Chapter XXX: Out of the Snare and on the Wing

And all the time they hunted me,
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And justice hounding far and wide
Her bloodhounds through the country side,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace.
_Browning._

“You know it was reported that John Weston was killed, shot dead, while trying to escape from Port Arthur. You will discover in the course of this narrative how that false report got out and how it secured his escape.

“John Weston was rather favored by the chaplain of the transport-ship on account, I think, of his youth and good looks, as well as his good behavior and the recommendation of the prison chaplain.

“When they were well out to sea he was taken from the convict gang into the chaplain’s room to wait on his reverence, though the office was a mere sinecure.

“He had a good time of it all through the voyage, with nothing at all to cry for but the lost company of his Lil and his brother, and the cruel imputation of crime under which he lived, or seemed to live, for really you do not believe that anybody in that ship could look at the handsome little fellow and take him for a criminal. You don’t, indeed!

“The Vulture was a very slow sailer, and we were five months at sea.

“It was the first of May when the ship reached Hobart Town.

“Here the convict gang were handcuffed, two and two, sent on shore under strong guard, and transferred from the custody of the ship’s officers to that of the authorities in the town.

“They were lodged in jail that night, and the next morning assigned to their work.

“And now John Weston’s troubles began. As a felon convicted of a capital crime, and condemned to death, who had had his sentence commuted to transportation and penal servitude for life, he was at once classed among the worst criminals and sent on to Port Arthur, the prison to which the most heavily sentenced of the British convicts were at that time doomed.

“True, the chaplain of the transport-ship had tried to interest the jail chaplain and the colonial authorities in favor of the boy; but all in vain. Chaplains have no authority and precious little influence in the convict settlements.

“So John Weston, who had done very little evil in his brief life, poor lad! was shipped off to that perdition of evil-doers—Port Arthur.

“It would be too cruel to harrow your heart with any description of his sufferings there, where every thing that could revolt his nature surrounded him.

“No more of that. One day he was sent for to the office of the commandant, where he received the first letter that he had seen since leaving England. It was a joint letter from Joseph and Lil, telling him of their settlement at Seawood on the New Jersey coast in America. Also of the good wages Joseph was getting, and of their hopes soon to come out and join him.

“Join him! How little they knew or suspected of his dreadful condition! They evidently thought that some chance of redemption had been given him, that he had been assigned to some easy duty as clerk, messenger, or bookkeeper in some of the officers’ quarters; that he would soon get his ticket-of-leave, and only a little later his free pardon! And they would come out and join him and settle down to sheep-farming as hopeful colonists, as the too sanguine chaplain had led them to anticipate.

“When the real truth was—too horrible to dwell upon!

“By the allusions in this letter, John Weston learned that there must have been several other letters that preceded this one, and had never reached him.

“He did not reply to it; he had no heart to do so. He preferred to let Joseph and Lil dream their dream of the imaginary future a little longer, while he himself dreamed of escape or of—suicide.

“Early one morning after this he was at work under the timber cliffs, where many convicts were employed cutting down trees, and lopping off their branches, many others in rolling the huge boles down to the beach, and others still—among whom was John Weston—were toiling at the hardest work, up to their waists in water, harnessed like mules to these immense logs, and hauling them to the distant ship-yard.

“So early was the hour at which they had been called to work that it was as yet scarcely light on that cool autumn morning.

“John Weston, driven to desperation by the misery and hopelessness of his condition, suddenly determined to make a dash for freedom or for death. While preparing to harness himself to the great bole to be hauled, he suddenly threw ropes and chains over his head, leaped for the deeper water, and struck out for the open sea. He was a strong and skilful swimmer, whose muscular strength had been greatly developed by hard work in the open air; he was stimulated by desperate hope, and everything was in his favor. The tide was going out and the sea was calm.

“If he could only reach that rugged promontory nine miles distant up the coast, a point totally inaccessible by land, and almost so by water also, except by such a desperate wretch as himself.

“If he could reach that point, climb that cliff, lose himself in that impenetrable wilderness, why, then, he might starve or freeze to death in time, might be killed by the bushmen, or devoured by wild beasts; but he could never be recaptured, and he might eventually escape.

“A forlorn hope! But he seized it for all and more than all it was worth.

“Ah! but scarcely had he taken his leap for life before the alarm was given, and shot after shot was fired. One struck him, grazing the tip of his ear. He dived instantly, and that gave the rise to the report of his death—‘shot while trying to make his escape!’ No more shots were fired after that! When he rose again to the surface he was so far from the shore that his small cropped head was lost to view among the billows.

“He never reached the promontory, however. His strength gave out, or was giving out, when he swam for a floating log that had been washed away from the timber cliffs. Around this he clasped himself, and kept himself up, as well as he could, to put off death as long as possible.

“He was drifting farther and farther out to sea, and his senses were becoming benumbed and his thoughts confused; yet still he instinctively held on to the log until everything else seemed to have left him.

“When John Weston recovered his consciousness he found himself in a comfortable berth in a ship that he afterwards discovered to be the American merchantman Buzzard, homeward bound from Calcutta to New York.

“Later on he learned the facts of his rescue. He had been seen floating on the log by the man at the look-out. A boat had been put off to his relief, and he had been brought on board the ship, in apparent death. All means known to science had been used for his restoration, and they had proved successful.

“In a day or two John Weston was strong as ever, and went before the mast a willing worker, in a short-handed ship, which had lost several of its men by fever while in port at Calcutta.

“On reaching New York he discharged himself, and glad, glorious with this realization of freedom, he started at once for Seawood to give Joseph and Lil a joyful surprise.

“Ah, how soon were his high hopes dashed to the ground! He reached Seawood the same day.

“He inquired for Mr. Joseph Wyvil. He was told the sad tragedy with which you are already acquainted—that Joseph Wyvil had been drowned in rescuing the son of a Major Hereward, that Mrs. Wyvil had died on the same day on which her child was born, and that the orphan baby-girl had been adopted and taken away to be brought up as his own daughter by Major Hereward.

“Poor Joe—to give him back his familiar name since his escape—poor Joe was nearly crushed to death by this blow. He inquired about Major Hereward, but could not find out his address.

“The rector, who had been with Lil in her last moments, might have given him the information, but he had gone to Europe for his health.

“At last poor Joe gave up the search for the time being, and contented himself, on the child’s account, by reflecting that she was in good hands and much better situated than she could be in his own possession, even if he, the fugitive convict, could dare to claim her.

“Satisfied as to his child’s fortunes, but heartbroken for his wife’s and his brother’s loss, the poor fellow started on an aimless tramp over the country, getting a job of work here and there, just enough to keep him from starvation; sleeping in barns and outhouses, and faring as hard as he had fared in prison, except in loss of liberty.

“One day he fell in with a company of strolling players, and he joined them, getting nothing for his services except his ‘victual and drink,’ and very little and of very poor quality of that.

“But, after all, it was the small beginning of great things in that line. At first he was only trusted with small parts; but people were pleased to say he was handsome, elegant and attractive; he soon developed dramatic talent, and was charged with the leading parts in whatever might be afoot of tragedy, comedy or opera.

“After awhile he joined a circus company, where he learned to ride and to perform wondrous feats of equestrianism. He studied to improve himself in all these arts, of singing, riding, acting.

“He belonged, in succession, to many traveling companies, and he went all over the United States, the West Indies, Bermuda, and into several of the countries of South America. It took years, but at last he reached the climax of his fame as ‘Mr. Alfred Ancillon, the World-Renowned,’ and so forth and so forth! But with all this, he never made his fortune, and never, in all his life, had a hundred dollars over and above his expenses; no, not even when he was the proprietor of the Grand Plantagenet and Montmorenci Combination, etc., etc., which had the honor of playing before the enlightened audience of Frosthill, while all the crowned heads of Europe were pining for its presence.

“It was while at Frosthill that Mr. Alfred Ancillon chanced to hear of poor Joe Wyvil’s little daughter, now grown to womanhood and married to her adopted father’s only son, and that since the death of Major Hereward, and the departure of Mr. Hereward for Washington, she had been living alone at Cloud Cliffs.

“A very natural and most eager desire seized him to behold his daughter. He went to Cloud Cliffs and introduced himself, fearing the while that she would fail to recognize his claim and would deny him.

“But as fate would have it, she had, only that day, for the first time, overhauled certain old letters and papers, which had not seen the light since the day she was born; and in them she had read the story of poor Joe’s life, and had even seen poor Joe’s photograph.

“So when he revealed himself she recognized him at once. And when he explained that he was a fugitive from injustice, and that the extradition treaty was in force, she readily took the oath of secrecy her father prescribed for her—the oath that has been the cause of so much misunderstanding, suspicion and misery.

“Among the papers that he found in the old trunk, which had escaped his daughter’s notice, was a diary kept by the old seaman, Zebedee Wyvil, in which was described, among other matters, the embarkation of Señor Don Louis Zuniga, with his wife, Donna Isabella Mendoza, and their infant son; and also the Marquis of ——, the brother of the lady, on the Falcon, homeward bound from Havana to Liverpool.

“The diary, suddenly stopped and renewed ten days later, described the wreck of the Falcon, and the distribution of the crew and passengers into three boats; commanded respectively by the captain, the first mate and the second mate. The Marquis of —— found a place in the captain’s boat, the Señor Zuniga, with his wife and child, in the third boat.

“The diary went on to describe the sufferings of the party in the last boat, and the subsequent death of the señor and señora, and the rescue of the only survivors, Zebedee Wyvil and the Spanish infant.

“This record, begun in a small pocket volume, was continued in similar books, and kept up to the end of the writer’s life. And it contained a true record of the Spanish boy’s adoption and education.

“Mr. Alfred Ancillon, thinking that he had the best right to this, took possession of it, without saying anything about it to his daughter. His silence on the subject was not premeditated, however, but the mere result of having so many more interesting things to talk of.

“When, however, Mr. Ancillon went to Washington to play at the Varieties he happened to hear that the Marquis of —— was minister from the Court of P—— to that capital. Subsequently he saw the minister in a public place, and certainly recognized a family likeness to himself.

“Then he laid his little plan. When his engagement at the Varieties ended, he did not go on to San Francisco as he was advertised to go, but sent a young man of his troupe, made up to personate him, while he stayed in the city and made himself up in his true, his only true, character, that of the Señor Zuniga, and so presented himself to the Marquis of —— as his nephew, the son of his deceased sister.

“The hidalgo was startled, amazed, incredulous.

“But the señor had his proofs, and these were corroborated by a strong family likeness.

“There was much cross-questioning, and close investigation. The marquis learned all the facts of the wreck of the Falcon, which, by the way, his own memory confirmed.

“He heard all about the death of his sister and brother-in-law, and the survival and rescue of Mate Zebedee Wyvil and the infant, Zuniga, by the Polly Ann.

“He heard all the details of the adoption, rearing and education of the young Zuniga by the mate, Zebedee Wyvil, and of the life of the youth at home, at college, and at sea, up to the time of his return from his voyage with Captain Pentecost.

“But he learned nothing of the runaway marriage, the trial for murder, the transportation to the penal colonies, the escape thence, the theatrical career and so on.

“In short, the marquis learned all of his young relative that it was expedient that he should know, and nothing more.

“And when he was satisfied that his nephew wanted nothing whatever from him, either of money, influence or preferment, or any other favor, and when he was pleased to see that the young man was fairly presentable in society, he graciously acknowledged him, entertained him, and presented him to his friends.

“You know the rest.

“But this must be acknowledged—that never, in his whole successful career as an actor, did the ‘world-renowned artist, Mr. Alfred Ancillon,’ undertake so difficult a part, or achieve so splendid a triumph, as when he caused himself to be introduced to his own daughter as the Señor Zuniga, and thoroughly deceived her in regard to his identity! For although, at first, she was startled out of her self-possession by what she considered a most amazing likeness, yet still in the end she was completely deluded.

“And now one word as to the fine art of successful disguise. It does not consist in coarse contrivances, like staining the complexion of a different hue or wearing a wig of different colored hair, or anything of that sort, which does not alter the form of the features, or the character of the countenance. It consists in very refined touches, invisible to the naked eye, and yet capable of changing the whole individuality of the face, so that, though it may leave a likeness, it will seem only a likeness. These superfine, magical touches are delicate strokes with a camel’s hair pencil at the corners of the eyebrows, the corners of the eyelids, corners of the nostrils and of the mouth, changing the angles up or down as may be required, and so changing the very shape of the features so delicately that the art cannot be detected. Then, with a slight modification in the glance of the eye, the tone of the voice, and the gesture of the hand, the transformation is complete.

“In this artistic manner Zuniga deluded everybody as to his identity, so that if any one had ventured to raise the question whether or not he was the man known to the play-going public as Mr. Alfred Ancillon, his intimate friends must have scouted the idea, and while admitting the likeness, denied the identity, because, and so forth, and so forth.

“You know the rest of the adventurer’s story quite as well as he does; so little more need to be added, except that he has bitterly repented all the sorrow his recklessness brought upon his daughter, and even upon her husband. It is not certain that his recovery of his proper name, Zuniga, will lead to any lasting benefit to himself or any one connected with him. As the only son and heir of Don Luis Zuniga, he would be entitled to large landed estates and much funded wealth, all held in abeyance. But courts of law would require more proof of his identity than it may be practical to produce, so it is very doubtful whether his estates can ever be recovered. That is all, friends.”

As the Señor Zuniga concluded his story, he arose, kissed his daughter, and took a turn up and down the room.

“You have been more sinned against than sinning! What a life you have led!” exclaimed Tudor Hereward.

“And I am not yet forty years of age! An age at which many men, and women, too, actually first marry and begin life!” said Zuniga, pausing in the midst of his walk.

“You must begin a happier life from this time forth, dear,” said Lilith, tenderly.

“I—I—I—think——Don’t you all think as we had better have luncheon now? Everybody looks so tired,” said Mrs. Downie, wiping her eyes.

Zuniga broke into one of his hilarious laughs and seconded the motion, which was carried unanimously.