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 Washington in 1776, stood before Sir Henry Clinton, the English commander, shifting 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, pushing 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 Washington 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?"

Never taking his eyes from his friend's face, the boy obediently ate and drank and Jonas looked on, well satisfied. He knew that his masters did not concern themselves whether the prisoners starved or not; yet, somehow, it made him uncomfortable at times to see boys no older than his own son wasting away before his eyes. He wondered whether he was hardy enough to be an efficient jailor.

Something of his thoughts must have been written upon his broad, red face, for Salomon looking up quickly, nodded as though he understood.

"Louis is a good lad, Jonas," he said, taking out his writing material and spreading it upon his knees. "There are many good lads here--boys like your boy who chooses to serve the king instead of the colonies.

My little one is not yet old enough for the army; such a tiny mite, Louis!--but if he were, I should find it hard not to hate the man who caged him here behind bars like a beast and kept him stiffling in the prison darkness. You are too tender a man for such devil's work, friend Jonas. Ploughing and milking your peaceful cows might bring you less gold, but there would be no heart ache when the day's work was over."

Jonas scowled heavily. Rumors had reached him before of certain English sympathizers like himself who had found their work distasteful after a quiet talk with Salomon and had suddenly left their posts, declaring that they no longer desired to serve the king and his cause.

To be sure, he, Jonas Schmidt, would remain a loyal servant to King George until the end of his days, and yet--why, should this quiet man prod his sleeping soul with disquieting thoughts?

"And now," Haym spoke briskly to the young Frenchman, "we will write to your sweetheart and tell her how well you are getting on and that as soon as the wound in your hand is healed you will write to her again." His pen raced over the paper. "Perhaps you will care to look it over and correct my spelling which is even worse in French than in English," and he handed the sheet covered with French characters to Louis. The boy took it languidly enough, but his weary eyes brightened as he read:

"Do not show any surprise, but I must communicate with you in this way lest there be spies among the prisoners who would betray us. You are to grow weaker and tomorrow morning the jail physician, whom I have bribed, will find that you have died in the night. The grave digger will turn your body over to friends of the cause who will help you to leave New York and reach the Colonials in safety. If I am ever free and you need a friend, call upon me without reserve."

The boy, his eyes filled with sudden tears, reached out and would have pressed Salomon's hand, but the latter drew back laughingly. "Why such grat.i.tude over a mere letter which has taken me but a moment to pen?"

he said lightly, speaking loudly enough to be heard by those about him. He folded the sheet carefully, placing it in his breast; as he did so, he felt the eyes of a prisoner upon him; a newcomer who looked him over carefully; then turned away with an indifference that Haym believed was wholly feigned. But if Salomon felt that the man was an informer he gave no sign. "Now I must about my work," he told Louis.

"I will see that your missive leaves by the next ship. So eat, my little friend, grow fat, and cease to worry. _Au revoir._"

"_Au revoir_," answered Louis, with equal lightness. "I know my betrothed will rejoice to see your letter."

In one of the darkest cells of the old Provost sat Haym Salomon with chains about his wrists and ankles. From the courtyard he could hear the merry laughter of the British soldiers and their Hessian comrades as they smoked and jested after their evening meal. Like true soldiers, they took it all in a day's work and there seemed to be no lack of spirits among them even if they were a.s.signed the grim task of hanging a man upon the morrow. And Haym Salomon, being condemned to death by a military court, smiled his grave, gentle smile to hear their mirth. He had played the game of chance and he had lost, so why should he complain?

Down the damp corridor came the shuffling of feet and a moment later Jonas Schmidt entered, a lantern in one hand, a straw basket on his arm. "Your wife has sent you something for your evening meal," he said gruffly, placing the basket on the bench beside the condemned man. He spoke loudly as he noticed a red-coated Briton loitering at the end of the pa.s.sage. "Faith, she has sent you enough to feed a regiment. But women are ever foolish. My own wife is waiting for me below. She has come all the way to New York merely for advice about our milch heifer and traveled weighted down with cakes and eggs and b.u.t.ter--which all her careful packing could not shield enough from the August sun, and it has oozed through her finest linen napkin and she is sorely grieved. But not an egg is broken and tomorrow Sir Henry Clinton will eat eggs laid by loyal Tory hens for his breakfast with my compliments."

Haym glanced sharply at his old friend who seldom indulged in such lengthy speech. He was about to the basket, touched at his poor wife's thoughtfulness, when the jailor gave a warning gesture and tiptoed to the door. Then he came back, nodding, well pleased at his own craft.

"The lobster has disappeared," he whispered. "I thought that my chatter would mislead him. But we have not a minute to lose. Open the basket and dress quickly in the woman's raiment you find there." Then, as Haym stared at him bewildered, "Dress, I say," and he pulled from the basket a calico dress, tightly rolled, a gay shawl and a woman's deep straw bonnet. "When you were p.r.o.nounced guilty--and every man in New York knew what the outcome of your trial would be--I said that I for one would not have your blood upon my hands. No, no, Haym Salomon.

You may be an infidel Jew, but you are a better Christian than all who worship in Trinity Church every Sabbath. By the will of G.o.d, my son pa.s.sed through New York on his way home for a moment's visit with his mother. I entrusted him with a letter I dared not send through the post, telling her to come to me at once, bringing a set of garments exactly like those she herself would wear." He chuckled. "She came, thinking me quite mad, but obeying me as is her habit. In a moment, I had told her all. She left the extra clothes in that basket with me and now waits us beyond the courtyard, where Sir Henry and his friends will find an empty scaffold tomorrow."

Thus the little jailor, unlocking Haym's chains as he spoke.

"But I do not understand--" Haym was still bewildered, after his long hours of torturing doubt and uncertainty--"You never spoke to me of escaping."

"I dared not raise your hopes too high. What if Sir Henry decided I was not so stupid after all and put another jailor in my place? But now all is ready. The sentinels below have seen my wife visit me today and I took pains to let them believe she was dining in my room, whereas she slipped away when the guard was being changed. Now when you leave the prison with me, I have but to say that I am taking my good dame to the stage coach." Again he chuckled, half forcing Salomon into the calico dress. "Instead, we will meet her at the appointed place, you will slip off these flounces--she cautioned me that you should not tread upon them and tear them down, as she loves this frock dearly,--and seek your good friend, General McDougall, who commands the rebel forces in our neighborhood and will grant you protection, while my wife and I will hurry back to our little farm."

"But your position here--" Haym fumbled with the unfamiliar b.u.t.tons of the dress.

"I do not care to remain here and have Sir Henry Clinton try me in his court," answered the other, simply. "So a week ago I handed in my resignation--my rheumatism cannot endure this prison dampness--my wife insists that unless I come home for the harvest, she will come to fetch me--and other strong proofs that I must leave the dear old Provost. And, fortunately, my friend, the n.o.ble gentleman who secured this post for me has fallen in battle, and no one else knows where to look for the stupid jailor who helped Haym Salomon to escape."

"But, my friend, I cannot allow you to take such a risk for me,"

protested Salomon. "And even if you are not punished--do you care to give up your post for my sake?"

"I, too, have grown tired of this devil's business," answered the little jailor. "Even if you were to die tomorrow, I should give it up and go back to my little farm where I might feel myself an honest man again."

Suddenly Haym sat down upon the bench, his mouth grim and stubborn. "I will not go. My name has always been spotless. But if I escape, there may be some who will believe that the charges brought against me are true, that I have acted as a secret agent for General Washington, endeavoring to burn the British warships and warehouses at his instigation. Whereas you know that my one crime was helping those few poor lads escape from their torture."