it, I think we may get off," said Collins to Newton and the rest, after the door had closed. "I never saw the prison in England which could hold me when I felt inclined to walk out of it; and as for their bars, I reckon them at about an hour's work. I never travel without my little friends;"—and Collins, taking off his old hat, removed the lining, and produced a variety of small saws made from watch-springs, files, and other instruments. "Then," continued he, "with these, and this piece of tallow stuck outside my hat, I will be through those bars in no time. French iron ar'n't worth a d—n, and the sentry sha'n't hear me if he lolls against them; although it may be just as well if Thompson tips us a stave, as then we may work the faster."

      "I say, Bill," observed Hillson, "who is your friend?"

      "I don't know—he may be the governor; but this I do know, for the honour of freemasonry, we may trust him and all like him; so just mind your own business, Tom."

      "He said he would be here at dark," observed Newton.

      "Yes,—I must prepare—go to the grating, some of you, that they may not look in upon me."

      This unexpected prospect of deliverance created an anxious joy in the breasts of the prisoners; the day appeared interminable. At last, the shades of night set in, and a clouded sky with mizzling rain raised their hopes. The square in front of the prison was deserted, and the sentinel crouched close against the door, which partially protected him from the weather. In a few minutes a person was heard in conversation with the sentinel. "He must be coming now," observed Collins in a low tone; "that must be one of his assistants who is taking off the attention of the gens d'arme."

      "Make no noise," said a voice in a whisper, at the outside of the bars.

      "I am here," replied Collins, softly.

      "How can you get out of the prison?"

      "Get the sentry out of the way when we leave off singing; the bars will then be removed."

      "Everything is prepared outside. When you get out, keep close under the wall to the right. I shall be at the corner, if I am not here."

      The freemason then retired from the grating.

      "Now, Thompson, not too loud, there's no occasion for it; two of us can work."

      Thompson commenced his song; Newton took a small saw from Collins, who directed him how to use it. The iron bars of the prison yielded like wood to the fine-tempered instruments which Collins employed. In an hour and a half three of the bars were removed without noise, and the aperture was wide enough for their escape. The singing of Thompson, whose voice was tolerably good, and ear very correct, had not only the effect of preventing their working being heard, but amused the sentinel, who remained with his back to the wall listening to the melody.

      Their work was so far accomplished. Thompson ceased, and all was silence and anxiety; in a few minutes the sentinel was again heard in conversation, and the voices receded, as if he had removed to a greater distance.

      "Now, brother," said the low voice under the aperture.

      In a minute the whole of the prisoners were clear of the walls, and followed their guide in silence, until they reached the landing-place.

      "There is the boat, and provisions sufficient," said the freemason, in a low tone; "you will have to pass the sentries on the rocks: but we can do no more for you. Farewell, brother; and may you and your companions be fortunate!" So saying, their friendly assistant disappeared.

      The night was so dark, that although close to the boat, it was with difficulty that its outlines could be discerned. Newton, recommending the strictest silence and care in entering, stepped into it, and was followed by the rest. Roberts, whose eyesight was a little affected from the wounds in his head, stumbled over one of the oars.

      "Qui vive?" cried out one of the sentries on the rock.

      No answer was made; they all remained motionless in their seats. The sentry walked to the edge of the rock and looked down; but not distinguishing anything, and hearing no further noise, returned to his post.

      For some little while Newton would not allow them to move: the oars were then carefully lifted over the gunnel, and their clothes laid in the rowlocks, to muffle the sound; the boat was pushed from the landing-place into the middle of the narrow inlet. The tide was ebbing, and with their oars raised out of the water, ready to give way if perceived, they allowed the boat to drift out of one of the narrow channels which formed the entrance of the harbour.

      The rain now beat down fast: and anxious to be well clear of the coast before daylight, Newton thought they might venture to pull. The oars were taken by him and Collins; but before they had laid them three times in the water, one of the sentries, hearing the noise, discharged his musket in the direction.

      "Give way, now, as hard as we can," cried Newton; "it's our only chance."

      Another and another musket was fired. They heard the guard turned out; lights passing on the batteries close to them, and row-boats manning. They double-banked their oars, and, with the assistance of the ebb-tide and obscurity, they were soon out of gun-shot. They then laid in their oars, shipped their mast, and sailed away from the coast.

      It was nine o'clock in the evening