Aaron Trow

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This etext was produced by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk,
from the 1864 Chapman & Hall "Tales of all Countries" edition.

AARON TROW

by Anthony Trollope

I would wish to declare, at the beginning of this story, that I
shall never regard that cluster of islets which we call Bermuda as
the Fortunate Islands of the ancients. Do not let professional
geographers take me up, and say that no one has so accounted them,
and that the ancients have never been supposed to have gotten
themselves so far westwards. What I mean to assert is this--that,
had any ancient been carried thither by enterprise or stress of
weather, he would not have given those islands so good a name. That
the Neapolitan sailors of King Alonzo should have been wrecked here,
I consider to be more likely. The vexed Bermoothes is a good name
for them. There is no getting in or out of them without the
greatest difficulty, and a patient, slow navigation, which is very
heart-rending. That Caliban should have lived here I can imagine;
that Ariel would have been sick of the place is certain; and that
Governor Prospero should have been willing to abandon his
governorship, I conceive to have been only natural. When one
regards the present state of the place, one is tempted to doubt
whether any of the governors have been conjurors since his days.

Bermuda, as all the world knows, is a British colony at which we
maintain a convict establishment. Most of our outlying convict
establishments have been sent back upon our hands from our colonies,
but here one is still maintained. There is also in the islands a
strong military fortress, though not a fortress looking magnificent
to the eyes of civilians, as do Malta and Gibraltar. There are also
here some six thousand white people and some six thousand black
people, eating, drinking, sleeping, and dying.

The convict establishment is the most notable feature of Bermuda to
a stranger, but it does not seem to attract much attention from the
regular inhabitants of the place. There is no intercourse between
the prisoners and the Bermudians. The convicts are rarely seen by
them, and the convict islands are rarely visited. As to the
prisoners themselves, of course it is not open to them--or should
not be open to them--to have intercourse with any but the prison
authorities.

There have, however, been instances in which convicts have escaped
from their confinement, and made their way out among the islands.
Poor wretches! As a rule, there is but little chance for any that
can so escape. The whole length of the cluster is but twenty miles,
and the breadth is under four. The prisoners are, of course, white
men, and the lower orders of Bermuda, among whom alone could a
runagate have any chance of hiding himself, are all negroes; so that
such a one would be known at once. Their clothes are all marked.
Their only chance of a permanent escape would be in the hold of an
American ship; but what captain of an American or other ship would
willingly encumber himself with an escaped convict? But,
nevertheless, men have escaped; and in one instance, I believe, a
convict got away, so that of him no farther tidings were ever heard.

For the truth of the following tale I will not by any means vouch.
If one were to inquire on the spot one might probably find that the
ladies all believe it, and the old men; that all the young men know
exactly how much of it is false and how much true; and that the
steady, middle-aged, well-to-do islanders are quite convinced that
it is romance from beginning to end. My readers may range
themselves with the ladies, the young men, or the steady, well-to-
do, middle-aged islanders, as they please.

Some years ago, soon after the prison was first established on its
present footing, three men did escape from it, and among them a
certain notorious prisoner named Aaron Trow. Trow's antecedents in
England had not been so villanously bad as those of many of his
fellow-convicts, though the one offence for which he was punished
had been of a deep dye: he had shed man's blood. At a period of
great distress in a manufacturing town he had led men on to riot,
and with his own hand had slain the first constable who had
endeavoured to do his duty against him. There had been courage in
the doing of the deed, and probably no malice; but the deed, let its
moral blackness have been what it might, had sent him to Bermuda,
with a sentence against him of penal servitude for life. Had he
been then amenable to prison discipline,--even then, with such a
sentence against him as that,--he might have won his way back, after
the lapse of years, to the children, and perhaps, to the wife, that
he had left behind him; but he was amenable to no rules--to no
discipline. His heart was sore to death with an idea of injury, and
he lashed himself against the bars of his cage with a feeling that
it would be well if he could so lash himself till he might perish in
his fury.

And then a day came in which an attempt was made by a large body of
convicts, under his leadership, to get the better of the officers of
the prison. It is hardly necessary to say that the attempt failed.
Such attempts always fail. It failed on this occasion signally, and
Trow, with two other men, were condemned to be scourged terribly,
and then kept in solitary confinement for some lengthened term of
months. Before, however, the day of scourging came, Trow and his
two associates had escaped.

I have not the space to tell how this was effected, nor the power to
describe the manner. They did escape from the establishment into
the islands, and though two of them were taken after a single day's
run at liberty, Aaron Trow had not been yet retaken even when a week
was over. When a month was over he had not been retaken, and the
officers of the prison began to say that he had got away from them
in a vessel to the States. It was impossible, they said, that he
should have remained in the islands and not been discovered. It was
not impossible that he might have destroyed himself, leaving his
body where it had not yet been found. But he could not have lived
on in Bermuda during that month's search. So, at least, said the
officers of the prison. There was, however, a report through the
islands that he had been seen from time to time; that he had gotten
bread from the negroes at night, threatening them with death if they
told of his whereabouts; and that all the clothes of the mate of a
vessel had been stolen while the man was bathing, including a suit
of dark blue cloth, in which suit of clothes, or in one of such a
nature, a stranger had been seen skulking about the rocks near St.
George. All this the governor of the prison affected to disbelieve,
but the opinion was becoming very rife in the islands that Aaron
Trow was still there.

A vigilant search, however, is a task of great labour, and cannot be
kept up for ever. By degrees it was relaxed. The warders and
gaolers ceased to patrol the island roads by night, and it was
agreed that Aaron Trow was gone, or that he would be starved to
death, or that he would in time be driven to leave such traces of
his whereabouts as must lead to his discovery; and this at last did
turn out to be the fact.

There is a sort of prettiness about these islands which, though it
never rises to the loveliness of romantic scenery, is nevertheless
attractive in its way. The land breaks itself into little knolls,
and the sea runs up, hither and thither, in a thousand creeks and
inlets; and then, too, when the oleanders are in bloom, they give a
wonderfully bright colour to the landscape. Oleanders seem to be
the roses of Bermuda, and are cultivated round all the villages of
the better class through the islands. There are two towns, St.
George and Hamilton, and one main high-road, which connects them;
but even this high-road is broken by a ferry, over which every
vehicle going from St. George to Hamilton must be conveyed. Most of
the locomotion in these parts is done by boats, and the residents
look to the sea, with its narrow creeks, as their best highway from
their farms to their best market. In those days--and those days
were not very long since--the building of small ships was their
chief trade, and they valued their land mostly for the small scrubby
cedar-trees with which this trade was carried on.

As one goes from St. George to Hamilton the road runs between two
seas; that to the right is the ocean; that on the left is an inland
creek, which runs up through a large portion of the islands, so that
the land on the other side of it is near to the traveller. For a
considerable portion of the way there are no houses lying near the
road, and, there is one residence, some way from the road, so
secluded that no other house lies within a mile of it by land. By
water it might probably be reached within half a mile. This place
was called Crump Island, and here lived, and had lived for many
years, an old gentleman, a native of Bermuda, whose business it had
been to buy up cedar wood and sell it to the ship-builders at
Hamilton. In our story we shall not have very much to do with old
Mr. Bergen, but it will be necessary to say a word or two about his
house.

It stood upon what would have been an island in the creek, had not a
narrow causeway, barely broad enough for a road, joined it to that
larger island on which stands the town of St. George. As the main
road approaches the ferry it runs through some rough, hilly, open
ground, which on the right side towards the ocean has never been
cultivated. The distance from the ocean here may, perhaps, be a
quarter of a mile, and the ground is for the most part covered with
low furze. On the left of the road the land is cultivated in
patches, and here, some half mile or more from the ferry, a path
turns away to Crump Island. The house cannot be seen from the road,
and, indeed, can hardly be seen at all, except from the sea. It
lies, perhaps, three furlongs from the high road, and the path to it
is but little used, as the passage to and from it is chiefly made by
water.

Here, at the time of our story, lived Mr. Bergen, and here lived Mr.
Bergen's daughter. Miss Bergen was well known at St. George's as a
steady, good girl, who spent her time in looking after her father's
household matters, in managing his two black maid-servants and the
black gardener, and who did her duty in that sphere of life to which
she had been called. She was a comely, well-shaped young woman,
with a sweet countenance, rather large in size, and very quiet in
demeanour. In her earlier years, when young girls usually first bud
forth into womanly beauty, the neighbours had not thought much of
Anastasia Bergen, nor had the young men of St. George been wont to
stay their boats under the window of Crump Cottage in order that
they might listen to her voice or feel the light of her eye; but
slowly, as years went by, Anastasia Bergen became a woman that a man
might well love; and a man learned to love her who was well worthy
of a woman's heart. This was Caleb Morton, the Presbyterian
minister of St. George; and Caleb Morton had been engaged to marry
Miss Bergen for the last two years past, at the period of Aaron
Trow's escape from prison.

Caleb Morton was not a native of Bermuda, but had been sent thither
by the synod of his church from Nova Scotia. He was a tall,
handsome man, at this time of some thirty years of age, of a
presence which might almost have been called commanding. He was
very strong, but of a temperament which did not often give him
opportunity to put forth his strength; and his life had been such
that neither he nor others knew of what nature might be his courage.
The greater part of his life was spent in preaching to some few of
the white people around him, and in teaching as many of the blacks
as he could get to hear him. His days were very quiet, and had been
altogether without excitement until he had met with Anastasia
Bergen. It will suffice for us to say that he did meet her, and
that now, for two years past, they had been engaged as man and wife.

Old Mr. Bergen, when he heard of the engagement, was not well
pleased at the information. In the first place, his daughter was
very necessary to him, and the idea of her marrying and going away
had hardly as yet occurred to him; and then he was by no means
inclined to part with any of his money. It must not be presumed
that he had amassed a fortune by his trade in cedar wood. Few
tradesmen in Bermuda do, as I imagine, amass fortunes. Of some few
hundred pounds he was possessed, and these, in the course of nature,
would go to his daughter when he died; but he had no inclination to
hand any portion of them over to his daughter before they did go to
her in the course of nature. Now, the income which Caleb Morton
earned as a Presbyterian clergyman was not large, and, therefore, no
day had been fixed as yet for his marriage with Anastasia.

But, though the old man had been from the first averse to the match,
his hostility had not been active. He had not forbidden Mr. Morton
his house, or affected to be in any degree angry because his
daughter had a lover. He had merely grumbled forth an intimation
that those who marry in haste repent at leisure,--that love kept
nobody warm if the pot did not boil; and that, as for him, it was as
much as he could do to keep his own pot boiling at Crump Cottage.
In answer to this Anastasia said nothing. She asked him for no
money, but still kept his accounts, managed his household, and
looked patiently forward for better days.

Old Mr. Bergen himself spent much of his time at Hamilton, where he
had a woodyard with a couple of rooms attached to it. It was his
custom to remain here three nights of the week, during which
Anastasia was left alone at the cottage; and it happened by no means
seldom that she was altogether alone, for the negro whom they called
the gardener would go to her father's place at Hamilton, and the two
black girls would crawl away up to the road, tired with the monotony
of the sea at the cottage. Caleb had more than once told her that
she was too much alone, but she had laughed at him, saying that
solitude in Bermuda was not dangerous. Nor, indeed, was it; for the
people are quiet and well-mannered, lacking much energy, but being,
in the same degree, free from any propensity to violence.

"So you are going," she said to her lover, one evening, as he rose
from the chair on which he had been swinging himself at the door of
the cottage which looks down over the creek of the sea. He had sat
there for an hour talking to her as she worked, or watching her as
she moved about the place. It was a beautiful evening, and the sun
had been falling to rest with almost tropical glory before his feet.
The bright oleanders were red with their blossoms all around him,
and he had thoroughly enjoyed his hour of easy rest. "So you are
going," she said to him, not putting her work out of her hand as he
rose to depart.

"Yes; and it is time for me to go. I have still work to do before I
can get to bed. Ah, well; I suppose the day will come at last when
I need not leave you as soon as my hour of rest is over."

"Come; of course it will come. That is, if your reverence should
choose to wait for it another ten years or so."

"I believe you would not mind waiting twenty years."

"Not if a certain friend of mine would come down and see me of
evenings when I'm alone after the day. It seems to me that I
shouldn't mind waiting as long as I had that to look for."

"You are right not to be impatient," he said to her, after a pause,
as he held her hand before he went. "Quite right. I only wish I
could school myself to be as easy about it."

"I did not say I was easy," said Anastasia. "People are seldom easy
in this world, I take it. I said I could be patient. Do not look
in that way, as though you pretended that you were dissatisfied with
me. You know that I am true to you, and you ought to be very proud
of me."

"I am proud of you, Anastasia--" on hearing which she got up and
courtesied to him. "I am proud of you; so proud of you that I feel
you should not be left here all alone, with no one to help you if
you were in trouble."

"Women don't get into trouble as men do, and do not want any one to
help them. If you were alone in the house you would have to go to
bed without your supper, because you could not make a basin of
boiled milk ready for your own meal. Now, when your reverence has
gone, I shall go to work and have my tea comfortably." And then he
did go, bidding God bless her as he left her. Three hours after
that he was disturbed in his own lodgings by one of the negro girls
from the cottage rushing to his door, and begging him in Heaven's
name to come down to the assistance of her mistress.

When Morton left her, Anastasia did not proceed to do as she had
said, and seemed to have forgotten her evening meal. She had been
working sedulously with her needle during all that last
conversation; but when her lover was gone, she allowed the work to
fall from her hands, and sat motionless for awhile, gazing at the
last streak of colour left by the setting sun; but there was no
longer a sign of its glory to be traced in the heavens around her.
The twilight in Bermuda is not long and enduring as it is with us,
though the daylight does not depart suddenly, leaving the darkness
of night behind it without any intermediate time of warning, as is
the case farther south, down among the islands of the tropics. But
the soft, sweet light of the evening had waned and gone, and night
had absolutely come upon her, while Anastasia was still seated
before the cottage with her eyes fixed upon the white streak of
motionless sea which was still visible through the gloom. She was
thinking of him, of his ways of life, of his happiness, and of her
duty towards him. She had told him, with her pretty feminine
falseness, that she could wait without impatience; but now she said
to herself that it would not be good for him to wait longer. He
lived alone and without comfort, working very hard for his poor
pittance, and she could see, and feel, and understand that a
companion in his life was to him almost a necessity. She would tell
her father that all this must be brought to an end. She would not
ask him for money, but she would make him understand that her
services must, at any rate in part, be transferred. Why should not
she and Morton still live at the cottage when they were married?
And so thinking, and at last resolving, she sat there till the dark
night fell upon her.

She was at last disturbed by feeling a man's hand upon her shoulder.
She jumped from her chair and faced him,--not screaming, for it was
especially within her power to control herself, and to make no
utterance except with forethought. Perhaps it might have been
better for her had she screamed, and sent a shrill shriek down the
shore of that inland sea. She was silent, however, and with awe-
struck face and outstretched hands gazed into the face of him who
still held her by the shoulder. The night was dark; but her eyes
were now accustomed to the darkness, and she could see indistinctly
something of his features. He was a low-sized man, dressed in a
suit of sailor's blue clothing, with a rough cap of hair on his
head, and a beard that had not been clipped for many weeks. His
eyes were large, and hollow, and frightfully bright, so that she
seemed to see nothing else of him; but she felt the strength of his
fingers as he grasped her tighter and more tightly by the arm.

"Who are you?" she said, after a moment's pause.

"Do you know me?" he asked.

"Know you! No." But the words were hardly out of her mouth before
it struck her that the man was Aaron Trow, of whom every one in
Bermuda had been talking.

"Come into the house," he said, "and give me food." And he still
held her with his hand as though he would compel her to follow him.

She stood for a moment thinking what she would say to him; for even
then, with that terrible man standing close to her in the darkness,
her presence of mind did not desert her. "Surely," she said, "I
will give you food if you are hungry. But take your hand from me.
No man would lay his hands on a woman."

"A woman!" said the stranger. "What does the starved wolf care for
that? A woman's blood is as sweet to him as that of a man. Come
into the house, I tell you." And then she preceded him through the
open door into the narrow passage, and thence to the kitchen. There
she saw that the back door, leading out on the other side of the
house, was open, and she knew that he had come down from the road
and entered on that side. She threw her eyes around, looking for
the negro girls; but they were away, and she remembered that there
was no human being within sound of her voice but this man who had
told her that he was as a wolf thirsty after her blood!

"Give me food at once," he said.

"And will you go if I give it you?" she asked.

"I will knock out your brains if you do not," he replied, lifting
from the grate a short, thick poker which lay there. "Do as I bid
you at once. You also would be like a tiger if you had fasted for
two days, as I have done."

She could see, as she moved across the kitchen, that he had already
searched there for something that he might eat, but that he had
searched in vain. With the close economy common among his class in
the islands, all comestibles were kept under close lock and key in
the house of Mr. Bergen. Their daily allowance was given day by day
to the negro servants, and even the fragments were then gathered up
and locked away in safety. She moved across the kitchen to the
accustomed cupboard, taking the keys from her pocket, and he
followed close upon her. There was a small oil lamp hanging from
the low ceiling which just gave them light to see each other. She
lifted her hand to this to tare it from its hook, but he prevented
her. "No, by Heaven!" he said, "you don't touch that till I've done
with it. There's light enough for you to drag out your scraps."

She did drag out her scraps and a bowl of milk, which might hold
perhaps a quart. There was a fragment of bread, a morsel of cold
potato-cake, and the bone of a leg of kid. "And is that all?" said
he. But as he spoke he fleshed his teeth against the bone as a dog
would have done.

"It is the best I have," she said; "I wish it were better, and you
should have had it without violence, as you have suffered so long
from hunger."

"Bah! Better; yes! You would give the best no doubt, and set the
hell hounds on my track the moment I am gone. I know how much I
might expect from your charity."

"I would have fed you for pity's sake," she answered.

"Pity! Who are you, that you should dare to pity me! By -, my
young woman, it is I that pity you. I must cut your throat unless
you give me money. Do you know that?"

"Money! I have got no money."

"I'll make you have some before I go. Come; don't move till I have
done." And as he spoke to her he went on tugging at the bone, and
swallowing the lumps of stale bread. He had already finished the
bowl of milk. "And, now," said he, "tell me who I am."

"I suppose you are Aaron Trow," she answered, very slowly. He said
nothing on hearing this, but continued his meal, standing close to
her so that she might not possibly escape from him out into the
darkness. Twice or thrice in those few minutes she made up her mind
to make such an attempt, feeling that it would be better to leave
him in possession of the house, and make sure, if possible, of her
own life. There was no money there; not a dollar! What money her
father kept in his possession was locked up in his safe at Hamilton.
And might he not keep to his threat, and murder her, when he found
that she could give him nothing? She did not tremble outwardly, as
she stood there watching him as he ate, but she thought how probable
it might be that her last moments were very near. And yet she could
scrutinise his features, form, and garments, so as to carry away in
her mind a perfect picture of them. Aaron Trow--for of course it
was the escaped convict--was not a man of frightful, hideous aspect.
Had the world used him well, giving him when he was young ample
wages and separating him from turbulent spirits, he also might have
used the world well; and then women would have praised the
brightness of his eye and the manly vigour of his brow. But things
had not gone well with him. He had been separated from the wife he
had loved, and the children who had been raised at his knee,--
separated by his own violence; and now, as he had said of himself,
he was a wolf rather than a man. As he stood there satisfying the
craving of his appetite, breaking up the large morsels of food, he
was an object very sad to be seen. Hunger had made him gaunt and
yellow, he was squalid with the dirt of his hidden lair, and he had
the look of a beast;--that look to which men fall when they live
like the brutes of prey, as outcasts from their brethren. But still
there was that about his brow which might have redeemed him,--which
might have turned her horror into pity, had he been willing that it
should be so.

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