Part 5 (1/2)
THE GENEROUS GIVER
_The Story of a Jewish Money Lender of the Revolution._
Jonas Schmidt, one of the jailors of the Provost, the grim old prison in New York, where the British had confined their numerous French and American prisoners after capturing the city from Was.h.i.+ngton in 1776, stood before Sir Henry Clinton, the English commander, s.h.i.+fting uneasily as he fumbled his cap with his great, hairy hands. Sir Henry looked him over coldly with his quiet, keen eyes that cowed man and horse alike; then he turned to his companion, General Heister, Commander of the Hessian mercenaries, purchased by the British king and sent overseas to fight his battles.
”We can get nothing out of this man,” he said in a tone of cold contempt. ”He is either too stupid--or clever enough to appear so!--to answer our questions.” He nodded to the embarra.s.sed jailor. ”You may go now. But remember: if escapes become too numerous, I may find it necessary to use the gallows in the courtyard yonder and find another jailor for my prison.”
Jonas bowed respectfully and lost no time in putting the door between him and Sir Henry. Tory though he was, the old man hated the English commander with all the strength of his simple soul. He had been eager enough to secure the situation of jailor at the Provost, never dreaming of the horrors he might see there. Now, sickened with the prison stenches, with the half-starved prisoners wasting away with fever and dying before his eyes, he thought longingly of his little farm up in the hills where his placid wife and two stout daughters lived as peacefully as though the colonists had never rebelled against the mother country and hardly knew that the British held New York.
”Too stupid to answer,” muttered the old man, swinging his heavy keys, as he pa.s.sed down the prison corridor. ”But I am wise enough to hold my tongue when it profits me nothing to endanger the necks of better men than Sir Henry Clinton. Let him use his own eyes, if he will; mine will be shut when good Mr. Salomon chooses to walk abroad,” and he chuckled softly as he pa.s.sed down the dark, damp corridors.
Sir Henry's teeth clicked angrily as the door closed behind the jailor. ”Well?” he demanded of the Hessian Commander. ”Well, since this man seems to bear out the reputation for honesty you gave him, it seems that we are on the wrong trail. Yet I mistrust this Haym Salomon, though our friendly jailor declares that he knows naught against him. It might be well to keep a stricter watch on this Jew broker in the future.”
General Heister nodded emphatically. He was far too good a diplomat to quarrel with Sir Henry or to waste breath defending a man whom the Englishman mistrusted. ”I only know that he is a man of rare parts,”
he said, ”a man who has traveled much before coming to America and has become versed in many tongues. That is why, when I found him among the captured Americans two years ago, I deemed it better to use him and his talents rather than confine him with the others to rot and die of the prison fevers. So I have allowed him greater freedom than the other prisoners and found a place for him in the commissariat department where his knowledge of tongues and his Hebrew shrewdness have proved of great value to me.”
Sir Henry gave a short laugh. ”That Hebrew shrewdness of your learned friend may have proved of equal value to several of the French and American lads who have lately escaped from our prison. No, do not remove him--just yet. Give the rogue a long enough rope and he may find it dangling around his own neck on the scaffold out yonder.” He turned to the sheaf of papers before him, pus.h.i.+ng back his fine lace ruffles. ”Enough of Haym Salomon. He will be my care hereafter. Now go over these lists with me, Heister,” and he began to turn the closely written sheets with his long, nervous fingers.
At that moment Jonas, the jailor, was talking in low, excited tones to a man he had stopped in one of the prison corridors, a grave-faced man with shrewd eyes and a tender mouth which smiled now at the other's earnestness.
”I can only warn you, Mr. Salomon,” repeated the little jailor, ”that Sir Henry is watching you as a chicken hawk watches a tender pullet.
Many a time have I lost a choice fowl through the appet.i.te of those accursed thieves,” he added, half to himself, as his mind wandered back to his quiet farm. Then, pulling himself back to the present: ”I know that many things go on in this prison which--which might not suit the pleasure of his majesty over seas, but,” with a shrewd chuckle, ”I cannot be every place and if a lad or two does escape--well, may the dear G.o.d be as gracious to my one boy should he fall into the hands of your George Was.h.i.+ngton and his rebels. But, Mr. Salomon,” detaining the quiet man in the black coat who was about to pa.s.s on, ”do not take too many risks just now. Do not allow your kind heart to lead you into danger. For if you are discovered being--ah--too kind to some of our prisoners, I cannot save you from Sir Henry. Promise me,” laying one of his great, red hands on the other's arm, ”promise me, you will attempt no more 'prison deliveries' until his suspicions are quieted.”
Haym Salomon shook his head. ”I am sorry to cause you anxiety, my friend,” he answered, kindly, ”for you have been a good friend to me.
And I will try to be careful--if I can. But first there is a promise I must redeem. When that debt is paid, I will try to behave so discreetly that even Sir Henry Clinton will own his suspicions of me unfounded.”
”A debt to be paid!” The jailor looked puzzled. ”Why, you are one of the richest brokers in New York. If you owe any money, give me a word to your wife and I will see that the debt is discharged and your mind at rest.”
Salomon shook his head, smilingly. ”It is a debt money cannot pay,” he answered. ”I have pledged my word and that has never been broken, nor can I break it now.” He pa.s.sed on and the jailor looked after him, a look of mingled respect and affection on his fat, stupid face.
A place of horror even to a well man, the old Provost meant unspeakable tortures to a youth slowly recovering from prison fever.
Young Louis di Vernon, lying upon the dirty wooden floor, faint from the fever and sick for home, turned longing eyes toward the grated door which had not swung open since Jonas had entered with his breakfast of bread and water for the prisoners. But Haym Salomon had promised to come later in the day and the boy waited confidently, for like many others he trusted the quiet man with the shrewd eyes and tender mouth.
At last the door opened and Jonas enter the room, wooden bowls of a sticky, floury substance he called ”gruel” on his tray. He pa.s.sed between the men, leaving his bowls besides them on the floor. When they complained of thirst, he stopped for a moment to ladle out a dipperful of water from the wooden pail he carried upon his left arm, while now and then he stopped to hear some complaint of a weary man, to promise aid or seek to jest away the prisoner's melancholy.
”The broth too salt?” he repeated, gravely. ”How can that be when one of your rebel friends serves behind the soup kettle this month? Now if a poor Hessian or loyal Englishman like myself were cook, you might have reason to complain that he spitefully over-seasoned your victuals. Or is it that the cooking of your rebels is as evil as your politics?” And again: ”Too crowded, eh? Well, some folks are never satisfied and you'd be among the growlers, my friend, if you slept on down and fine linen. Why among the well prisoners, 'tis so cramped for s.p.a.ce that when their bones ache from the floor at night and they would turn, they find themselves wedged in so tight that not a man can budge till I give the order, 'Left, Right!' when they turn in a solid body and ease their weary sides. And you, who sleep in what they would consider a palace, poor souls, call yourself suffering for room.”
He had reached Louis by this time and his quick eye noted how flushed the lad was, while his eager glance kept turning toward the grated door. With an impatient gesture the Frenchman pushed away the bowl the jailor set beside him. ”I am sick of prison fare,” he cried, hotly.
”When I left France to follow Lafayette I never dreamed that I might die of prison fever in a hole like this. Take away your food; the sooner I starve, the sooner I am free.”
Jonas looked him over sympathetically, but could say nothing of comfort; instead he pushed the bowl toward him again, thinking, perhaps, the dinner might do something to restore the boy's peace of mind. But the prisoner again shoved him aside and sat up, his eyes straining toward the grated door, where some one now rattled the bars.
”Let me in, friend Jonas,” said the voice of Haym Salomon, ”and I promise not to steal any of the good dinner you have brought your fledglings.”
The heartsick prisoners smiled at the poor jest and more than one man turned eagerly as Jonas unlocked the door and admitted the Jewish broker, a prisoner like themselves, yet bringing with him the free air of the outside world. Haym pa.s.sed from one to the other, with here a smile, there a word of comfort or bit of quaint philosophy.
Into the fever-hot hands of one flaxen-haired farmer lad lying half delirious and dreaming of home, he dropped a few flowers plucked in the prison yard that morning; to a lonely, discouraged Frenchman he spoke in his own tongue, uttering a homely proverb that caused the homesick foreigner to laugh back into his smiling face. At last he came to Louis, and, with a nod toward the puzzled Jonas, lifted the bowl of soup and placed it to the boy's lips.
”Drink,” he commanded gently, but gravely. ”You must eat and drink and grow strong or you will not be able to go back to your sweetheart in France. I have not forgotten my promise to write to her for you, but first you must please me and eat. And, now, Jonas, some of your good clear water--as sparkling as the wines of sunny France. Did I ever tell you, Louis, my lad, of the little inn where I ate my first meal in your country and how the good landlord laughed at my blunders, for then I knew little of your tongue?”