By Conduct and Courage: A Story of the Days of Nelson

“No, not in that way, but I suppose you could make up a face so as to resemble another.”

“Yes, sir, I was at one time engaged at a theatre in London in making up the performers, and feel sure that I could accomplish such a job to your satisfaction.”

“I have made a bet,” Will said, “that I could disguise myself as a certain man so well that I could take my friends in. Have you a sandy wig in your shop?”

“Yes, sir, half a dozen.”

“And whiskers?”

“I have several sets, sir, and I dare say one would be the right colour.”

“Very well, then, I will bring the man here to-morrow, and you shall paint me so as to resemble him as closely as possible. I don’t mind giving you a five-pound note for the job.”

“Well, sir, if I am not mistaken I can paint you so that his own mother wouldn’t know the difference.”

Will took a bed at the George, and at mid-day went to the inn where the coach stopped. The man was on the outside.

“Well, sir, I have found the Frenchman, and given him the letter, so that part of the business is done.”

“That is good. What is the number of the man’s hut?”

“Number sixty-eight;” and the man carefully described its position.

“Very well. Now we will set about the second part.”

When they arrived at the shop the barber seated them in two chairs next to each other, in a room behind the shop, and set to work at once. He first produced a wig and whiskers, which, with a little clipping, he made of the size and shape of the hair on the huckster’s face. Then he set to work with his paints, first staining Will’s face to the reddish-brown of the man’s complexion, and then adding line after line. After two hours’ work he asked them to stand together before a glass, and both were astonished; the resemblance was indeed perfect. Will’s eyebrows had been stained a grayish white, and some long hairs had been inserted so as to give them the shaggy appearance of the pedlar. A crow’s foot had been painted at the corner of each eye, and a line drawn from the nose to the corners of the lips. The chin and lower part of the cheeks had been tinted dark, to give them the appearance of long shaving. Both of them burst into a laugh as they looked at the two faces in the mirror.

“You will do, sir,” the man said. “It would need a sharp pair of eyes to detect the difference between us.”

“Yes, I think that will do,” Will said, “and to aid the deception I will, as I go in, use my handkerchief and pretend to have a bad cold.”

“Is there a basket-maker’s near?” Will asked the barber.

“Yes, sir, first turning to the right, and first to the left, two or three doors down, there is a small shop.”

“I want you at once to go and choose one the size and shape of your own,” Will said to his companion. “When you see one, set the man to work to weave a false bottom to it. I want it to lodge so as to leave a recess four or five inches deep. Have it made with two handles, so that it can be lifted in and out. How long would he be doing it, do you think?”

“About an hour and a half, I should say.”

“Very well; order the man to send it round to the George, wrapped up in paper, to the address of Mr. Earnshaw. When you have done this, come back here. We cannot go into the street together; our singular resemblance would at once be noticed.”

“Now,” Will said to the pedlar when he returned, “meet me on the road a hundred yards from where it turns down to Porchester; bring a stock of goods with you, and I will put them in my basket. Of course you will bring your pass, and the clothes you now have on in a bundle. I will change there; as far as I have seen it is very seldom that anyone passes that way.”

Will then went for a walk, and when it became quite dark he took off his wig and whiskers and went into the town again. Here he bought a long rope, very slender, but still strong enough to support a man’s weight, and a grapnel which folded up flat when not in use. Then he went to the George, having wrapped a muffler round his face as if he were suffering with toothache. His basket was standing in the hall.

“I shall not return this evening,” he said, “so I will pay my bill.”

Then, having bought a suit of ready-made sailor’s clothes, with hat complete, he put them into his basket, hired a vehicle, and drove to Fairham. In the morning at nine o’clock he walked along the main road towards Cosham till he reached the turning to Porchester, went down it a couple of hundred yards, and sat on a grassy bank till he saw the pedlar approaching.

“It is a foggy morning,” the huckster said when he came up.

“So much the better. I hope it will last over to-morrow, and then they won’t be able to signal the news of the prisoner’s escape. It is only in clear weather that the semaphores can be made out from hill to hill.”

The goods were changed from the pedlar’s basket to the one Will had brought.

“There, then, is the hundred pounds I promised you; I hope you are perfectly satisfied?”

“Perfectly, sir; it is the best two days’ work I have ever done.”

“Now for my clothes,” Will said; and no one being in sight he quickly changed into the clothes the pedlar had brought.

“We are more alike than ever,” the man said with a laugh,“but you will have to remember that I walk with a limp. I got a ball in my leg in the fighting at Trinidad, and was discharged as being unfit for service. But I got a small pension, and the right to sell things to the prisoners in Porchester Castle.”

“I noticed the limp when I saw you first,” Will said, “and there will be no great difficulty in copying it. I regarded it as rather fortunate, as when the soldiers see me limp along they will not look farther.”

“Well, sir, I wish you luck. You are the freest-handed gentleman I ever came across.”

Will hid his own clothes in a neighbouring bush, and then started, imitating the pedlar’s limp so exactly that the man laughed as he looked after him before starting for Fairham.

There were few people in the streets of the quiet little village as Will passed through it. When he neared the castle he overtook the fat apple-woman, who hailed him as a friend, and they walked together into the castle. They showed their passes to the guard at the gate, but he scarcely looked at them. They then separated, and Will, stopping now and then to sell small articles, made his way at last to Lucien’s hut. He had in his letter informed Lucien of his reasons for trying to get him free, and had directed him to be leaning at that hour against the corner of the hut. When Lucien saw the pedlar approaching, if all was clear he was to retire into it, but if there were others inside he was to shake his head slightly. As Will approached the hut he saw a prisoner standing there according to his instructions, but he gave the danger signal and Will passed on. This he did twice, but when Will returned the third time the man went quietly into the hut.

“There is not a moment to lose,” Will said as he followed, and he at once lifted up the false bottom and pulled out the rope and grapnel. He had knotted the rope about every foot, to assist the prisoner in climbing, and had covered the iron of the grapnel with strips of flannel so that it would make no noise when it struck the wall.

“Hide them in your bed. It will be a very dark night, and you must steal out and make your way to the middle of the south wall. There fling your grapnel up and scale the wall. I shall be there waiting for you. It looks as if it will be very wet as well as very dark, so you ought to be able to avoid the sentinel.”

At this moment he heard someone at the door, and adroitly changing his tone said: “You do not like these colours for a bed-quilt? Very well, I am getting a fresh stock from London in a few days, and I have no doubt you will be able to suit yourself. Good-morning!”

He then turned and offered some of his goods to the new-comer, who bought a block for carving out a ship, and some twine and other things for rigging her. When he left the hut he went about the yard till he had disposed of a considerable amount of his goods, and then left the prison and made his way back to the spot where he had hidden his clothes. On arriving there he changed at once, rubbed the pigment from his face, threw away the wig and whiskers, hid the basket in a place which he and the pedlar had agreed upon, with the clothes in it and the pass in one of the pockets, and then went back into the village, where he hired a chaise and drove to Fairham.

“Landlord,” he said, as he drew up at the principal hotel,“I shall want a post-chaise to-night for London. I shall be at a party to-night and cannot say at what time I may get away, but have the horses ready to put in at twelve o’clock. If they have to wait an hour or two you shall not be the loser.”

After ordering dinner, he strolled about the town till he thought it would be nearly ready. Then he asked for a room, and there changed into his naval uniform, which he had brought with him. He ate a good dinner, and then, putting on his cloak, started to walk back to Porchester, carrying with him a bag in which was the sailor’s suit he had bought for Lucien. The night was pitch dark, and the rain had set in heavily, but although his walk was not an agreeable one he was in high spirits. In his letter to Lucien he had told him that if anything should prevent him from making his way to the wall that night he would expect him on the following one. Nevertheless he felt sure that in such favourable circumstances he would be able to get through the sentries without difficulty. He took up a position as near as he could guess at the centre of the south wall, on the narrow strip of ground between it and the lake. He had waited about an hour when he heard a slight noise a few yards on one side of him. He moved towards the sound, and was just in time to see Lucien alight. He grasped him by the hand.

“Thank heaven,” he said in French, “that I have got you free, as I promised your sweetheart I would! Now let us first make our way up the village. I have a suit of sailor’s clothes for you in this bag; you can change into them when we get beyond the houses, and throw those you are wearing into the pond there, with a few stones in them to make them sink.”

“Ah, monsieur, how can I thank you?” Lucien said.

“I am only paying a debt. Marie risked a good deal to aid me, and I promised solemnly that I would, if it were at all possible, get you out of prison in return, so there is no occasion for any thanks.”

Few words passed between them as they walked through the village, and when they had left it behind, Lucien changed his clothes and disposed of his old ones as Will had suggested.

“It was necessary to get rid of them,” Will said, “because if they were found in the morning it would show that you had got a change, and instead of looking for someone in a well-worn uniform they would direct their attention to other people.”

They tramped along to Fairham, and reached the hotel just as it was about to be shut up, the stage-coach having passed a few minutes before. They had some refreshments, and then took their seats in the chaise. At once the postilions cracked their whips, and the four horses started at a gallop.

“We are absolutely safe now,” Will said; “they will not discover that you have gone until the roll-call in the morning, and by that time we shall be within a few miles of London. In such weather as this they will be unable to signal. Before we arrive I will put on civilian clothes again, and as soon as we have discharged the chaise we will go to a clothier’s and get a suit for you. There are so many emigrants in London that your speaking French will attract no attention.”

The journey was quickly accomplished. Will was very liberal to the postilions at the first stage, and these hurried up those who were to take the next, and so from stage to stage they went at the top of the horses’ speed, the ninety miles being covered in the very fast time, for the period, of ten hours. At the last stage Will asked for a room to himself for a few minutes and there changed his clothes. They were put down in front of a private house, and, having seen the post-chaise drive off, took their bags and walked on until they reached a tailor’s shop.