The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 34, August, 1860

So the boat was made fast, the anchor was weighed, the sails were set, and the little sloop bent to the breeze and kissed the wave, as she rounded the headland and stood up the Bay, with Colonel George Talbot encircling with his arm his faithful wife, and with the gallant Cornet Murray sitting at his side.

They had now an additional reason for caution against search. So Murray ordered the skipper to shape his course over to the eastern shore, and to keep in between the islands and the main. This is a broad circuit outside of their course; but Roger is promised a reward by Mrs. Talbot, to compensate him for his loss of time; and the skipper is very willing. They had fetched a compass, as the Scripture phrase is, to the shore of Dorset County, and steered inside of Hooper's Island, into the month of Hungary River. Here it was part of the scheme to dismiss the faithful Roger from further service. With this view they landed on the island and went to Mr. Hooper's house, where they procured a supply of provisions, and immediately afterwards reembarked,—having clean forgotten Roger, until they were once more under full sail up the Bay, and too far advanced to turn back!

The deserted skipper bore his disappointment like a Christian; and being asked, on Hungary River, by a friend who met him there, and who gave his testimony before the Council, "What brought him there?" he replied, "He had been left on the island by Madam Talbot." And to another, "Where Madam Talbot was?" he answered, "She had gone up the Bay to her own house." Then, to a third question, "How he expected his pay?" he said, "He was to have it of Colonel Darnall and Major Sewall; and that Madam Talbot had promised him a hogshead of tobacco extra, for putting ashore at Hooper's Island." The last question was, "What news of Talbot?" and Roger's answer, "He had not been within twenty miles of him; neither did he know anything about the Colonel" !! But, on further discourse, he let fall, that "he knew the Colonel never would come to a trial,"—"that he knew this; but neither man, woman, nor child should know it, but those who knew it already."

So Colonel George Talbot is out of the hands of the proud Lord Effingham, and up the Bay with his wife and friends; and is buffeting the wintry head-winds in a long voyage to the Elk River, which, in due time, he reaches in safety.

CHAPTER IX

TROUBLES IN COUNCIL

Let us now turn back to see what is doing at St. Mary's.

On the 17th of February comes to the Council a letter from Lord Effingham. It has the superscription, "These, with the greatest care and speed." It is dated on the 11th of February from Poropotanck, an Indian point on the York River above Gloucester, and memorable as being in the neighborhood of the spot where, some sixty years before these events, Pocahontas saved the life of that mirror of chivalry, Captain John Smith.

The letter brings information "that last night [the 10th of February] Colonel Talbot escaped out of prison,"—a subsequent letter says, "by the corruption of his guard,"—and it is full of admonition, which has very much the tone of command, urging all strenuous efforts to recapture him, and particularly recommending a proclamation of "hue and cry."

And now, for a month, there is a great parade in Maryland of proclamation, and hue and cry, and orders to sheriffs and county colonels to keep a sharp look-out everywhere for Talbot. But no person in the Province seems to be anxious to catch him, except Mr. Nehemiah Blakiston, the Collector, and a few others, who seem to have been ministering to Lord Effingham's spleen against the Council for not capturing him. His Lordship writes several letters of complaint at the delay and ill success of this pursuit, and some of them in no measured terms of courtesy. "I admire," he says in one of these, "at any slow proceedings in service wherein his Majesty is so concerned, and hope you will take off all occasions of future trouble, both unto me and you, of this nature, by manifesting yourselves zealous for his Majesty's service." They answer, that all imaginable care for the apprehending of Talbot has been taken by issuing proclamations, etc.,—but all have proved ineffectual, because Talbot upon all occasions flies and takes refuge "in the remotest parts of the woods and deserts of this Province."

At this point we get some traces of Talbot. There is a deposition of Robert Kemble of Cecil County, and some other papers, that give us a few particulars by which I am enabled to construct my narrative.

Colonel Talbot got to his own house about the middle of February,—nearly at the same time at which the news of his escape reached St. Mary's. He there lay warily watching the coming hue and cry for his apprehension. He collected his friends, armed them, and set them at watch and ward, at all his outposts. He had a disguise provided, in which he occasionally ventured abroad. Kemble met him, on the 19th of February, at George Oldfield's, on Elk River; and although the Colonel was disguised in a flaxen wig, and in other ways, Kemble says he knew him by hearing him cough in the night, in a room adjoining that in which Kemble slept. Whilst this witness was at Oldfield's, "Talbot's shallop," he says, "was busking and turning before Oldfield's landing for several hours." The roads leading towards Talbot's house were all guarded by his friends, and he had a report made to him of every vessel that arrived in the river. By way of more permanent concealment, until the storm should blow over, he had made preparations to build himself a cabin, somewhere in the woods out of the range of the thoroughfares of the district. When driven by a pressing emergency which required more than ordinary care to prevent his apprehension, he betook himself to the cave on the Susquehanna, where, most probably, with a friend or two,—Cornet Murray I hope was one of them,—he lay perdu for a few days at a time, and then ventured back to speak a word of comfort and encouragement to the faithful wife who kept guard at home.

In this disturbed and anxious alternation of concealment and flight Talbot passed the winter, until about the 25th of April, when, probably upon advice of friends, he voluntarily surrendered himself to the Council at St. Mary's, and was committed for trial in the provincial Court. The fact of the surrender was communicated to Lord Effingham by the Council, with a request that he would send the witnesses to Maryland to appear at his trial. Hereupon arose another correspondence with his Lordship, which is worthy of a moment's notice. Lord Effingham has lost nothing of his arrogance. He says, on the 12th of May, 1685, "I am so far from answering your desires, that I do hereby demand Colonel Talbot as my prisoner, in the King of England's name, and that you do forthwith convey him into Virginia. And to this my demand I expect your ready performance and compliance, upon your allegiance to his Majesty."

I am happy to read the answer to this insolent letter, in which it will be seen that the spirit of Maryland was waked up on the occasion to its proper voice.—It is necessary to say, by way of explanation to one point in this answer, that the Governor of Virginia had received the news of the accession and proclamation of James the Second, and had not communicated it to the Council in Maryland. The Council give an answer at their leisure, having waited till the 1st of June, when they write to his Lordship, protesting against Virginia's exercising any superintendence over Maryland, and peremptorily refusing to deliver Talbot. They tell him "that we are desirous and conclude to await his Majesty's resolution, [in regard to the prisoner,] which we question not will be agreeable to his Lordship's Charter, and, consequently, contrary to your expectations. In the mean time we cannot but resent in some measure, for we are willing to let you see that we observe, the small notice you seem to take of this Government, (contrary to that amicable correspondence so often promised, and expected by us,) in not holding us worthy to be advised of his Majesty's being proclaimed, without which, certainly, we have not been enabled to do our duty in that particular. Such advice would have been gratefully received by your Excellency's humble servants." Thanks, Colonels Darnall and Digges and you other Colonels and Majors, for this plain outspeaking of the old Maryland heart against the arrogance of the "Right Honorable Lord Howard, Baron of Effingham, Captain General and Chief Governor of his Majesty's Colony of Virginia," as he styles himself! I am glad to see this change of tone, since that first letter of obsequious submission.

Perhaps this change of tone may have had some connection with the recent change on the throne, in which the accession of a Catholic monarch may have given new courage to Maryland, and abated somewhat the confidence of Virginia. If so, it was but a transitory hope, born to a sad disappointment.

The documents afford but little more information.

Lord Baltimore, being in London, appears to have interceded with the King for some favor to Talbot, and writes to the Council on the third of July, "that it formerly was and still is the King's pleasure, that Talbot shall be brought over, in the Quaker Ketch, to England, to receive his trial there; and that, in order thereto, his Majesty had sent his commands to the Governor of Virginia to deliver him to Captain Allen, commander of said ketch, who is to bring him over." The Proprietary therefore directs his Council to send the prisoner to the Governor of Virginia, "to the end that his Majesty's pleasure may be fulfilled."

This letter was received on the 7th of October, 1685, and Talbot was accordingly sent, under the charge of Gilbert Clarke and a proper guard, to Lord Effingham, who gives Clarke a regular business receipt, as if he had brought him a hogshead of tobacco, and appends to it a short apologetic explanation of his previous rudeness, which we may receive as another proof of his distrust of the favor of the new monarch. "I had not been so urgent," he says, "had I not had advices from England, last April, of the measures that were taken there concerning him."

After this my chronicle is silent. We have no further tidings of Talbot. The only hint for a conjecture is the marginal note of "The Landholder's Assistant," got from Chalmers: "He was, I believe," says the note, "tried and convicted, and finally pardoned by James the Second." This is probably enough. For I suppose him to have been of the same family with that Earl of Tyrconnel equally distinguished for his influence with James the Second as for his infamous life and character, who held at this period unbounded sway at the English Court. I hope, for the honor of our hero, that he preserved no family-likeness to that false-hearted, brutal, and violent favorite, who is made immortal in Macaulay's pages as Lying Dick Talbot. Through his intercession his kinsman may have been pardoned, or even never brought to trial.

CHAPTER X

CONCLUSION

This is the end of my story. But, like all stories, it requires that some satisfaction should be given to the reader in regard to the dramatic proprieties. We have our several heroes to dispose of. Phelim Murray and Hugh Riley, who had both been arrested by the Council to satisfy public opinion as to their complicity in the plot for the escape, were both honorably discharged,—I suppose being found entirely innocent! Roger Skreene swore himself black and blue, as the phrase is, that he had not the least suspicion of the business in which he was engaged; and so he was acquitted! I am also glad to be able to say that our gallant Cornet Murray, in the winding-up of this business, was promoted by the Council to a captaincy of cavalry, and put in command of Christiana Fort and its neighborhood, to keep that formidable Quaker, William Penn, at a respectful distance. It would gratify me still more, if I could find warrant to add, that the Cornet enjoyed himself, and married the lady of his choice, with whom he has, unknown to us, been violently in love during these adventures, and that they lived happily together for many years. I hope this was so,—although the chronicle does not allow one to affirm it,—it being but a proper conclusion to such a romance as I have plucked out of our history.

And so I have traced the tradition of the Cave to the end. What I have been able to certify furnishes the means of a shrewd estimate of the average amount of truth which popular traditions generally contain. There is always a fact at the bottom, lying under a superstructure of fiction,—truth enough to make the pursuit worth following. Talbot did not live in the Cave, but fled there occasionally for concealment. He had no hawks with him, but bred them in his own mews on the Elk River. The birds seen in after times were some of this stock, and not the solitary pair they were supposed to be. I dare say an expert naturalist would find many specimens of the same breed now in that region. But let us not be too critical on the tradition, which has led us into a quest through which I have been able to supply what I hope will be found to be a pleasant insight into that little world of action and passion,—with its people, its pursuits, and its gossips,—that, more than one hundred and seventy years ago, inhabited the beautiful banks of St. Mary's River, and wove the web of our early Maryland history.

POSTSCRIPT

I have another link in the chain of Talbot's history, furnished me by a friend in Virginia. It comes since I have completed my narrative, and very accurately confirms the conjecture of Chalmers, quoted in the note of "The Landholder's Assistant." "As for Colonel Talbot, he was conveyed for trial to Virginia, from whence he made his escape, and, after being retaken, and, I believe, tried and convicted, was finally pardoned by King James II." This is an extract from the note. It is now ascertained that Talbot was not taken to England for trial, as Lord Baltimore, in his letter of the 6th of July, 1685, affirmed it was the King's pleasure he should be; but that he was tried and convicted in Virginia on the 22d of April, 1686, and, on the 26th of the same month, reprieved by order of the King; after which we may presume he received a full pardon, and perhaps was taken to England in obedience to the royal command, to await it there. The conviction and reprieve are recorded in a folio of the State Records of Virginia at Richmond, on a mutilated and scarcely legible sheet,—a copy of which I present to my reader with all its obliterations and broken syllables and sad gashes in the text, for his own deciphering. The MS. is in keeping with the whole story, and may be looked upon as its appropriate emblem. The story has been brought to light by chance, and has been rendered intelligible by close study and interpretation of fragmentary and widely separated facts, capable of being read only by one conversant with the text of human affairs, and who has the patience to grope through the trackless intervals of time, and the skill to supply the lost words and syllables of history by careful collation with those which are spared. How faithfully this accidentally found MS. typifies such a labor, the reader may judge from the literal copy of it I now offer to his perusal.

[Transcriber's note: Gaps in the text below are signified with an asterisk.]

By his Excellency Whereas his most Sacred Majesty has been Graciously pleased by his Royall Com'ands to Direct and Com'and Me ffrancis Lord Howard of Effingham his Maj'ties Lieut and Gov'r. Gen'll.

of Virginia that if George Talbott Esq'r. upon his Tryall should be found Guilty of Killing M'r Christopher Rowsby, that Execution should be suspended untill his Majesties pleasure should be further signified unto Me; And forasmuch as the sd George Talbott was Indicted upon the Statute of Stabbing and hath Received a full and Legall Tryall in open Court on y'e Twentieth and One and Twentieth dayes of this Instant Aprill, before his Majesties Justices of Oyer and Terminer, and found Guilty of y'e aforesaid fact and condemned for the Same, I, therefore, *ffrancis Lord Howard, Baron of *ffingham, his Majesties Lieu't and Gov'r.

Gen'll. Of Virginia, by Virtue of *aj'ties Royall Com'ands to Me given there * doe hereby Suspend *tion of the Sentence of death * his Maj'ties Justices

* Terminer on the * till his Majesties

*erein be * nor any

* fail as yo* uttmost

* and for y'r soe doing this sh*

Given under my and * Seale the 26th dayof Apri*

EFFINGHAM

To his Majesties Justices of Oyer and Terminer.

Recordatur E Chillon Gen'l Car*

[Endorsed]

Talbott's Repreif from L'd Howard 1686 for Killing Ch'r. Rousby Examined Sept. 24th 26th Aprill 1686 Sentence of ag'* Col Ta Suspended Aprill 26* 1*86

PRINCE ADEB

In Sana, oh, in Sana, God, the Lord,Was very kind and merciful to me!Forth from the Desert in my rags I came,Weary and sore of foot. I saw the spiresAnd swelling bubbles of the golden domesRise through the trees of Sana, and my heartGrew great within me with the strength of God;And I cried out, "Now shall I right myself,—I, Adeb the Despised,—for God is just!"There he who wronged my father dwelt in peace,—My warlike father, who, when gray hairs creptAround his forehead, as on LebanonThe whitening snows of winter, was betrayedTo the sly Imam, and his tented wealthSwept from him, 'twixt the roosting of the cockAnd his first crowing,—in a single night:And I, poor Adeb, sole of all my race,Smeared with my father's and my kinsmen's blood,Fled through the Desert, till one day a tribeOf hungry Bedouins found me in the sand,Half mad with famine, and they took me up,And made a slave of me,—of me, a prince!All was fulfilled at last. I fled from them,In rags and sorrow. Nothing but my heart,Like a strong swimmer, bore me up againstThe howling sea of my adversity.At length o'er Sana, in the act to swoop,I stood like a young eagle on a crag.The traveller passed me with suspicious fear:I asked for nothing; I was not a thief.The lean dogs snuffed around me: my lank bones,Fed on the berries and the crusted pools,Were a scant morsel. Once, a brown-skinned girlCalled me a little from the common path,And gave me figs and barley in a bag.I paid her with a kiss, with nothing more,And she looked glad; for I was beautiful,And virgin as a fountain, and as cold.I stretched her bounty, pecking, like a bird,Her figs and barley, till my strength returned.So when rich Sana lay beneath my eyes,My foot was as the leopard's, and my handAs heavy as the lion's brandished paw;And underneath my burnished skin the veinsAnd stretching muscles played, at every step,In wondrous motion. I was very strong.I looked upon my body, as a birdThat bills his feathers ere he takes to flight,—I, watching over Sana. Then I prayed;And on a soft stone, wetted in the brook,Ground my long knife; and then I prayed again.God heard my voice, preparing all for me,As, softly stepping down the hills,I saw the Imam's summer-palace all ablazeIn the last flash of sunset. Every fountWas spouting fire, and all the orange-treesBore blazing coals, and from the marble wallsAnd gilded spires and columns, strangely wrought,Glared the red light, until my eyes were painedWith the fierce splendor. Till the night grew thick,I lay within the bushes, next the door,Still as a serpent, as invisible.The guard hung round the portal. Man by manThey dropped away, save one lone sentinel,And on his eyes God's finger lightly fell;He slept half standing. Like a summer windThat threads the grove, yet never turns a leaf,I stole from shadow unto shadow forth;Crossed all the marble court-yard, swung the door,Like a soft gust, a little way ajar,—My body's narrow width, no more,—and stoodBeneath the cresset in the painted hall.I marvelled at the riches of my foe;I marvelled at God's ways with wicked men.Then I reached forth, and took God's waiting hand:And so He led me over mossy floors,Flowered with the silken summer of Shirar,Straight to the Imam's chamber. At the doorStretched a brawn eunuch, blacker than my eyes:His woolly head lay like the Kaba-stoneIn Mecca's mosque, as silent and as huge.I stepped across it, with my pointed knifeJust missing a full vein along his neck,And, pushing by the curtains, there I was,—I, Adeb the Despised,—upon the spotThat, next to heaven, I longed for most of all.I could have shouted for the joy in me.Fierce pangs and flashes of bewildering lightLeaped through my brain and danced before my eyes.So loud my heart beat that I feared its soundWould wake the sleeper; and the bubbling bloodChoked in my throat, till, weaker than a child,I reeled against a column, and there hungIn a blind stupor. Then I prayed again;And, sense by sense, I was made whole once more.I touched myself; I was the same; I knewMyself to be lone Adeb, young and strong,With nothing but a stride of empty airBetween me and God's justice. In a sleep,Thick with the fumes of the accursed grape,Sprawled the false Imam. On his shaggy breast,Like a white lily heaving on the tideOf some foul stream, the fairest woman sleptThese roving eyes have ever looked upon.Almost a child, her bosom barely showedThe change beyond her girlhood. All her charmsWere budding, but half opened; for I sawNot only beauty wondrous in itself,But possibility of more to beIn the full process of her blooming days.I gazed upon her, and my heart grew soft,As a parched pasture with the dew of heaven.While thus I gazed, she smiled, and slowly raisedThe long curve of her lashes; and we lookedEach upon each in wonder, not alarm,—Not eye to eye, but soul to soul, we heldEach other for a moment. All her lifeSeemed centred in the circle of her eyes.She stirred no limb; her long-drawn, equal breathSwelled out and ebbed away beneath her breast,In calm unbroken. Not a sign of fearTouched the faint color on her oval cheek,Or pinched the arches of her tender mouth.She took me for a vision, and she layWith her sleep's smile unaltered, as in doubtWhether real life had stolen into her dreams,Or dreaming stretched into her outer life.I was not graceless to a woman's eyes.The girls of Damar paused to see me pass,I walking in my rags, yet beautiful.One maiden said, "He has a prince's air!"I am a prince; the air was all my own.So thought the lily on the Imam's breast;And lightly as a summer mist, that liftsBefore the morning, so she floated up,Without a sound or rustle of a robe,From her coarse pillow, and before me stoodWith asking eyes. The Imam never moved.A stride and blow were all my need, and theyWere wholly in my power. I took her hand,I held a warning finger to my lips,And whispered in her small expectant ear,"Adeb, the son of Akem!" She repliedIn a low murmur, whose bewildering soundAlmost lulled wakeful me to sleep, and sealedThe sleeper's lids in tenfold slumber, "Prince,Lord of the Imam's life and of my heart,Take all thou seest,—it is thy right, I know,—But spare the Imam for thy own soul's sake!"Then I arrayed me in a robe of state,Shining with gold and jewels; and I boundIn my long turban gems that might have boughtThe lands 'twixt Babelmandeb and Sahan.I girt about me, with a blazing belt,A scimitar o'er which the sweating smithsIn far Damascus hammered for long years,Whose hilt and scabbard shot a trembling lightFrom diamonds and rubies. And she smiled,As piece by piece I put the treasures on,To see me look so fair,—in pride she smiled.I hung long purses at my side. I scooped,From off a table, figs and dates and rice,And bound them to my girdle in a sack.Then over all I flung a snowy cloak,And beckoned to the maiden. So she stoleForth like my shadow, past the sleeping wolfWho wronged my father, o'er the woolly headOf the swart eunuch, down the painted court,And by the sentinel who standing slept.Strongly against the portal, through my rags,—My old, base rags,—and through the maiden's veil,I pressed my knife,—upon the wooden hiltWas "Adeb, son of Akem," carved by meIn my long slavehood,—as a passing signTo wait the Imam's waking. Shadows castFrom two high-sailing clouds upon the sandPassed not more noiseless than we two, as one,Glided beneath the moonlight, till I smeltThe fragrance of the stables. As I slidThe wide doors open, with a sudden boundUprose the startled horses; but they stoodStill as the man who in a foreign landHears his strange language, when my Desert call,As low and plaintive as the nested dove's,Fell on their listening ears. From stall to stall,Feeling the horses with my groping hands,I crept in darkness; and at length I cameUpon two sister mares, whose rounded sides,Fine muzzles, and small heads, and pointed ears,And foreheads spreading 'twixt their eyelids wide,Long slender tails, thin manes, and coats of silk,Told me, that, of the hundred steeds there stalled,My hand was on the treasures. O'er and o'erI felt their long joints, and down their legsTo the cool hoofs;—no blemish anywhere:These I led forth and saddled. Upon oneI set the lily, gathered now for me,—My own, henceforth, forever. So we rodeAcross the grass, beside the stony path,Until we gained the highway that is lost,Leading from Sana, in the eastern sands:When, with a cry that both the Desert-bornKnew without hint from whip or goading spur,We dashed into a gallop. Far behindIn sparks and smoke the dusty highway rose;And ever on the maiden's face I saw,When the moon flashed upon it, the strange smileIt wore on waking. Once I kissed her mouth,When she grew weary, and her strength returned.All through the night we scoured between the hills:The moon went down behind us, and the starsDropped after her; but long before I sawA planet blazing straight against our eyes,The road had softened, and the shadowy hillsHad flattened out, and I could hear the hissOf sand spurned backward by the flying mares.—Glory to God! I was at home again!The sun rose on us; far and near I sawThe level Desert; sky met sand all round.We paused at midday by a palm-crowned well,And ate and slumbered. Somewhat, too, was said:The words have slipped my memory. That same eveWe rode sedately through a Hamoum camp,—I, Adeb, prince amongst them, and my bride.And ever since amongst them I have ridden,A head and shoulders taller than the best;And ever since my days have been of gold,My nights have been of silver.—God is just!* * * * *

ELEUSINIA.1