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A Second Edition,
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“By all those token
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What words can never
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They have for sale the
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Shore,
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MISS KEMBLE.--A
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CANVASSING, a novel, in
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CLINTON BRADSHAW, or
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FLORA AND THALIA, or
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“Suffice it to say that
Calavar throughout is a romance of very great interest. It will interest the
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please the poetic from the splendour and beauty of its descriptions, and it
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to-day to speak of it at any length, or do more than recommend it as superior
even to Calavar, which is already stamped with the highest public approbation.”
THE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW. A TRADITION OF PENNSYLVANIA. BY THE AUTHOR OF “CALAVAR,”
AND “THE INFIDEL.” Where dwellest
thou?--
Under the canopy,--i’
the city of kites and crows.
I will discover such a
horrid treason,
As, when you hear’t,
and understand how long
You’ve been abused,
will run you mad with fury.
Beaumont and Fletcher--
It has been seen how
the rejoicings at the promontory were interrupted in their very beginning, by
the sudden discovery of the refugee, so
Drad for his
derring-doe and bloody deed,
that his mere name had thrown all present into confusion. The crowning
climax was put to the general panic, when some of the late pursuers were seen
returning, early in the afternoon, whipping and spurring with all the zeal of
fear, and scattering such intelligence along the way as put to flight the last
resolution of the jubilants. The news immediately spread, that Oran Gilbert had
burst into existence, not alone, but with a countless host of armed men at his
heels; that he had attacked and routed the pursuers, hanging all whom he took
alive, especially the soldiers; and that he was now, in the frenzy of triumph,
marching against the devoted Hillborough, with the resolution of burning it to
the ground. Such dreadful intelligence was enough to complete the terror of the
revellers; they fled amain--and long before night, the flag waved, and the
little piece of ordnance frowned in utter solitude on the top of the deserted
head-land. It is true that there came, by and by, couriers with happier news,
but too late to arrest the fugitives; and as these riders made their way towards
the village, expressing some anxiety lest it should be attacked, they rather
confirmed than dispelled the fears of the few inhabitants of the valley. From
one of the coolest and boldest, Captain Loring, who fastened on him at the
park-gate, learned that there had been no action indeed, and that the fugitive
had made his escape; but, on the other hand, it appeared that there were
refugees in the land,-- that they had hanged a soldier named Parker, and made
good their retreat from the place of execution--that the greatest doubt existed
among the pursuers in relation to the route they had taken and the objects they
had in view, some believing, on the evidence of a certain quaker, who had been
their prisoner, that they were marching by secret paths against the village,
while others insisted that this was a feint designed only to throw the hunters
off the scent, and to secure their escape,--that, in consequence, the party had
divided, pursuing the search in all directions, in the hope of discovering
their route,--and, finally, that it was now certain, the band, whose number was
supposed to be very considerable, was really commanded by the notorious Oran
Gilbert. From this man also, Captain Loring learned a few vague particulars in
relation to the two greatest objects of his interest, namely Henry Falconer and
the young painter, who had fallen into a quarrel in consequence of some
misunderstanding about their horses, the officer having used harsh language not
only in regard to the unceremonious seizure by Herman of his own steed, but in
reference to a similar liberty the refugee had previously taken with the
painter’s, which, Falconer averred, was an evidence of intimacy and intercourse
betwixt Mr. Hunter and the outlaw it behooved the former to explain, before thrusting
himself into the company of honest men and gentlemen. This quarrel, it seemed,
had been allayed by the interference of Falconer’s brother officers; and the
informant had heard something said of a proposal to drown the feud in a bowl.
As for the man of peace, Ephraim, it appeared, that his spirited assistance
during the chase, and especially his success in exposing the secret haunt of
the tories in the Terrapin Hole, the scene of Parker’s execution, had not only
removed all suspicion in relation to his character, but had highly recommended
him to the favour of his late captors. With
such news, the Captain strode back to his mansion, and awaited, with his
daughter and kinswoman, the return of the officers to the Hollow, and their
appearance at the hall, which he doubted not, they would instantly make, after
returning. He waited, however, for a long time, in vain; and by falling sound
asleep, as he watched the sun creeping beneath the western hills, escaped the
intelligence, which was soon after brought to the house, that the officers had
returned to the Hollow, and instead of reporting themselves forthwith under his
hospitable roof, had made their way to the widow’s inn, where they were
carousing with a zeal commensurate with the spirit they had exhibited during
the troubles of the day.
This unexpected
termination of a day of heroism--a termination that surprised and irritated
Miss Falconer as much as it perhaps secretly pleased the Captain’s
daughter--was a consequence of the late quarrel, or rather a mode of burying it
in oblivion, devised by captain Caliver, who had contracted an esteem for the
painter, and preferred ‘his ease in his inn’ to all the delights and
blandishments that might be expected in the society of Gilbert’s Folly. As the
superior officer, he had taken the command into his own hands, and besides
arranging his forces so as to watch all the approaches to the valley, and
despatching lieutenant Brooks to the village, to communicate with the
authorities there, he declared his resolution to erect his head-quarters in the
Hollow, at a place like the Traveller’s Rest, where, while still commanding the
road, he would be near enough to protect the females and non-combatants in the
Captain’s house. “And besides,” he added facetiously, while riding up to the
little inn, “as we men of the sword are protectors of widows as well as
orphans, we will thus protect a forlorn old woman from mischief, and put a
penny into her pocket, and drink our wine at our ease--for you remember,
Falconer, my young brother, you swore by all the gods you would have some of
the wherewithal smuggled up to this identical old woman’s whiskey-house!”
“I swore it ‘by the
eternal Jupiter,”’ said Falconer, with a grin; “and, by the eternal Jupiter, I
am as ready for a blow-up now as another time; only that we must blow fast, so
as to run up to Hal, to be scolded before bed-time, as soon as Brooks comes:
and as for Mr. Hunter here, why he and I can blow out one another’s brains in
the morning.”
“If thee talks in this
evil-minded, blood-thirsty manner,” said Ephraim Patch, indignantly, “I give
thee warning, I will have nothing to do with thy wholesome wines and thy goodly
brandies, whereof thee has spoken, and whereof much good may be said, in regard
of them that are faint and weary. If thee will eat, drink, and be merry, all in
a civil, Christian way, without drawing any weapons more dreadful than corks,
pulling only at the bottle instead of the pistol, and neither swearing
profanely nor drinking foolish irreligious healths, thee shall have me in
company to give thee good counsel, whereof thee has considerable much need, as
well as thy long-nosed friend here, (not meaning any offence,) which thee calls
captain, and the youth also, friend Hunter. Verily, I am both hungry and thirsty,
and will sooner enjoy the creature comforts in this quiet hovel, than even the
satisfaction of bringing the breaker of laws into the hands of justice. Verily,
the thought of these goodly wines doth make my mouth water; and I shall
rejoice, even to the bottom of my spirit, if they have already reached the
house of the widow.”
We do not design to
relate the joys of the banquet shared by the four worthies, and some two or
three young men of the county, who had shown themselves men of spirit, and
remained bravely by the side of the officers, resolved, as they said, to
contribute their aid to the defence of the Hollow. It is only worthy of remark,
first, that the ill blood between young Falconer and the painter gradually wore
away, and was succeeded, on the part of the former, by a sudden friendship,
which bade fair to ripen into fondness, and on that of Hyland, by what was at
least a show of reciprocity; secondly, that honest Ephraim, gradually displayed
as much spirit in the feast as he had before manifested in the fray, and
became, to the surprise of all, the soul of mirth and drollery, so that young
Falconer, clapping him on the back, swore, with the favourite oath of his
friend Caliver, he ‘had never seen a jollier old broad-brim;’ and thirdly, that
this capricious young gentleman grew so enamoured of his company, that he
ceased to talk, as he did at first, of the necessity he was under of paying his
sister and friends a visit at the Folly, until he was roused to recollection by
the sudden retreat of his new friend from the cottage. The painter was detected
in the very act of stealing, or as they chose to call it, sneaking from the
apartment; and Mr. Falconer, uttering a loud ‘Hillo! halt, deserter!’
volunteered to bring him back to the punishment immediately ordered by the
captain of cavalry, of a glass of salt and water. He rushed from the room, and
plainly beheld the youth, in the light that flashed from the window, spring
from the porch, and dive into the midnight shadows of the oak trees--for it was
now completely dark As he retreated, he stumbled over some obstruction in the
path; but instantly recovering himself, he leaped over the little brook, and
was soon out of sight.
“Hillo, Hunter, my boy!”
cried the lieutenant. “Why zounds! there he goes up the road like a
light-horseman! Why, gad, here the fool has dropped his handkerchief;--no, gad’s
my life, ’tis a paper. Hillo, painter! you’ve dropped something! A letter, as I’m
alive!--Ehem--hiccup! --a very handsome constellation that Great Bear! never
saw the Pointers shine so brightly in my life. --Gad’s my life, and adzooks, as
Captain Loring says, ’tis the lights in the Folly, after all! and here am I,
carousing like an ass, instead of playing off the Romeo to Catherine by
starlight. Now Hal will scold like twenty housekeepers, Catherine will look
sulky, and as for the Captain, why I suppose he will fall into one of his
patriarchal rages. Gad, but I feel rather warmish and particular; but this cool
night air is a good thing for settling one’s nerves. I warrant me, that rascal
Hunter has gone up there before me. A very handsome, well behaved dog, and I
like him immensely!”
With such expressions
as these, the young man, whose brain, never one of the strongest, was at
present whirling in confusion, began to make his way towards the Folly, without
troubling himself to think what amazement or affliction his absence might cause
his friends. Indeed, he was fast verging towards that happy state in which man
shows his loftiest contempt of the world and the world’s ways, and his
disregard of all those restraints and encumbrances which society has imposed
upon the free-born lord of creation. He had left the hovel without his hat; but
what cared he for such a superfluity, of a fine summer night, even although
beginning a walk over hill and hollow, of full a mile in extent? Had he left it
even without his boots, it is questionable whether he would have noticed the
deficiency, until recalled to his senses by the roughness of the road. In a
word, the wine he had already swallowed, had made serious inroads upon a brain
that was always ‘very poor and unhappy for drinking;’ and, as it frequently
happens in such cases, the exercise of walking more than counteracted the
effects of the cooling air; so that, by the time he had trudged half the
distance towards the paddock, the young gentleman was in the happiest spirits
imaginable, wholly insensible of his condition, and almost unconscious of the
purpose that had drawn him so far. He even began to sing along the road, and by
the time he had reached the gate, was trolling a song, of a character ludicrous
enough to come from his lips, but which, perhaps caught originally from those
of some wag or philosopher of the camp, was now suggested by the spirit of
happy indifference it breathed to all sublunary concerns, and was therefore in
excellent harmony with his own feelings. It was the song of Poor Joe, and was
sung with wondrous emphasis and gusto.
Poor Joe! I’ve no
wealth but content at command,
I am otherwise poor as a rat; But
while the world covets one’s houses and land,
I’m sure ’twill not rob me of that, Poor Joe! I’m sure ’twill not rob me of that.
I’ve no money, no money
to squander in wine,
To aid me in soft’ning my lot: But
then, if the shame of a poor man be mine,
The shame of a scoundrel shall not, Poor Joe! The shame of a scoundrel
shall not. No sweetheart to flatter,
no wife to applaud,--
Poor Joe! he may house him or roam; But,
sure, if he meets with no angel abroad,
He’ll hap on no devil at home, Poor Joe! He’ll hap on no devil at home. Poor Joe! I’ve no friends, as, if
richer, I might,
But for that I’ll not bitterly grieve; If
there’s none, with the gabble of love, to delight,
Why then there are none to deceive, Poor Joe! Why then there are none to
deceive. Poor Joe! I am ragged,
my hat is grown old,
My elbows peep out to the storm; But
why should I fear for the wet and the cold,
When content and a blanket can warm, Poor Joe! When content and a
blanket can warm!
Apparently, he found
the madrigal just one stanza too short, at least for his present mood; for
which reason, so soon as he had finished the last of all, he began to repeat
it, with even more expression than before, and had just reached the second
line,--
“My elbows peep out to
the storm,”--
when one of his own elbows was suddenly seized upon, and a voice,
bitterly reproachful, muttered in his ear, “Are
you mad? Are you mad, brother? are you mad?”
“What! Hal? sister? is
that you? Gad’s my life, I knew you would scold me; but if you would only consider--But,
now I think of it, egad, what brings you out here of a dark night, singing Poor
Joe, like an old soldier? Adzooks, as the Captain says, I am quite astonished!”
“Brother, you are--Oh,
that you should be so insensible to interest, if not to shame!” cried Miss
Falconer, with deep feeling. “Brother, brother, you”--
“If I have, may I be
shot!” cried the young officer, hastily, as if the instinct of long habit had
taught him what his sister intended to say; “that is, Harry, my dear, nothing
to speak of; and it is all on account of Caliver, who, betwixt you and me, is
so deuced soft-headed,--he is, egad,--one must always sit by, to take care of
him. As for me, Hal, why I can drink a hogshead of any such wishwashy stuff as
these French wines; I can, by the eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says; and at the
present moment I am”--
“Ruined, irretrievably
ruined!” cried his sister; “and by your own folly--by your own miserable,
infatuated dissipation. You have lost Catherine Loring.”
“Lost Catherine Loring?
my Catherine Loring?” cried the young man, in alarm. “Have the Hawks carried
her off?”
“What if I say yes?”
replied Harriet; and then added, with a tone that brought the youth still
farther to his senses, “and I must add, that even a base and renegade Gilbert
is worthier of her than you,--my brother,--the son of Richard Falconer! Oh,
shame upon you, brother! shame upon you!”
“Harry, you are joking
with me!” cried Falconer, with a voice somewhat quavering and querulous. “We’ve
driven the dogs the lord knows whither; and as for that story of the village,
why that’s all a fib: so as to carrying Catherine off, I don’t believe a word
of it.”
“And yet you have lost
her,--lost her, perhaps, beyond all redemption. Oh Harry, brother Harry, were
you but enough in your senses to understand me!”
“I am, sister, I am,”
cried Falconer; and indeed the devil, drunkenness, was fast giving place to the
devil, fear: “I have been drinking; but I swear to heaven.”
“Swear no more: you
have done so a dozen times already.”
“I have done so,
sister; but I swear again, and I call heaven to witness, that if you have
spoken the truth, and Catherine be really lost, I will never drink more till I
have recovered or revenged her. But for pity’s sake, speak; what is the
matter?-- I am sober now. What has brought you out here in the dark? Where is
Catherine? What is the matter?”
“You shall hear,” cried
Miss Falconer, hurriedly: “perhaps it is not yet too late. You have a rival,
brother, a dangerous rival!”
“Oh, gad now, sister!
lord, is that all?” exclaimed the young man, bursting into a laugh: “why, you
don’t think I shall go jealous, because I have a rival? Gad, Harry, you’re the
most absurd sister in the world.--I wonder what the deuce has become of my
hat?--A rival, Hal? One of these village clotpolls! A dozen of ’em, if you
like: the more the merrier. I’ll invite ’em all to my wedding.”
“You are mad!” cried
Harriet. “Wedding, indeed! Perhaps you will never be married. What think you of
a rival that has her heart?”
“Her heart? Catherine’s
heart?” exclaimed the gay-brained soldier; “why, it has been mine these two
years!”
“And now,” said
Harriet, “it is another’s.-- Brother! rouse from your dream of confidence and
security. It is as true as that the stars are above us: Catherine Loring loves
another.”
“Harriet!”--
“It is true--she
confessed it with her own lips.”
“Confessed it, sister!”
said the young man; and then added, with a spirit that surprised her, “If that
be so, why then good luck to her: she shall have her freedom. I don’t think I
shall break my heart; and, certainly, I shan’t force her to marry me. But,
Hal,--look you, sister Hal,--I did not think she would cozen me. She confessed
it, did she? Why, that’s enough. I’m an honourable man; but after being cheated
and jilted, I don’t care much--But if I don’t kill the scoundrel, Hal!--I say
if I don’t kill him, you may have leave to call me a fool and chicken twice
over!-- Confess it!”
If this display of
spirit surprised Miss Falconer, the manifest distress with which her brother spoke,
incredible as it may seem, greatly gratified her. His greatest fault in her
eyes,--that is, aside from his dissipated habits,--was that easy indifference
of disposition, or indolence of feeling, which kept him reckless and passive
when she would have had him ardent and energetic. She knew him to be insensible
of the full value of that prize it was her ambition to secure him; and had he
been any but her brother, she would have hated him for what seemed the
feebleness of his affection, as indicated by the little pains he took to secure
that of Catherine. It was obvious, from this homely burst, in which
magnanimity, pride, indignation, anger, and distress, were all so
characteristically jumbled together, that the young gentleman had really
feeling enough at bottom, and that, in a great measure, of the right kind; and
the discovery brought a ray of hope into her mind.
“Brother,” said she, “if
you really love Catherine, you may yet save her.”
“What! after confessing
she loves another?” cried he, sulkily. “Now, Hal, for all your wisdom, you don’t
know me--I won’t have her. Confess, indeed!”
“No--she did not
confess--I will explain. Perhaps ’twas only a dream;--it was in her sleep.”
“In her sleep!” cried
Falconer, and then burst again into a roar of laughter. “In her sleep!” he
ejaculated, giving way to a second peal. “Well! you have scared me with a
vengeance!--But I forgive you--you have brought me to. Of all the cunning
doctors in the world, give me yourself, Harry; you are infallible. And so she
confessed in her sleep, poor soul, did she? Oh, Hal! Hal! Hal!” And here the
capricious youth gave full swing to his merriment.
“Thus it is,” said his
sister, impatiently; “one extreme or the other, ever. Listen, brother; for I am
serious. Your wild habits have greatly weakened Catherine’s affections. Another
comes, in the meanwhile, with attractions, I will not say superior to your own,
but perhaps every way equal, who ceases not, neither by day nor by night, to
influence her imagination and engage her heart. Judge of his success, when you
know that she has admitted him to intimacy, nay, to confidence; judge, when I
tell you that she trembles at the sound of his voice, turns pale at the echo of
his footsteps, blushes when he speaks, looks glad when he is by her, and weeps
when he is absent,--and, finally, who hides the secret from her own waking
thoughts, yet babbles his name over in her dreams, and sheds tears, and smiles
with her tears, when she murmurs it. Is not such a man,--the object of such
emotions, himself so passionately enamoured, that his visage betrays the
thought of his bosom, even when he knows he is suspected and watched,--is not
such a man a dangerous rival?”
“Sister, you know
better than myself,” said Falconer, uneasily; “if you think so”--
“I do, brother; I
believe, that, this moment, without knowing it herself, Catherine’s mind is
dwelling upon your rival; and if he be not driven away, you will lose her.”
“Point him out to me,
sister Harriet, and then, by”--
“No fighting! no
fighting, brother!” cried Harriet, in some alarm, and speaking with eagerness. “Not
a hair of the young man’s head must be harmed; we have done him injury enough
among us, perhaps, already. We must frighten him away: if I know him, we can
legally expel him from the valley. Arrest, imprison him, banish him;--do any
thing; but harm him not--that is, do him no harm with your own hands. If he
have forfeited his life to the law, let the law take it. Now, brother, know
your rival--it is the youngest brother of this dreadful Oran Gilbert.”
“Saints and devils!”
cried Falconer, with vivacity, “a Hawk of the Hollow! and dare to love
Catherine Loring?”
“I could be sworn to
it,” said Harriet. “The circumstances that pointed out the assassin of my
father, were but clews of thistle-down to the chains of evidence that led me to
the knowledge of this skulking raven’s character. The first circumstance was as
strong as the last; an idle, thoughtless, nay, an accidental, pencil mark on a
drawing opened my eyes in an instant; and heaven’s light immediately streamed
through them. But think him not the coarse cut-throat his name would indicate;
he has had a gentleman’s breeding, and such is his bearing. I doubt not that he
is a confederate of his brother, perhaps even a spy; and, I am persuaded, it
was he who counteracted our scheme of seizing the reprobates, and brought the
poor soldier, Parker, to the gibbet. He must be arrested and examined. He knows
he is suspected--he knows that I suspect him; but will, in his audacity,
remain, in the assurance that no real proof can be brought against him.--That
man, that painter, brother,--that Hunter? where did you leave him?”
“Leave him?” cried
Falconer: “why, is he not here? Sure, he led the way hither; and sure I
followed after him. A rare fellow, sister! I was going to blow his brains out;
but, egad, I know him better, and, gad, I am coming on fast to adore him.
Adzooks, as the Captain says, I picked up his letter, and”--
“His letter?” cried
Harriet, eagerly; “where is it?”
“Here,” said the
lieutenant, drawing it from his pocket, wherein he had safely bestowed it.
“To the light! to the
light!” cried the maiden, snatching it out of his hands, and running with the
speed of a frighted deer towards the mansion, followed by her bewildered
brother. A candle blazed in one of the windows that opened on the porch, and in
the chamber it lighted, had she been disposed to look, Miss Falconer might have
seen the gallant Captain Loring sitting upright in his armchair, but fast
asleep, and filling half the house with the melody of his nostrils. To this
window ran Miss Falconer, and hither she was followed by her brother; who, to
his amazement and indignation, found her devouring the contents of the paper
with the avidity of a malefactor poring over his own respite from a death of
ignominy.
“Gad’s my life, sister
Hal!” cried the incensed soldier, “you have disgraced me for ever! What,
reading the young fellow’s letter?”
“Reading my letter!”
cried Harriet, turning upon him a look inexpressibly fierce and triumphant. “Was
not this suspicion as prophetic as the other? The dead Parker speaks to me, and
from his grave affords me proof even stronger than I sought. Oh, villain!
villain! audacious, inconceivably audacious, villain! Their lieutenant? His
intimacy with, his designs upon Catherine Loring, revealed even to his ribald
companions? and made their theme of speech! their jest! Oh, what a rival have
you suffered to approach your betrothed wife, Harry Falconer! This convicts,
doubly convicts him.--What ho, uncle! Captain Loring, awake! Where is
Catherine? Uncle! uncle!”
“Devils!” cried
Falconer, “do you mean to say that Hunter is the man? Why he’s a gentleman!”--
“Adzooks, and adsbobs,
what’s the matter? Send out scouts to beat the bushes: tree ’em, my boys, tree ’em;
never show an inch of Adam’s leather to an Indian.--Adzooks, is that you, Harry
my dear?” were the words of Captain Loring, roused as suddenly from his
slumbers as he had often been in his early woodland campaigns. “What’s the
matter? Have you caught that scoundrel Oran, or any of his gang?”
The answer to this
question astounded the old soldier; and while Miss Falconer poured into his
ears the story of the transformation of his beloved Herman the painter into
Hyland Gilbert, a brother and leader among the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, he seemed
for a moment, like the devotee, rapt in a holier passion, to have
Forgot himself to
marble.
In the meanwhile the
unlucky author of this commotion had brought his destinies to a crisis in
another quarter, and with another individual.
“Not all the wealth of
Eastern kings;” said she,
“Has power to part my
plighted love and me.”
Dryden.
The painter had long
since made his way to Gilbert’s Folly. As he hurried through the park, he
discerned the figure of Miss Falconer; and notwithstanding the obscurity of the
hour, he knew her at once, and avoided her. There was a moon in the sky, but
new, and low in the west; and, besides, it was struggling with clouds that
robbed it of half its lustre; yet it cast ever and anon light enough to enable
a good eye to distinguish objects on the more open portions of the lawn.
Not a little pleased at
the prospect, thus offered, of enjoying a tête à tête with the Captain’s
daughter, though it might be only for a moment, he entered the house and the
little saloon in which he had spent so many happy moments. It was empty, but
the door leading to the garden was open; and the broad gravel-walk, fringed
with low shrubs and roses, was lighted by the taper in the apartment. As he
stepped out, his eye fell upon Catherine Loring, who was that moment
approaching from the garden, her step hurried, and her countenance displaying
agitation, which was increased the moment she beheld him.
“Oh, Mr. Hunter!” she
cried, running eagerly towards him, “I am very glad to see you, and I am glad
we are alone. We are all going mad here at the Folly, and it is right you
should know it. You have--I am ashamed to say it, for I know you have not
deserved her dislike--made an enemy of my cousin Harriet; the strangest
suspicions have entered her head; and she may offend you, unless you are put on
your guard. You must forgive her: by and by, you will laugh at her folly, and
so will she; but at present she seems half-distracted by the events of the day,
the disasters of her father, and her fears for the future. Did you not meet
her? Alas, she will be here in a moment!”
“Fear not,” said the
young man, in hurried and altered tones, but with an effort to be jocose; “she
is down by the park-gate, studying the stars, and reading my own foolish
history among them. Miss Catherine,--Miss Loring,--I am aware of your friend’s
dislike. I am not surprised--she will tolerate your having no friend less
interested than herself.”
“You must not speak
thus, Mr. Hunter,” cried Catherine, but in too much hurry of spirits to rebuke.
“I did wrong to show you her letter: that, I fear, is the chief cause of her
anger; and your being a stranger, and so great a favourite with my father--oh,
and a thousand reasons more she has found, or fancied, for supposing you
are--that is, that you have deceived us, and that”--
“That I am--an
impostor,” said Hyland, hesitating an instant at the word, but pronouncing it
at last firmly.
“Such is indeed her
strange aberration,” cried Catherine, apparently overjoyed that the idea so
repugnant to herself, had been conceived by the suspected person, and without
distress or anger; “and,--and--but this is the maddest and most insulting
suspicion of all, (yet you must not be offended:)--she thinks, you--really, I
could laugh, but that she has frightened me half out of my wits --she thinks,
you are even a tory in disguise!--a refugee,--(ah, now I have said it!)--a
comrade of these wild and lawless men, come to spy upon us, and murder us--(is
it not too ludicrous?)--a spy, an enemy, a traitor--nay, even a Gilbert--a Hawk
of the Hollow! I can laugh, now that I have said it. And now, too, I am sure
you will not be offended, the suspicion is so very ridiculous: yes, I am sure
you will forgive her.”
“I do,” said the young
man, sadly and falteringly, “for her suspicion is just,--at least, it is just
in part--I am an impostor.”
“Heavens!” cried
Catherine, “what do you tell me?”
“That I have deceived
and imposed upon you --at least in name. I am neither spy nor refugee, indeed,
neither cut-throat nor betrayer,--but I am Hyland Gilbert, a son of him who
built this house, and a brother of those whose name fills it with horror. Miss
Loring, Miss Loring!” he cried, impetuously, seeing that Catherine recoiled
from him with terror, “is the name so dreadful even to you? In nothing else am
I criminal--do you think I would do you a hurt?”
“Surely not, surely
not,” cried Catherine, gasping almost for breath, and speaking she scarce knew
what: “I do not think you would hurt me. No, oh no! I have done you no harm,
and my father has been good to you.”
“For God’s sake, Miss
Loring--Catherine-- compose yourself,” cried the young man, both amazed and
shocked at the impression his words had produced on a mind almost unhinged by
long and brooding sorrow. “What, I harm you? I would die to protect you from
the least evil.”
“And you are a Gilbert,
then? a foe to the land of your birth, a disguised enemy, an associate of
thieves and murderers?” cried the maiden, with sudden energy, and in a passion
of tears’ “oh, Mr. Hunter, I thought better of you!”
“Think better of me
yet,” he exclaimed, catching her by the hand, “for as there is a heaven above
us, I have done nothing to deserve your hatred. All that I have done--and it is
nothing but concealment--was to do you service, and to obtain your friendship.”
“Go--stay no longer
here--you must come no more,” cried Catherine, weeping bitterly; “and would you
had never come, for I thought you were my friend--my friend, and my poor father’s.
I don’t believe you are a bad man, or that you will do a wrong to any one; but
you must go. Yes, go,” she added, wildly, “for you are in danger. They will
arrest you; and then what will become of you? It was Harriet’s talking of
this,--of arresting you,--that made me tell you, that you might show her how
much she was deceived. Go, go! and never return more. A moment, and the
officers will be here: Harriet has sent for them. Go, Mr. Hunter, go!”
“I will not, Catherine,”
cried the youth, giving way to the most vehement emotion: “I know that they are
sacrificing you; and I will remain till you are rescued, come what will. You
hate this young Falconer; you do, Catherine,--you cannot conceal it: he is
unworthy of you--he shall never marry you.”
“You will drive me mad!
For heaven’s sake, Mr. Hunter--is this the way to show your friendship?”
“My love, Catherine,
call it my love. I love you, Catherine Loring, and I will save you, even
against your will. Say that you hate Henry Falconer, the wretched son of a
still more wretched father--say that--nay, place but your hand on mine, and you
shall”--
“Never!” cried
Catherine, wildly; “I love you not--I hate you! Release me. Is this the way you
repay my father’s good deeds? Go, Mr. Hunter: you have made me more unhappy
than before.”
“I will make you happy,
Catherine. I have wealth--nay, and reputation, Gilbert though I be. I will go
to your father, I will demand you at his hands”--
“Kill me, first--kill
me, rather than speak to me thus!” cried the unhappy maiden, in unspeakable
agitation. “Is this the way to talk to me? You should know better, for I am to
be given to another. Oh, that you had never come to our house! Go--I forgive
you--I will tell nobody. If they find you, they will kill you: Harriet has
shown me they can take your life. Hark! they are coming! I hear their voices! I
hear my father’s! I forgive you, Mr. Hunter; yes, I forgive you-- but I will
never see you more! no, never!”
“Catherine!”--
“Never! I swear
it--never, never! I am vowed and betrothed. If you stay longer, I shall die!
Oh, have pity on me, and go: have pity on me, for my father’s sake,--pity,
pity!”
These wild and
hysterical expressions were concluded by a shriek; for at that moment the
ill-fated girl, who had been all the while struggling, though feebly, to make
her way into the little saloon, beheld Miss Falconer, followed by her father
and the young lieutenant, rush into it. As she screamed, she burst from the
grasp of the impassioned lover, and, running forwards, threw herself into the
Captain’s arms.
“Oh, the hound! the
villain!” cried the veteran; “he has been killing her! Shoot him down, run him
through, knock him on the head! Here, you Aunt Rachel! Phœbe! Daphne! Dick!
Soph! and the squad of you! Oh lord, Harry, my dear, the dog has murdered her!”
“No, father, no, no,
no!” cried the maiden, clinging, almost in convulsions, to his neck; “I am very
well, father,--a bat flew in my face,--a snake came into the garden, and I don’t
know what! But it is very foolish, father,--I am always very foolish!” And with
these incoherent expressions, in which even the whirl and tumult of a suffering
heart could not repress an instinctive effort to distract notice from the young
man in the garden, she fell into a state of pitiable prostration, which engaged
the whole attention of her father and kinswoman.
Will you walk out, sir? And
if I do not beat thee presently
Into as sound belief as
sense can give thee,
Brick me into the wall
there for a chimney-piece,
And say,--I was one o’
th’ Cæsars, done by a seal-cutter.
Rule a Wife and have a Wife
In the meanwhile,
Herman,--or Hyland Gilbert, as he must now be called,--(so soon as he beheld
the maiden, wooed so wildly and vainly, fly to her parent for refuge,) turned
from the illuminated path, and taking advantage of his previous knowledge of
the garden, soon succeeded in making his way out of it, and, as he thought,
without being observed. He hurried through the park, torn by a tempest of
passions, and had almost reached the gate, when he was suddenly roused by a tap
on the shoulder, which brought him to a stand. The moon had set, and the light
of the stars, breaking through ragged clouds, was not sufficient to make him
acquainted with the visage of the intruder; but the first word of the
salutation that accompanied the touch, told him he was now confronted with his
rival.
“An excellent good
night to you, my fine hail-fellow-well-met!” cried Harry Falconer; “you’ll be
jogging, will you? A word in your ear: there’s star-light enough to be civil
by, soft moist grass for sleeping on, and, gad’s my life, as good barren clay
at your feet as ever gentleman rotted under. Now you may be surprised to hear
it, but I have the prettiest pair of pistols in my pocket that were ever made
for a lady’s finger; somewhat dwarfish, to be sure--but, egad, as good, at six
paces, for blowing one’s brains out, as a battering piece at point-blank
distance. So douse kit, as the cobbler says, and let’s begin.--Harkee, sir, no
skulking! Don’t put me to the painful necessity of calling hard names. No
sneaking!”
“You are a fool,” said
Hyland, sternly. “If you will renew your quarrel, come to me in the morning.”
“By your leave, no,”
said the lieutenant, laying hand on his collar. “As to being a fool, adzooks,
as the Captain says, I am, or was, for supposing you an honest, respectable
sort of a vagabond young man; whereas, on the contrary”--
“Remove your hand,
or--Well, sir,” cried the young Gilbert, “what will you have? Must I cut your
throat? Trust me, my fingers have been itching to do it all day; and, at this
moment, they are hotter than ever. Begone, therefore, while you may, and while
the devil is yet behind me. This is no time nor place for quarrelling.”
“The best in the world,”
said the officer; “and to end your scruples at once, know that I give you
choice only of two alternatives. Being a cursed Hawk-Hollow Gilbert”--
“Hah!”
“You have a certain
claim to the gallows; but being also an exceedingly well-behaved, genteel,
handsome young dog, who have done me the honour to court my sweetheart, you
have an equal claim to die in a gentlemanly way. So take your choice--a pistol,
six paces, and a shot at one-two-three; or yield yourself a prisoner, and die
by a drum-head court-martial.”
“What if I
say,--Neither?” replied Gilbert. “Away, molest me not.” And he turned again to
depart, but was again arrested by the hot soldier.
“Oh, gad,” cried this
worthy, “one thing you must say.”
“Look you, Mr. Henry
Falconer,” said Hyland, with a trembling voice, “I have never yet harmed a
human creature, and I would not willingly hurt even you, though I have a double
cause to wish you ill. Provoke me no farther. You have been drinking, and are
now beside yourself.”
“Never think it,” said
the lieutenant, dropping his tone of bagatelle, but speaking with
characteristic impetuosity. “You have presumed to be impertinent to a certain
lady, who shall be nameless; for which reason I will forget that you are a low
and contemptible scoundrel, worthy only”--
“Give me the pistol,”
said Hyland, “and your blood be on your own head. I will abide no more from the
son of your father.”
“Spoken like a man,”
cried Falconer, instantly stepping off six paces on the grass, and counting
them aloud as he stepped. Then turning, he added, with a furious voice, as if
giving way to his passions, “Now, you rascal, prepare to fire as soon as you
hear me count three; and if I don’t teach you manners, you gallows dog, may I
never more smell gunpowder. Ready, you rogue! fire! One,--two,--three!”
The instant the last
word escaped his lips, he fired his own pistol, and Hyland staggered backwards,
as if the shot had taken effect. Immediately recovering himself, however, he
cried, with an agitated voice, “Let that satisfy you--I will not hurt you,” and
threw his own undischarged weapon away. The act of generosity was not
appreciated by his rival, who, inflamed by a rage to which he seemed now to
have given himself up, uttered an oath, and whipping out the sword he always
carried at his side, rushed upon him, crying, “Villain, you don’t escape me so
easily!”
Thus attacked, and with
a fury that seemed to aim at nothing short of his life, Hyland, who was
entirely without arms, avoided the lunge aimed at his heart, and immediately
closing with his adversary, they fell together to the ground.
In the meanwhile, the
pistol-shot had reached the ears of the captain of cavalry, and one or two of
the late banqueters, who were, at that moment, making their way to Gilbert’s
Folly, in obedience to a summons from Miss Falconer, which, although meant only
for her brother, the domestic entrusted with it, had communicated, in his
absence, to captain Caliver. It found that worthy gentleman, as well as all
others present, somewhat incapable of understanding it; but as it related to
the Hawks of the Hollow, and seemed to require the presence of the lieutenant
or his friends at the mansion, it was obeyed by all, not even excepting the
gallant Ephraim; although, as it afterwards appeared, this mysterious
individual had, after setting out, separated from the party, which was now but
three in number.
“By the eternal
Jupiter!” cried Caliver, toiling and stumbling up an ascent that led to the
parkgate, as the sudden explosion, followed immediately after by angry voices,
broke the solemn silence of the night,--“by the eternal Jupiter, halt!-- there’s
the tories! They’re beating up the old cock’s quarters!”
“Let us retreat,” cried
one of his attendants, “and get our horses.”
“Halt--hark!” exclaimed
the solider, “there’s Harry Falconer’s voice! the dogs are murdering him!
Prepare to charge, and hold your tongues. --Now follow me, and I’ll have a
whole regiment on them.--Halloo!” he cried at the top of his voice, as if
really calling upon a competent force of both horse and foot; “Make bayonet
work of it, you light-infantry dogs! Horsemen, over the fence, and surround the
vagabonds!--No quarter! --Double quick-step, march! Charge the villains!” And
with this valiant stratagem, the officer ran boldly up the hill, followed by
his two companions, --though not until they had heard behind them, or fancied
they heard, the clatter as of a party of horsemen descending the hill they had
already left.
As Caliver rushed into
the park, he again heard the voice of his friend, and rushing up, beheld, to
his great amazement, the band of tories dwindled into a single individual,
lying across Falconer’s breast, and in the very act of transfixing him with his
own weapon.
“By the eternal
Jupiter! what means all this?” he cried, dragging Hyland off his prey. “What!
my jolly gentleman-volunteer, hah! What means this, you absurd young
cut-throats?”
“It means,” cried
Falconer, rising and darting at his foe with unexampled fury, “that I’ve nabbed
a tory lieutenant, and I’ll have his blood!”
He took his adversary
at a disadvantage, for Hyland was still held by the captain; and before this
bewildered peace-maker could interfere, the combatants were again rolling
together upon the ground, only that their positions were reversed, for Falconer
was now uppermost, and armed with Caliver’s sword, which he had snatched out of
the captain’s hand, not knowing, nor indeed caring, what had become of his own.
At this juncture, a new
feature was given to the battle-field. “Enemies!” cried Caliver’s two
attendants; and the cry was echoed by a fierce yell, like the war-whoop of a
savage, coming from the gate, through which galloped they knew not how many
dusky figures, looking to the eyes of the revellers like the fiends of darkness
themselves. The astounded captain, deserted in a moment by his attendants, looked
up, and beheld with still greater amazement, the apparition, as it seemed, of
Ephraim Patch astride his gallant gray; only that this impression was put to
flight by the spectre urging the steed right upon him, crying at the same time
in a voice of thunder, “Down with the rebel dogs! trample them to death!” and
the next moment, the unlucky officer was struck to the ground by the blow of a
hoof, and there lay insensible.
“Victory!” cried the
valiant rider, springing from his steed, and cheering his companion (for he had
but one,) who was at that moment dashing after the two volunteers. “Victory!”
he exclaimed, rushing towards the original combatants, and immediately
proceeding to knock young Falconer on the head with the butt of a pistol,
crying at the same time to Hyland, whom he assisted to rise, “Up, brother actor
and Hawk of the Hollow,-- ’my name is Harry Percy!’ ‘The trumpet sounds
retreat, the day is ours!’ ”
“Good God!” cried young
Gilbert, bending over his adversary, “you have killed him!”
“Quarter!” murmured the
lieutenant, faintly, “quarter, if you be Christian men!”
“Hell and furies!”
cried Ephraim, thrusting the pistol into his face, “you die, were you the king’s
son!” and he would have killed the unlucky youth on the spot, had it not been
for Hyland, who dashed the weapon out of his hand, exclaiming, “Touch him not,
on your peril!--What! can you stand?” he added, addressing Falconer: “Away--you
are safe. You would have taken my life--I give you yours. But, remember, Henry
Falconer,” he whispered in his ear, as he led him a little way, “remember this:
you are seeking Catherine Loring against her will. If you persist, it were
better for you had you never been born. Away with you, ere those come who will
not be so merciful.”
The young officer, confused
by the blow he had received, and perhaps terrified by the appearance of enemies
so unexpected and of a character so incomprehensible, stole away and concealed
himself among some neighbouring bushes. He heard the crash of hoofs over the
avenue, as if he who had chased away the volunteers, were now returning to his
unknown companions, then a murmur of voices, and finally a renewed sound of
horses’ feet, whereby he perceived that the midnight assailants had left the
paddock. He then crept from his concealment, and made his way towards the
mansion, to which, as was evident from the flashing of lights in the windows
and on the porch, the alarm had been already communicated.
And I remember the
chief, said the king of woody Morven: I met him, one day, on the hill; his
cheek was pale; his eye was dark; the sigh was frequent in his breast; his
steps were towards the desert.
Carric-Thura.
A month swept over the
valley, and found it restored to its pristine quiet and loneliness. The
confusion resulting from the developments of the eventful 4th had subsided, and
men began to remember the occurrences of that day almost as a dream. Had the
refugees really been in the Hollow? The discovery of Parker’s body,--the
recovery of his last letter, which had remained in Hyland’s hands in the hurry
of separation from his brother, to be, by a natural fatality, converted into
testimony against himself,--the nocturnal scuffle in the park, from which
captain Caliver and the junior officer had come off with injuries, though not
serious ones,--and, finally, the sudden disappearance of the painter and the
eccentric Ephraim,--were the only evidence to establish the truth of such a
visitation. No outrage had been perpetrated either upon life or property; nor
could the keenest search of the county volunteers, assisted by several
detachments from the lines, sent to scour the whole country, detect a single
vestige of the audacious outlaws. That they had fled was manifest enough, but
how and whither no man could tell. It appeared from the letters of Parker, that
the chief object of Gilbert’s return to his native valley was the rescue of
young captain Asgill, of whom we have before spoken, out of the hands of his
jailers; and it is now well known, that, among the devices to secure the life
of this unfortunate captive, ‘a plan was, in case of the worst, arranged for
his escape,’ and secretly persisted in, until it became evident that the
humanity of the American Commander-in-chief was his truest safeguard. There
remained, therefore, no longer occasion for the services of Oran Gilbert, to
whom an exploit of this nature, requiring a man of crafty and daring spirit,
had been so properly entrusted; and it was at first hoped, and then confidently
believed, that he had withdrawn entirely from the neighbourhood, and, after
disbanding his followers, returned, in spite of the vigilance of his foes, to
New York; and, indeed, certain secret intelligence was received from that city,
that he had been long since ordered to return, the project of rescue being now
as unnecessary as it was hopeless of success. That he had committed no outrage
upon the unprotected inhabitants of the county was supposed to be owing not
more to the necessity of avoiding all acts that might give the alarm, and so
draw attention towards him, than the positive commands of the British
Commander, whose course in the present conjuncture of affairs, was to the full
as forbearing as that of his enemy.
These considerations
restored confidence to the county; and nothing remained for the good citizens
but to weave the chain of mysterious circumstances attending the visitation
into a web of wonderful history, and to speculate upon the character and fate
of the painter and honest Ephraim. As for the latter, ingenuity was for a long
time at fault, until the story of Mr. Leonidas Sterling became generally known;
when an opinion, hazarded at first almost in jest, grew into a settled
belief,-- namely, that these twain were one and the same person, and that he
who had deceived so well as the ranting preacher, had deceived still better in
the semblance of the zealous quaker. The successful fourberies of this modern
Scapin obtained for him a higher degree of credit than he had ever won, while
contracting his genius into the representation of the kings of fiction; and he
was remembered and spoken of with a degree of good humour, that perhaps
explained the unwillingness of his city friends to proceed rigorously against
him, when his treasonable practices were discovered.
As for the young Hunter,
or Gilbert, as he was now universally called, he was remembered with no such
favour. To be a scion of the tory family, was enough to condemn him, even
although (as had been the case) he might have passed his days afar from the
contamination of his brothers’ example, and shared neither in their acts nor
their hostile spirit. But to be an associate,--an officer of the very gang
commanded by Oran,--was a sin of inexpiable die, to which a double blackness
was given by his dissimulation and audacity. He had resided among them as a
friend and brother, and yet was all the time playing the part of a spy and
betrayer; and he had capped the climax of effrontery by taking part in the
jubilee of liberty, and even profaning with hypocritical lips the sacred
manifesto of Independence,--or so, at least, he would have done, but for the
interruption caused by Oran’s appearance. This seemed to them little short of
impiety, a sacrilegious mockery, indicative as much of his contemptuous
disregard of the holy instrument as of his daring character. In this spirit of
indignation they proceeded to canvass his whole history, raking up every little
act that could be remembered, and perverting each into a manifestation of
villany; the worst of which was his attempt to carry off Captain Loring’s
daughter,--for so much they made of his parting interview with the young
lady,--and then, being baffled in the base attempt, waylaying and attempting to
murder her affianced husband. In a word, he was proved to be a monster of
treason, perfidy, and ingratitude; and few had the courage, fewer still the
disposition, to say a word in his defence. It must be confessed that Dr.
Merribody once, in a fit of unusual generosity, declared to a whole throng of
raging villagers, ‘that the scoundrel was an honest man and a gentleman after
all, for he had faithfully paid his bill, and even asked for it, before it was
presented;’ but this impulse of magnanimous friendship vanished when he came to
remember how much he had been imposed upon in relation to the youth’s true
character, by some deception Elsie Bell thought fit to play upon him, under
colour of admitting him to the secret. The poet also, who, in the loss of
Hyland, wept that of his warmest admirer, contended ‘that he sang better, and
had a more refined literary taste, than any body he ever knew.’ Nay, even
Captain Loring, who had begun to esteem him as the apple of his eye, was
converted into a furious foe, which was owing, in a great measure, to the
discovery of the young man’s political inclinings, though his anger was
sharpened and augmented by Miss Falconer, who took occasion, for a purpose of
her own, to reveal what the Captain had never dreamed of himself. She gave him
to understand, what was indeed nothing more than true, that his ungrateful protegé
had endeavoured to detach Catherine’s affections from her brother, and divert
them upon himself,--an assurance that infuriated the old soldier, whose wrath
was not much mollified when Miss Falconer succeeded in making him aware how
much his own extravagant patronage of the impostor might have been construed
into almost positive encouragement of his presumption. But bitter as was the
worthy veteran’s anger, it was as capricious as his love had been. Whenever he
laid his eyes upon the unfinished painting, which he commonly did a dozen times
a day, he would begin to bewail and admire together, and swear ‘that his young
Haman What-did-ye-call-it, for all of his roguery, was the finest painter that
was ever known; and, adzooks, he thought there must be some mistake about his
being a tory and a Gilbert.’
The occurrence of these
incidents had naturally made the poor widow an object of suspicion, as having
connived at the presence, and aided in the concealment and flight, of the
outlaws; and she was even threatened with the vengeance of the law, until Harry
Falconer, to the surprise of every body, stepped forward as her champion, and
made such interest for her as left her again in her lonely and quiet
desolation. Whether this display of generosity was prompted by his own erratic
feelings, or was derived from the secret influence of the Captain’s daughter,
Elsie knew not. Catherine visited her no more; and within a week after the
explosion of the 4th, she left Hawk-Hollow with her friend Harriet, and was
absent for a considerable period. Elsie saw her, as the carriage rolled by; her
face was very pale and haggard, as if she had been suffering from sickness.
When she returned, young Falconer and a brother officer, both mounted, pranced
along at her side. She looked from the carriage as she passed, and kissed her
hand to the widow, while her eye sparkled as with its former fire. But Elsie
beheld her not; as she looked up, her eye caught the outlines of a dark and
stern countenance behind that of Catherine, on which were the traces of age and
broken health.
She started from her
seat, and gazed eagerly after the rolling vehicle, but it was soon swept out of
sight. She remained upon her feet, until she had seen it enter the park, and
draw up before Captain Loring’s door, when she again sunk upon her chair,
muttering to herself:
“I saw him last a
black-eyed boy, with a cheek like the rose-leaf, and hair like the wing of a
crow; and now he comes with a cheek as withered even as mine, and locks frosted
still whiter. So let it be with the villain; honour may fall on the snowy head,
but what lies in the bosom? And can he walk over the knolls where Jessie
walked, and smile on those around him? There is thunder yet in heaven, and a
long reckoning yet to settle. Ah well, ah well, we shall see what we shall see,
and I shall live to see it; for she cursed him in her death-gasp; and I cursed
too, and I prayed God I might live to see the two curses light upon him
together; and together they will light, and I alive to see it!” And muttering
thus in one of those occasional moods of darkness which had, perhaps more than
any thing else, served to fix the stigma of the sibyl upon her, Elsie gathered
up her wheel and spindle, and retreated from her favourite seat on the porch,
to which she returned no more during the day.
The person upon whom
she invoked this malediction was the father of Miss Falconer, who, with
Catherine and himself, made up the contents of the carriage. As he stepped upon
the porch of Gilbert’s Folly, from the vehicle, and received the rough welcome
of Captain Loring, it was with a firmer bearing than would have been expected
from his apparent age and infirm health. He was of tall stature, and, although
greatly wasted, preserved an erect military bearing. His countenance, though
hollow, withered, and of the sallowest hue, was, even yet, strikingly handsome,
and his eye was of remarkable brilliancy, though of a stern and saturnine
expression. His brow was very lofty, though not ample, and his mouth singularly
well sculptured, and indicative of decision. On the whole, his appearance was
at once commanding and venerable; and even those who were freest to whisper the
tale of early profligacy and maturer corruption, could not deny him the
deference due to his gentlemanly air and deportment. A close inspection of his
countenance would have revealed no traces of the workings of an unquiet spirit.
The first glance showed him to be of a temper thoughtful, reserved--nay, severe
and moody; but the second could discover no more. A perfect self-command, a
mastery not merely of his countenance, but of his spirit, lifted him above the
ken of petty scrutiny; and if he wore a mask in his commerce with men, it was
like that iron one of the Bastile, which when put on, was put on for life, and
was, at the same time, of iron. He was a man upon whom even his children looked
with fear,--not that fear indeed which lives in constant expectation of the
outbreaking of a violent spirit, but the awe that is begotten by a
consciousness of the inflexible resolution of the spirit that rules us. This
inflexibility is power, and power is ever an object of secret dread, even with
those who love its possessor.
The austerity of his
mind was not accompanied by rigid manners, nor even coldness of feeling. No one
could be more courteous, and, at times, even agreeable, than Colonel Falconer.
He received the welcomes of his kinsman with much apparent pleasure, and
himself assisted Catherine from the carriage, and conducted her into the
mansion, congratulating her, with gentleness and kindness, upon her return. “Yet
you must grant,” he added, “that even the smoke of a city can sometimes renew
the health, when the air of the country fails. I would I might profit by these
mountain breezes, as I know you will, when you have once recovered from your
fatigue. But let me see you but happy with my graceless Harry, I shall not
complain of my own infirmities.”--
On the third day after
the arrival of Colonel Falconer, the solitude of Hawk-Hollow began to be broken
by the appearance of divers carriages, filled with gay and well dressed people,
the destination of all whom appeared to be Gilbert’s Folly. A few individuals,
the more favoured of the villagers, were seen mingling their equipages
occasionally with the others; but it was plain that the majority of visiters
were strangers, and had come from a distance.
The object of such an
unusual convocation of guests at Gilbert’s Folly, could not long remain a
mystery; and indeed it was known, several days before, that it was to do honour
to the nuptials of Henry Falconer with the daughter of Captain Loring. The
wealth and standing of the bridegroom’s father were sufficient to secure him
the means of giving eclat to the ceremony, at a day when that ceremony was
always one of festivity; and accordingly there appeared guests enough, and of
sufficient figure, long before night, at the mansion, to convince those who
took note of such circumstances, that it would be such a wedding as had never
before been known in all that county.--And such indeed it proved; though not
even the most imaginative could have foreseen from what unusual circumstances
it was to owe its claim to be remembered.
Upon that day, while
all others were laughing and smiling, a deep and moody dejection seized upon
the spirits of the bridegroom’s father; and although he displayed his wonted
courtesy in receiving his guests, (they should be considered his, for the bride
was without kinsfolk, and her father had invited none to partake of his joy,
save a few villagers,) the task of continuing to trifle with them during the
entire day became intolerably irksome, and perhaps the more so that his habits
had for so many years accustomed him to solitude and privacy. Worn out at last,
he exchanged the noisy apartments of the mansion for the shaded garden-walks;
until, finally, driven from these by an increase of his melancholy and the
presence of a bevy of maidens, seeking flowers to decorate their fair persons,
or perhaps that of the bride, he fled from them to the more unfrequented walks in
the park.
“Why should I mingle
with this mockery?” he muttered to himself, “and on this unhappy spot? Let me
look upon those scenes I have not beheld for twenty-four years, and see if they
have yet power to move me.--There are none here to miss me; and they will feel
the freer and gayer, when frightened no more by my death’s-head countenance.--I
would the silly Captain had spared the poplar-row: and yet I know not,--the old
white-oak, where--Faugh! that should be forgotten. There is something new at
least in the forest. The shrubs have become maple-trees and beeches, the old
oaks and sycamores have rotted in their places, and nothing is the same save
the rocks and the water.--Why should I fear, then, to revisit scenes that have
changed like myself? I shall never look on them again, after this day.”
He composed his
countenance into its ordinary expression of severe and frowning calm, and
directing his steps through the grounds, as one familiarly acquainted with
their most hidden retreats, made his way towards the Run, until he had reached
the path along its rocky borders, previously trodden by Catherine and his
daughter. He even sat down under the sycamore, where Catherine had begun the
story of the wild Gilberts, and his own early adventures; and here, as if there
were something in the spot to conjure up such memories, he mused long and
painfully on the same dark subjects. Perhaps, also, as he looked upon the
turbulent water rushing at his feet, he pictured to himself the resemblance it
bore to the course of his own life,--a current, which, although now sunk into
the composure of a river just losing itself in the vast ocean, had dashed so
long in a channel full of rocks and caverns.
‘Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were, and are, thou art;
And such as thou art were my passions long.’ The current of his early life had been indeed as wild, as
tortuous, as tumultuous, as that before him; and as he looked backwards upon
its broken course, he saw that the freshes of passion had left as many ruins
around it as now deformed the margin of the streamlet.
When he rose from his
meditations, it was with a brow indicative of a deeply suffering mind; and as
he strode onwards, still pursuing the course of the brook, a spectator looking at
him from a concealment, might have detected on his visage the workings even of
an agonized spirit, though it was observable, that, even in this solitude,
where there seemed to be so little fear of observation, he still struggled to
preserve an air of serenity. The roar of the waterfall fell upon his ear, and
perhaps as the voice of an old acquaintance; it did not rouse him from his
dream of pain, but seemed, although he essayed to approach it, to plunge him
deeper in gloom; and he would perhaps have crossed the rustic bridge without
being conscious of the act, had not his footsteps been suddenly arrested by a
figure that started suddenly in the path, and recalled him to his senses. He
looked up, and beheld a young man, in a hunting suit and leather hat, with the
rifle and other equipments of a woodman, standing before him. The texture of
his garments was coarse, and there was nothing in them to indicate any
superiority in the wearer above the young rustics of the country; but he wore
them with an air of ease, a savoir s’habiller, by no means common to the class.
His figure was light and handsome, and so was his face, though the latter was
miserably pale and thin, and marked with the traces of grief, and the former
considerably emaciated. As he stepped into the path, he dropped the butt of his
rifle upon the earth, as if for the purpose of arousing the abstracted comer by
the clash; and when the Colonel looked up it was not without some alarm at
opposition so unexpected.
“Fear not,” said the
young man, eyeing him with a mournful, yet steadfast gaze, “I design you no
hurt.”
“And why should you?”
cried Colonel Falconer, returning his gaze, with one that seemed meant to rend
him through. As he looked, however, he faltered, turned pale, and thrust his
hand into his bosom, as if to grasp at a concealed pistol. The act was observed
by the stranger, and he instantly repeated his words,--
“Fear nothing,--at
least fear nothing from me: I desire to serve you, not injure.--Accident, or
Providence, has given me the means. You are Colonel Falconer?”
“And you?” cried the
gentleman, with an agitated voice.
“I--what matters it
what I am?” said the youth; “I am neither footpad nor assassin,--let that
satisfy you. What do you in this place? Cannot even conscience make you wiser?
Methinks, there is not a rock or a bush in this dark den,--there should not be
a rustle of the leaf or a clash of the waters, but should tell you what you
should expect, when treading the soil of a Gilbert.”
“If you meditate
violence, young man,” cried Falconer, whose agitation visibly increased, the
more he regarded the figure before him, and who now spoke with an emotion
amounting almost to terror, “heaven forgive you. But heaven will not --there is
no pardon in store for the young man who assails the gray hairs of the old.”
“False, Colonel, false!”
cried the youth, with a laugh of singular bitterness, “or surely you had never
lived to tell me so. There was a man of gray hairs, Colonel Falconer, who once
lived among these woods, and very happily, too; but a young man struck him, and
struck him to the heart, Colonel; and the young man lived to have a head as
white and reverend as he whom he slew! Yet fear not; again I say, fear not: I
came to save, not to kill. Hear me, and then away. Begone from this place, and
begone with such speed as becomes a man flying from a loosed panther. Mount
your horse and away,--away instantly; and in return for the good deed of one
who has perhaps saved your life, speak not a word to any human being of what
you have heard and seen in this place.”
“Stay,” cried Colonel
Falconer, recovering from his terror, yet speaking with a choking voice, “I owe
this caution to a”--
“To an enemy,” cried
the other, turning from him.
“Stay, I charge you,--I
command you,”--and as the Colonel spoke, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, he
grasped the arm of the youth, who had already placed his foot upon the fallen
sycamore, for the purpose of crossing the stream. To the surprise of Colonel
Falconer, he discovered that even the strength of his aged arm was superior to
that of the young man, who seemed to have been enfeebled by long sickness. He
struggled to release himself, but not succeeding, he turned upon his captor,
and shedding tears, said,
“If you will seize me,
I have no strength to resist, nor any means of defence but this--and I will not
use it.” As he spoke, he cast his rifle to the earth. “You have but to will it,
to complete the ruin you have begun.”
“Alas, young man,
unhappy young man,” said Colonel Falconer, “I know you, and would recompense
your humanity, if such it really be. You should not, at least, perish like the
rest of your mad and infatuated brothers, and yet you are rushing upon the same
destruction; you have not been gently nurtured, to live the life of a bravo and
outcast. I have heard of you, of your generous acts --of at least one,--nay,
two; for Henry Falconer confessed you had both spared and saved his life. I can
save you, young man,--I can and will;-- and,--think of me as you please,--I
will do it for your father’s sake. You were not meant for this dreadful life,
on which you are embarking.”
“Such as it is,” said
Hyland Gilbert, picking up his rifle, for the Colonel had withdrawn his hand, “I
am driven to it by you and yours. Now, Colonel Falconer,” he added, leaping on
the tree, “mock me no more with a sympathy I despise as much as I hate him who
offers it. I am not your prisoner, and I will not be. I am weak and almost
helpless--thank your son for that, and the skill that was exercised at the
expense of one who had scarce ever fired a pistol in his life--I am weak, but I
am armed and desperate. Follow me no further, for I trust you not. Follow me
not, or be it at your peril.”
He made his way across
the bridge, but slowly and painfully; and Colonel Falconer observed more
clearly than he had done before, that all his motions were laborious and
feeble, and that, notwithstanding the arms he carried, he was entirely at the
mercy of any one who chose to assail him. A thousand different feelings took
possession of his breast, and among them pity for the unhappy condition of one,
who, if he had inherited a deep hatred for himself, was not without a claim
upon his feelings, and feelings deeper even than gratitude. He had been, of
course, made acquainted with the extraordinary developments effected by the
cunning, or perhaps the good fortune, of his daughter; and he was especially
interested in the account of the discovery of the youngest Gilbert in the
person of a young man, who, until that discovery was made, had so recommended
himself even to strangers by the gentleness of his manners, and the apparent
blamelessness of his life. Partaking little in the suspiciousness of his
daughter, he judged the actions and character of the youth with more leniency
and justice than others, though he kept his inferences locked up in his own
breast; and, happily perhaps for Hyland, Miss Falconer had not thought fit to
apprize him of what she deemed the presumption of the youth in becoming the
rival of her brother. He saw in him, therefore, a young man in no wise
resembling his fierce brothers, from whom he had been separated in early
infancy, and one whom perhaps a mere desire to revisit the scenes of his
childhood had drawn to Hawk-Hollow; and he thought, with justice, that nothing
but the revealment of a name universally detested, by exposing him to sudden
danger, had driven the young man to seek refuge among men of blood, whom he
would otherwise have avoided. The confession of Henry Falconer, (whose jealousy
was rather wrath at the presumption of his rival than any unworthy suspicion of
his mistress,) that he had fought a duel with the ‘confounded tory lieutenant,’
as he always called him,--that his antagonist had endured his fire, and
although hurt, as he believed, had refused to return it,--and, finally, that he
had very generously interfered to save him from one of the gang, who was on the
point of blowing his brains out,--was additional proof to Colonel Falconer that
this orphan son of a man he had deeply injured was not by choice among the
refugees, but forced among them by the ill will and violence of his own
children. The wrong he had done to one member of Gilbert’s family had,
indirectly at least, produced the destruction of all but this one; and he was
now on the point of sinking into the abyss which had swallowed the rest, though
worthy of a better destiny, unless a hand were stretched forth to save him.
These
considerations,--a memory of the wrongs he had done and the reparation he
should make, together with the present prospect of the poor youth in a state
that might make him the prey of any enemy who might meet him, and some sense of
the generosity of the warning he had just given--excited Colonel Falconer’s
feelings, and moved him with an impulse, which caused him at once to cross the
brook, pursuing the fugitive, and intreating him to stay. Whether it was that
his motive was misunderstood, and that the young man, in the agitation of his
spirits, supposed that he was followed merely for the purpose of being
arrested, or whether it was because he found himself in a spot peculiarly
calculated to arouse his most vengeful feelings, it is certain that he became
excited to anger by a pursuit designed only in kindness. He clambered up to the
little enclosure of the grave, and was about making his way through the narrow
passage betwixt the two rocks; when, hearing the pursuer close at his heels, he
turned round, displaying a countenance so fierce and intimidating, that it
instantly brought the Colonel to a stand.
“Villain!” he cried, throwing
aside his rifle, and drawing his knife, “God has sent you to your fate--you are
treading on Jessie Gilbert’s grave!”
If the words had been
thunder-bolts, they could not have sooner unmanned his pursuer. He started,
shivering from head to foot, and looking down, beheld the dreary hollow, from
which some pious hand, perhaps that of Hyland himself, had plucked away the
weeds, leaving the stalk of the rose-bush flourishing alone at its head.
“Oh, holy Heaven!”
cried Colonel Falconer, dropping upon his knees, and wringing his hands, while
he gazed with an eye of horror upon the couch of his victim, “the grave of
Jessie Gilbert!”
“Of the mother and the
babe!” cried the young man, advancing towards him, with looks of vindictive
fury; “and here, gray-headed though you be, you deserve to die. To this place
of shame, man of ingratitude! you consigned the victim of your villany; and
here it is fitting she should have her revenge.”
But if Hyland Gilbert
was a moment disposed to play the part of the avenger, it was only for a
moment. His wrath was instantly disarmed by a burst of grief from the wronger,
so overpowering, so agonizing, that he at once forgot his dreadful purpose, and
felt himself melting with commiseration.
“She has had--she has
had her revenge,” cried the wretched man; “death had been too cheap a
retribution, and therefore it has been ordained in a life of misery,--and such
misety, oh heaven! Would to God I had died in her place, though it had been
with a world hooting me to the scaffold. Yes, Jessie, I am a villain, and thou
knowest, how much greater and viler than ever was thought, even by thee. But
thou shalt have justice,” he added, beating his breast, “yes, thou and thy
murdered babe, though I give up my children to be sacrificed to thy memory.”
“My father was right,”
muttered Hyland, as the foe of his family poured forth the wild expressions of
a remorseful spirit; “he charged me to leave the destroyer of his peace to God
and his fate; and God has made his fate an existence of retribution.--Arise,
Colonel Falconer,” he added, sternly; “profane this holy resting-place no
longer with the mockery of repentance. Fly, and secure your wretched life for
further remorse; for here it is in a danger of which you do not dream. Begone,
and remember what I charged you--Hah! do you hear?” he cried, as a whistle as
of a bird came from the forest behind and below the rocks. “Up for God’s sake!”
he cried, seizing the penitent by the arm, as if fear had supplied him with new
strength, and hurrying him across the brook. “Begone, or you are a dead man. To
the bushes, quick--to your horse, too, or your carriage. Dally not a moment,
but begone. Say nothing of what you have seen or heard; and fear not for your
children or friends--no harm is designed any of them. Away--save your own life,
for no other is in danger.”
With these charges,
pronounced in the greatest haste, he took his leave, recrossing the brook,
while Colonel Falconer, torn now as much by fear as he had been a moment before
by anguish, fled through the wood, and over the hill, until he had reached the
mansion. Here calling for his servant, and ordering a horse to be saddled
instantly for himself, and another for the attendant, he prepared to leave the
house, which he did in a few moments, and almost without being observed, the
wedding-guests having retreated to the garden and the pleasant walks behind it.
The bridegroom’s doors
are open’d wide,
And I am next of kin; The guests
are met, the feast is set,
May’st hear the merry din! Coleridge--
The Colonel galloped
through the park and down the hill, until he had approached nigh enough to
Elsie’s cottage to see that its porch was darkened by the bodies of several
men, moving about in what seemed to him extraordinary commotion. He grew pale, and
finally, drawing up his horse, beckoned to his servant, a young and active
mulatto, with an exceedingly bold and free visage, to approach:
“Give me the larger
pistols, Reuben,” he cried, “and do you take the smaller holsters--’Pshaw, they
are fiddling and dancing! It is nothing.-- Follow.”
He resumed his course,
and drawing nigher to the little inn, saw that the group, which he at first
eyed with trepidation, consisted of his own son, and two or three young
gentlemen of the bridal party, with a man of strange and even ludicrous
appearance, from whom they appeared to be extracting no little diversion. He
was a tall man, with a French military coat of white cloth, faced with green,
and on his head a chapeau-de-bras, which was, at that time, though the common
cap of the Gallic auxiliaries, esteemed quite a curiosity in the confederacy.
Instead of a white underdress, however, he had on breeches of broad blue and
white stripes, which, being very tight, gave a pair of legs more remarkable for
brawn than beauty, an appearance quite comical, and the more especially that
they were decked off at the extremities with rose-coloured shoes, and were kept
moving about as briskly as those of a house-fly or a monkey. In the particular
of shoes, as well his silver-fringed rich waistcoat, and a cane with a head
half as big as his own, he bore no little resemblance to the valet-messenger of
a French field-officer,--a sort of humble aid, whose business was to fetch and
carry written orders in a review, but who was sometimes mistaken by our
simple-minded ancestors for a general-in-chief, in consequence of the splendour
and gravity of his appearance; and such a menial Colonel Falconer supposed him
to be, discarded by his late master, or driven from service by that sudden
spirit of independence so apt to appear in foreign servants, when brought to
the land of liberty. Besides his cane, he had a fiddle and bow in his hand; and
from these, as well as the prodigious grace, restlessness, and activity of his
motions, it was judged that he had betaken himself, in his distresses, to that
honourable profession, to which three-fourths of the wanderers of the Grande
Nation seem to have been born,--in other words, to that of the dancing-master.
It did not seem, however, that he had yet profited much by the change of
profession, for his attire was in somewhat a dilapidated condition, and his
cheeks pinched and hollow. Such as he was, however, he seemed to be the
happiest creature in existence; and as Colonel Falconer drew nigh, he saw that
he was one while engaged flourishing his bow, the next his leg, and ever and
anon his tongue,--the last with intense volubility,--as if in spirits
irrepressibly buoyant and exuberant. The unruly member was hard at work, as the
Colonel approached, and had it not been for the clatter of his horse’s feet, he
might have heard him deliver the following highly flattering account of
himself:
“Yes, Missare
Ou-at-you-call-it, and jentlemans, I am a man of figure in mine own land; and
you laughs, par de deb’l! I come invite myself to de marriage, néanmoins, juste
like Ménélas in l’Iliade d’Homère, mort de diable, parce qu’il etait jentleman.
You are soldiare! Et moi, by mine honneur, and so am I; for autre fois, jadis,
(ou-at de deb’l you call him?) I use de sword for de violon, ride de horse,
chargé sur mon ennemi, in ou-at you’ Shakaspeare call de ‘war glorieuse.’--
’Ah! cruel souvenir de
ma gloire passée!
Œuvre de tant de jours
en un jour effacée!’
Yes, missares, I am jentleman-soldiare, ou-id fiddle. How de deb’l you
make mariage wi’sout de fiddle, Paimable violon, Pinstrument des amours?
Ecoutez! you s’all hear. How de ladies and jentlemans s’all dance when dey
hears, ‘Qu’elle est grande, qu’elle est belle!’ ”--And, in a rapture, he
forthwith began sawing his instrument, and singing, with a voice exceedingly
cracked and enthusiastic, the words of the old chorus of shepherds, ‘Ah! qu’elle
douce nouvelle! Qu’elle est grande! qu’elle est belle! Que de plaisirs! que de ris! que de jeux!’
nor did he cease, even when the merriment of his auditors became as
uproarious as his own harmony. In
the midst of the chorus and the laughter, young Falconer looked up, and beheld
his father, who had suddenly checked his horse at the entrance of the little
oak-yard, and was looking towards him. He was struck with the unusual agitation
of his parent’s countenance, and ran towards him; but before he could speak,
the Colonel demanded quickly, as if with an effort to change the current of his
own thoughts,
“What do you here,
Henry! Is this a place, is this a sport for a bridegroom?”
“’Pon my soul, pa,”
said the hopeful son, “I find it more agreeable than up among the tabbies. This
fellow, this Monsieur Tiqueraque, as he calls himself, is decidedly the most
agreeable person I have seen to-day,--a gentleman fiddler, who swears by all
the gods of a Frenchman, he has trudged twenty miles on foot, to have the
honour of dancing at my funeral--that is, my wedding; but the lord knows, pa,
you look as solemn as if to-day was to be the end of me. Pray, sir, what is the
matter? I hope you are not offended? Egad, sir, I am acting under
orders,--under Harry’s, who has taken as much command of me as if she were my
wife, instead of my sister. She ordered me away, to be out of Catherine’s
sight,--the lord knows why, but women are all mad, and I think Catherine is
growing as whimsical and absurd as the rest.”
“Get you back to her,
notwithstanding,” said the father; “a maiden is privileged to be capricious on
her wedding-day. Get you back; your absence is improper. And hark you, Henry,
my son--delay not the ceremony on my account: the clergyman must be now on the
way, and will soon arrive. Wait not a moment for me. A sudden affair, not to be
deferred even to the nuptial rite, calls me to Hillborough:--Say thus much to
Captain Loring and the rest; say that I will be back within a few hours; and
add, that I charge them not to delay the ceremony a moment for me. God bless
you, my son--I must away.”
So saying, he put spurs
to his horse, and followed by Reuben, was soon out of sight.
“Well done, dad!” cried
the young soldier, staring after him; “I wonder what’s in the wind now? He has
seen one of his spectres, I warrant me.--Adzooks, as the Captain says, if one
were to believe that Reuben and black Joe, they are thicker in our house, about
two in the morning, than is comfortable,--especially in dad’s chamber. Won’t
stay to the wedding? why that’s comical, egad! But that’s his way. Well, now
for that mad fool, Tiqueraque: he shall have his will, were it only on account
of his striped breeches; he shall go among the fiddlers, though, gad’s my life,
he saws like a knife-grinder. I never saw two such legs before: egad, I beg my
pardon, I did! ‘List, list, oh list!’ Such legs in Hamlet! Well God bless us,
and by the eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says, I had no idea it was so stupid a
thing to be married. “Eh bien, monsieur,” he added, turning to M. Tiqueraque, “I
have no doubt you are a gentleman born and bred; so, gad’s my life, you shall
fiddle at the wedding, and get drunk into the bargain; but, by the eternal
Jupiter, you must not be in a hurry!”
“Si fait, monsieur,”
cried the wanderer, drawing a note of indignation from his instrument; “Mort de
ma vie, dronk! I s’all do no such sing. But I s’all see de leddees?” he added,
in a transport that quite dispelled his temporary wrath. “Ah, Missare
Ou-at-you-call-him, I s’all be very happy now! I love de leddees, particulièrement
de leddees of figure, and not the contree pauvrettes, wis big feet and te’es
like de old horse.--Ah ça, I s’all be very happy, and I s’all sharge only two
dollare.”
“Bring him along Tom,
fiddle and all,” cried the bridegroom,--“and, you Ned Cascable-nose, if you
love me, gad, steal somebody’s horse, ride down the road, and see what the
deuce has become of the parson. We can get married very well without dad; but,
adzooks, as the Captain says, a parson is quite essential. I swear, gad’s my
life, ’tis a very ludicrous thing, one’s wedding-day.”
And thus, as the party
bent their steps towards the mansion, rattled the bridegroom, a youth of the
lightest heart and emptiest head in all Pennsylvania, of a mind entirely too
contracted for eccentricity, yet full of those foibles of character which
commonly pass for such,--incapable of any stretch of sentiment or elevated
emotion, and indeed rude, boisterous, and unreasonable of manners,--yet with a
certain native good-humour and spirit prevailing through all his acts and
conversation, that recommended him to the favour of such as were not choice in
their friendships, and preserved him the affection of those whom the ties of
relationship compelled to love. Such was the man whom Colonel Falconer, or
rather his daughter, (for she was the guiding and ruling spirit throughout the
whole attempt to unite such adverse elements together,) had chosen as the
husband of Catherine Loring; and the inhumanity of the choice was rendered
excusable only by the natural desire she had to contribute to his happiness,
and the undue importance she attached to those good qualities he really
possessed. Still the attempt was cruel, for it set at naught the disinclination
of one whom feebleness of character, a sense of destitution, operating,
however, only through the person of a bereaved parent, a knowledge of his
desires, and a consciousness perhaps that it was too late for escape, had put
into her power. It is not to be supposed that Miss Falconer saw, that in
effecting her brother’s happiness she was destroying that of her friend; or
that seeing it, she would have persisted in her object. On the contrary she was
sincerely attached to Catherine, and fully believed she was consulting her
welfare, though at the price of some temporary pain. It was her peculiar
disposition to pursue every object with an avidity and resolution that became
the stronger for every interposing obstacle; and she willingly blinded her eyes
to such difficulties as she was not forced to see. She turned her looks,
therefore, from her friend’s distresses, and soon ceased to believe that they
existed. But the match was one not made in heaven, nor destined to be
accomplished; and fate, in frustrating the whole ill-advised scheme, was
preparing a heavy retribution for all who had laboured to promote it.
I come not for your
welcome, I expect none;
I bring no joys to
bless the bed withal,
Nor songs, nor masques,
to glorify the nuptials.
Beaumont AND Fletcher--
It was late in the
afternoon when Colonel Falconer rode by the Traveller’s Rest; and his
disappearance, though accounted for in the apology he had commissioned his son
to deliver, was considered the more remarkable, as within an hour’s time the
presence of the clergyman was expected, for whom captain Caliver and lieutenant
Brooks, as two of the principal attendants on the bride-groom, had gone in
great state. There were many conjectures secretly hazarded as to the true cause
of the Colonel’s desertion, when the delay of an hour might have enabled him to
discharge his duties to his son and destined daughter; and had Captain Loring
been favoured with any jealous kinsmen, alive to the honour of his family, or
been himself of a suspicious and cavilling mood, it is quite possible a
defection so extraordinary might have caused some unpleasant feelings, and even
an interruption of the ceremonies in hand. But such was not the case, and the
matter was left to be canvassed by the friends and connexions of the bridegroom
alone; who, after satisfying themselves that the Colonel had been summoned away
by no sudden messenger, and that, if a necessity had really existed for his
departure, it must have existed long enough previously to allow him time to
make his own explanations in person, agreed to attribute the proceeding to one
of those fits of moody eccentricity, by which, it appeared, he was often
affected.
By the time this
subject of wonder was exhausted there arose another, which produced, in the
end, still greater surprise and discussion than the other. This was the
non-appearance of the clergyman at the appointed hour; and indeed the sun set,
before any tidings were had either of him or of the officers, and then not
until messengers had been sent off with led horses, on the vague presumption
that some accident might have happened to the carriage on the way.
Another subject of
discussion was the conduct of the youthful bride, who, although during the
greater part of the day exhibiting uncommon spirits, and running over the
grounds with other frolicsome maidens, herself the most frolicsome of all, yet
displayed, on one or two occasions, a disposition to wander by herself, and
even stray into the woods; and once, when she had strayed further than usual,
and was pursued and arrested, she shed tears, though none could tell for what
reason. As the time drew nigh when the clergyman was expected, she manifested a
great unwillingness to be withdrawn by her bridemaids, according to custom, but
insisted she would walk in the garden, and that so obstinately, that it
required all the influence Miss Falconer had over her to induce her to retire
to her chamber; and here she wept so bitterly as to amaze and even alarm her
youthful attendants. Her parent, however, being summoned to the chamber, she
embraced him, dried her eyes, smiled, laughed, suffered a garland of snowy
rose-bays, the latest of the season, to be fastened in her hair, and, so long
as he remained in her sight, betrayed no other symptom of distress or
agitation; for which reason her late tears were remembered without surprise, as
being natural to the occasion.
It was not until after
nightfall that the clergyman made his appearance, with the officers. Accidents
of a common nature, but unusual in number and fatality, had detained them on
the way. First, they had broken down, before reaching the village, in
consequence of the loss of a linchpin, or some other essential atom in the
economy of the coach; then, after attempting to return, it was discovered that
a horse had lost a shoe, and that some portion of the harness had given way. In
short, their difficulties were of such a nature, that they were on the point of
abandoning the carriage altogether, to seek some other conveyance among the
neighbouring farms, when ‘a very excellent, contriving blockhead,’ as
lieutenant Brooks called him, came to their assistance, and inspired them with
new hopes of accomplishing their journey. This was no less a personage than
honest Dancy, of the Traveller’s Rest, who chanced to be returning from the
village on foot, and was glad to offer his services, on condition of being
allowed to ride home on the box with the venerable Richard. Nay, not content
with again setting the vehicle in motion, he even volunteered, in the warmth of
his gratitude, to divide with Richard the labour of driving,--a proposal highly
acceptable to the latter, who had much of his master’s affection for an
afternoon nap, and could take it as well upon a coach box as in the chimney
corner. The only ill consequence of this exchange was, that, before they had
proceeded a mile further, the zealous Jehu interrupted an exceedingly
interesting account captain Caliver was giving the clergyman of his midnight
encounter with the Hawks of the Hollow, by suddenly overturning the coach into
a gully, whence all thought themselves fortunate in escaping without broken
bones. But now arose a greater difficulty, or rather a series of difficulties,
than before; for, first, it was questionable whether their force was sufficient
to raise the unlucky vehicle, or whether, being raised, it was in a condition
to carry them further; and, secondly, the reverend functionary, frightened and
resolved to trust his neck no longer to a structure so ill-fated, declared,
that, whatever might be the event, he would enter it no more, but would rather
finish the remaining four or five miles on foot. In a word, they were reduced
to the necessity of applying at a neighbouring farm-house for assistance; and
getting horses and saddles as they could, they continued, and at last
concluded, the journey, but in such plight as caused no little surprise and
merriment among the expectant guests.
In the meanwhile, the
tedium that might have been produced by these unforeseen circumstances, was put
to flight by the appearance and activity of the French dancing-master, who,
although carried to the house only for a whim, was soon found to be the most
efficient adversary of ennui that could have been found. He was no sooner in
the house than he snuffed his way, with the unerring accuracy of a setter-dog,
to the kitchen, where he fell upon the ruins of the dinner table with the zeal
of the hungriest of that species; and then, having succeeded in first gaining
possession of a flagon of wine, or some stronger liquor, he threw aside his
cane, clapped his hat under his arm, and seizing upon his fiddle, bounded with
a hop and a skip first into one apartment, then another, and finally into the
porch, in all of which were gathered some of the guests, and in all, as he
entered, drawing a savage note from his instrument, and exclaiming,--
“Attendez, jentlemans
and leddees! now we s’all dance; ou-y for no we no dance? Now for de
Contre-danse and de Menuet!--Each jentlemans and his leddee--Mon Dieu! de
jentlemans and leddees will be very well content. Attendez; I am de maître de
bal, and I know ou-at is de matiéres de mode, begar, ou-at you calls
fashionable.”
The appearance of the
man was itself diverting, but was rendered still more so by his sudden
assumption of the character and authority of master of ceremonies, to which he
seemed to consider he had the best right in the world, and which he was, in the
end, suffered to exercise, for no better reason than that there was no other
person appointed to such an honour. He evidently held, that the chief ceremony
and pleasure of a wedding lay in the practice of his own art; and he addressed
himself to the task of marshalling and animating the dancers with such zeal and
enthusiasm, that several forgot they were beginning the ball at the wrong end,
seized upon partners as forgetful, or as waggish, as themselves, and set
Monsieur Tiqueraque’s heart in a blaze of rapture, by dancing outright. What
was begun in jest, came at last to be practised in earnest; and when the
clergyman with the military groomsmen rode up to the door, they had some reason
to fear lest their ill fate had deprived them of the most impressive portion of
the ceremony.
Their appearance was
hailed with the greatest joy, and the more especially when they declared they
had met Colonel Falconer, and received from him the same charges he had
delivered to his son, --namely, that the rites and rejoicings should not be
delayed on his account, even for a minute. They retired for a little space to
refit their disordered attire, and a few moments afterwards reappeared,
conducting, with the other attendants, the youthful pair whose destinies were
now to be united. The bride was very pale, her eyes red with weeping, and her
brows contracted into that expression of imploring distress so frequent on her
countenance; her lips quivered incessantly; and ever and anon her frame was
agitated by that shuddering sob which remains as the last convulsion of tears.
Yet she walked into the room without faltering, and suffered herself to be
placed beside the lover, and surrounded by the guests, without betraying any
agitation sufficient to excite remark. All that was observed was, that she kept
rolling her eyes about her a little wildly, as if in part be wildered by the
sudden transition from her quiet chamber to an apartment full of lights and
human beings. At last, her eyes fell upon the clergyman, and she surveyed him
with a gaze so fixed, so peculiar, so strongly indicative, as he thought, of a
troubled and unhappy spirit, that his own feelings became disturbed, and he
began the rites with an agitated voice.
In the meanwhile, the
wedding guests pressed closer around, and the domestics, thronging at the doors
of the apartment, began to steal reverentially in; and among them, it was
noticed that there were several strange faces not before observed. One of
these, however, was recognised by Captain Loring as belonging to a young farmer
residing near the valley, and he did not doubt that the other intruders were
people of the same class, who had stolen softly into his house, attracted by
the opportunity of witnessing a ceremony so much more splendid than any ever
before seen in the neighbourhood of Hawk-Hollow. Such intrusions are indeed not
unusual in certain sequestered parts of the country.
With her eyes still
fastened upon the clergyman, Catherine listened to the words of the ceremony,
until the usual demand was made, “Dost thou take this man to be thy husband?” She
opened her lips to reply, but, though they moved as if in speech, and every
sound was hushed as in the silence of death, not a word, not even the whisper
of an accent, came from them. The demand was repeated, and with as little
effect; she spoke not a word, but she rolled her eyes around the circle with
double wildness; and Miss Falconer, throwing an arm around her waist, murmured,
in hurried tones,
“She is ill--the
ceremony cannot go on.”
“Kate, my dear,
adzooks!” cried Captain Loring, “what’s the matter? Are you ill, my girl? What,
can’t you speak? can’t you say Yes to the parson? Ah, adzooks, that’s a girl!
that’s my Kate Loring! You hear her, parson? She says, yes!”
“Patience, sir,” said
the clergyman, surveying the bride, who at the sound of her father’s voice,
seemed to recall her powers, and opened her lips, as if to speak. “Be not
precipitate, young lady,” he added, directing his discourse to Catherine, and
speaking with a kindly voice: “this is a question too solemn to be answered
lightly,--a profession embracing too much of the sacrament of an oath to be
made except with deliberation. Take, therefore, your own time, and answered
according to your heart and your reason--‘Dost thou take this man to be thy
husband?’ ”
The words of reply were
almost upon Catherine’s lip, when a whistle, sounding loudly from an open
window, and startling the whole company, was echoed by a sudden cry from the
room itself; and at the same moment, the bridemaids starting away in affright,
a young man, pallid in visage, and roughly clad, rushed into the circle, and
displayed to the eyes of the bride the features of the younger Gilbert. She
uttered a scream, and to the confusion of every body present, flung herself
immediately into his arms, crying with tones as wild and imploring as his own, “Oh,
Herman, save me!” and fell into a swoon.
“Death and furies!”
cried the bridegroom, recognising his rival at a glance, and springing at him
like a tiger.
“Kill the villain!”
exclaimed his sister, in a transport of indignation, endeavouring to tear her
friend from the embraces of the intruder. But the efforts of the brother and
sister were counteracted by a new and unexpected enemy. The French
dancing-master, who, notwithstanding the violent enthusiasm with which he
entered into his proper duties of fiddling and animating the guests, had yet
wisdom enough to conduct himself with proper decorum, the moment his reverend
colleague appeared, and had been for the last few moments entirely lost sight
of, now darted with a hop and a pirouette to the bridegroom’s side, and roaring
with a voice loud enough to add to the terror, “Sacre! ou-at! marry a leddie
against her ou-ill!” he struck his violin over young Falconer’s head with an
energy of application that brought him to the floor, and dashed his instrument
into a thousand pieces. “Sacre!” he continued, triumphantly,--“I s’all help
myself to the most beaut’ful leddee here!” And, as he spoke, he snatched up the
astounded Harriet, and vanished from the apartment.
In the meanwhile, the
outrage, of a character so extraordinary, had not been confined to the persons
of the wedding pair and the bridegroom’s sister. At the very moment when Hyland
Gilbert darted into the circle, many of the guests, hearing the whistle that
seemed to have conjured up the spectre, turned to the window, and beheld three
or four savage-looking men spring through it into the room, while as many
others, remaining in the open air, thrust long carbines and rifles among the
guests, as if upon the point of firing on them. At the same time, others made
their appearance at the door, armed in the same way; and, to crown all, the
little six-pounder, which had remained in the Hollow ever since the eventful
4th of July, and stood upon the lawn near the house, charged by Captain Loring’s
own hand, and ready to be fired the moment the ceremony was over, was suddenly
let off by some unknown hand, rattling the glass in the windows, and shaking
the house to its foundation. These circumstances were enough to inspire all
with dread; which was still further increased when the assailants, singling out
the few military officers present, rushed upon them before they could betake
themselves to their arms, and beat them all to the floor, with the exception of
the captain of cavalry, who sprang from a window on the opposite side of the
apartment, uttering a single ejaculation of surprise,--that is to say, ‘By the
eternal Jupiter!’--and was seen no more until the assault was over, and the
actors in the outrage had vanished. The whole scene, though one of unexampled
confusion and terror, was over in a few moments; and such was the panic, that
scarce a being present remembered, or indeed conceived, the true nature, or had
noted all the circumstances attending the assault. That wild men with arms in
their hands, had been among them,--had struck down several persons present,
then rushed over the whole house, as if in search of some object of prey whom
they expected, but found not, among the guests below, and then had betaken
themselves to flight, without doing further mischief--was all that was at first
known; and it was not until a distant yell at the park-gate, followed by the
faint sound of hoofs, proclaimed the departure of the enemy, that the gentlemen
present were able to tear themselves selves from the grasp of the frighted
women, and examine into the effects of such a visitation. It was soon found
that the officers, who had endured the brunt of the attack, had owed this
distinction less to the animosity than the fears of the assailants, who, seeming
to apprehend resistance from no others, had made it a point to seize them,
before adventuring upon the main objects of the outrage. They were but little
hurt, the assailants having studiously avoided all bloodshed; and even the
bridegroom, thought stunned and a little disfigured by the blow so heartily
bestowed upon him by Monsieur Tiqueraque, soon recovered his wits, and joined
the rest in eager search after the bride. She had vanished, as well as his
sister; and by and by, when the distraction caused by such a discovery, and the
ravings and lamentations of Captain Loring; had a little subsided, it was found
that the girl Phoebe had also disappeared.
“She is won! we are
gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet
steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.
Marmion.
In the meanwhile, and
almost before her disappearance had been noticed by a single person, so great
was the confusion at the moment the outlaws burst into the room, Hyland Gilbert
had borne the insensible Catherine into the porch, and strove to carry her from
the house. His strength was scarce fitted to sustain such an exertion; for, in
truth, although none of the dwellers of Hawk-Hollow were apprised of his
mishap, until he revealed the secret to Colonel Falconer a few hours before,
the bullet of his rival, in their encounter on the night of the fourth, had
taken effect, and he was yet labouring under the effects of an unhealed wound.
He was now, however, animated by a new feeling; for as he clasped the burthen
to his heart, he remembered that the outrage had been sanctioned not merely by
passive acquiescence on Catherine’s part, but had been preceded by a direct
appeal, as it seemed, to his affection, though wrung almost by frenzy from the
unhappy girl, in the moment of her greatest need. “Heaven be thanked!” he
muttered to himself--“I am not a villain; and this deed of violence has
preserved her happiness, as well as my own miserable life.”
“What! brother?” cried
a harsh voice in his ear, as he attempted to stagger forward, and found himself
arrested by the hand of Oran: “What, man, am I not both doctor and brother?--a
good doctor, too? You shall look up now, and be healed in a day--heart-whole,
body-whole! I knew what it was was killing you.”
Fierce and abrupt were
the accents of the refugee; but there was mingled with them a tone singularly
expressive of affection.--“And were you not a fool to doubt,” he added, “when
you had the love of the maiden? But come, Hyland; this duty is not for
you--give her here to Staples”--
“Never, Oran, never!”
“Foolish boy, you are
sinking under her weight. You must ride unburthened, or be captured. When the
fresh air opens her eyes, and she can sit a horse herself, you shall ride at
her side. Quick! and get you after her to the horses.”
With these words, and
without regarding the opposition of the feeble lover, he drew the lady from his
arms, and putting her into charge of another, bade him ‘see to her, and the
rest,’ and then immediately darted back to the house.
“Perhaps it is better,”
muttered Hyland, conscious of his inability much longer to support his precious
freight, yet resolved she should not be long sustained in the arms of another. “I
have saved her,--I have saved myself; ay, and I have prevented murder, too. Go,
Oran; the victim is beyond your reach. Ah! Catherine, thou hadst been dearly
purchased, had it been with blood,-- even with the blood of a Falconer!”
He was still pursuing
after his mistress, and had nearly reached the park-gate, when his ear was
saluted by a piercing scream from behind, and the voice of Miss Falconer, which
he instantly recognised, calling for help. He ran back, and discovered her
struggling in the arms of Monsieur Tiqueraque, who was bearing her along at a
great pace, and all the time uttering, with a volubility not a little inflamed
by his frequent visits to the bottle, in which he had quite distinguished
himself, a thousand exhortations to the lady to be pacified, with as many
eccentric commendations of her beauty and his own good qualities.
“Tuchou! taisez vous,
ou-at de deb’l! mon ange, ma petite, ma maîtresse, avec les yeux noirs d’un
diablotin!” he heard him cry, “ou-y for you fear? comment diantre, ou-y for you
squeak? You are the mos’ fine leddee of all, and I am the mos’ excellent
jentlemans, and I s’all love you, begar, mos’ extremely. Fi donc! you mus’
know, I am jentlemans in disguise, and have you love ’is sis mon’s, and s’all
make you very good lovare. O ciel, begar, I do so sink you ver’ beautiful, and
I s’all give you on’ douzaine kiss extreme fine, mon dieu, if you s’all no
squeak no more.”
“What, Sterling, are
you mad!” cried Hyland, seizing this incorrigible adventurer and exemplary
wooer by the arm. “Release the lady instantly-- you have made a mistake.”
“Diablezot! none in the
world,” said the man of many coats, changing character with the facility of an ‘old
stager.’--The sudden transformation operated even more effectually than the
voice of the detested Gilbert, in frightening Miss Falconer into silence. “And
harkee, Mr. Lieutenant Hawk,” he went on, with great equanimity, “stick to your
own prizes,--follow your own Blowselinda.”
“Rogue, do you resist
me?--Come, sir, you have been drinking!”
“Drinking in your
teeth!” said Sterling, in whom ‘the good familiar creature’ had the effect of
rather sharpening than changing any of his characteristics. “‘Back and syde, go
bare, go bare,”’ as old Gummer Gurton says:
‘Now let them drynke
till they nod and winke,
Even as good felowes shoulde doe; They
shall not mysse to have the blisse
Good ale doth bringe men to.’ “But
‘this is my right hand, and this is my left’ what more would you have? Do you
think I am to be kept on your cursed Adam’s ale of the mountains for ever? ‘Dost
thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’
And finally, Mr. Lieutenant Chicken-hawk, dost thou opine thou shalt have thy
bottle and thy wench, and I”--
“In a word, scoundrel,”
said Hyland, clapping a pistol to his head, and thus bringing the madman to his
senses, “unhand the lady, or I will blow your brains out.”
“Zounds, sir,”--
“No words, sir. Get you
to the horses; and thank your stars I do not report your villanous conduct to
the Captain.”
The volunteer, who had
indeed made freer with one item of the bridal cheer than became a man, who, as
he had hinted, had been confined to a beverage of the mountain brook, since his
association with the band, grumbled a drunken oath or two betwixt his teeth,
and immediately slunk away, leaving his captive to be disposed of by the
subaltern.
“You are free, Miss
Falconer,” said the young man, speaking with a smothered voice. “The evil you
have done me I forgive you; the cruelty you meditated and practised against
another, I leave to be judged by heaven and your own conscience.--False friend!
treacherous kinswoman! your victim is beyond the reach of your inhumanity.”
“You are a villain,
sir!” cried Harriet, exasperated out of her fear,--“the worst of villains,--an
ungrateful one!”--
What more she might
have said and done, on the impulse which restored her all her native energy, it
is impossible to say; but just at that moment her ears were struck by the
wailing of a female voice; and looking round, she saw, obscurely, for the night
was very dark with clouds, though a new moon was in the sky, a horseman ride
by, bearing a woman across his saddle-bow, and apparently greatly embarrassed
by her struggles. Her first idea was that she beheld her un-unlucky friend, not
yet snatched beyond her reach; and accordingly she darted forward, and with
extraordinary intrepidity, seized the bridle-rein with one hand, while with the
other she grasped at the captive’s garments, bidding her leap down, and crying
out loudly for help.
“You are insane, Miss
Falconer!” said Hyland, endeavouring to draw her aside; “Catherine is safe, and
this is but Phœbe, who follows her.”
“Oh! Miss Harriet!”
cried the serving-maid, with a piteous voice, “don’t let ’em murder me; and oh!
Mr. Hunter Gilbert! sure you won’t be so barbarous! and sure I never did you
any harm in my life, and sure”--
But her words were cut
short by her ravisher suddenly spurring his horse, as Harriet, in surprise and
disappointment, let go her hold, and immediately darting out of the park.
By this time there was
a great flashing of lights on the porch, as if the wedding-guests were
recovering from their confusion, and preparing to avenge the outrage, before it
was yet too late. This Harriet saw, and she observed besides that the dusky
figures which had, ever and anon, for the last few moments, been flitting by,
towards the road, one or two of them being on horseback, and who, she doubted
not, belonged to the refugee band, had ceased passing, as if the last had
already left the park. It was at this moment that she felt the touch of Hyland
Gilbert’s hand on her arm, as he endeavoured to draw her from Phœbe; and as she
jerked away, she became sensible how feeble was the grasp of this detested foe.
An idea, worthy of an Amazon, entered her mind; and forgetting the act of
generosity which had but an instant before relieved her own person from the
clutches of a drunken and lawless desperado, she laid hands upon her deliverer,
thinking only on vengeance. As she seized him, she screamed loudly for
assistance, calling upon her brother, Mr. Brooks, and others, by name; and had
they made their appearance, or any one of them, it is certain she would have
secured her prisoner. He was confounded by an exhibition of spirit so
unexpected; and not knowing how to release himself, unless by such an exertion
of his remaining strength as he could scarce think of exercising at the expense
of a woman, he was reduced to extremity; when a horseman, coming from the
house, suddenly galloped up, stretched out his hand, and with a single effort,
jerked her from the ground to his saddle-bow.
“Quick,” he cried to
Hyland; “why do you tarry? To your horse, and away.”
So saying he spurred
onwards himself. The voice, breathing out the harsh accents of the trader,--the
refugee, the man to capture whom she had launched so boldly among the billows
of stratagem, and almost of war,--froze the blood of the maiden, and the sight
of his grim features, revealed in the glare of distant lamps, completed the
overthrow of a courage which had supported her in a struggle with one so little
to be feared as Hyland. Her brain whirled, her senses became bewildered, as she
felt the steed bounding beneath her, and knew that every leap, while it
separated her still further from her friends, placed her yet more completely in
the power of the refugee. But it formed no part of his schemes to add her to
the number of his captives. He checked his steed at the park-gate, dropped her
gently on the grass, and uttering a yell, to draw the attention of another
horse-man, approaching from the house, galloped through the gate and was soon
buried in the darkness. The second horseman, who was no other than the captain
of cavalry, rode up to the spot, dismounted, and uttering many ejaculations of
surprise, took the lady in his arms, and with her returned to the mansion. He
found its inmates still in extreme agitation, the women weeping and screaming,
the men swearing, and bustling, and vociferating for arms and horses, with
which they designed to do they knew not what, and Captain Loring roaring like a
bedlamite.
“Mount horses, gentlemen,”
he cried, “and by the eternal Jupiter, we’ll recover the prisoners. A rum one,
that Mr. Gentleman-volunteer! Come, mount, mount, and keep the chase warm, till
a better force can follow us. There’s a regiment of foot billeted in the
village below--let some one gallop down for a reinforcement; the rest follow
me. If we can’t fight the vagabonds, why, by the eternal Jupiter, we can dog
them.”
The proposal of captain
Caliver was responded to by such as could think without alarm of following the
fierce marauders, by midnight, into their native forests; and in a surprisingly
short space of time, they set out, six in number, to pursue on the course of
the fugitives, and keep them within striking distance, until assistance should
arrive. A messenger was immediately despatched to the village, and some two or
three of those gaping supernumeraries, whose intrusion into the house has been
already mentioned, volunteered to carry the alarm among the neighbouring
settlements, and thus rouse the whole country to pursuit and vengeance.
The little party of
six, headed by young Falconer and Caliver, issuing from the park, began the
chase by galloping up the road, already made familiar to the leaders by the
memorable adventure of the 4th. Assistance was nearer at hand than they
thought; and almost before the trampling of their horses had died on the ear, a
large party of mounted men, with Colonel Falconer at their head, halted at the
gate. In obeying the counsel of the young refugee to leave Hawk-Hollow without
delay, this individual had not been governed alone by fears for his personal
safety. The appearance of Hyland Gilbert so near to the scene of festivity,
convinced him, as strongly as did his urgent exhortations to fly, that the
ferocious band of Hawks, though supposed long since to have effected its
escape, was yet lying concealed in the neighbourhood, meditating some deed of
violence, though what that was, unless to burn Gilbert’s Folly to the earth, as
the only way of wreaking vengeance upon him, he could not pretend to divine. It
was enough, however, that such an enemy was at hand; and, accordingly, when he
rode to the village, it was with the purpose of summoning such a force to the
valley as should protect its inhabitants, if it did not effect the still better
object of ridding it from such visitants for ever. He sought the commander of
the regiment already spoken of; and his representations, added to the weight of
his character, were enough to cause that officer to take instant measures for
the protection of Hawk-Hollow. A party of sixty picked men, mounted for the
occasion, was put under his disposal; while several other companies were
ordered to follow on foot. While on the road, he was met by the messenger sent
by the captain of cavalry, with the stunning intelligence of the outrage, as it
has been already related. Inflamed by the news, the party put spurs to their
horses, and were soon in the Hollow. They paused at the park-gate, just long
enough to communicate with the house, and ascertain that the pursuit was
already begun by the bridegroom; and then resuming their route, they were in a
few moments beyond the swelling ridge that shut in the Hollow to the north.
Thought he, ‘This is
the lucky hour;
Wine works, when vines
are in the flower
This crisis, then, I’ll
set my rest on,
And put her boldly to
the question.’
Butler You saw the mistress, I beheld the
maid:
You loved, I loved.
Merchant of Venice
The outlaws were, in
the meanwhile, proceeding on their course with a celerity that left them little
to dread from pursuit; and, indeed, all their measures indicated that their
plan had been laid with as much forethought as audacity. The captive maidens,
after being borne for the space of a mile or more, in the arms of their
captors, were placed upon horses previously in waiting; and then, supported by
an athletic attendant on each hand, were hurried forward with even greater
rapidity than before. Before this arrangement was effected, and while they were
yet in the neighbourhood of Hawk-Hollow, a change came over the spirit of one
of the prizes, not more advantageous to herself than it was agreeable to the
wild band who were somewhat weary of her lamentations. This was Phoœbe, whose
terrors, instead of abating, grew more clamorous, with every bound of the steed
that bore her; and which, having begun with sobs and piteous ejaculations,
increased to something like positive outcries; until, at last, the man who
carried her, losing all patience, and unlocking lips that seemed previously
made of stone, muttered, or rather whispered in her ear, but in no very amiable
accents,
“Consarn the woman!
what are you squalling a’ter? Hold your foolish tongue, Phœbe Jones, or”--
But the sound of a
threatening voice was by no means fitted to allay the damsel’s fear, or
paralyze the member it had set so vigorously in motion. She interrupted the
menace with a still louder shriek, adding, “Oh lord, good gentleman, pray don’t
murder me!”
“Gentleman!” cried the
other with a kind of snort, evidently designed for a laugh; “Well, I reckon, I
am a sort of, as well as another. But what’s the contraction? Who’s talking of
murdering? I’m an honest feller, Phœbe Jones, and you know it; and these here
refugees are all honest fellers, too, as ever you’d wish to see. Now, Phœbe,
just scratch your nose, and be quiet; for you know I won’t hurt you.”
“Lord!” said Phœbe, in
surprise, “don’t I know that voice?”
“Why, I reckon,”
replied the other, with a more strongly marked chuckle than before; “but, mind
you, no talking above breath; for that’s agin orders, and captain Gilbert’s a
screamer.”
“Captain Gilbert!” said
Phœbe, in mortal terror. “Oh Dancy Parkins, don’t let him kill me, and I’ll
never abuse you no more!”
As he spoke, she
banished so much of her fear as to fling an arm around the horseman’s neck, as
if to insure the protection she entreated; and the action, as well as the
appeal, went so effectually to his heart, that he answered forthwith, “Well I
won’t,--I won’t let him hurt you, I won’t, consarn me!--You see, Phœbe Jones,”
he added, with the same giggle which had marked the manly assurance of
protection, “I’m the man for you, a’ter all: I told you, you’d be coming round,
some day or other, for all your saying you despised me.”
“But an’t I to be
murdered, Dancy?” demanded the wench, dolefully: “Oh! that ever I should be
among the bloody Hawks! They say, they scalp women and children, as if they
were no more than great Indians!”
“They’re not half such
fellers as people say,” replied Dancy: “the only murdering I ever knowed of
among them, was that of Andy Parker; and that I uphold to be salt for
gruel,--fair grist for cheating the miller. He chalked me down like a fool, me
and Tom Staples, being all old friends, or sort of; and so hanging was good for
him. But I tell you what, Phœbe--give us a buss, and we’ll be married, as well
as our betters.”
“I won’t do no such
thing,” said the damsel, stoutly. “I don’t like you no better than I ever did;
for I don’t see you’re any better-to-do in the world than you was; and,
besides, I won’t have no tory.”
“I reckon,” said Dancy
Parkins, “I’m no more a tory than the lieutenant--that’s him you used to
suppose was Mr. Hunter, and a poor painter; and there’s your betters, the
Captain’s daughter, jumps at him.”
“She don’t!” said Phœbe,
with indignation; “and don’t you go to say, Miss Kitty Loring will have any
such vagabondy, poor fellow.”
“Poor!” cried Dancy; “why
he’s as rich as a king, and a mighty fine gentleman, too, for all he’s
consorting just now with these here refugees. He’s got a grand plantation, as
big as all Hawk-Hollow, with a thousand niggurs, where he raises sugar by the
ship-load, and molasses beyond all reckoning, and, as I hear, good Jamaiky
spirits. He’s to make me a sort of I-dunna-what-you-call-it; but I’m to manage
the niggurs, and make a fortun’. They say, no man ever sets foot on a sugar
plantation, without making a fortun’ out of it,--that is, excepting the
niggurs. So, Phœbe Jones, there’s no great use in despising me. It’s a fine
country, that island of Jamaiky; and consarn the bit of a hard winter they ever
hear of there. So now, Phœbe, don’t be a fool and refuse me no more; for I’m
mighty well-to-do in the world.”
And thus the enamoured
Dancy pursued his claims to the love of his prisoner, who had been hard-hearted
enough to frown upon him of old, while a labourer on Captain Loring’s estate,
and before the Captain’s daughter had, by rewards and promises of further
favour, prevailed upon him to take charge of the meaner fields of the widow.
There was some presumption, at least Phœbe thought so, in his daring to raise
eyes to her; for besides being without any personal attractions whatever, he
was, to all intents, a gawky and stupid clod-hopper, with but little prospect
of ever rising beyond the condition of a mere hireling, or, at best, a peasant
of the lowest class; and accordingly, the damsel repelled him with extreme
scorn, as a person unworthy to brush the dust from her shoes.
But the case was now
altered, or seemed to be. In the first place, the scornful beauty was in his
hands, and had wit enough, though by no means overcharged with that brilliant
commodity, to perceive that his friendship was better than his enmity; and, in
the second, his appointment ot the important and lucrative office of
He-did-not-know-what-to-call-it, on a sugar plantation, where they raised
molasses by the ship-load, and good Jamaica spirits, was a circumstance to
elevate him vastly in her consideration; for her affections not being of a
romantic or sentimental turn, she ever held herself ready to bestow them upon
any body who, in her own favourite phrase, ‘was well enough to-do in the world
to make a lady of her.’ She listened, therefore, with complacency to his
arguments, which he pressed with as much ardour as he was capable of; and by
the time they reached the place where she was to exchange a litter in his arms
for a seat on a side-saddle, she had so far recovered from her fears, that she
might have told him in the words, and with more than the sincerity, of Juliet,
“Well, thou hast
comforted me marvellous much.”
In the course of his
communications, for he became wondrous frank and confiding, as he perceived her
grow more favourable to his suit, he made her acquainted with some of the
mysterious causes that led to the outrage, and the extent of his own agency in
it.
When the young Gilbert
fled from Hawk-Hollow, it was with a sorrowing spirit and a bleeding frame. The
wound was, it is true, neither dangerous, nor, in fact, very severe; but he was
left to endure it among woods and rocks, afar from assistance, except such as
could be rendered by his wild associates, who were themselves reduced to
extremities, so keen and fierce was the spirit with which they were hunted,
though unsuccessfully, during the first week after their flight.
The sufferings of the
young man were, in consequence, neither light nor few; and they were aggravated
by anguish of spirit, which became a withering despair, when Dancy Parkins, the
only individual with whom he could communicate in the valley, brought him
intelligence that Catherine had been taken away, and, as was currently
believed, for the purpose of being united to her affianced lover, afar from the
reach of danger or opposition. His condition became such that it was no longer
possible to remove him from the concealment where he lay, even when the
abatement of all pursuit opened a path of escape to his companions, and when
they looked daily for orders to proceed, or disband,--the removal of the chief
object for which they were sent to the district, and the commands imposed upon
them to commit no outrages, leaving no argument for remaining longer.
While he lay in this
dangerous condition, the fierce Oran, whose bosom yearned over him as the
youngest, and, after himself, the last of his father’s children, read the
secrets of his spirit; and, seeing no other means of saving his life, he
formed, so soon as the sudden return of Catherine to the valley appeared to
render the scheme feasible, the bold resolution of carrying her off, and thus
defeating the only scruples in the way of Hyland’s happiness. His own heart was
a rock, and he smiled grimly as he thought of the affection of woman; but he
had learned to love his brother, and knew that the passion he derided was
consuming his spirit within him. “I will give him his gew-gaw puppet,” he
muttered, as he sat one night watching by Hyland’s couch--(it was a bed of fern
spread on a rock, on the naked hills, with only a thatch of hemlock boughs to
shelter him from winds and dews, and a fire in the open air to light the
wretched den:) “I will give him his wish.--He mutters her name in his sleep,
and he sobs as he speaks it. Poor fool! he said true--he is unfit for this life
of the desert, and his heart is warm to all God’s creatures. Why should I seek
to make it as fierce and bitter as my own? Let him to the island again, and the
girl with him--it will be better: he was made to be happy.”
When he first announced
his scheme to Hyland, the youth, to his surprise, strongly and vehemently
opposed it, as being a violence and wrong not only to Catherine, but to
himself: but when the news was brought him that the wedding-day was fixed and
nigh at hand, and he saw that he must act now or never, his resolution and
feelings experienced a sudden change. He thought over again and again all the
evidences he had traced of Catherine’s aversion to the union, and he added the
few and precious revealments of her regard for himself: he remembered her wild
and broken expressions at that hour of parting which had made her acquainted with
the depth of his love, and perhaps taught her more than she had dreamed before
of the condition of her own: he pictured her in his imagination, the fair, the
beautiful and the good, driven into the arms of one as incapable of
appreciating her worth as he was undeserving her love: he thought of his
peaceful island-home, and the paradise it would become, when she whom he adored
should sit with him under its arbours of palms, or walk over its shelly
beaches: he thought these things, and persuaded himself that fate called for,
and heaven would sanction, the violence,-- that he acted not so much for
himself as for her,-- and that she would forgive the friendly audacity that
brought her release and happiness together.
He rose from his leafy
couch, and in secret and by night crept back to the valley. The presence of
Colonel Falconer filled him with affright and horror; for that had been
concealed from him, and he knew by the devil of malice that glittered in Oran’s
eye, that his father’s hall was designed to be stained with the blood of his
father’s foe. Accident gave him the means of preventing this dreadful
catastrophe, while wandering over those scenes which reminded him of Catherine,
and debating in fear and anguish of mind, whether even she was worthy to be
purchased at the price of murder. This obstacle removed, there still remained
another. Fear and disaffection, resulting in a measure from inactivity, had
thinned his brother’s band; and they refused to strike a blow so bold and
dangerous by daylight, when the smallness of their number could be seen at a
glance, and their retreat as easily intercepted as followed. An effort was made
to delay the ceremony until night, by throwing difficulties in the path of the
clergyman; and this duty had been committed to Dancy, who succeeded beyond the
expectations and even the hopes of his employers; while men were stationed in
different parts of the grounds, to take advantage of any accident which might
carry the bride afar from her attendants. At the very moment when Catherine
wandered farther than usual from her friends, and wept at being hindered and
recalled, she had approached the concealment of one of the party, and would
have been seized on the spot, had not the man’s heart failed him. It seemed as
if destiny were driving her towards a path of escape, of which she had an
instinctive perception, just at the moment when it was closed against her
footsteps.
These particulars,--or
at least the leading outlines,--Dancy communicated to the object of his own
fervent but unromantic affections; and Phœbe was astounded with the discovery
of her mistress’s private attachment, if such it was, and still more so when
Dancy, taking that for granted, assured her of his belief that Catherine was
privy to the whole design. However, she did not trouble herself to pursue
Catherine’s story much farther. She heard enough to satisfy her that Mr. Hunter
Hiram Gilbert, as she called him, ‘who painted such lovely fine pictures, and
had a thousand niggurs to raise sugar, and molasses, and Jamaica spirits, was
as good a husband as one might meet of a summer’s day; and for her part, she
did not know, she could not say, she would not pretend to be certain,--but she
was quite sure she never meant to say, that Dancy Parkins was altogether
despisable.’
Beshrew me but I love
her heartily;
For she is wise, if I
can judge of her;
And fair she is, if
that mine eyes be true;
And true she is, as she
has proved herself;
And therefore, like
herself, wise, fair and true,
Shall she be placed in
my constant soul.
Merchant of Venice
When Catherine
recovered her consciousness, or rather woke from utter insensibility, (for it
was long before her mind regained its full tone,) she was mounted upon a horse
on which she was supported by two men, one riding on each side, who sustained
her on the saddle, and directed the steps of her palfrey. She began to speak,
but her words were wails, low and faint, and half lost amid the sough of the
breeze, and the crash of pebbles under the horses’ feet; and, indeed, it was
soon apparent that she had exchanged a state of dreamless lethargy only for one
of partial delirium. To this condition she had been fast verging for several
days, during all which time, both asleep and awake, her mind had been in a
state of constant tension, enduring jar after jar, and blow after blow, until
its fraying fibres were one by one giving way, and a few narrow threads alone
were all that kept it from the snap that ends in madness. Sleeplessness is a
disease, which sometimes is prolonged, until insanity or death puts a close to
the scene. The mind does not always slumber with the body: and in such
instances, the spirit consumes amid the visions and dreams of night, as fast as
amid the torments of day, until it lapses into the oblivion of dissolution or
mental derangement. Such had been the case with the Captain’s daughter: even
slumber had brought no release to her spirit; and the last shock, combining in
effect with a long train of benumbing influences, had reduced it to a condition
in which it hovered between imbecility and distraction.
Though retaining an
impression of the scene in which she had lately played so chief a part, it was
faint, vague, and broken by other recollections of other scenes; and though
some of her accents betrayed a childish joy at feeling herself in motion
through the open air, she was apparently incapable of forming any but the most
imperfect and bewildered conception of where she was, whither going, and for
what purpose. Occasionally, she murmured words that seemed those of grief and
entreaty; and, at such times, her father’s name was on her lips, as if she
implored those riding at her side to carry her to him. By and by, however, her
words became fainter and fewer; then she uttered sobs, and those only at intervals;
and at last, these ceasing also, she sank again into unconsciousness, and was
maintained on her seat only with the greatest difficulty.
In consequence of this
unexpected impediment, the speed of the fugitives became gradually less and
less; but as they were already at a considerable distance from the valley, and
had no reason to apprehend immediate pursuit, this circumstance created no
alarm, and was, in fact, a cause of no little private satisfaction to many, the
road being exceedingly rugged, and the night waxing darker and darker as the
moon sunk lower in the west. Suddenly, however, as the headmost of the party
toiled slowly over the crest of a hill, the wind swept from the rear a sound of
voices, followed almost instantly by the explosion of fire-arms, and these
again by loud shouts.
“ ‘Sessa! let the world
slide!’ ” cried the voice of Sterling, “whose cow’s dead now? So much for not
killing the men, and carrying off the women!”
“Peace, parrot!” said
Oran Gilbert, lifting Catherine from her horse, (for he was one of those who
supported her,) and flinging her into the volunteer’s arms. “Bear her to the
top of the hill,-- nay, gallop on till you strike the river, and”--
“Figs and furies!”
cried Sterling, with drunken astonishment; “do you make me a chamber-maid?”
“Away, fool! follow the
other,--follow Dancy.”
And with that, the
refugee, turning his horse, galloped down the hill towards the scene of
conflict, leaving Sterling, not yet completely sobered, to make his way after
Dancy Parkins and Phœbe, who were in full flight, as well as he could, cumbered
by the weight of Catherine, and perplexed by certain indications which White
Surrey gave of misliking the additional burthen imposed upon him.
“ ‘Sessa, let the world
slide!’ ” he exclaimed, “here’s a coil with a wench, dead or half-witted! Ha!
she stirs!
‘Arise, fair sun, and
kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and
pale with grief.’
Shame on thee, White Surrey! hast thou no more respect for the ladies?
Now were not this the lieutenant’s white-faced Rosalind--Oons! they are at it!
Well, the better part of valour shall prevail; and so, fair soul, we’ll be
jogging. But where’s that bottle of brown Sherry I clapped into Tiqueraque’s
pocket? Paucas palabras! I will have mercy upon thee--’thou shall taste of my
bottle; if thou hast never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove thy fit.’
’Slife, I will be merciful, and medicinate thy lips a little. Marry, I am ‘a
brave god, and bear celestial liquor.’ Now, White Surrey, my brother, handle thy
legs peaceably, or I will knock thee over the mazzard.-- Fight, Hawks! and
sing, Leonidas!” The worthy volunteer,
with these words, after having taken a bountiful draught from a flagon which
was the first thing he laid hands on in the moment of assault, and sprinkling,
doubtless with a humane and generous motive, some of its contents upon the face
and lips of the maiden, gave spurs to his horse, and was soon beyond the reach
of bullets and the sound of shouts.
The commotion, such as
it was, was soon over. The party of Caliver and Falconer, urging their horses
to the utmost, had suddenly, and unexpectedly to themselves, found themselves
in contact with the stragglers of the tory band; and as these fled the moment
they observed the pursuers, the gallant officers fired their pistols and rushed
forward with renewed ardour, until checked by the opposition of the main body.
They were met with fury, and, being overpowered, were almost instantly put to
flight; after which the retreat of the outlaws was resumed.
In the meanwhile, the
shots and yells with which the contest began, the change of position, or
perhaps the wine which had been sprinkled on her lips, woke Catherine from her
torpor; and slowly collecting her senses, she became at last sensible of her
situation. Her recollection of the events of the evening was still confused;
but she remembered enough of the bridal, and its violent termination, to know
that she was afar from her father’s roof, and that each moment saw her carried
still further. She felt, too, that she was grasped in the arms of some powerful
horseman, whose character might be imagined from the heartless, or drunken,
nonchalance with which, while supporting a fainting and almost lifeless female,
and hearing the uproar of mortal conflict just behind him, he yet trolled to
the night-air some further stanzas of that quaint, joyous, and uproarious old
ballad, of which he had given a specimen before in the paddock.
‘Back and side go bare,
go bare,’--
he sang,--
‘Both foot and hand go cold; But,
belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old. I
cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good; But
sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood. Though
I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a-cold,-- I
stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old. Back
and side go bare,’ &c.
‘Now let them drink
till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do; They
shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to: And
all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
Or have them lustily troll’d, God
save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old! Back
and side go bare,’ &c.
“Oh my father, my
father!” cried Catherine, in sudden terror, “for what dreadful fate have I
given up thy love and protection?”
Her accents, feeble as
they were, reached the ears of Sterling; and ceasing his song, he looked down
upon her face, saying, with a ludicrous assumption of gravity,
“How now, fair Titania,
queen of moonshine, do you speak? ‘Oh, speak again, bright angel!’ So much for
twenty drops of brown Sherry! these asses did nothing but talk about cold
water.”
“What are you, sir? and
why--why do you, thus hold me?”
“Egad, for no very good
reason I know, seeing that I could not hold my own prisoner, and am but a
milk-livered loon to hold the game of young Sparrow-Hawk. Thousand devils! knew
I but where to turn White Surrey’s snout, I should exit by side door, and so
vanish, wench and all, were it only to give him a Roland for his Oliver.”
“I know not what you
mean,” said Catherine, her terror restoring her to full consciousness--“I know
not what you mean,” she repeated, with increasing alarm, as the moon, peeping
side-long through a rent in the clouds, threw a level and ghastly ray on the
countenance of her supporter, revealing features which her fears converted into
those of an evil being;--“but, oh sir! I conjure you to free me. Do me no
harm,--suffer me to escape,--let me dismount, though it should be but to die on
the way-side.”
Unfortunately,--not for
her prayer, for no idea of granting that could have ever entered the volunteer’s
brain,--but unfortunately for the maiden herself, the same ray which revealed
his visage to her gaze fell brightly upon her own, which, although pallid as
death, yet displayed a pair of eyes to which the excitement of terror gave
unusual lustre, and which instantly converted the drunken indifference of
Sterling into admiration. He stared at her for a moment, and then burst out, in
the words of Romeo, and with an emphasis that preserved, along with his usual
dramatic extravagance of fervour, some little touch of natural approbation,--
“ ‘Two of the fairest
stars in all the heaven,
Having some business,
do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their
spheres, till they return!’
Oho, Master Brook, sweet young Hawk! never trust me if I do not take thy
minion in fair exchange for my own:-- ‘Follow your function, go! And batten on cold bits.’--
Sweet and beautiful, and thrice beautiful and as many times angelical,
fair soul!” he added, addressing himself to Catherine, “that I have so long
remained insensible to thy charms, trust me, it was in part owing to the
stupidity which I find growing upon me among the ‘ruthless, vast and gloomy
woods,’ and in part also to the great grief of mind with which I have been
mourning the loss of another very tenderly beloved damsel; but chiefly because
thine eyes refused their light, and yonder moon in like manner. But now, ‘by
yonder blessed moon I swear,’ I perceive you are ten times handsomer than the
other, ass that I was to suppose the contrary; but, however, I was then
thinking of the lieutenant and sour grapes.--Sweet, angelical soul, you said
something about escaping, and doing you harm, and so on? Now, as to the harm,
rest easy; but look as frightened as you please,--for what’s so pretty in a
maid as pretty fear? But as to escaping,--you would escape, then? go free from
these villanous, green-coated, axe-handed, ox-headed, timber-tongued Hawks of
the Hollow, eh? You would give them the slip, eh?” “Assist me but to escape,--nay, only permit me to fly; heaven
will bless you for ever, and my father--oh, my father!--he will never think he
has sufficiently rewarded you.”
Such were Catherine’s
eager expressions,--for although frighted at the strange, and, to her,
inexplicable apologies and commendations of the man, she caught at his closing
words as at those of a friend. What, therefore, was her terror, when the
drunken ruffian, exclaiming, “Why then, ‘Sessa, let the world slide!’ we will
give Monsieur the Hawk Junior the go-by, and roam the world together,” added
other words to make yet more plain the sudden design he had formed of carrying
her off for his own exclusive benefit, and concluded by attempting to draw his
arms more closely around her.
“Yes, thou adorable,
delectable creature!” he cried, overflowing with affection, “I am tired of
these rude vagabonds, who give one nothing to drink but brook-water, with which
trout, eels, sunfish, terrapins, and other vermin, have been making free the
lord knows how long; and beds of leaves on a rock, where one may feel snakes
creeping under him all night long. Wherefore I will decamp, and thou shalt
decamp with me, and be my love; and I will love thee to thy heart’s content;
and we shall lead the merriest, drollest moonlight life of it under a bush,
that was ever dreamed of in romance or enacted in tragedy. We will laugh and
play, and drink and dance--
‘Nor will we miss to
have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to’-- and will be the most loving turtles that
ever cooed in a greenwood.” As he
spoke, he again attempted (for White Surrey, charmed with the melody of his
master’s tongue, and knowing well, when it was running, he might take such a
liberty, had changed a jogtrot into a contemplative walk,) to cast his arms
round the maid, who, now awake to the wretchedness of her situation, uttered a
shriek, and making a sudden effort, succeeded in throwing herself to the
ground; after which, she fled away with all her speed. The object of her terror
was not slow to follow; he uttered an oath and a laugh, and leaping down,
pursued her with such vigour that he was soon at her side; for the ground was
rough with rocks and bushes, and her strength almost immediately failed her.
It is not certain that
the wretch mediatated any purpose beyond the mere recovery of his prize; for,
however rude and familiar his new-born admiration, he had hitherto betrayed no
inclination to carry it to the point of absolute rudeness. On the contrary, he
seemed rather to be enacting a part, according to his constant custom, only
that the wine he had drunk rendered him in all things more extravagant than
usual.
But harmless or not as
his intentions might have been, it is certain that the fear of them drove the
unhappy Catherine to desperation, and filled another, now fast approaching,
with the most dreadful alarm. This was Hyland Gilbert, who, hearing her cries
from afar, came rushing up in time to see her, in the dull light of the moon,
drop on her knees before the volunteer, beseeching him, in tones that might
have melted a heart of stone, to have pity on her.
“Villain! you die!”
cried Hyland; and leaping from his horse, and rushing forward, he clapped a
pistol to his ear, and drew the trigger. It flashed in the pan; but before
Sterling could take advantage of the failure, the young man dashed it in his
face, and drew another.
“Hell and darkness!”
cried Sterling, furiously, “young malapert, I will twist your neck.” And
seizing him by the throat, he cast him violently to the earth. Of a joyous, and
even good-humoured temperament, there was yet a spice of devilish
vindictiveness in the man’s breast; and while boiling under the indignity of
the blow, and smarting with rage at such high-handed interference in his
humours by a pragmatic boy, he did not fail to remember that this was not the
first time he had been baffled by him during the night. Besides, he was
inflamed with liquor, which was enough of itself to goad him into any act of
vengeance.
But he was not
destined, that night, to shed the blood of Hyland Gilbert. The shrieks of
Catherine had been heard by others as well as her unhappy lover, and the flash
of the pistol hastened them to the spot, where he lay struggling in the grasp
of Sterling. A hand more mighty than his own was soon laid upon Sterling’s
neck, and as he was lifted aloft, and then tossed among the flints, like some
mean but vicious breast, which the hunter disdains to kill with a weapon, he
heard the voice of the tory captain exclaim,
“What, you dog! touch
your officer, and a sick man!--What means all this, Hyland? What! has he harmed
the girl? If he have but touched her with a finger--Paugh!--Away with you, men!
why stand you here gaping? On, and quickly.”
The party rode on,
leaving, however, besides the group already in front, one man who led the horse
on which Catherine had been mounted before. The refugee cast a look to the
maiden,-- she was sobbing in the arms of his brother. He strode to Sterling and
assisted him to rise, not however without saying, with the sternest accents of
a voice always savage,
“But that heaven, or
some other power, has made me to-night cold to blood, I should strike you,
villain, where you stand!”
“You may do it,” said
the other, with great tranquillity. “Take your fill to-night; we will run up the
reckoning at another time.”
“How, drunken fool! do
you threaten me!”
“Faith, not I.
Henceforth, I am a man of peace --that is, when we have played the play out.
You’re a hard manager--but, now I remember, we are not on the boards! We will
forget and forgive.”
“Forgive, rogue! you
struck him that was feebler than a child; and you--By heaven! if you have
touched that girl but rudely, you were better fling you into the river; than
await the thanks in store for you.”
“A pest upon girls, and
the devil take the whole sex!” said Sterling, devoutly.
“Peace! and get you to
your horse.”
“Ay, presently,”
replied Sterling; and as Oran leaped on his own black steed, Catherine having
been already lifted to the saddle, he pulled a pistol from his bosom, and aimed
it at the unsuspecting outlaw. Oran Gilbert bounded forward, and Sterling
lowered his hand.
“A miss were certain
death,” he muttered, “and the shadow was on the moon. ‘Sessa, let the world
slide’--to-morrow comes after to-day, and the longer we fast the richer the
feast.
‘Nor shall we miss to
have the bliss
Good ale’-- Good ale? good devils!-- ‘Nor
shall we miss to have the bliss
Good blood doth bring men to!’-- Now were White Surrey but visible, I
should know what to do: but the beast lifted up his heels, and was gone
a-larking the moment I dismounted. --And these dogs have left me to shift for
myself, without even a horse to help me! Wisdom is at as low an ebb among them
as gratitude. Necessity and vengeance harp on the same string. Fare thee well,
Oran the Hawk; but fly as high and as wildly as thou wilt, I see the little
bee-bird that shall bring thee to the ground, bleeding.” With these words, he sat down upon a
stone, and there remained until the tramp of the retreating horsemen was no
longer brought to his ear.
If you have ears that
will be pierced; or eyes
That can be open’d; a
heart that may be touch’d;
Or any part that yet
sounds man about you;
If you have touch of
holy saints or heaven;
Do me the grace to let
me ’scape: if not,
Be bountiful, and kill
me. You do know,
I am a creature hither
ill betray’d
By one whose shame I
would forget it were.
Ben Jonson--
Catherine was now so
far recovered as to be able to comprehend her situation in full; and although
Hyland Gilbert rode at her side, thus assuring her of protection from all
further rudeness, her terrors increased, and were mingled with the most
insupportable anguish of spirit. It was in vain that he conjured her to be
composed, and vainer yet when he sought to pacify her by expressions indicative
of affection and tenderness.
“Take me to my father,
Herman,” she cried, clasping her hands, and even endeavouring to grasp his own.
“Oh, take me but back, and I will forgive you--I will forgive all!”
“Be composed,
Catherine, I entreat you”-- But her only answer was, “My father! my poor
father!”
“You shall see him,
Catherine. I take you not from him, but from Henry Falconer.”
“I will never marry
him,” cried the unhappy girl: “take me but back and I will tell them all, and
it shall go no further. Take me but back, and I will forget all,--I will
forgive all. Take me but back, and let me die.”
In this manner, her
mind overcome by but one thought and one feeling, she murmured prayer after
prayer, and adjuration after adjuration, until her entreaties became almost
frenzied, and Hyland, alarmed and shocked, half repented the act which had
brought her to such a pass. Her agitation was not diminished, when Oran, who
rode at the other side, and had for a long time maintained a stern silence, and
apparent disregard of what passed between them, at last uttered an interjection
of impatience, and bade Hyland ride away, and leave her to him.
“The folly but grows
upon her in your presence,” he said: “it must be checked.”
“Leave me not, Herman!”
she cried, starting so wildly from the rude Oran, that, had he not arrested the
effort, she would have leaped from the horse, in the effort to reach him whom
she felt to be her truest protector: “leave me not, Herman, for the sake of the
mother who bore you!--leave me not in the hands of any of these rude men!”
“Fear not,” said
Hyland, and he conjured Oran himself to depart. “Let the girl come to her,” he
added; “perhaps Phœbe’s appearance may relieve her.”
But even the presence
of Phœbe, now quite content with captivity, (so successful had been the
arguments of her wooer,) failed to banish her agitation; and at last,
bewildered and in despair, incapable of devising any other means to give her
comfort, Hyland checked his horse and hers, and assisted her to dismount.
“Do with me what you
will, Catherine Loring,” he said:--“I am a fool, a wretch, perhaps a villain.”
“Oh no, no!” said the
maiden; “only take me back, and all will again be well--all will be forgotten.”
“Nothing again will be
well with me,” said the young man, “and nothing, I fear me, with you.
Catherine, there is but a moment to decide. In snatching you from the altar, I
did the only thing in my power to secure happiness to both,--or at least, to
secure us from the misery that was falling on us like a mountain. You hated
Henry Falconer”--
“I did--No, no! not
hate; it was not hate,” murmured the Captain’s daughter.
“You hated him,
Catherine, and--why should I fear to speak it?--you loved another--you loved
me, Catherine--By heaven, it is true! I felt it, and I knew it; else how could
I have done this thing? It is true--and hide it not from yourself, since your
own weal, as well as mine, depends upon your resolution this moment.”
“Speak not to me so,
oh, for heaven’s sake do not,” cried Catherine, weeping--“I never gave you
cause. Take me only to my father.”
“To wed with Henry
Falconer, and pronounce a vow your heart forswears?”
“I will never marry
him--never, never!” said Catherine, with vehemence: “I would have told him so,
only that my father stood by, and I knew it would kill him.”
“Catherine, hear me--I
am neither traitor nor outlaw, and though associated with such for a moment, it
is for your sake only.--I have wealth, Catherine,--substance enough and a fair
name. Share these with me.”--
“No, no! oh speak not
so,” said Catherine; “speak to me only of my father, and take me to him. He
loved you well, Mr. Hunter, and you have not well repaid him.”
“Choose, Catherine,”
said Hyland, gloomily; “if you will return to him, it shall be so:--I am not
the ruffian to force you a step further against your will.”
“Heaven for ever bless
you!” cried the maiden. “Oh be quick, lest it be too late--Take me back, take
me back!”
“Yes, take us back,
take us back!” cried Phœbe, whose weak mind, yielding with facility to the
contagion of Catherine’s example, was now as full of terror as before.
“Think once more,
Catherine,” said the young Gilbert, with a faltering voice--“Of myself I speak
not--I will not think what your return may cause me; but think of what
wretchedness it must inevitably bring to you.--Catherine, there is sunshine for
us in the island.--Say but the word--you will fly with me!”
“Never!--Oh my father!
take me, Herman, to my father!”
“It is well,” said the
youth, sullenly; but motioning as if to assist her to the saddle, “you shall
return to him.”
“What fool’s play is
this? and why do you loiter?” cried Oran Gilbert, riding back to the group, who
had been left by their sudden pause far behind: “To horse and to the river!”
“It cannot be,” said
Hyland: “we have erred, --we have done a great wrong, and must repair it.
Brother, this maiden must be returned to her friends.”
“Madman! what do you
say? Have her silly, girlish whimsies to frightened you? Away with you to the
front, and I will fetch her!”
“I have said it, Oran,”
rejoined Hyland, in a firm, though deeply dejected voice. “I have agreed to
take her back, and I will do so. If you will allow me a guard, I will not delay
the band a moment; and will answer for the lives of those entrusted to me.”
“Fool and madman!”
exclaimed the brother, in a fury, “must I force you to your senses? What ho,
there, Hawks! two of you return; and Dancy Parkins, lift that girl to the
saddle, and bear her off.”
“Fear not,” said Hyland
to Catherine, who, with woman’s inconsistency, threw herself into his arms, the
moment she heard the dreaded order. --“You but frighten her, brother!--Make me
not more wretched than I am, by forcing me to shed the blood of any of your
people.--I will shoot any one who touches her.”--
“Myself, boy?” cried
his savage brother, leaping from his horse. Then pausing, for at his approach,
Hyland lowered the weapon he had raised to make good his words, he said
sternly,
“Choose for
yourself.--Bear her along, and be rewarded by smiles in the morning; take her
back and die, like a mad wolf, in the trap that has before maimed you. Mount
horse, Dancy Parkins, and begone; and you, Hyland Gilbert, mount and follow, or
stay where you are and perish.--Will you on?” he added, with inexpressible
fierceness.
“When I have put this
lady in safety, but not before,” replied Hyland.
“Die then for a fool,
or help yourself as you may,” said the elder brother; and mounting his horse,
he instantly galloped out of sight.
None now remained with
Hyland save the two maidens; for even Dancy, awed by the voice of the refugee,
had deserted the once-willing Phœbe. He turned his eyes towards the retreating
figures, as if doubting whether they could wholly desert him; but he heard the
tramp of the steeds ring farther and fainter each moment, and it was plain that
the incensed Oran had abandoned him to his fate. He assisted Catherine to
mount, and Phœbe likewise; then taking Catherine’s bridle in his hand, he
turned the horse’s head, and began to retrace his steps without uttering a
word. A moody silence possessed him, and even Catherine’s voice, now sobbing
out her broken gratitude, failed to draw from him more than a few sullen
monosyllables.
“It shall be as you
will,” he said; “but let us speak no more.--What matters it now to utter vain
words?”
The dejection, nay the
despair, of spirit conveyed by every tone, smote Catherine to the heart; and
had he possessed the art, or the will, to take advantage of the feeling which
his evident desolation produced in her bosom, he might yet have won her to his
purpose, and borne her afar from parent and friend. But he had neither; he
heard her trembling attempts at kindly utterance, (for it was now her part to
play the soother,) with apparent indifference; and even when she turned her
weeping face towards him, and, in the impulse of real affection, laid her hand
upon his, he drew away as with scorn or anger.
Their flight had
carried them almost to the base of the mountain; and, obscure as was the night,
it was plainly distinguishable at that spot where the convulsions of chaotic
ages have riven it from the summit to the base, thus hollowing a pathway for a
broad river under the shade of its majestic crags. As they turned from it, a
pale light glistened among the pines and oaks of the eastern hill, but so faint
and dim that one could scarce pronounce it the peep of day-spring. Such,
however, it was; fast as had been the flight, it had been over a road where
absolute rapidity is, even at this day, rather to be desired than expected;
and, had she continued with the wild band, Catherine would have seen the sun
steal into the sky, ere they had buried her in the savage recesses where they
found their own cities of refuge.
As the day dawned,
however, and long before the sun was yet seen, wreaths of mist began to curl
along the mountain top, and even to creep over the river; and before they had
ridden much more than a mile, it was seen rolling along these lesser uplands
that give such beauty to the whole district, and settling upon the moist
woodlands.
This was a circumstance
which one in Hyland’s situation might have deemed providential, if desirous of
avoiding observation. But it is questionable whether, while brooding over his
melancholy thoughts, he gave much reflection to the peril that might attend his
return to the haunts of men. Peril should, at least, have been anticipated; for
whatever had been the check given by the band of outlaws to the first pursuers,
it was not a moment to be doubted, from the audacity of the pursuit, as well as
the greatness of the outrage, that the chase would be resumed the moment the
pursuers could add to their numbers. But dejected as was his spirit, he was not
yet reduced to such a state of stupor as to be wholly unmindful of his safety;
and of this he gave proof by suddenly halting upon a naked hill, strown over
with rocks, and wholly desolate, though breathing into the mist a world of rich
odour. It was, in fact, covered with a growth of sweet-fern,--a shrub around
which the early thoughts of affection had shed an interest not to be attached
even to the rose or violet, though henceforth that interest was to be of a
melancholy and painful character. It was the hill on whose summit he had,
scarce an hour before, preserved her from the grasp of a villain; though this
she knew not, for the mists concealed objects from the eye, and it was not yet
sunrise.
As he paused, he bent
forward to listen, and drew a pistol from his saddle-bow, but instantly
returned it, muttering, “It is no matter--if they take me, let it be without
bloodshed.”
“Herman,--Mr. Hunter,
what is it?” cried Catherine. “You will not pause now?”
“Now I must, or never,”
he said. “You are safe,--your friends are at the bottom of the hill; and unless
you would have them murder me in your sight, I must begone. Farewell, Catherine
Loring: if you can be happy, God grant that you may be so. I have done you a
great wrong; but I bear that in my bosom which will avenge you. Farewell,
Catherine,--farewell, and for ever.”
“Herman, Herman!”
murmured the maiden, turning upon him a countenance of death, and gasping for
utterance.
“Farewell, Catherine,”
he said, wringing her hand; “they are upon us. God bless you--farewell.”
He rode away--it was
but a step: the trample of a body of horse was now plainly heard--he looked
back upon her--his countenance was bathed in tears. She stretched forth her
arms, and murmuring, in a broken voice, “I will go with you--take me, Herman,
take me!”--was in a moment locked in his own embrace. He snatched her from the
saddle, and, as she clung to his neck, dashed the spurs into his good roan
steed. Had the words been pronounced a moment earlier, nay, but an instant, he
might have made his escape, and borne her off in safety. But the decision was
as late as it proved to be fatal. Phœbe had already heard the trampling of the
approaching horsemen, and Hyland had called them friends. She could scarce
repress a cry of delight; but when, catching Catherine’s last words, she looked
round and beheld her, as she thought, in the act of being again snatched away,
she raised her voice in a scream that was heard by the most distant of the
approaching party, and was echoed by a shout coming from fifty voices.
Again Hyland struck the
spurs into his horse, and the fire sparkled from his hoofs as he dashed down
the hill; but fire flashed immediately after from the hoofs of twenty others,
fresher and perhaps fleeter.
“Shoot not, or you will
kill the lady!” roared a voice in his ear.
“Surrender, dog, or
die!” shouted another, who was indeed no other than Henry Falconer; and almost
in the same instant, as three or four closed upon the unfortunate fugitive, a
strong arm snatched the fainting Catherine from his grasp, and a pistol, held
by Falconer, was thrust into his face.
The young Gilbert was
weak with wounds and sickness, and worn out with toil, watching, and grief; his
native spirit was thus in a manner crushed and prostrated; and he would perhaps
have yielded himself passively up, if not too bitterly goaded by the taunts and
violence of his captors. Such was the opinion of two of them, who, supposing he
had already yielded, withdrew their hands, that they might give assistance to
the fainting Catherine, whom captain Caliver had so fortunately redeemed from
the midst of the fray. But Gilbert had not yet rendered himself. The sight of
his rival, exulting in his capture, and menacing him with voice and weapon,
inflamed his dying passions. He turned with sudden fierceness, checked and
spurred his steed at the same time, and thus caused him to vault into the air
with a violence which would have speedily released him from Falconer’s grasp,
had not his purpose been rather to attack than fly. As he executed this feat,
he presented his own pistol, and drew the trigger. The explosion of two pistols
at once was followed by the rush of a dozen men to separate the combatants; and
the next moment both were seen rolling upon the ground, Falconer lying clear of
the melée, and Hyland in the hands of the vengeful Sterling, whose horse, White
Surrey, had overthrown the youth, together with his roan steed.
“ ‘Sessa! let the world
slide!’ ” cried the renegade, with a voice of thunder, but a countenance ashy
pale. “Here’s work for the hangman--I have him fast enough. Victoria!”--
But at this moment, a
sudden alarm was sounded, and all who could starting up, they heard a wild yell
sound from the base of the hill to the north, and the words, pronounced by a
voice strong and clear as a trumpet, “Royal Refugees! charge! and bear them to
the ground!”
“Huzza!” shouted the
captain of cavalry, “here’s the rat running at the lion! Now open your mouths
and swallow ’em! By the eternal Jupiter, we are five to their one; and more
fools they for not knowing it. Sweep them from the earth! charge them! on!”
The refugee had relented;
the sound of the pistols had quickened his steps; but he dreamed not of the
force now arrayed betwixt him and his abandoned brother. A sheet of fire from
twenty pistols blazed through the mist, as twice as many enemies rushed against
his little band. They broke at the first fire, and the sounds of pursuit, both
hot and fierce, were soon lost in the distance. --It was not until many hours
had elapsed that the result of the contest, although it could be easily
imagined, was fully known. Two of the refugees had been killed, and one was
taken prisoner; while the others, abandoning their horses, which were worn out,
and hence easily captured, succeeded in making their escape to the woods.
In the meanwhile, those
who remained upon the hill busied themselves in securing the unfortunate
Hyland, who was unhurt save by the fall of his horse, aiding the maidens, and
raising young Falconer from the earth. This unlucky youth muttered a few words
as they lifted him, but, to their horror, almost instantly expired. A pistol
bullet had penetrated his throat, dividing the great jugular, and even
shattering the spine. His battles were fought, and his dream of folly over.
In the recovery of
Catherine and the servingmaid, the company of pursuers had effected the chief
object of the expedition; but it was still felt to be a matter of great
importance to destroy the relics of the refugee band which had haunted the
county so long. The greater number of the pursuers, accordingly, devoted
themselves to this object, while enough remained on the hill to take charge of
the rescued females, the prisoners, and the dead.
The life of Hyland
Gilbert, whom his captors, exasperated by the murder, as they called it, of
Falconer, were at one time on the point of tearing to pieces, was saved through
the firmness of lieutenant Brooks; but he was treated with much indignity, and
even cruelty, being straightway bound both hand and foot to his horse, and thus
carried away like the meanest and most desperate of felons. A pair of rude
litters were hastily constructed, in one of which was carried the Captain’s
daughter, while the other supported the clayey corpse of the bridegroom.
These things effected,
and the honest Mr. Sterling assuming the station assigned him in the centre of
the party, where, although enjoying all appearance of liberty, he was yet
esteemed a kind of honourable--or, as the phrase should be,
dishonourable--prisoner, the melancholy cavalcade pursued its way back to
Hawk-Hollow, within a few miles of which, its leaders stumbled upon Captain
Loring and a party of footmen, over whom he had assumed the command. It
consisted of no less, indeed, than that identical company of volunteers who had
won such immortal distinction on the fourth of July, by their valiant attack,
with empty muskets, upon the flying Oran. The reappearance of their enemy was
enough to recall them to the field of battle, though they came somewhat of the
latest; and uniting themselves with a party of countrymen and domestics whom
Captain Loring had previously assembled, and whom he was now gallantly leading
to the field of honour, they yielded to his energy the obedience he seemed to
consider a matter of right, and thus constituted him commander-in-chief,
without much regard to the claims of their own elected officers.
The morning was still
misty, so that lieutenant Brooks and his party stumbled upon this formidable
detachment without seeing it, or suspecting its existence; and had it not been
for the sharpness of his ears in detecting the tones of Captain Loring’s voice
upon a hill he was just ascending, it is highly probable the magnanimous
volunteers would have wiped out the disgrace of their flight before a single
enemy, by pouring a warm and well-directed fire into a superior body of
friends.
He paused a little,--for
he rode at some distance in front of his party,--and distinctly heard Captain
Loring’s voice giving the following orders to his volunteers:--
“Hark!” said the
veteran; “adzooks, you may hear their horse now as plain as the cocking of a
sentinel’s musket at midnight. Halt, ye vagabonds, and prepare for action. When
I say prepare, I mean, adzooks, be ready to swinge ’em. You, Dan Potts, John
Small, and Peter Dobbs, detach yourselves to the right, six rods from the road,
and lay by to flank ’em: Dick Sturgem, Sam King, and Absalom Short, wheel to
the left, and do the same thing--and mind you, you scoundrels, don’t any of you
be frightened; for, adzooks, I despise a coward above all created things. And
harkee, you scoundrels, no gabbling; hold your tongues like soldiers, and talk
with your muskets: that’s what old general Spitfire used to tell us--‘Sons,’
said he, ‘a soldier should always keep his tongue in his musket.’ So be off,
and stand fast, flanks; and bang away as soon as you see any thing to bang at.
Centre, attend: as soon as you hear the flanks at it, you are to crack away,
and give no quarter--no quarter, you scoundrels, do you hear!”
At any other moment,
the young lieutenant would have been amused at the enthusiasm and tactics of
the veteran of the Indian wars; but this was not a moment for jest. He rode
forward, hailing the Captain by name; and the old soldier soon forgot his rage
and his followers together, to weep in the arms of his recovered child.
2d Clown. But is this law?
1st Clown. Ay, marry is’t;
crowner’s-quest law.
Hamlet.
We draw a curtain over
the scene of distress displayed in Gilbert’s Folly, when the body of Henry
Falconer, late the gayest of its inmates, was laid at the feet of his father
and sister; and pass to that which followed, when a justice of the peace,
acting in the place of a coroner, assembled a jury of inquest around the bloody
couch, to determine from the melancholy story of the dead, the fatal
responsibility of the living. The official was a personage who exercised, along
with the duties of a magistrate, the equally dignified functions of mine host
of the Green Tree Tavern; and was, indeed, no less a man than that rival of
Elsie Bell, whose formidable opposition, many years before, had completed the
downfall of the Traveller’s Rest. He was now a man of substance, portly in
person, and inflated by the dignity of office into a certain dignity of manner;
his step was like the roll of a ship, and when he breathed, it was with a
forcible and majestic expiration of breath, like the snort of a war-horse. He
had been noticed, as he advanced in the world, for the independence,--or, to
speak more strictly, the tyranny with which he conducted himself among his
guests; not, indeed, that he ever beat, or even committed them, as, in virtue
of his office, he might have done; but because, as he said, he heartily ‘despised
peing pottered mit ’em.’ He was not austere or quarrelsome of disposition, but
he was a lover of his ease in his inn; and his despotism was shown less in
violent opposition than in contemptuous indifference of all humours save his
own. He abhorred all faultfinding, but as he equally detested the trouble of
reprehending it, he devised a scheme by which discontent was either nipped in
the bud, or severely reproved as soon as made manifest, and all without any
labour on his own part. He caused to be painted on his sign-board, having
daubed off the green tree to make room for it, the following cabalistic
legend,--
Der ist glücklich,
welcher zufrieden ist.
which he was accustomed to translate, viva voce, to all incapable of
understanding it, in a quaternion as remarkable for its expressive simplicity
as for its philosophic comprehensiveness: He
vich is vise
Neffer grumples nor
cries;
He vich is neither vise
nor ciffil
May go to the diffil.
This,--that is to say, the original morceau,--as he justly conceived,
contained a standing answer for all grumblers, and by being in such a
conspicuous situation, served as a warning to them beforehand; while, at the
same time, if a guest chanced to forget its existence, it only needed the
philosophic Schlachtenschlager (for that was the dignitary’s name,) to point to
it with his finger, and demand, ‘Fat does that mean?’ to bring him to reason.
At all events, his translation was always at hand, in case of extremity, and
was of such supreme efficacy in laying all evil spirits by the heels, that he
used to declare with triumph, ‘It fas neffer needs to say it twice.’ Such was the functionary who now introduced
his assistants into the chamber of death, exulting in his own importance and
his success in completing the number against all the difficulties resulting
from the confusion into which the county had been thrown by the second
appearance of the refugees.
“I do afer, on my faith,
gentlemen,” he said; wiping his brows, as he entered, “I had more trouple
making you up than is goodt for nothing. As for that Jake Sheeps fat run afay,
I fill commit him, the fillain.”
“Ay, Squire, when you
catch him,” said one of the party, who, although as coarse in appearance as the
others, (all being, save himself, ordinary farmers and ignoramuses, such as
could be picked up in a hurry,) but who soon proved himself possessed of more
brain than all the others together, --“when you catch him, Squire. But harkee,
Schlachtenschlager; concerning this forcing me on a jury of inquest,--’tis a
sort of a breach of privilege. As an attorney at law, I should be considered
exempt; for if there’s no statute for exemption, why there’s custom, my old
boy, and I’ll mulct you in damages. Botheration, Squire, you should know enough
law to steer clear of a lawyer.”
“T’at for your law!”
said the magistrate, “and your lawyer too: I knows my pusiness. And if you
grumples and calls me ‘old poy,’ it vill pe vorse for you; for old poy means
the tyfel, and if you calls me tyfel, mine friend Affidafy”--
“Tush,” said the
lawyer, it means no such thing. But as you have nabbed me, why make haste with
this stupid business, and be done. Look at the body, guess your guess out, and
let me be gone.”
“ ‘He vich is vise,’ ”--
muttered the justice; but was interrupted by Mr. Affidavy crying,
bluffly, “The devil take your
verses. Come, let’s to business. Now, Squire, you ‘know your business,’ --you
never, I reckon, held an inquest before in your life;--how do you begin?”
“How do I pegin?” said
the official, scratching his head; “fy, I reckons, ve must have a talk apout
it, and then say, the man vas murdtered.”
“The deuce you must?
Why that’s prejudging the case altogether. How do you know the man was
murdered? where’s your witnesses?”
“Vitnesses!” said
Schlachtenschlager; “fy, I reckons the case is clear enough mitout ’em.”
“Ah, I thought you’d
say so,” cried the other; “but that won’t do. Where’s the murderer?”
“Vy, I committed him.”
“Where’s the prisoner,
Dancy Parkins?”
“Vy, I committed him
along mit the other.”
“Where’s the informant,
that vagabond--(I reckon, he’ll be a witness for the Commonwealth) --that
stripe-coat fellow, Stirk--Stick,--no, Sterling’s his name?”
“Vy, I committed him,
too.”
“The devil you did?
Well, where are the officers, the soldiers, the volunteers, and all the rest
that were present?”
“Vy, chasing the
refugees, to pe sure.”
“Well, so I thought.
Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll have to do: just send off as fast as you can for
that fellow Sterling, and Dancy, and half a dozen others, and adjourn till they
come; which will give me time to run down to the Traveller’s Rest, and
administer on old Elsie Bell’s estate, or see what there is to administer on.”
“Administer on old
Elsie? fat the tyfel! is the old fitch teadt?”
“As dead as a herring,”
said Affidavy; “and there’s another job for you. They say, some one told her,
the defunct here, Colonel Falconer’s son, was shot by young Gilbert; and the harridan
screeched, and fell dead with fright.”
“Mine soul!” said the
justice, “they’re all typing. There’s the Captain’s daughter here,--they say
she’s tying too. I vant to take her teposition; but Dr. Muller says she can n’ither
speak nor hear.”
“Well,” said the
attorney, “you see there’s nothing to be done here at present. So, adjourn’s
the word, and down to hold an inquest on old Elsie. She has been looking up in
the world lately, and they say she’ll leave something. I intend therefore to
administer, or see about it--and by the way, Squire, we may discover something
there in relation to the murderer. He lived in her house; and, there’s no
doubt, the tories made it a place of rendezvous. We can come up here and finish
afterwards.”
“Fell, I don’t know,” said
Schlachtenschlager; “it’s all vone, except for the trouple of going and coming.
But fere’s Jake Musser?” he added, in sudden alarm; “I declare ve’re not all
here!-- Fy, Jake, fere have you peen?” he continued, as the individual, whose
absence he had just discovered, entered the apartment.
“Vy, at Elsie Pell’s;--I
stopped a moment to get a trink; but old Elsie vas sick, and the plack girl vas
in a fear, and”--
“Sick!” cried Affidavy,
“a’n’t the old goose dead? ’Pshaw! why then we’ll go on with the inquest, and
say no more about it. I thought there was a job there for somebody; but, it
seems, it is only for the doctor. Well, Squire, are you ready?”
“Yes,” said the
official; “but now, Mr. Affidafy, fat shall we do for witnesses?”
“Tush,” said the man of
law, “that’s neither here nor there.”
“Fy, you said, it
wouldn’t do mitout ’em!”
“Oh, that’s according
to circumstances, and here we have circumstances enough to hang the whole
county.”
“Fell, then,” said the
magistrate, “we’ll pring it in a case of murder. Are you all agreedt? Fat says
you, Peter Pork?”
“Why, I dunna,” said
Peter, “but I reckon so.”
“Fat says you, Thomas
Pork?”
“Why, I dunna; but I go
with Peter.”
“Fat says you, Jacob
Musser?”
“Fy, the same: but I
reckon the Captain mought send us up something to dtrink.--It’s a very pretty
pody.”
“Never mind the pody,
Jacob. Fat says you, Jack Darpy?”
“Why, I’m no so clear
in the matter;--I’m ag’in’ all hanging.”
“Fy, that’s none on
your pusiness,” said the magistrate, assuming an air of dignity; “for you see,
John, the coroner’s jury is not the hanging jury.”
“Well, Squire,” said
the nonconformist, “I reckon I know that as well as any body. But, you see, I’ve
had a talk with the quakers on this matter, and I’m coming to think it’s ag’in’
the law of scriptur’ to bring a man to the gallows. And you see, the matter all
rests on our shoulders; for if we say murder for our ’quest, why then the grand
jury sings the same song for their indictment, and the petty jury just follows
suit. It’s just like sticking three bricks on an end; if you kick one, why down
goes the second, and clack goes t’other. And moresomover, what Squire Affidavy
says I stick to: I don’t know the man’s murdered, not an iota, without some one
to swear on black and white.”
“Fy, take a look at
him, John,” said the Squire in a heat; “he’s deadt, a’n’t he? and he has a pig
hole in his neck, ha’n’t he? and fat more fould you haff? You’re always
preeding trouble, John Darpy!”
“Well, I dunna,” said
John; “the man mought ha’ shot himself; for they say he was a peeler at the
bottle, for such a young un; and when folks drinks, there’s no saying what’ll
come of it: it’s just as much as saying, ‘Clear the course, here goes for the
devil!’--Squire Affidavy, what do you say to that?”
“Hem”--replied the man
of law, looking at his elbows, which were somewhat of the whitest, with an
attempt at humour, that faded in a moment before a look of sullenness and
anger, “I say, that you’re a fool, though you stumble upon wisdom now and then
by accident. But none of your sly winks and blinks: we all know you have not
brain enough for drinking. But stop; we’ve carried this joke far enough, and
the fun is over. Send down stairs for the girl Phoebe Jones: she was on the
ground when the shot was fired, and we must take her testimony.”
“Fy, now I remember, so
she fas,” muttered the magistrate; but added, with a sigh like the sough of a
north-wester, “Put it is a great trouple to swear a voman.”
The testimony of Phœbe
was, however, by no means so satisfactory as was expected. It is true, she
professed herself able to swear that Mr. Hunter Hiram Gilbert shot Mr.
Falconer; but it soon appeared she was as ready to swear he had shot herself,
and some dozen other unfortunate persons into the bargain. In truth, the dreadful
conclusion of an adventure which she had been brought, at one moment, almost to
consider an innocent and agreeable frolic,--the condition of her mistress, from
whose bed-side she had been summoned,-- and the spectacle of the ghastly corse
of the bridegroom before her eyes, more than half turned her brain. She
answered therefore by yea and nay, and just as the question indicated the
reply; until Mr. Affidavy, a man of some little tact in his profession,
although low and debauched habits had ruined his prospects and reputation
together, thought fit to interfere, and by a little management, made it
obvious, even to the dull brain of Schlachtenschlager, that the girl, although
an actor in the tragedy, knew no more of its details from her own observation, than
they themselves.
They were relieved from
their dilemma, however, by the sudden appearance of lieutenant Brooks, who
delivered a brief and clear account of the catastrophe, as far as he had
witnessed it himself; and his testimony left it no longer to be doubted that
the unfortunate defunct had fallen in consequence of a pistol-shot fired from a
weapon in the hands of Hyland Gilbert. He produced the instrument, which, as
well as the pistol discharged by the deceased, he had picked from the ground,
and now delivered, along with their fellows, and a pair taken from Sterling, to
the magistrate, averring that they were in the condition in which he had found
them.
“A very pretty pistol,”
said the official; “but how is this Mr. Lieutenant? did the young fellow fire
them all?”
The soldier stared his
honour in the face, and smiled; but his eye fell on the body of his friend, and
the flash of humour faded into clouds.
“This weapon,” said he,
touching one, “I presume to be that by which Mr. Falconer was slain. It was
picked from the ground by Mr. Gilbert’s side; the fellow to it, was found in
the holsters attached to Gilbert’s saddle. This,” he added, pointing to
another, “belonged to my unfortunate friend, and was that with which he shot at
the prisoner.”
“Fat!” cried the
official, “did he shoot, too?”
“Undoubtedly: I plainly
distinguished two explosions, the one immediately after the other.”
“Fy then, mine Gott!”
said Schlachtenschlager, looking round upon his assistants with an air of
unutterable sagacity, “this, mine friends, does ferry much alter the case. It
vas not murder, but a fight. Who fires the pistol first?”
“Sir, that is
impossible to say. But allow me to suggest a doubt whether that is necessary to
be inquired into. With deference, I should suppose the object of this inquest
would be simply to determine who shot the pistol that killed the deceased;
leaving all other questions to be determined by other tribunals.”
“’Pshaw!” said
Affidavy, who seemed to derive no little private amusement from the ignorance
of the magistrate, when suffered to run its own course; “you have spoiled the
sport. The young gentleman is, however, right, Squire, and”--
“Holdt your tongue, Mr.
Affidafy, and let me mindt mine own pusiness,” said the magistrate, in some
wrath; “sure I know fat I am about! And hark ye, Mr. Witness, you are a very
goodt young man, and an officer, and a gentleman; put you must not tell me fat
I am to do, nor fat I am not to do.”
“Surely not,” replied
the witness; “I will not be so presumptuous.”
“Right; you are a very
goodt young man, and an officer, and a gentleman; and you have very goodt
sense.--Fat do you think I must say in this case? for, mine Gott, it puzzles
me! Mine own opinion is, that somepody shot this young man.”
“It cannot be doubted,
sir.”
“And that that somepody
fas him fat shot the pistol fat fas not shot by the young man fat fas shot.”
“Very true, sir.”
“Ferry fell, sir,”
continued the official, with dignity; “now show me the man, and you shall hear
fat I have to say for mine inquest in no time.”
“The man you speak of
is by this time lodged in the county prison under a warrant issued by yourself.
There were two pistols discharged, one by the deceased, the other, as I can
swear to the best of my belief, by the prisoner; and I can bear witness in like
manner, that my unfortunate friend owes his death to the pistol discharged by
the prisoner.”
“Fy then, the case is
clear enough, and I vonder you couldn’t say so much before. Do you swear to all
this?”
“I do.”
“Fell now, come;--fat
fas the reason of all this running afay, and murdering?”
“That, I beg leave to
suggest, is a question entirely irrelevant.”
“Is it? Fell then, fy
don’t you answer it?”
“Pshaw!” mumbled
Affidavy, who was perhaps wearying of a sport he did not himself direct. “Squire,
you may discharge the witness: we have laid our heads together and agreed upon
a finding.”
“Fat! mitout me?”
“Certainly. You don’t
think you are to make the verdict?--The witness will be pleased to retire,” he
added, and the lieutenant, looking once more on the dead, immediately withdrew.
“We find, Squire,” the
attorney went on, “that the deceased came to his death in consequence of a
pistol-bullet shot into his neck by Hyland Gilbert, otherwise called Herman
Hunter. If you want to be learned about jugulars, carotids, parotids, and so
on, we will call in Dr. Muller, and have him examine the wound.”
“Fy, I don’t know any
thing about them things; put I don’t see that you say any thing apout murder?”
“Not a word: as you
said yourself to Jack Darby here, the coroner’s jury is not the hanging jury.”
“Fell now, the matter’s
finished, and I am ferry glad. I suppose it is all right?”
“Entirely--the young
Hawk is as dead as a chicken.”
“It is a clear case
then, Mr. Affidafy,” said the dignitary, with a long and tempestuous breath,
indicating the satisfaction he felt at being released from labours so
overpowering, “they fill hang the young fillain?”
“Why that depends upon
circumstances, Squire.”
“Oh the tyfel! it is
all ‘upon circumstances’ mit a lawyer?”
“It is a good case on
either side,” said Affidavy; “and not so bad on the prisoner’s as might be
supposed,--that is, if he had but money to make it an object to take up his
cause.”
“Mine Gott, he has
money! There fas his fatch; ’twas goldt, and worth forty pound.”
“Eh! indeed? has he a
gold watch?”
“And there fas a purse
of guineas”--
“Of guineas!”
“And there fas a--fat
you call it?--a pill of exchange on New York, and a letter of credit,-- mine
Gott, it fas mitout limit, except time; put I toubt me, it fas not goodt.”
“Botheration!” cried
the man of law, in a fervour, “who’ll lend me a horse to ride to town? I
remember now, there was a story that the youngest son of the Gilberts had a
rich aunt in Jamaica.”
“Fell, if he had?”
“Why then, I’ll
certainly volunteer him the aid of my professional skill; and, murder or no
murder, I’ll bring him off.”
“You don’t say so, Mr.
Affidavy?”
“Botheration, I do. A
letter of credit without limit? Who has it? did you save it?”
“No; I gave it pack to
him; put I took an inventory of all in his pockets.”
“Well, Squire, you’re
an honour to the profession. Lend me a horse.”
“Fy, if I had you put
down to the Creen Tree, and you fould promise to keep soper”--
“Tush, I will. But let’s
be off, and in a hurry. You are a merciful man, Squire Schlachtenschlager--It
is a pity this poor friendless young fellow should be hanged for nothing.”
“That is, mitout paying
nothing to the lawyer? Ho, ho!--Put it toesn’t do to laugh by a teadt pody, fen
his fader, and moder, and all his friends is feeping and crying. Fat is to pe
done mit these Hawks? Can’t nopody catch pig Oran? I fill give one pound of
mine own money for refard; for, I do afer, he toes give me much trouple. Fell,
gentlemen, all is right. Now fill ve all go to the Creen Tree, and ve shall
have some prandy to dtrink. Fere is some pody to light mine pipe? A fery padt
piece of pusiness, and fery pottersome. I vonder fere they fill pury the young
man? Fell, gentlemen, let us pegone.”
Your mountain Sack,
your Frontignac,
Tokay, and twenty more, sir, Your
Sherry and Perry, that make men merry,
Are deities I adore, sir; And well may Port Our praise extort, When from
his palace forth he comes, And glucks and gurgles, fumes and foams. Gluck, gluck,
Hickup, gurgle and gluck.
Old Song
If one were to judge
the traits of the vulgar from the indulgence they exhibit towards certain
vices, or certain instances of their occurrence, it would be easy to show that
man is, at bottom, a good-natured animal. It is certain that he betrays an
extraordinary leniency in the case of a vice which all unite, in the abstract,
to condemn; and that many men derive an importance from the sacrifice of
reputation and mind to the Imp of the Bottle, which they might have failed to
purchase by a life of wisdom and sobriety. It is not uncommon to find, in some
rural districts, men of gross and degraded habits, whom a rational creature
would spurn from him with contempt, and who are indeed the butts of ridicule or
objects of commiseration, even among their own immediate neighbours; but who,
strange to say, are regarded with a species of admiration, growing directly out
of their profligacy. Such, we are sorry to say, are some of the rustic
professors of law and physic, who, possessing a little talent, but no industry,
prefer whiling the period of probationary idleness at the door, or in the
bar-room, of the village tavern, to devoting it in the closet to that labour
which is the only stepping-stone to distinction and fortune; and thus
contracting a love for something more than idleness, and slipping, little by
little, towards the bottom of the hill, are seen at last, downdraughts, with
swollen visages and seedy garments, mingling among the coarse and base,
themselves perhaps the coarsest and basest. You will see such a man gibed and
laughed at by the lowest of his companions, as something that even they can
despise; for whatever may be the hatred with which the humble regard the more
lofty, they are the first to appreciate the degradation of a downfall; but the
next moment you will hear them talk of him with praise. Is it ‘the poor doctor
at the Cross-Roads?’ ‘Oh, he is a ruined man, to be sure, and a sot; but he
cures, when another man fails; somewhat dangerous now and then, when too ‘far
in for it,’ but a marvellous hand at ‘rheumatisms and the fever.’ Is it ‘crusty
Ned Jones, the lawyer?’ ‘Drinks like a fish, but with more sharp stuff in his
brain than all the bar beside; a devil of a fellow to corner a witness, break a
will, pick a flaw in an indictment, and set a jury a-sobbing: great pity he
drinks,--but he’s a tremendous orator, and all the better for a glass or two,
in a hard case.’ We have heard of a lawyer, a lover of his glass, who reformed
his habits, and lost his practice.
The worthy Affidavy,
who played so prominent a part in the jury of inquest, was one of this
unfortunate class of beings, although he had commenced the world with as fair
prospects as could be derived from a moderate share of talent, and some native
energy of character, and was yet in the prime of his years. He had sunk into
poverty and neglect, was any man’s fellow, and every man’s scorn; yet the lower
he sunk, the loftier became men’s opinions of his natural parts and his
professional knowledge; and Squire Schlachtenschlager was wont to say, ‘he
pelieved Affidafy mate petter speeches now than he tidt afore, fen he fas a
soper man.’ While such generous opinions prevailed, the lawyer had still ‘something
to do’ in the way of his profession; but the sad condition of his outward man
showed that this was far from being profitable. Indeed, if the truth must be
told, his admirers, though of humours sufficiently litigious, were oftener
inclined to employ than able to pay; and those of better estates, however they
marvelled at the sagacity, and applauded the speeches of the man of buckram,
were rather shy of applying to him for assistance, until they felt their cases
to be growing desperate. The consequence of this state of things was, that Mr.
Theophilus Affidavy was compelled to resort to many shifts to obtain a
subsistence, that added little to his reputation; and would indeed have been
hooted from the county, had he not been protected by the armour of imputed
genius, which his habits seemed to fasten around him.
The account he received
of the wealth of the unfortunate Hyland produced a strong effect upon his
acquisitive propensities; and he saw at a glance, that if his counsel could be
of no benefit to the prisoner, it might undoubtedly be of some to himself. “He
is a Hawk of the Hollow,” he muttered to himself, “and so every one will be
against him. Good! There will be much apparent merit therefore in undertaking
his defence. His case is bad,--awful bad--better! To volunteer in such a case,
will infer at once the possession of extraordinary skill, worthy of
extraordinary reward. He has money--excellent! But, botheration, the other
Jack-brains will find that out, and dive at him before me. Must have
Schlachtenschlager’s horse, if I have to steal him--nobody else will lend me
one. An old ass; but can twist him round my thumb as easily as a tape of
tobacco.”
Such were the
reflections of the attorney, as with his brother jurors, one of whom had given
him a seat in his little Jersey wagon, he followed Schlachtenschlager, to share
the feast this worthy had prepared for his associates at the Green Tree.
The soliloquy of the
lawyer seemed to infer a doubt of the performance of the promise
Schlachtenschlager had so generously made of lending him a horse. This doubt
was engendered by a sudden change in the sky, which, from having been perfectly
clear and placid, suddenly began to be covered with clouds, and these of an
appearance so gloomy and menacing that full half the jurors became alarmed,
and, excusing themselves from accepting the proffered hospitality, hurried to
their homes, leaving the revels to be shared by those who dwelt in the Squire’s
immediate neighbourhood. The attorney, wonderful to be said, had as strong an
impulse to be gone as others, although fully sensible of the excellence of the
magistrate’s potables, and of the painful sacrifice he should make in tearing
himself away; but on the other hand, he perceived that a violent thunderstorm
was brewing, and he knew the Squire to be a prudent man, who loved his beast as
he loved his wife, and indeed a great deal better, and would be loath to lend
him after the storm had once set in. For this reason, as soon as he had reached
the inn, he reminded the Squire of his promise, swore he would drink but a
single glass, and then be off, without waiting for the rain.
The Squire scratched
his head, and replied,
“Vy, Mr. Affidafy, I
don’t know. The veather vill be padt, and I don’t like it: it vill pe padt on
the horse. So, Affidafy, ve vill vait a little and see; and, pesides, my poy,”
added the dignitary, clapping him on the shoulder, as if to atone by
condescension for the disappointment he inflicted, “ve fill not forget the
dtrinking, and the jollymaking. Py mine heart, my poy, ve fill have petter fun
for you than trampling about in the rain mit a stumpling horse. Fat, man, fy we’re
all Deutschers put you! Here’s Jake Musser, and Hans Fackeltrager, and Alberick
Klappermuhle, and Franz Beschwerlich, and Simson Kleiber, and mineself; and
then there’s you. Mine Gott, ve fill be jolly; for I will proach a parrel of
Nierensteiner,--mine soul! it is as goodt as any in the whole Rheingau! and I
do keep it for mineself. And ve fill dtrink and ve fill sing, as if ve fas all
in the Rheingau itself; for my voman, Gott pless her, she is cone to the
fillage, and the poys is out a looking after the ploodty Hawks. Aha, Affidafy,
my poy! you shall see fat it is to dtrink Rhine wine, mit six goodt Deutschers
to help you. Fat do you say, poys? can you sing the Rheinweinlied in a t’under-storm?
Aha, you see, Affidafy! Fell, if ve are few, vy ve fill be merry.”
It was in vain to
pursue his desire, at such a moment; and indeed the attorney’s blood tingled
with joy at the thought of the flowing bowls, offered in such an oration. “Very
well, you old fool,” he muttered to himself, “I will drink till your cursed
sour old cider trash, that you call Rhine wine, has opened your heart; and
then, botheration, I will bubble you out of the best horse in your stable.
Well, it is well it’s no worse: it will rain, and that cats and dogs.”
The indications of the
weather were not falsified by the event. In less than half an hour after all
were safely housed, the heavens were covered with pitchy clouds, from which
were discharged dazzling thunderbolts. Then came a terrific blast of wind,
rending boughts from the trees, and making the chimneys rock on the housetop;
and this again was followed by a furious driving rain, falling in such torrents
as promised in a few hours to swell the smallest brooks into impassable rivers.
This continued until nightfall, and was then only terminated to be succeeded by
deceitful intervals of calm, broken in upon, even when least expected, by
violent gusts of wind and rain.
It is not our design to
pursue the conversation, nor to describe the revels of the six Deutschers and
their American companion, under the roof of the Herr Schlachtenschlager. Secure
from the tempest, they defied its rage, and made even the roar of the thunder
and the plash of the rain contribute to their enjoyment. Armstrong has
described, in a few lines that find a responsive chord in every bosom, the
luxurious addition to the comfort of a warm bed, produced by the tumult of a
midnight tempest:
“Oh! when the growling
winds contend, and all
The sounding forest
fluctuates in the storm,
To sink in warm repose,
and hear the din
Howl o’er the steady
battlements, delights
Beyond the luxury of
vulgar sleep.”
The same cause is said by those who are philosophic in such matters, to
add peculiar zest to the hissing of the tea-kettle, and the rattle of the
punchbowl. Perhaps, then, it was the violence of the storm, rather than the
excellence of the liquor, which betrayed the worthy Sclachtenschlager and his
guests into a degree of conviviality somewhat inconsistent with the melancholy
duties they had just rendered to the commonwealth and the dead. But whatever
was the cause, it is very certain they forgot the dead and the commonwealth
together, and by nightfall were seven of the happiest men in all the rebellious
colonies of America. By that time Affidavy was as glorified in his spirit as
the rest; and suddenly starting up in the midst of a crashing peal of thunder,
he hiccuped, and then roared, “Success
to the Rhine wine, sweet or sour! and the devil take him that won’t sing its
praises as loudly as e’er a rascal of the Rheingau itself! So up, you German
pigs, and let’s sing! up, you Hanz, Franz, Alberick, Jake, and Simson! up, you
old rogue Schlachtenschlager, for you can sing like a cherubim! and up, you
jolly dog, Teff Affidavy, who is up already, and can sing as well as the best!
join hands, bring flowers, crown the cup, and sing the Rheinweinlied like seven
angels--the Rheinweinlied, you hard-headed, jolly dogs, in broad Deutsch! and
after that, we’ll sing it in my own translation, botheration, which is better
than the original, for all that ass, Jingleum, says he made it. Are you ready?”
“Ready!” responded the
happy six; and in an instant every man was singing, at the top of his voice,
the famous Rheinweinlied--a song of such noble and heart-stirring capacity, at
least so far as the music is concerned, that if it be objected to it, that it
has sometimes set a singer beside himself, it may be wondered how any one can
hear it and keep sober at all. The winds blew, the rain fell, and the lightning
flashed, while this jolly company rose round the table, and sang in concert the
praises of old father Rhine.
Bekränzt mit Laub den
lieben vollen Becher,
Und trinkt ihn fröhlich leer. In
ganz Europia, Ihr Herren Zecher!
Ist solch ein Wein nicht mehr. Ihn
bringt das Vaterland ans seiner Fülle:
Wie wär er sonst so gut? Wie
wär er sonst so edel, wäre stille
Un doch voll Krafft und Muth? Am
Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre Reben;
Gesegnet sei der Rhein! Da
wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben
Uns diesen Labewein. So
trinkt ihn denn, und lasst uns alle Wege
Uns freum und fröhlich seyn! Und
wüsster wir wo iemand traurig läge,
Wir gäben ihm den Wein. “Bravo!
bravissimo! bravississimo!” cried Affidavy. “Here’s to you, you dogs--‘ Ihr
Herren Zecher!’ And now for my paraphrase. All you that don’t know it, why you
may sing the German lingo over again: the two will go very well together.”
So saying, he burst
forth on the following rifacimento of the original; the others, in general,
holding fast to their own more sonorous expressions; the effect of which
Babel-like intermixture of languages was to increase the noise, if it did not
add to the spirit of the author.
The right Rhine wine!
We’ll crown the cup with roses, And quaff about, and laugh about, Till
all eyes wink! Such joys divine
Sure mother Nature owes us: So laugh about, and quaff about,-- Come,
drink, boys, drink! Our Father-land!
’Tis that the vine produces: How else should be this jolly wine So good,
so good? Long as we stand,
We’ll put it to its uses: So laugh about, and quaff about, As true souls
should! Oh Rhine! old Rhine,
With milk and honey flowing! There grows the tree so well love we, The
Vine, the Vine! There clusters
shine
On branches ever growing: So laugh about, and quaff about The good Rhine
wine! Come, drink, ha! ha!
And, sure, we’ll all be merry; Come, drink, ha, ha! come, laugh, ha, ha!
Oh! ha, ha, ha! As full are we
As e’er a Rhine-wine berry: So laugh about, and quaff about,-- Oh! ha,
ha, ha! It may be supposed that
Affidavy had long since, in the joy of revelry, discharged from his mind all
memory of the case which had so inflamed his fancy, and was content to leave it
to be snapped up by a more fortunate rival. How far this was from the truth may
be inferred from a phenomenon that presented itself about an hour after
nightfall, at which period he appeared on the porch, followed by
Schlachtenschlager and the rest, all singing with as much zeal as before, but
vastly out of time and tune. A saddled horse stood at the door, on whose back
some assisted the attorney to clamber, while others were seen holding by
railing and pillar, and venting much good counsel with a deal of bad music. The
Squire himself stood embracing a pillar, now poking forth his bare noddle to
the drops trickling from the porch-roof, and now withdrawing it, to utter
divers ‘teufels!’ and ‘donners!’ as the cold element profaned his visage of
dignity, yet still maintaining his stand, and expatiating on the merit of the
service he was rendering his guest.
“You see, Affidafy,
man,” he cried, “I’m a goodt-natured fellow: put there’s my horse, my pest
horse, and it’s a padt night; and, Affidafy, man, you’re as dtrunk as a chudge,
poor man. But ho, ho! that’s no matter, for ve’re all so:
‘As full are ve
As ever vas a
Rhine-fine perry:’
Very goodt that, Affidafy!--Fell, ve’re all mortal sinners; and, mine
Gott, there is but little left in mine parrel, and Nierensteiner costs money.
Fell! goodt pye, Affidafy, my poy, goodt night. Take goodt care of the horse,
for he’s my pest horse, Affidafy, for I’m a goodt-natured fellow as ever it
vas. Goodt night, Affidafy!”--And “Goodt night, Affidafy!” muttered all, as the
attorney, fetching a desperate reel in the saddle, waved a graceful adieu, and
turned to depart. Instead of replying, however, to the farewell, he burst out
again with ‘The right Rhine wine!’
If thou beest a man,
show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take ’t as thou list.
Tempest.
The violence of the
storm was over, but the ferment in the elements was not yet allayed. The clouds
had broken, and ever and anon, through their ragged gaps, the eye might trace
fields of blue sky, studded with stars, which were as suddenly swept out of sight,
as gusts came roaring from the tops of distant hills, discharging brief but
furious showers.
On such occasions, it
was not easy to pick a way along the road, which was washed into gullies and
scattered over with the riven branches of trees, besides being, in the hollow
places, converted into pools; so that it might have been considered difficult
to proceed, even by the light of day.
It was fortunate,
perhaps, for Affidavy, that he was in no condition to be daunted, either by
difficulties or dangers, of which, indeed, it is most probable he remained
profoundly unconscious, from the beginning of his ride to the end. He se forth
on his dark journey, trolling at the top of his voice some snatches of the
jolly chorus, in which he had borne no mean part, and plying his heels about
the ribs of his horse in such a way as to drum out a kind of barrel-head
accompaniment, as agreeable to himself as it was perhaps advantageous to the
animal;--for this, instead of being Schlachtenschlager’s best horse, as he had
said, was a drowsy, lazy, pacific, and somewhat worthless beast, which the
Squire’s man, supposing that any one might serve the lawyer’s turn on such an
occasion, had considerately substituted for the better one which his master
really designed to provide. On this animal, then, Affidavy departed, bidding
defiance to storm and peril, and singing as he went. Sometimes, however, he
launched into harangues, as if declaiming before a court and jury, especially
when, as was sometimes the case, the beast he bestrode took advantage of his
abstraction, to pause before some gully or pool of water, and even, now and
then, to stand stock-still in the middle of the road, where there was no
obstruction whatever. Nay, he once or twice, relying upon the indifference of
his rider, took the liberty of turning his head, and jogging backwards; and how
the manœuvre was detected and counteracted by one in Affidavy’s happy
condition, we are wholly unable to say. But counteracted it was, and by
midnight,--that is to say, after a ride of three hours, the attorney found that
his steed had borne him the full distance of two and a half miles from his
master’s house; at which rate of travel, it was quite evident, he might expect
to reach the village, perhaps three or four miles further, some time before
noon of the following day. At midnight, however, the horse was brought to a
stand by an unforeseen difficulty. It was in a hollow place or glen, thickly
wooded, that was crossed by the road at right angles; at the bottom of it
flowed a watercourse, small and shallow on all ordinary occasions, but which
the violent rains, assisted by certain accidental obstructions, had now swelled
into a broad and formidable pool. The trunks and branches of trees, swept down
by the earlier wash of the flood, and lodged among rocks and the standing stems
of other trees on the lower side of the road, had made a sort of dam, through
which the waters could not escape so rapidly as they collected; and, in
consequence, they had swelled so high, as to be already heard falling over it
like a cataract.
When Affidavy arrived
at the brink of this flood, his steed came to a sudden halt, of which the rider
took no notice for a considerable time, his mind being wrapped up in the
remembrance of the joyous potations from which nothing on earth, save the
prospect of a good case, could have drawn him, and his ears still tingling with
the uproar of the Rheinweinlied. This he trolled over with great fervour, and
in the midst of it, plying his heels as usual, the horse, after one or two
snorts by way of remonstrance, took heart of grace, and crept into the water.
“Botheration,” cried
the attorney, as he felt the cold element sweeping over his legs, “will it
never have done raining? H--h--hip, Durgan.--Gentlemen of the jury, I appeal, not
to your hearts, for I disdain taking advantage of,--of your weakness, --nor to
your heads, for--for--who the devil ever supposed a juryman had
one?--Botheration, it rains cats and dogs all round, and my legs are growing
marvellous cold. That old Schlachtenschlager! he, he! a great old ass, and his
Nierensteiner nothing but sour old crab-cider.--A gold watch worth forty
pounds,--a purse of guineas-- bills of exchange--long credits.--Dispute the
jurisdiction of the court--Hillo! what’s all that smashing in the court? I
insist upon order--Who says I am out of order? Drunk! I despise the thing!
Hillo, Schlachtenschlager! what’s the matter? Never mind the rain--strike up:
let it blow its worst,--strike up, old boy.
‘Come, drink, ha, ha!
And, sure, we’ll all be merry; Come, drink, ha, ha! come laugh, ha, ha!’--
Botheration!”--
In the midst of the
attorney’s song, and just when he had reached the middle of the pool, there
happened a catastrophe, which might have frightened any other man out of his
propriety. This was nothing less than the sudden giving way of the dam of logs,
the disruption of which was followed by the escape of the whole accumulated
body of waters, and that with a fury that nothing could resist. In an instant
the attorney was swept from his horse, soused head over ears in the flood, and
would have been drowned had he not been luckily dashed into the crotch of a low
and twisted buttonwood, and there left astride a horizontal bough, by the
retreating waters. The whole thing was effected in a trice, indeed with such
magical celerity, that he failed to notice the main point of the casualty,
which was the loss of his horse; and supposing himself still at ease in the
saddle, he plied his heels with their accustomed vigour against the regardless
trunk, wondering somewhat at the immobility of his charger, and the rush of the
current at his feet.
“Botheration,” he
cried; “hip, Durgan, get up; dzick! That’s a fine fellow! Will it never be done
raining?
‘Come, drink, ha, ha!
come laugh, ha, ha!
Oh, ha!’--
Hip, horsey, hip!” And thus he went on, now spurring the timber flanks
of his charger, and now trolling forth the drunken chorus, in the midst of the
stream, where he would perhaps have remained until morning, or until sleep had
caused him to relax his hold, had not his extraordinary outcries reached the
ears of a traveller, who rode to his assistance, the water being already
reduced to its ordinary level, and finding him incapable of helping himself,
pulled him from his seat, and dragged him to the other side of the stream. “Botheration, what’s the matter?”
cried the attorney, who seemed to recover his senses a little, upon finding
himself on his feet; “where’s Durgan? Sure, o’ my life, I did’nt come here on
foot! Odds bodikins! where’s Schlachtenschlager?-- Hillo, there! botheration,
you sir! what are you doing with my horse?”
“Your horse!” exclaimed
the traveller. “Are you drunk yet?”
“Drunk! I defy the
insinuation,” cried Affidavy, “and demand protection of the court.--Down, you
rogue, or I’ll indict you for horse-thieving. A pretty prank to play upon an
honest man, riding for life and death! Botheration, Sir Sauce-box, whoever you
are, give me my horse, or I shall lose the best case was ever entrusted to a
lawyer-- a gold watch worth forty pounds--bills of exchange --letters of
credit--and a purse of guineas!”
“Now were you not
drunk,” said the traveller, “and more of a beast than the animal that bore you,
I could tell you of a case much more to your interest to be engaged in.”
“Hah! a case? what sort
of a case? Odds bodikins, I’m your man!”
“You are drunken Tef
Affidavy?”
“Drunken! That’s
actionable. Tef! Tef Affidavy! Theophilus Affidavy, Esq.--Esquire, do you hear?”
“Ay, it is all one.
Theophilus Affidavy, sober, might be the man for my money, with twenty guineas
to begin upon; but Theophilus Affidavy, drunk”--
“Twenty guineas!” cried
the lawyer: “God bless all our souls! twenty guineas for a retaining fee! Why
then I’ll be Theophilus Affidavy, sober, or Tef Affidavy, drunk, or any thing
else that can be wished of man or angel. Out with your money, and state the
case.”
“Ay,--when you are
sober.”
“Sober! Twenty guineas
would fetch me to, if I had been swimming in Schlachtenschlager’s
whiskey-barrel for two weeks on a stretch. Botheration, I’ll take another dip
in the slough there, and come out as clean as a peeled orange. But are you sure
that a’n’t my horse?”
“Quite; and if your
beast belongs to the Squire, you may make your mind easy that he is now safe in
his master’s stables. I saw a saddled horse on the road, galloping as if a
wild-cat was on the back of him.”
“Good!” cried the
attorney at law; “if I had drowned him, there would have been the devil to pay
with old Schlachtenschlager. Hold fast, till I duck the devil out of me.” And
without waiting to say another word, he ran into the brook, where he began to
splash about him with great spirit, the stranger, all the time, sitting by and
observing him in silence.
There is, in all cases
of drunkenness, a certain degree of voluntary intoxication, as it may be
called, in which the mind yields itself a prisoner, before it is entirely
overcome by the strength of the enemy. This is evinced by the rapidity with
which many good souls, in jovial company, work themselves into frenzy; but
still more by the facility with which they shake it off, when there is any
special call for sobriety. In half the instances, even where the conduct is
most extravagant, the individual retains a consciousness, more or less perfect,
of his absurd acts, is aware that they proceed from a madness partly simulated,
and sensible of some power in himself of controlling them, though not easily
disposed to the labour of exercising it. We will not pretend to say that Mr.
Affidavy, while he sat bestraddling the sycamore, was altogether conscious of
his situation; but it is quite certain, he retained so much power of curing his
folly, even in that extremity, that a less counter stimulus than the offer of a
twenty-guinea fee would have sufficed to bring him to his senses. He frisked
about in the water for a few minutes, dipped his head under two or three times,
and came out, not entirely sober indeed, but, as he said himself, ‘as fit for
business as he ever was.’
“If you doubt,
stranger, whoever you are,” he said, “I’ll sing you a song, or--No, hang it, we’ve
had enough of that,--I’ll make you a speech to court and jury extempore, and
right to the point. But come now, jingle your money, and let’s begin: or, if it’s
all one to you, we’ll jog back to Schlachtenschlager’s and borrow a dry shirt,
and so give counsel like a gentleman.”
To this proposal the
traveller demurred, and requesting the lawyer to follow him, rode up to the
brow of the hill, where he dismounted, and suffered his horse to range at will
through the bushes, he himself taking a seat on a stone, and inviting Affidavy
to do the same.
“A botheration strange
fancy this, of yours, certainly,” said the lawyer: “are we to sit here, like
two stray ducks, and be soaked for nothing?”
“Look over your head,”
said the stranger: “there is not a cloud left in the heaven. No, not one,” he
muttered as if to himself; “and come weal or wo, come death or come life, the
sun will shine to-morrow as bright as ever.”
“Tush, you’re right;
the storm has given us the go-by,” said the lawyer. “But concerning the case,
and that twenty-guinea fee--What’s your name?”
“Guineas,” said the
other, rattling a purse apparently well filled with his namesakes, upon the
stone.
“Excellent!” said the
lawyer; “but that won’t do for a jury. Come, sir, your cognomination,
compellation, and so forth? your proprium vocamen, style and title,--Tom, Dick,
or Harry, as the case may be? and then for the case! Quisnam homo est? unde et
quo? No man is drunk who can quote Latin, for it is cursed hard stuff to
remember. In the king’s lingo, who are you? and what’s the case in question?”
“Who I am, we will
pass,” said the traveller, “that having nothing to do with the case. As for the
case itself, I am told, it is one of murder.”
“The devil it is!”
cried Affidavy. “Why here’s hanging work thickening in the county! But what are
the circumstances? Who’s killed? and who is the killer?”
“The first was a young
man, named Henry Falconer,--the second another young man, called Hyland Gilbert”--
“Hah! why, that’s my
case, that I’ve been labouring after all night! and I assure you--But God bless
our two souls!” he added suddenly, springing to his feet as if in alarm, “who
are you sir? An honest man, sir? I hope, an honest man, sir, and no
bloody-minded Hawk, sir! for if you are, sir, I give you warning, sir, if you
make an attack upon me, sir, that I carry pistols, sir, and, sir”--
“Peace, fool,” said the
other, with a stern voice. “Sit down, and fear nothing. If you had twenty
pistols, what care I for them?--I,” he added, with a laugh both jocose and
bitter, “that am armed with twenty--guineas?”
“Right, sir; but if you
are a tory, sir--I don’t mean to insult you, sir,--but as to aiding and
abetting a gentleman of the tory party, sir: why, sir, I am a man of principle,
sir, and I must have time to reflect.”
“Go to the brook and
wallow again: you shall have five minutes to reflect, or rather to sober, for
you are not yet in your senses. Why, fool, do you think I will hurt you? or
hark! is there a tory bullet in the clink of an English guinea? Come, sit down,
and listen. You have nothing to do with tories, save to take their
money.--There is one lying in prison in yonder village below, who needs the
help of a lawyer. Yourself then, Affidavy, or another.”
“Oh, if there be no
treason in the matter,” said the attorney, “why then--that is, if you will take
that cursed tomahawk away, for I dare say you’ve got one about you, Mr.--that
is to say, captain--Zounds, Mr. Oran Gilbert! I know you very well; and I hope
you won’t murder me, or do me any mischief, if it were even for old times’
sake; for we were very good friends in old times.”
“Ay,” said the refugee;
“and for that reason, I have offered you twenty guineas, and employment on a
business that may bring you as many-- perhaps five times as many more, which
any one else will be as happy to accept.”
“Botheration, there is
no occasion,” said Affidavy, creeping timorously back. “I see what it is; I’m
not afraid of you, but you have a cursed bad name. I don’t agree with you in
principles, that is, in politics; but it sha’nt be said, I refused my
professional services to an old friend in distress”--
“With twenty guineas in
his hand,” said the tory.
“Ay; and with as many,
or five times as many at the back of them”--
“In case of success.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. I
understand the case now: your brother, captain”--
“We will drop all
titles,--brother, captain, and every one else,” said the tory. “The young man,
Hyland Gilbert, is a prisoner.”
“Ay; and”--
“Was he hurt?”
“A bruise or so.”
“And he shot Henry
Falconer?”
“As dead as a herring:
I sat on the body myself.”
“And he will be tried
for that, as for a murder?”
“Ay, faith, and hanged
too, unless’--
“Unless what?”
“Unless we can prove
him innocent, or establish a legal irresponsibility.”
“Or snatch him out of
his den, some such bright midnight as this?”
“Tush,” said the
lawyer, waxing in courage, “I have nothing to do with that. But cheer up. There’s
a way of managing these cases, and I have thought of it already. But concerning
that bill of exchange and letter of credit? They say, the younker has money
enough--a rich estate in the Islands?”
“Fear not for your
reward,” said Oran Gilbert. “Do what’s expected of you, and you shall have gold
enough to content you.”
“Here then is the state
of the case,” said Affidavy: “if the young man be tried in this county, were it
but for killing a farmer’s dog, he will die. The name--saving your
presence--the name of Gilbert will be hanging matter with any jury. But I’ll be
short--he bears the king’s commission, does he not? the commission of a
lieutenant among the royal refugees?”
“And what then?” said
Oran.
“Why then, he must
dispute the jurisdiction of the civil tribunal, and claim to be considered a
prisoner of war. The attack upon the Folly is somewhat of a civil offence, to
be sure; but he was taken, as we may say, in battle; and, in battle, he killed
the man for whose murder he will be certainly arraigned, if proceedings are not
quashed in the beginning. As a commissioned officer of the crown, however”--
“And what if he be not
a commissioned officer,” said the refugee, with a low voice.
“Why then,” replied
Affidavy, “I have to say, gentlemen of the jury--Pshaw! that is,--hemp seed and
a white shirt--you understand me? But with the commission--we will produce
that, and then”--
“You shall have it,”
said the refugee; but added,--“It will do no good. A court civil or a court
martial,--how should a Gilbert look for mercy from either? What turn would the
king’s commission serve me, if a prisoner? Look you, Affidavy, there are better
ways of ending the matter. An hundred guineas are clinking in the bag these
came from: it is but the opening of a jail-door to earn it.”
“Ay! are you there,
Truepenny?--Sir, I’m a lawyer and a gentleman; and as to aiding and abetting in
any jail-breaking--zounds, sir! for what do you take me?”
“For a wiser man than
you would have your neighbours believe,--for a man too wise to boggle long at a
choice betwixt a hundred guineas held in comfort at home, and empty pockets, with
hands and heels tied together, in a cave of the mountains.”
“God bless our two
souls,” said Affidavy, “what do you mean?”
“To have your help, or
take good care no one else has it,” said Oran, laughing. Then, laying his hand
upon the lawyer’s arm, he added, with the same untimely accompaniment to
accents full of sternness, “Look ye, Affidavy, you have heard too much for your
own comfort, unless you are ready to hear all. You are a friend, or--a
prisoner.”
At these words, the
lawyer was filled with dismay, and indeed struck dumb. The terror that beset
him, when he first conceived with whom he was confronted on the dark and lonely
hill, recurred with double violence; he thought of nothing less than being
tomahawked and scalped on the spot, and would have taken to his heels without
further ceremony, had his strength availed him to shake off the grasp of his
companion.
“Fear naught,” said
Oran, detaining him on his seat, and speaking decisively: “We were old friends
once, as you say, Affidavy: I remember, you robbed Elsie Bell’s
strawberry-patch, when you were a boy, and I thumped you for it. So, fear
nothing.--Why, man, am I a snake, or a beast, that I should hurt such a
creature as you? Know me better.”
“Well, I will,” said
the attorney, still trembling. “But, botheration, sir, this is a strange way of
stating a case to a lawyer! As to opening jail-doors, Mr. Oran Gilbert, why I
won’t oppose: if you were to bribe Bob Lingo, the jailer, why, I say, I’m mum.
But what more can you expect? Botheration, sir, I’m no turnkey! I’ll be mum,
sir; but as to joining you in any such prank, God bless our two souls, why that
would ruin me! And why should you think of such a thing? ’Tis needless,
sir,--as needless as dangerous. The king’s commission is our pillar of safety:
with that in his hand, the prisoner can demand, ay, and force his claim to be
admitted, to be treated as a prisoner of war; and then, sir, if the matter
comes to a courtmartial”--
“When it comes to that,”
said Oran, “what is to save him from being tried and condemned as a spy?”
“What?” said the
lawyer; “why a very simple thing. We will hire some one to swear he did not
receive the commission until after his flight from Hawk-Hollow: and as for the
change of name, intentions, and all that, why we shall have time to coin any
lies that may serve our purpose. As to treason, we escape all arraignment
there, his domicile being clearly within a foreign jurisdiction.”
“In a word,” said Oran
Gilbert, “and to end your scheme at once, he is not a commissioned officer.
Fool that he was,” continued the brother, bitterly, “he refused, and to the
last, the warrant that would have been his best friend.”
“Whew!” said Affidavy, “this
alters the case with a vengeance. Refused the commission?”
“Ay; and it is now in
my own hands.”
“Oho, is it? Why then,
all’s one. We’ll clap it into his hands,--fill up the blanks, if it needs,
produce it in court, and who is the wiser?”
“You can, at least, try
him with it,” said the refugee; “but I know what it will end in. You will see him
refuse it, even in prison.”
“Why then,” said
Affidavy,--“Hum, ha--we won’t be particular. Jail-doors will open sometimes;
and in case of an hundred guineas down on the nail--(a dangerous business,
captain!)-- and something more in prospect--(you understand,
captain?)--Reputation, captain, reputation! ’T may bring me by the heels,
captain.--Another hundred therefore, (say, to be paid at New York; for I don’t
care if I turn tory along with you, provided I am not set to fighting:) an
hundred on the nail, and another at York city, and I don’t care if I close with
you. And then, we must have fifty or so for Bob Lingo; (no managing such an
affair without money.) A deused dull county this, and business all worn out.
So, captain, an hundred on the nail, and”--
“It is enough,” said
the refugee; “you talk now like a man of sense; and here are the twenty for
earnest. Let us proceed; I have more to tell you.”
Then rising, and
whistling to his horse, which obeyed the summons, and followed him with great
docility, he led the way with Affidavy along the road, exchanging counsels with
this precious limb of the law, on the subject that had drawn him so near to the
head quarters of his foes.
What foolish boldness
brought thee to their mercies,
Whom thou, in terms so
bloody, and so dear,
Hast made thine
enemies?--
Therefore, by law thou
art condemn’d to die.
Shakspeare
On the following
morning, Affidavy presented himself at the prison, and demanded access to his
client.
“Client!” said the
jailer, with a stare. “Why now, Affidavy, man, (begging your pardon for being
familiar,) there’s none of your birds roosting in my hen-house.”
“A smaller on that,
Lingo,--come, what will you lay?” said the man of law, seizing upon the
official’s hand, and shaking it with great apparent friendship. “Come, stir
about, Lingo; clink, clink, stir bolt, clash key, and open. It’s long since we’ve
had a crack together; but we’ll have a jolly rouse yet. Ah! that knotty old
Schlachtenschlager! my head is in a reel yet; must have something to steady my
nerves.”
“Well, squire,” said
Lingo, a coarse-featured, shag-headed personage, with a fist like the butt of
an oak-tree, and altogether a low and mean look which might have been supposed
to sink him below the notice of the attorney, had not Affidavy’s habits made
him long since a fitting associate for even a meaner man; “Well, squire,” he
said, with an air as if even he regarded his visiter with some little contempt,
“I don’t care if I treat you to a drop; though my whiskey’s none of the
smoothest, neither.”
“Curse your whiskey!”
said the man of law, pulling a guinea from his pocket. “Do you see this yellow
boy, my lad of knuckles? Botheration upon you, I came here to spend the day
with you, and I intend to treat you royally. So, call your boy, Hanschen, and
let him fetch me a quart of cognac from old Brauntweinpunsch’s, for he keeps
the best in all Hillborough. And do you take care of the change for me, and
help yourself, if you like, while I am holding counsel with the prisoner.”
“Icod,” said Lingo,
balancing the coin in his hand, “I never stick at a good offer; but I should
like to know where this little feller came from. Howsomever, ’tis none of my
business; and so Hans shall go. But, who’s your client, squire? I’m glad you’ve
got a job, for you’re a devil of a feller at a speech,--I always said that for
you. Which prisoner do you wish to see?”
“Why, the young Hawk of
the Hollow, to be sure.”
“Odds bobs, squire,”
said Lingo, “scratching his head, “you’re too late for that cock-robin, I’m
thinking.”
“Too late! He ha’n’t
broke jail already! cried the alarmed attorney.
“Broke jail already!”
echoed Lingo, with a grin. “I dunna what you mean by that; but if he breaks
jail at any time, while I’m king of the ring, you may call me Jack Robinson.
No, the matter’s not so bad as that: but he sent yesterday for young Pepperel”--
“God bless our two
souls!” ejaculated the lawyer.
“And they say,”
continued Lingo, “he is to have old Timberkin likewise; for, it seems, the
younker has money.”
“What! old Long-tongue
Timberkin? Zounds, we’ll have the whole crow’s-nest at the picking! Oons, man,
let me in to him.”
“Well, I dunna,”
muttered Lingo, leading the way, however, to the prisoner’s cell; “I reckon, ’twere
as well to save his money for something else; for it’s a clear case with him,
eh, squire?” And as he spoke, he made a gesture with his finger around his
throat, the meaning of which was not to be mistaken. “Howsomever, here you are.
When you’re done with him, just knock at the door, and I’ll let you out.”
The next moment,
Affidavy found himself alone with the prisoner. He sat, apparently half
stupified, on a low bed, beneath a grated window, from which a silvery light
fell upon the crown of his head, his shoulders, his knees, and his hands that
were clasped upon them, while his visage, and nearly all his person, were lost
in dusky shadow. A little table with food and water was at his side, but both
were left apparently untouched. His limbs were unfettered; and this
circumstance Affidavy might have referred to the humanity of the jailer, had he
not perceived at a glance how unnecessary was such a precaution with one whose
bodily powers were as much enfeebled as those of his spirit. Indeed, there was
a look of such utter wretchedness about the unfortunate youth as might have
softened a harder heart than the jailer’s; and even Affidavy began to survey
him with a touch of pity. He raised his eyes, when the door was opened, but
cast them again on the floor; for indeed there was so little in Affidavy’s
appearance to excite attention, that he supposed him to be some assistant of
the jailer, or perhaps a common officer, come on some errand of duty, with
which he would be soon made acquainted. This suspicion was dispelled by the
attorney; who no sooner heard the bolt shoot back into the stone door-post,
than he advanced, declaring his name and character.
“Affidavy?” muttered
the youth, with a dejected voice: “I thought it was Mr. Timberkin, that Mr.
Pepperel was to bring me.”
“Pshaw, botheration,” said
the lawyer, “you were a goose to send for such ninnies; we can do better
without them. And what can these fellows do for you? Where will you find them
riding about of a stormy night, picking up evidence, laying plans, and so on?
However, we can find them something to do: I’ll sort them; I know what they are
fitted for. You stare at me--Very well; I understand what you mean. I come from
your friends, sir, and”--
“From my friends?”
cried Hyland, starting up, wildly: “from whom? I have no friends here-- none,
at least, but one; and, oh God of heaven! they tell me I have killed her too!”
“Oh, you mean old
Elsie,” said the attorney: “hang her, (that is, poor old soul!) she’s not dead
yet.”
“But Catherine?--Miss
Loring?--Captain Loring’s daughter?” cried the youth, with a voice and
countenance of despair; “what news of her?”
“Aha! I understand,”
muttered Affidavy. “But don’t be alarmed; there’s no death there.--A little
fright and grief, sir,--that’s all; they never kill one.” Hyland clasped his
hands, and buried his face between them; and the lawyer continued,--
“Quite a small matter,
I assure you, and will blow by, when we get you safely off.”
“Get me off!” cried
Hyland, again starting to his feet, in the greatest agitation. “Is there any
hope of that? No, there is none!” he exclaimed, vehemently: “I am a
blood-stained man, I have taken life, I am a murderer”--
“Tush and botheration,
hush!” said Affidavy, clapping his hand over the prisoner’s mouth; “why need
you be blabbing? That was confession enough to end the matter, without plea or
witness: ‘tis just a charge to the jury, a verdict in the box, and then a long
face and the hangman.”
“Misery! misery!” cried
the unhappy youth: “and to this I have brought myself! the death, the ignominy,
of a felon! I know it, I see it very clearly,” he added with indescribable
emotion, “I see how it must end--good God, upon the gallows! But it shall not
be; I will die first--thank heaven, I am dying already! Put but the trial
off--they say the court opens this day!--put it off but a week; you shall have
an hundred guineas, five hundred, a thousand, all that I have!--only put off
the trial a week, that I may die before they drag me into the light again! I
deserve to die, I am willing to die, but not, oh heaven! not upon a gibbet!”
“Zounds!” cried
Affidavy, who strove in vain to interrupt this burst of frenzied feelings, “you
are taking the best way to reach a gibbet, notwithstanding. You are mad, I
believe; botheration, sir, if you talk this way, there will be no saving you”--
“Saving me! Can I be
saved? that is, not from death, but from ignominious death? Hark you,
sir,--they have taken away my money, but I have enough more. Get me a knife, a
pistol, a rope, a dose of poison”--
“Tush; if you do not
cease this mad raving, and let me speak, I will be gone; you are making the
case desperate. Be silent, and listen. Your case is bad, sir, very bad, I must
confess, sir. But you have friends, sir; and you may hope; yes, you may
hope--if you are wise, sir, you may hope. --You have--Now don’t start, or cry
out, or I’ll leave you--Ehem, sir, I must whisper--you have relations,--a
brother, sir”--
“Oran!” cried the
prisoner, who would have again started up, had he not been held in his seat by
Affidavy: “oh, heaven be thanked! he has not deserted me! Have you seen him?
where is he? what can he do for me? will he rescue me?”
“Tush, you must be
quiet. If you will speak, let it be in a whisper. As for the trial, why we will
stop that if we can. A British officer, with a king’s commission in his hand,
taken in arms, cannot be shuffled into a cart by a civil tribunal, for
following his vocation, and slitting a throat or two. Now, Mr. Lieutenant
Gilbert, you understand me? You have a commission.”
“No, by heaven! I
refused it: I am no officer, and this will not avail me. I am no officer, I was
none; nor was I so much even as a volunteer. I refused the commission up to the
last moment, and this is the end of it: I would not be the enemy of what was my
native country,--of my countrymen; and now they are all enemies of mine! I was
not a member of the band; I never acted with it,-- never save that fatal once,
and then I went not to make war,--no, not even upon the poor wretch I
killed--Would to God the pistol had been turned against my own breast!”
“Tush,” said Affidavy,
interrupting what bade fair to end in another violent paroxysm, that’s wide of
the question. The band looked upon you as officer; and unless that fellow,
Sterling”--
“The villain! it is he
has ruined me!”
“Unless he can swear to
the contrary, which he can’t, (and, botheration, there’s a way of stopping his
mouth altogether;) who will be the wiser? Now if we could get Dancy Parkins
admitted, along with Sterling, as evidence for the commonwealth--However, we
can’t; and we’ll say no moreabout it: the prosecuting attorney swears he’ll
hang him. His mouth is, at all events, sealed. We are safe enough. Here is the
commission: Now, sir, you will put a bold face on the matter, insist upon your
privilege, and”--
“Perjure myself with a
lie? avow myself the enemy of my native land? and so die worse and more
degraded than I am? Never! Duplicity has made me what I am; a deception that I
thought innocent and harmless, has brought me to this pass. Had I come without
concealment, then I had left without disgrace, without crime. Oh fool, fool
that I was! Talk of this no more: it was on this ground Mr. Pepperel thought of
defending me; but on this ground I will not be defended.”
“Oho! and young ninny
has been before me there, too?” muttered the lawyer. “Well, botheration,” he
continued, falling into a deep study, in which he held counsel only with
himself,--“there is but the one shift in which the rascals won’t join me,--but
one path in which I can walk this goosehead off alone. Well now, all depends
upon Lingo: the rogue has a head as thick as a mountain, and a considerable
deal harder. ‘Twere a shame to waste gold upon such a clod-headed pig. Give him
fifty guineas! God bless our two souls! it were a mere casting of pearls before
swine, and, in some sort, a robbing of my own pockets. A shilling’s worth of
laudanum were a better fee, besides being cheaper. But, we’ll see.”
Having concluded his
meditations, he turned to the prisoner, who sat surveying him with an anxious
countenance, as if expecting some better comfort from his thoughts, and then
said,--
“Well, botheration, we’ll
have to think of another thing. It is well you are not fettered.”--
The young man writhed
as if struck with a lash; but before he could speak, Affidavy continued, though
with an emphatic gesture for silence,-- “For that saves us all the vexation and
danger of sawing. You see this little instrument?” he said, displaying a file. “Now,
be quiet on your life, sir. You will understand from this, that there is
something in the wind boding you good. You are sick and wasted--you were hurt
in the scuffle, too; but put you beyond these stone walls, with a saddled horse
under you, could you ride him?--Why, botheration, what makes you tremble so?”
“Oh heaven!” cried
Hyland, “do not mock me! Nay, I will whisper. Give me the file: I will cut the
grating through.”
“It does not need,”
said Affidavy, “and I have no notion of running any risk by leaving it in your
hands. But you must understand, sir, (hold your ear close,) that this is a very
ugly piece of business, especially for me: if discovered, sir, I am a ruined
man; the penalty, sir, is the very next thing to hanging; ay, sir, and in my
estimation, somewhat worse; but that’s according as we think of it. Now, sir”--
“I understand you,”
muttered Hyland. “You shall name your own reward--half of my estate, if you
will; nay, all--all, so you get me but to the woods, where I can die in peace,
and undishonoured!”
“Tush, we’ll not think
of death: you’ll live and be happy. Then as for reward, why, sir, I would not
have you think me extortionate, or capable of taking advantage of your
distress. No, sir, by no means; I am a lawyer, sir, but an honest man.”
“For God’s sake, take
what you will. Say nothing more; you shall have your wish.”
“Oh, sir,” said
Affidavy, “there is no hurry. As for taking all your estate, or even half of
it, sir,--sir, do not believe I will think of that! No, sir; I am neither a
buzzard nor a niggur’s dog. But I must be indemnified for losses: I ruin
myself, sir,--I must sacrifice an excellent practice, sir,--my reputation, sir,
and my prospects. In a word, sir, I must e’en take to my heels along with you;
for after such a prank as a jail-breaking, the county will be too hot to hold
me. Sir, I remember your father: he was a wronged man, sir; and my feelings
will not suffer me to see his youngest son too severely handled. I once knew
your brothers, sir, and I always thought they were badly treated. Sir, I feel
much grieved to see poor old Mr. Gilbert’s son brought to such a pass. Sir, my
regard for your deceased parent makes me do what I do; and, (not to whip the
devil round the stump any longer, sir,) I must confess, sir, that what I do is
a very scoundrelly piece of business, sir; which if any body had proposed to me
in behalf of any other person in the world, I should certainly, sir, have knocked
the proposer over the mazzard,--I would, sir, botheration.”
“What needs more words?”
said Hyland, too much agitated to think of weighing the motives of his new ally
in the balance of conscience or interest. “Make your demand, and have it.”
“Ah! sir,” said
Affidavy, with a snuffle through the nose, “it is a sorrowful thing to be
driven from home and friends, to wander an exile over the earth! There’s my
poor Mrs. Affidavy,--the thing will break her heart. However,” he added, for
the prisoner began to wax frantic with impatience, “I don’t believe in breaking
hearts, after all,-- especially Mrs. Affidavy’s. Sir, you are a rich man, and a
young man, and a man without family or cares. I will not sell my humanity, sir;
no, botheration, I’m above that; but I will accept of your superfluity what
will indemnify me for the losses I endure in your service. Your case is very
bad, sir; and indeed, if you were even a commissioned officer, it could not be
much better. The indictment is already framed, and will this day, or at
furthest to-morrow, be returned a true bill by the grand jury. You are a rich
man, sir--had I pleaded your cause and saved your life, I should have expected
a fee of five hundred guineas, (a small sum for a rich man’s life;) and there’s
old Long-tongue and Pepperel would have demanded as much more, each. But, sir,
I’ll save you five hundred guineas; and leave these fellows to whistle. We’ll
say a thousand guineas, then, and”--
“All, I tell you, all,
all!” cried the unhappy prisoner. “Take any thing, take every thing”--
“God forbid!” cried
Affidavy, devoutly; “I will not prey upon you. If you, from your own
generosity, should think of adding five hundred more to the fifteen hundred,
why sir, I should thankfully receive them. But I leave that to yourself, sir.
At present, sir, I shall be content with what I have named; and will take your
note of hand for the amount. You see, sir,” he added, drawing from a huge and
well thumbed pocket-wallet, a slip of paper, which with an ink-horn, he
immediately deposited on the table, “I have drawn this entirely in your favour,
payment not to be demanded unless upon the successful completion of a certain
service not mentioned, and then in such way as will suit your convenience. If I
fail, sir, I am ruined, sir, and yet receive nothing. Allow me to fill the
blanks, sir, and then, sir, you can sign. I will fill them first, sir, in order
that you may see I take no advantage of you, sir. Two thousand guineas, sir, is
a small sum, a very small sum, when one thinks of a gallows.--Sir, be not
alarmed--your hand trembles, sir; but I trust to your honour to recognise the
signature--yes, sir, I prefer your honour to twenty witnesses, sir. You shall
escape, sir; or damn it, sir,” added the harpy, in the enthusiasm of gratitude,
“I will hang along with you!”
It was fortunate the
worthy Affidavy had some bowels of compassion; for had he filled up the blanks
of his villanous contract with an amount comprehending the whole worldly wealth
of the poor prisoner, it would have been subscribed with equal alacrity. What
was gold in the balance with life? what price could be held dear that procured
a remission from ignominy? Hyland clutched at the pen as at the bolt of his
prisondoor; and, in the same frenzy, subscribed, in addition, an order
committing his good roan horse to the disposition of his counsel, which
Affidavy declared to be necessary, Hyland neither asked or sought to know how,
to the success of the enterprise. This accomplished, and the papers safely
deposited away in the wallet, the attorney wrung his client by the hand, and
that somewhat wildly, giving him to understand that he was to hold himself in
readiness that very night to escape, and recommending him to sleep a little
during the day, the better to support the toil of flight. He charged him,
twenty times over, to be silent and wary, to look as wo-begone and despairing
as possible, and above all things to hold no conversation that could be
avoided, with his other counsel. Then wringing his hand again, with the most convulsive
sympathy, he knocked at the cell-door, was let out, and would have run into the
open air without ultering a word, so big was his mind with the conception of
his vast fee, had he not been arrested by the astonished jailer.
“Ods bobs!” said Lingo,
“have you forgot the brandy, squire?”
“Botheration!” cried
Affidavy, with a wild stare.
“Ods bobs!” re-echoed
Lingo, “is the man mad? Why, Affidavy, what ails you? You look as white and
wild as the prisoner!”
“Oh! ah! ay! the
prisoner? yes, the prisoner,” said the attorney, rubbing his nose and chin with
great zeal, and recovering his wits. “Oh, ay, I remember: the prisoner, poor
fellow! Ah, Lingo, Lingo! ’tis a hard case, a sorrowful case, a heartaching
case. I declare, Lingo, I could sit down and blubber; I could, botheration, I
could!” and here the sympathetic counsel, to Lingo’s amazement, burst into a
loud uproarious laugh, such as he had never been known to give vent to before.
“The devil’s in the
man, sure enough,” said Lingo. “But I see, I see,” he muttered, surveying
Affidavy sagaciously, “he has been blowing it a little too hard, and now he’s
getting a touch of the Horrors. Well, well, brandy’s the best cure for that;
and he shall have a snap at his own medicine.”
So saying, the jailer
poured out a glass of cognac, the rich odour of which had no sooner reached
Affidavy’s nostrils than his spirits became composed, he stretched forth his
hand, and the smacking of his lips proclaimed the fervour of his satisfaction.
“Old Brauntweinpunsch
for ever!” he cried. “Ah, Lingo, you dog! you know what’s what! Ehem, sir,
botheration and tush! God bless our two souls, but I’m monstrous sleepy! Out
all last night, Lingo, in the rain; was upset in the brook up at old
Schlachtenschlager’s, and half drowned, and hadn’t a wink of sleep. I believe,
I was dreaming all the time the poor fellow up there was telling his story.
Must go home and nap a little-- But no, I can’t! Will finish the jug there,
Lingo, before the day’s out, ehem. Can give us a bed, here, Lingo, man, in case
of necessity? What d’ye say? Rather full at Mrs. Affidavy’s, and a washday,
too. Oh, you dog, botheration, we’ll have a rouse under lock and key to-night,
won’t we? Have something to tell you, and must be near the prisoner. But mum,
boy, mum’s the word! We’ll have a rouse to the health of my client.”
With that, the attorney
made another long face, fell into a second roar of merriment, and went flying
from the prison.
If this should fail,
And that our drift look through our bad performance, ‘Twere better not essay’d:
therefore this project Should have a back, or second, that might hold, If this
should blast in proof.
Hamlet.
It was night before
Affidavy returned again to the prison; a circumstance that might be supposed to
puzzle the brain of the jailer not a little, whenever he happened to cast his
eyes upon the bottle provided at the lawyer’s own expense, and considered the
notorious degree of attraction existing between the material spirits of the
one, and the immaterial spirit of the other. Before he had yet determined
whether the phenomenon should be attributed to the disorder of mind he was
first disposed to suspect on the part of Affidavy, or to some uncommon display
of his zeal on the prisoner’s behalf, Affidavy made his appearance, and
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, was immediately admitted,--not so
much, however, as a man of law visiting his client, as an old friend and crony,
whom Lingo introduced for his own private satisfaction. The attorney,
nevertheless, after squeezing the jailer’s hand, and giving way to a grin of
extraordinary friendship, averred he must see his client, before indulging a
moment in pleasure; and assuring Lingo, with uncommon spirit and generosity,
that he designed treating him like a prince, bade him, out of the funds he had
placed in his hands, lay in a store of all drinkables he could devise, with
pipes and tobacco, and so forth, so that they might have a jolly time of it
together. Then, after remaining half an hour with the prisoner, he returned to
the jailer’s private quarters, snapped his fingures, as if exulting at being
delivered from toil and restraint, swore he was the busiest dog that ever
slaved at a case, but would take his comfort and his ease, without troubling
himself farther for the night, were all the gallows-dogs in the world calling
on him for assistance. “Drink, Lingo, you rogue,” said he; “give me a pipe, and
snuff the candle; for I abhor taking the first whiff out of a greasy old
cotton-wick. Drink, you bigfisted, honest old sly-boots; and I’ll tell you all
about the case.”
“Well, squire, I’m for
you,” said Lingo, swallowing a draught that showed him to be serious; “but I
reckon I know all about the case; and it’s a clear hanging matter, as you must
own.”
“If I do, botheration
on me!” said the lawyer. “There’s two sides to every case; and all killing a’n’t
murder, nor manslaughter neither, for the matter of that.”
“Well, it’s well to
keep a good heart--I always said you had good pluck, Affidavy, especially in
desperate cases: but there was old Timberkin here this afternoon, who went off
with a long face; and there was Pepperel, who as much as confessed there was no
hope for the young one. And why should there be? For my part, I don’t reckon it
any great matter to have plumped a bullet into one of the Falconer kidney; but
when it comes to a bloody refugee playing such outdacious tricks, why there,
Affidavy, I stick; it’s clear ag’in all principle; and there’s ne’er a man of
any jury you can pack in the country, but will say--Hang!”
“Tush, drink--here’s to
you. You’ve been gabbling with Pepperel and Timberkin--numskulls,
Lingo--between you and me, numskulls. What do they know about the case? what
have they been doing to study it? Here have they been all day laying their fool’s
pates together over it, like two owls at mid-day over a dead bull-frog, not
knowing what to make of it. Drink, you rascal. Now had you but been at old
Schlachtenschlager’s last night! Ah!--However, that’s neither here nor there.
Now,I,my boy,botheration,I study my cases in another manner, and I have been
studying this hard all day. But how? Ay, there’s the question, tush. Riding
about, hunting witnesses from post to pillar, serving subpœnas, and all that,
and smelling out the intents of the prosecution.”
“What witnesses do you
want?” said Lingo: “it’s a clear case, and the younker owns to it. I’m to swear
myself, that he admitted the murder: he made no deninal”--
“He’s an ass,” said
Affidavy; “a fool and a madman, who would knock his head against a post, sooner
than go round it, were his skull no thicker even than a pumpkin-shell.”
“Oh, ay!” said Lingo,
nodding over his glass, “I see what you’re at: you’ll make it out a non cumpuss
case? But that won’t do, squire; I swear ag’in’ you there: there’s no mad in
him; there’s more in some of the witnesses. But I suppose you have been raking
up for witnesses about old Elsie Bell’s? The lad begged I would send for her;
but, they say, she is in a dying way?”
“Bad enough, bad
enough,” said the lawyer: “and a good witness, too; but we can do without her.”
“Well, I reckon you’ll
want all you have,” said the jailer; “for they’re strong for the commonwealth.
There’s Dancy Parkins, they’ve taken him for state’s evidence, along with this
here gallivanting fellow, Sterling, that came in for quarter, and a power of
others beside. I dunna why they’re so easy on Dancy; but they say, he’s not
deep in for’t; and the prosecution’s ag’in’ hanging him. They say, Colonel
Falconer has sworn he will have the youngster’s blood, if it costs him the
price of Hawk-Hollow twice over.”
“Tush, what care we?
The devil take Falconer, and the witnesses too,--as undoubtedly the devil will.
As for your Sterling, I can smash his testimony as I would a rotten apple.
Botheration, the man has a neck of his own.”
“Oh, ay, in the matter
of the spying?” said Lingo: “but they say, they will wink and let him off, if
Colonel Falconer be so minded; and they say, too, he was promised protection by
the soldiers, and a clear pardon, on condition he fetched ’em into all Oran
Gilbert’s hiding-places. I don’t see, for my part, how a soldier can promise
any such thing, seeing that a soldier is neither a judge nor a governor. And
moresomover, there’s the matter of the attempt to do murder on Colonel
Falconer; for, I reckon, that can be proved on him; and how he is to get clear
of that, if the Colonel pushes him, I don’t know. Howsomever, his case is
bad--the man has a bad conscience; though, perhaps, ’tis only a small touch of
the horrors,--for he has been drinking hard ever since he has been in prison.”
“Oh, the devil take
him, base turncoat and betrayer,” said Affidavy: “I hold honour among thieves
to be as good a rule as honesty between friends. And between you and me, Lingo,
he has served the Hawks a turn they will not forget. You know how they hanged
that soldier, Parker? Well now, two pigs to a pound of butter, as the saying
is, you’ll hear of this fellow swinging in a swamp, some time before doomsday.”
“Ay; when they get him,”
said Lingo, “and with all my heart. But, you see, there’s no talk of proceeding
against him; and when the trial’s over, I reckon he’ll show the county a clean
pair of heels--that is, if he ever gets over his hurts; for, you must know,
there’s something of the staggers about him,--a sort of horrors, as I
said,--but I don’t know; and if you stay here long enough, you’ll hear him
squeal out in his sleep, like a choking dog. Ods bobs! he made a squeak last
night, and I thought the devil had him: so I runs into his room, and there I
sees him sitting on his bed-side, all of a shiver, and as white as a sheet,
singing out, as if he was talking to old Nicodemus,
‘Shake not your jolly
locks at me,’
or something of that natur’, I dunna what, but it was about locks and
bolts, and the lord knows what; but I fetched him a box on the ear; and that
brought him to, and he fell to groaning. And now, Affidavy, here’s to you; and
I don’t care if I do you a bit of a service, though I don’t see what good can
come of it. If it will do your cause any service, to knock this here testimony
on the head, why a hint’s as good as a long sermon, as the saying is. Just ’validate
him on the p’int of his upper story, and call me and Hanschen to swear to his
doings and sayings; for I reckon, he’s a clearer non cumpuss case than the
prisoner. Howsomever, that can’t do no good; for I’m clear in for swearing to
the youngster’s admitting he killed the deceased, which is quite a settler of
the whole hash.” “Tush,” said Affidavy, “let
him swear, and swear his best. There is testimony enough to do the business, if
we trust to that. The devil take the case; I won’t bother my brains with it any
further. However, Lingo, my boy, it was a queer thing of yours, that letting
the prisoner go clear of gloves and garters. He might break jail,--eh, my boy!”
“As how?” said Lingo. “No,
squire, you don’t come over me there. I clapped the irons on him at first; but,
you see, poor fellow, I saw he was sick, and just as weak and heavy-hearted as
a pipped poult, and no more fear of dodging in him than an old horse: so I
knocked the clinkers off, and let him have the swing of the room, poor fellow;
and there he’s safe enough. Moresomover, I never heard tell of his being much
of a Hawk, only in blood and name; and I have a sort of pity on him.”
“Ah, yes,” said
Affidavy, with a melancholy stare; “if you were to hear his story, Lingo, it
would melt your heart; for you have a soft heart, Lingo, a merciful heart,
Lingo; and it will go well with you, Lingo; for there’s something said in the
Bible about the merciful.”
“Well,” said Lingo, “I
don’t set up for much of that, nor for much religion neither; but I never beats
a prisoner, except when he’s contrary; and this here youngster seems much of a
gentleman; and I have a notion, if he’s well treated, he may leave me
something; for he has a gold watch, (howsomever, the Sheriff’s got it;) and,
they say, he’s well-to-do in the world.--But, squire, drink on; it’s getting
late.”
“Let it,” said
Affidavy; “here am I fixed for the night; for how do I know but that you may be
in trouble before morning, and may want a friend to help you?”
“Trouble! and help!”
said Lingo, looking up with surprise. “If you mean that Sterling and his
squeaking, why, ods bobs, it only needs a cuff or two to bring him about. Ods
bobs, Affidavy,” he added, with a grin, “if you stay, I reckon, it’s you may
want a friend to help you. I don’t say nothing; but he that’s got a speech to
make before court and jury to-morrow, should not be too free of the creatur’
to-night.”
Affidavy, who had not
yet betrayed any strong symptoms of being affected by his good cheer, shook his
head mysteriously, and then replied,
“There’s no telling
what might happen, Lingo. These refugees are devils incarnate, as far as daring
goes. The whole regiment here is out in chase of them, and all the able-bodied
men of the village in company; so that there’s nothing left to keep guard over
us but old women and young ones. Now, Lingo, we’ll suppose a case--how many
men, armed with muskets and axes, would it take to sack your stone jug here,
smash open a door, and let out the prisoners?”
“Ods bobs!” said Lingo,
“I don’t know: but I reckon I could hold out, me and Hanschen, until we had
assistance. But, howsomever, that’s supposing a case that can’t happen.”
“Don’t be too secure,”
said the attorney, with a solemn voice; “for there’s no saying what may happen,
when there’s such a man as Oran Gilbert in the case. I reckon, an axe and a few
crowbars, with an auger or two, might soon make way through the yard-gate; and
then, the back-door would be but a mere joke; and then, Lingo, why surrender,
or hard axe and soft head would be the end of it.”
“Ods bobs!” said Lingo,
“what puts such a notion as that into your head? There’s ne’er a tory, now,
within forty miles of us!”
“Ah, Lingo! This is a
wicked world, with a good many crooked ways in it; and there’s a deal of ’em
lead to the jail-door. My own notion is, that Oran Gilbert is lying where no
one would think of disturbing him. Now, Lingo, you and I are friends. You’re an
honest fellow, Lingo, but, botheration, you’re mortal. And so, Lingo, I shouldn’t
trust you too far, if Oran Gilbert came to the wall-gate, about the time of
cricket-cry, chucked you over a purse with a matter of ten guineas or so in it,
while you stood peeping at the key-hole.”
“Oho!” said Lingo,
staring at the attorney with that sort of perplexity which a stupid man betrays
when endeavouring to fathom the point of a jest, which he is sensible ought to
be laughed at; “Oho, squire, I see what you are after,--he, he, he!” he said,
beginning to giggle, and lifting a glass as he laughed. “I’m a mortal man, sure
enough, and might take a fee, as well as e’er a lawyer in the land. But ten
guineas is a small sum, Affidavy; and as for opening a jail-door for such a
small matter, why, Affidavy, that’s only--he, he, he! And so you’ve been
retained by the tories? he, he, he! Well, I was wondering where the yallow boy
came from,--he, he, he!”
“Tush! retained by the
tories? I!” said the man of law, somewhat disconcerted.
“Oh, squire, a joke for
a joke’s all fair; tit for tat, you know,--
‘Tit for tat,
Butter for fat,
Kick my dog, and I’ll
kill your cat,’
as the saying is;” and the worthy Lingo again burst into a peal of
mirth, which allayed the sudden alarm of his companion. Affidavy looked him in
the face, and became satisfied from the air of stupid glee which invested the
jailer’s features, that the liquor was suddenly beginning to fill his noddle;
and in this conceit he was confirmed by Lingo adding, after another preliminary
giggle, “Well now, Affidavy, I’m an
honest feller,--as you say, but I scorn being a fool. I know what’s what; and I
wish somebody would chuck me ten guineas over the wall-gate; I wouldn’t ask him
whether he was a tory or true American; for, you see, a guinea’s a guinea, and
clean stuff, no matter what pocket it comes from. But then, squire, as to
opening the gate for such a small matter, he, he, he! why, I’m too honest for
that. I’m a poor man, but, as I said, he, he, he! I scorn being a fool; and so,
he, he, he! as you and me is friends, Affidavy, why, if the man was to chuck
about fifty more to the back of ’em, why, he, he, he! I don’t know what might
become of my prisoners.”
“Fifty guineas!” cried
Affidavy, grinning in return, but with a sort of scorn; “that’s putting your
honesty at a higher price than your soul, for which, botheration, I would not
give half the money.”
“He, he!” said Lingo,
slapping his boon companion on the knee, and nodding and winking in a manner
meant to be exceedingly significant; “but come now, what’ll they give? for I’ll
stand to reason.”
“Give! who give?” said
Affidavy, affecting surprise. “Oh! the tories, you mean. Tush, how do I know?
Perhaps you might get twelve or thirteen guineas out of them; and that’s a good
round sum.”
“He, he, he!” said
Lingo; “but what do you get yourself?”
“I!” said Affidavy,
again alarmed. His trepidation was however driven to flight by another fit of
laughter, in which Lingo’s honest countenance indicated the most expressive
innocence of all suspicion.
“Ods bobs!” said he, “I
wouldn’t sell a prisoner under fifty pounds; and if they’d talk to me about
that, he, he, he!”--and here he could scarce proceed for laughing: “No, no; if
you’ll strike a bargain for me for fifty pounds, in hard money, why then, he,
he! they may take my prisoners, and hang them, if they will. But it’s all one;
there’s no such luck for poor Bob Lingo: honesty won’t fetch any thing worth
having now-a-days. Fifty guineas! a small sum: why one could get more for
letting a tory in jail. But, he, he, he! it’s all one to Bob Lingo. I’m ’mazing
sleepy, squire! But I know what’ll keep me awake, he, he! I’ve got a barrel of
wonderful fine cherry bounce; and, he, he! I’ll go fetch a pitcher of it, and
we’ll make a night of it, I warrant me.”
With these words, he
left the apartment.
“Bravissimo!” said the
attorney, as soon as he had departed; “I’ll cheat the unconscionable rascal out
of every penny. He’s as drunk as a pig already.”
He stole to the door,
peeped out, and then, satisfied that Lingo was beyond observation, proceeded to
pour into a glass, from a little vial he drew from his pocket, a goodly dose of
laudanum, to which he forthwith added sugar and brandy, muttering to himself
all the while, “Here’s a dose for the dog will make him sleep like a wood-chuck
at Christmas; but ’twont hurt him. Botheration, I’m sleepy myself, the lord
knows: but two thousand guineas! Two thousand devils! I’m a made man, even if
the young ass repents his bargain and makes me ’bate one half!--Give him fifty
guineas! pearls before swine! He’ll sleep like a top; and as for Hanschen, why
he’s fast already--Devils! what’s that?--Oh, the drunken fool has tumbled over
a chair, and smashed the pitcher!--Could hear the clink and clatter together.
Am somewhat drunk myself; but a little does me good.”
Having completed the
soporific potion so kindly designed for Lingo, and not without producing some
clattering of glasses, for he was far from being sober, he sat down and
prepared a second glass as much like the first as possible, except that he took
good care not to qualify it from the vial, which he restored to his pocket. He
then began to hum, and kick his heels together, wondering what kept the jailer
away so long. “The town is already fast asleep,” he grumbled, “and my three
jolly tories will be whistling at the gate like seven thousand katydids. Poor
Mrs. Affidavy! how she will stare and scold in the morning! Odd rabbit her, she
has a tongue might suit a judge on the bench; and, botheration, it will be a
lucky day for me, when I’m well quit of her.”
While he rejoiced over
his prospect of deliverance, Lingo re-entered the apartment, bearing a huge
pitcher, from which he contrived, at every step, to discharge, so wide and
uncertain was his gait, no mean quantity of its purple contents. Indeed, if
appearances were to be trusted, he was already so far gone in intoxication,
that it needed but one glass more to stretch him on the floor; and Affidavy
hailed his infirmity as the herald of success.
“Ods bobs!” said the
jailer, staggering up to the table, and depositing his burthen with so little
dexterity that half its contents went splashing over his friend, “here’s stuff
for you! But a jail’s a bad place to keep liquor. Ods bobs, I broke my shin
over a fetter-bolt, and, ods bobs, I broke my new blue pitcher; but, ods bobs,
who cares for expense?”
“Botheration,” said
Affidavy, “here I’ve mixed you a brandy cock-tail, and you’ve spilled the
bounce into it. However, I warrant, it’s all the better.”
“Ay, I warrant me, old
Teff,” said Lingo, giving him an affectionate hug round the neck, “and we’ll
drink it, my boy, like a lord and a truehearted American. But, ods bobs, my
boy, gi’ me a chair; for, d’ye see, I sprained my leg, and it’s weak under me.”
“Oh, ay,” said
Affidavy, dragging the jailer’s chair round to his own end of the table.--“ But
stop there, you fool, you’ve got my glass!”
“Hic--cup--where’s the
difference? he, he!” said Lingo, yielding, however, the glass he had taken, and
receiving that which Affidavy had so craftily prepared. “Here’s to you, old
Teff Affidavy!”
“Here’s to you!” said
the lawyer; and both raised the glasses to their lips. The attorney watched his
victim with the eyes of a mouser intent upon her prey. He saw him swallow one
mouthful, and then a second, and then--the jailer withdrew the vessel from his
lips.
“Botheration!” murmured
Affidavy to himself, “does the villain taste it?”
He was soon relieved
from his fear. Lingo laid the glass on the table, and turning to Affidavy,
burst into a fit of maudlin weeping, betraying, at the same time, a strong
disposition to repeat the fraternal embrace. As Affidavy felt no inclination to
balk this friendly intention, he laid down his own glass, and was instantly
taken round the neck by the jailer, who exclaimed, in the most pathetic manner
in the world,
“Ods bobs, old Teff, I
don’t know what will become of me!”
“Why, what’s the
matter?” said Affidavy.
“Why, ods bobs,”
blubbered the other, “one day, when I was a little boy, I licked my father; and
there’s no good can come of it.”
“Tush, you ass,” said
the attorney, “you might have trounced your mother too, if you had been so
minded. But, botheration on you, let me go, and drink your cock-tail.”
“Well, I will,” said
Lingo; “but it’s a murdering piece of business to whip one’s father; and I’ve a
notion to give myself up, and let ’em hang me. But I can’t hang without
counsel, and I can’t spare money to pay a fee. Now, old Teff, my boy, you’re my
friend, and if you’ll make a speech for me for nothing--I always stuck up for
your being the ’cutest lawyer in the county, and I’ll lick any body that says
No to it--now if you’ll make me a speech, I reckon I may get off for nothing,
with a clear ’quittal.”
“Drink, you fool,” said
Affidavy; “I’ll take the case, and charge you nothing.”
“He, he!” said Lingo,
snatching up his glass, “we’ll go ’em, then, slick as a snake in a new skin.
Here’s to you, Teff, my old boy! and the devil eat his liver that don’t drink
smash down to the bottom! Hic--cup,--here’s to you.”
He swallowed his
potation, and the attorney, without a moment’s hesitation, drained his own at a
single draught. But scarce had he withdrawn the glass from his lips, before he
started up, exclaiming,
“God bless our two
souls! what was in the glass? Ah, Lingo, you fool, ’twas that cursed bounce you
spilled in it! Vile trash, you dog, vile trash!”
“What! my bounce?”
cried Lingo, indignantly; “as good bounce as was ever brewed, and, ods bobs, a
good deal better. But now, you jolly old Teff, let’s sing a song. Don’t sit
there staring at me, like a starved cat; but sing, you old rascal; let’s sing ‘Vain
Britons.’ ”
“The oddest taste in
the world,” said Affidavy, in obvious bewilderment: “sure there must have been
some mistake!”--And, in effect, there was; for at the very moment when the
jailer was embracing his friend, and beseeching the favour of his counsel, he
slid one hand behind him to the table, and there kept it until he had effected
a mutual interchange of places between the two glasses; the consequence of
which was, that when the fondling fit was over, and the vessels resumed, he
himself got possession of the innocent draught, while Affidavy caught up and
swallowed that designed for his companion. Had Lingo been in any condition but
that in which he appeared, the attorney would have conceived the trick in a
moment; but a look at the jailer’s innocent visage was sufficient to banish all
suspicion of foul play; and in consequence, he could only stare about him in
wonder and perplexity, nodding his head up and down in a manner the most
ludicrous in the world, while Lingo testified his indifference and patriotism
together, by lanching out, in a quavering, drunken voice, upon a camp-song,
said to be then highly popular among the continental soldiers.
‘Vain Britons! boast no
longer, with insolence and glee,
By land your conquering
legions, your matchless strength by sea;
For lo! at length
Americans their sword have girded on,
And sung the loud
Huzza! huzza! for war and Washington!’
‘Sent forth by North
for vengeance, your gallant champions came;
With tea, with treason,
and with George, their lips were all on flame:
Yet, sacrilegious
though it seem, we rebels still live on,
And laugh to scorn your
empty threats, and so does Washington.’
‘Still deaf to mild
entreaties, still blind to England’s good,
Your knaves, for thirty
pieces, betrayed your country’s blood:
Like Æsop’s cur, you’ll
only gain a shadow for a bone,
Yet find us dangerous
shades, indeed, inspired by Washington.’
The third stanza of
this patriotic roundelay (there are a dozen stanzas altogether,) was sung by
Lingo with especial emphasis, particularly the second and third line, and might
have conveyed to the attorney some inkling of the true state of the question
between them, had not his senses been already overpowered. The strength of the
draught, aided not a little by the vigilance of the succeeding night, was too
much for Affidavy’s brain; and before the stanza was concluded, he slipped from
his chair to the floor, and there lay like a log.
The jailer concluded
the song; then springing up, he burst into a hearty laugh, exclaiming, “Ods
bobs, I’ve outlawyered the lawyer! and there he is, as fast as a poker. Now,
you old fool,” he added, without a vestige of intoxication remaining, (and
indeed his drunkenness had been all assumed) “if there was too much stuff in
the mixing, why e’en take the consequence, for it was all of your own brewing.”
Then stooping down, he
examined Affidavy’s pockets. The first thing he laid hands on, was the vial of
laudanum, which he smelt at with great glee; he then filched out a leathern
purse, containing, according to his own verbal inventory, “sixteen guineas in
gold, two Spanish dollars, a French crown-piece, and an English shilling--Oho
old Teff!” The next thing discovered was the pocket-wallet, from which he drew
to light the note of hand which the cormorant had caused the prisoner to sign
in the morning. All these different items he deposited under lock and key, in a
closet, from which he also drew a pair of horsepistols, and an old horseman’s
sword, all of which he proceeded to buckle round his body.
While thus engaged,
some one softly approached, tapped at the door, and being bidden to enter,
disclosed the features of his assistant Hanschen.
“Done him up!” said
Lingo, pointing to the prostrate figure; and then demanded, “All ready?”
“Yaw.”
“How many?”
“Fy, dtare’s
Sturmhausen, Schnapps, and tree oders, mit guns and pistols.”
“Ods bobs, then, we’ll
nab’em; for they can’t muster half so many. Have you chained the prisoner?”
“Yaw; and he turned pale,
and fainted afay. Then I put polts on Tancy Parkins; and now I fill go fix the
t’oder, Shterling.”
“Never mind him; he’s
safe. Now, Hans, you must fight like a bull-dog, if there’s any fighting at
all. But not a word about the lawyer here. Here’s a pistol: take a swig at the
bounce, and we’ll carry it down to the boys, to warm their hearts a little. If
we catch that Oran, ods bobs, I don’t know’ what the reward is, but it will be
the making of us.”
“Yaw,” said Hans; and
picking up the pitcher, he followed the jailer into the yard. Here they found
five stout men, with whom the jailer conversed in whispers, and then, after all
had drunk of the pitcher, he led them towards the gate, saying, as he bade them
lie down on either side of it,-- “Now mind ye, men; I hold to the lock, and
here’s my cue: If any enters, why I claps the gate to behind them, and then
outs with the key; and then you’re to jump up and on em, taking ’em alive, if
you can. But mind ye, you’re not to stir, till you hear me give the signal to
fall on; and the signal is, You’re welcome, gentlemen. Don’t forget it. Now, ’taint
sure they’ll come; but if they do, ods bobs, we’ve got ’em!”
Having thus received
their instructions, the whole party squatted down on the ground, and awaited
the issue of their adventure in silence. The village jail was a small, though
strong, building of stone, and the yard, therefore, on the rear, in which the
prisoners were sometimes allowed to air themselves, was of no great extent. It
was surrounded, however, by a high and strong wall, the gate to which was of
heavy double planking, strengthened with bars of iron; and the lock was of
weight sufficient to make any prisoner despair of forcing it.
It was perhaps
midnight, when these silent guards,--seven in number, including the jailer and
his assistant,--took their places. The night was perfectly clear, and so far
unfavorable to the assailants, if assailants they really were; of which, it
must be confessed, honest Lingo could not affect to be certain, his whole information
amounting to no more than the few ambiguous phrases he had caught from
Affidavy. But then this fellow, under a stupid countenance, concealed an
astonishing fund of quickness and cunning, of which the attorney little
dreamed; and long before Affidavy had opened his lips on the subject, Lingo had
seen and noted enough to give edge to the native suspiciousness of his
character. The appearance of Affidavy himself, claiming to be one of the
prisoner’s counsel, instantly set his wits to work; he marvelled who had
retained him, since he knew he had not yet seen the prisoner. Then the
appearance of the guinea, a rare coin in such hands, and devoted with such
magnificent nonchalance to the purpose of doing honour to him, was not without
its virtue in stirring his conjectures, especially when it came to be added to
the invitation Affidavy so coolly gave himself to repeat his visit, and spend
the night in the jail. He ascertained without trouble, that the attorney soon
after leaving the prisoner, had ridden into the country, where he remained all
day, without once seeking a conference with either of the prisoner’s original
counsellors; and one or two other little circumstances he discovered, which
prepared him to understand, and make the most of what Affidavy afterwards
divulged in the form of supposition.
All his discoveries,
however, went no further than to induce a belief that some design for rescuing
the young Gilbert was on foot; but where, and in what manner, the enterprise
was to be attempted, he was left to infer as he could. He did not doubt,
indeed, that the attempt was expected to be made with his connivance, and that
Affidavy had been bought to bribe him into compliance; though the covetousness
of this unworthy and degraded limb of the law had led him upon a device for
dispensing with the jailer’s services, and so clapping the additional reward
into his own pocket. This circumstance convinced him the force of the
conspirators could not be very great; and besides, he had good reason to
suppose that not more than two or three could succeed, whatever might be their
boldness, in making their way to the village, while the band was so closely
beset at a distance. “At all events,” he muttered to himself, as he sat by the
gate, listening for the sound of footsteps, “if there should come even a dozen
of them, and there’s not so many left in the gang, I can let in just as many as
will serve my turn, and then slap the door to on the rest.--Hist! It sounded
like the tramp of a horse; yet ’twas only the splash of the river over the
stones. Well now, if they shouldn’t come, here’s so much trouble for nothing,
and the lord knows how much cherry-bounce. Silence there, you Hanschen! you’re
asleep. Ods bobs, men, don’t scratch your heads so hard!”
He kept watch for
perhaps the space of an hour, without hearing the stir of man or beast, or
indeed any other sound besides the rush of the river, which rolls down a pebbly
declivity hard by, and the chirping of numerous field-crickets on the trees of
neighbouring gardens; when suddenly one of these insects; tired, as it seemed,
of its dewy perch, which it had exchanged for the dry planks of the gate, or
perhaps just waked up in the key-hole, began its nocturnal cry with a zeal and
energy that instantly captivated the jailer’s attention. It now struck his
recollection that the attorney had, in some way or other, drawn these minstrels
of the night into his suppositions; and he began to fancy the sound might be a
signal made by the tories, though he could not imagine how the organs of a
human being could be ever taught to imitate a cry so peculiar. He felt his own
inability to answer it in the same tone; and not knowing how otherwise to bring
the affair to a point, he replied by a goodly whistle, which his companions
supposed to be the signal of the enemy, and therefore prepared to start up at a
moment’s warning. The whistle was instantly followed by a slight tap on the
gate, and Lingo, waving his hand to his backers to be silent, boldly turned the
key. Then slipping the bolt aside, he saw three human figures on the outside,
ready to enter. “Two to one,” he muttered to himself, opening the gate wide
enough to admit one to pass at a time. One actually entered, and was moving
aside, without speaking, to make way for the others, when Lingo’s scheme was
defeated by a sudden rattling of chains at the window of Hyland’s cell, and by
a voice crying out, “Beware! beware! you are betrayed!”--“Up and on ’em!” cried
Lingo--“Gentlemen, you are welcome!” and as he spoke, he made a grasp at the
first comer, which was answered so effectually, that he instantly found himself
sprawling on his back, with such a blaze of lights dancing in his eyes, that he
thought his whole brain had been converted into a ball of fire. The next
instant, there was a loud cry of voices, and a roar of pistols, which,
reverberating from wall to wall, filled the narrow yard with the most dreadful
din; and Lingo started up just in time to behold a tall figure darting through
the gate into the open air.
“Fire and furies!” he
cried, rushing after the fugitive; “I’ll pay you for that touch of the
tomahawk, you bloody tory!” and the next moment coming up with his chase, he
struck him a blow with his heavy sword, that brought him to the ground. Then
pouncing upon him, and assisted by another who ran to his assistance, crying
that ‘all were taken,’ he dragged the prisoner into the yard and secured the
gate. “Lights, Hanschen!” he cried, “Yaw,” said Hanschen; “but fat’s the use?
Here’s one teadt, and anoder tying. And here’s Sturmhausen has his headt proke;
and here’s me mit my finkers chopped off by the tamt schelm rogues. But I have
kilt vone, mine Gott be thank’d! and I fill hang the t’oders!”
Before Hanschen had
wholly delivered himself of his private ills and triumphs, a loud huzza was set
up by the others, upon hearing that all the three assailants were secured.
Lights were instantly brought into the yard, and, sure enough, there lay three
men on the ground, one of whom was stone dead, his head blown to atoms by
Hanschen’s pistol, a second writhing to all appearance in the agonies of death,
and a third--but what were the surprise and mortification of the jailer, when
in this third, the man he had cut down with his own hands, he beheld the visage
of his prisoner, Sterling.
Upon this discovery
being made, all was again confusion; the gate was a second time thrown open,
but only that they might behold the whole village in commotion, the alarm
having been given by the previous tumult. It was plain that the third
individual, and he perhaps the most important of all, had made his escape. To
add to the confusion of the scene, the wounded tory, upon hearing some of those
who raised him pronounce the name of Sterling, suddenly snatched a pistol from
one, and discharged it at this unlucky personage, with a bitter oath. It was
struck from his hands, however, so that it did no hurt to any one.
The jailer, now in fear
lest the other prisoners might have broken from their cells, ran to those
occupied respectively by Hyland Gilbert and Dancy Parkins, both of whom he
found in fetters, the former, in truth, secured by a bolt to the floor, so
that, although he had some freedom of motion, he could not approach the window
near enough to look out, and must therefore have been led to give the alarm to
the rescuers by hearing the crash of the bolt in the gate. This was additional
evidence of the guilt of Affidavy; but at that moment, the jailer did not
trouble himself to think of that discomfited personage. He stared at the
prisoner, heard his beseeching demand, ‘Who had been taken? who had been hurt?’
answered it by a profane oath, and then ran to Parkins’s cell. He then stepped
to that occupied by Sterling, and found that this individual, seduced perhaps
by the sounds of wassailing below, had employed his time in removing with a
knife a hinge from his door, by which means he had made his way into the yard,
where he took advantage of the commotion so unexpectedly displayed, to make a
bold dash for freedom. What had seduced this wretch, who was in no immediate peril
of death, or even trial, and who had freely rendered himself into the hands of
justice, to attempt his escape, Lingo could not imagine; and in truth he did
not attempt to solve the mystery. He satisfied himself that he had given him a
severe, perhaps a serious cut, betwixt the neck and shoulder, and then had him
carried into his cell, not without some very hearty curses upon his enterprise,
and its effects in robbing him of a more valuable prize. These were borne by
the adventurer without any reply save ghastly looks; and indeed Mr. Sterling
was a greatly altered man, presenting an appearance even more wo-begone and
wretched than that of Hyland, the victim of his anger. As if to mark the jailer’s
indignation in the strongest way, the wounded refugee was deposited in the same
chamber, as well as the body of his comrade.
Upon examining into the
condition of the defenders, it was found that Hanschen had received a cut over
the hand, which, as was discovered afterwards, had been inflicted not by a foe,
but by one of his fellow-defenders; and this had deprived him of a finger, and
perhaps of the service of two others. Another man had been hurt by a bullet in
the leg, and a third had been stunned, like Lingo, by a stroke on the head. As
for Lingo himself, he discovered, with some surprise, that the blow which
prostrated him had left a wide and ugly gash on his crown, though not one from
which he had cause to apprehend serious consequences. The only ill effect it
produced was, to sour his temper to an uncommon degree; so that after peace was
restored in his dominions, and his aiders and abettors all discharged for the
night, he betook himself to the sleeping Affidavy, and bestowed some three or
four such kicks upon his ribs, that it was a wonder he left a sound one in his
body. But even these failed to rouse the stupified attorney; and at last,
calling to Hanschen for assistance, he dragged him up into Sterling’s cell,
where he deposited him on the floor, betwixt the dead man and the dying.
“Now here are four
bites for the devil together,” he said; “and if they all die before morning, it’s
all one to Bob Lingo.”
With these words, he
descended to look after his wound, which was bleeding freely.
Jaff. Ha!
Pierre. Speak; is’t fitting?
Jaff. Fitting!
Pierre. Yes; is’t fitting?
Jaff. What’s to be done?
Pierre. I’d have thee undertake
Something that’s noble to preserve my memory From the disgrace that’s ready to
attaint it.
Otway.
The attorney’s sleep
was long and sound; and, by and by, notwithstanding the exciting nature of the
midnight events, sleep visited the eyes of all others in the prison, even those
of the hapless Hyland. The misery of his situation was complete. His hopes of
escape, confirmed almost to certainty by Affidavy in his last visit, in which
the whole plan was explained to him by this honest gentleman, threw him into a
frenzy of joy; and it was with unspeakable agitation that he listened to the
subdued murmurs below, which told him the first and most critical scene of the
conspiracy had already begun. How the attempt of Affidavy upon the head of the
jailer terminated has been already seen; how the scheme might have eventuated,
had this rapacious wretch followed out the plan he had proposed to the others,
which was to bribe the jailer into connivance, it is not so easy to say, Lingo
being perhaps too much of a philosopher in his way, to refuse a good price for
his honesty. But Affidavy, while he held the bone in his mouth, hungered
exceedingly for the shadow, or, to speak more strictly, for that smaller morsel
destined for the jaws of his friend; and, in consequence, adopted the foolish
device of the ‘hocussed’ cup, in which he encountered so signal a failure.
While Hyland sat in his cell, devoured by expectation, the door was opened, and
the jailer’s assistant entered, bearing a heavy set of fetters, which he
forthwith proceeded to fasten upon his limbs. This was the first moment they
were ever thus dishonoured; but the unhappy youth thought not of the disgrace;
he saw at once that the scheme of flight was defeated, and that his hopes had
been encouraged, only to be blasted. The agitation of his spirits threw him
into a swoon; rousing from which, he gave himself up to despair, until his
thoughts were diverted into a new channel by an unexpected commotion below,
which was indeed caused by nothing less than the entrance into the prison of
the five men whom Hanschen had secretly summoned to his assistance. He heard
them pass into the yard, and inferred at once that the scheme for his escape
was intended to be turned against his unsuspecting friends. For this reason, he
gave the alarm, the instant he heard the gate swinging on its hinges, and would
have done so sooner, had he been able to approach the window, so as to look out
upon the proceedings of the jailer. Let his sufferings be imagined, when he
heard the sudden din of pistols and voices, followed by execrations and groans,
without knowing aught of the result of the rencounter, except that it had been
fatal to his own hopes. He saw the jailer look into the apartment, his visage
stained with blood, and then depart without satisfying his painful curiosity;
and then followed a long period of silence, equally oppressive and distracting.
Great as was his distress, however, it contributed in the end to stupify his
mind; and towards morning, he fell into an uneasy slumber, to add the tortures
of the ideal to those of the material world. From this he was aroused by a
noise, as it seemed, at his window; and starting up, he distinctly heard a
voice pronounce his name. It was but a whisper, and that fainter than the
lowest chirping of the insects; but he recognized at once the tones of Oran;
and, scarce repressing a cry of joy, he rushed towards the window. The chain
was still upon his body, and its clash, with the rattling of the ring by which
it was attached to the floor, told to Oran, as well as to his own spirit, how
vain was the effort. The cell which he inhabited was in a corner of the
building, and the wall of the yard was perhaps within six or seven feet of the
window, which was more elevated, and therefore overlooked it. It was possible
for a man, standing on the top of the wall, and of sufficient strength of body
to support himself, lizard-like, while leaning towards the window, almost to
reach it with his arms; and Hyland, who had noted these circumstances before,
easily understood the situation of his visiter, which besides being extremely
dangerous, was also exposed to observation.
“I cannot approach,
Oran,” he cried in the same whispering tones; “I am chained to the floor.”
“Hold forth your hand,”
muttered the refugee, “and cast me the end of your neckcloth. You shall have
files and aquafortis; and to-morrow night you shall be free. Cast out the
neckcloth.”
“I cannot,” replied the
prisoner, with a voice of despair; “I cannot reach the bars, even if I had
files to cut them. What shall I do? Oh, brother, brother! why did you leave me?
Speak, brother, for Heaven’s sake, speak! Can you help me?”
The refugee remained
silent, apparently struck dumb, either by the reproach of his brother, or by
the discovery of his inability to help himself; and Hyland, imagining that his
silence was owing to some sudden alarm, held his own peace, awaiting the event.
In a short time, however, the refugee spoke again: the whisper was as low as
before, but it was broken by some strong tumult of feeling.
“I can not help you,
Hyland,” he said,--“unless, unless--But hold; I will fling a file through the
bars, and you can saw yourself free. Throw your bed on the floor under the
window, that it may make no noise. Are you ready?”
“I am,” said Hyland;
and the next instant he heard the steel instrument strike upon the bars of the
grating, whence it fell ringing among the stones in the yard. A second was cast
with better effect, and entering the window, fell upon the couch. But as if
fate now designed to tantalize the unhappy youth into distraction, he no sooner
sought to obtain it by dragging the bed towards him, than he heard it fall off
upon the floor, where it remained beyond his reach, and must remain until
discovered by the jailer. This mishap being communicated to Oran, drew from him
an exclamation, in which Hyland was made aware of his hopeless situation:
“God help you!” he
cried, “I can do no more.”
“Yes, Oran, yes!”
exclaimed the prisoner, “you can help me yet. Throw me a knife”--
“Hah!” said Oran, “and
you will use it on the jailer? ay! as he bears you to the court house, in the
morning! Strike him in the throat--I will be by, and, perhaps--Well, well, you
will at least die like a man, not like a dog. Will you kill him?”
“No!” said the youth; “God
pardon me the blood I have shed already: I will never more harm a human
being--no, not even to save my wretched body from shame. Yet throw it to me, throw
it to me!”
“And for what?”
muttered Oran, in tones scarce audible.
“For what?” replied the
prisoner. “Oh God, do you ask me, brother?”
“For your own bosom
then? Ay, can we do no more? And the lawyers, then, can give you no hope, not
even for money?”
“None, none: I am
condemned already--The knife, the knife!”
“The dream’s out!” said
Oran, with what seemed a laugh. “When I was a little boy, and the rest were but
babes about me, I dreamed, one night, that there were seven of us together,
though there were but four of them born, and that I killed them. And so they
say I have indeed! Well, boy, I have killed you, as well as the rest, and now I
am alone. You shall have the knife--yet be not in a hurry. Something may turn
up: Sir Guy may demand a military trial--But no, I am lying to my own heart:
you must die, Hyland, you must die! for even I cannot help you.”
“The knife will help
me.”
“Take it!” said the
refugee, with a voice so loud as to show his feelings had got the better of his
caution,--and indeed his accents betrayed the most vehement agitation; “take
it!” he cried, flinging it against the window with a motion so reckless or
perturbed, that it did not even strike the bars, but coming in contact with the
stone framework, it rebounded and fell, like the file, to the ground below. “Ha
ha! you see, brother! there is no hope for you,--no, not even in the knife!”
“Brother!” cried
Hyland, “you can help me yet.”
“It is false!” said the
other: “my band is broken, my body bleeding, and now, if they would send a boy
against me, why a boy might take me.”
“Listen, brother--it is
my dying prayer,” said Hyland, “and nothing else can be done. Before midnight
of the coming day--perhaps earlier--I shall be a doomed man--doomed to death--
doomed to the gallows? Brother, don’t let me die on the gallows! Where is
Staples? He can send a bullet through the eye of a leaping buck; I have seen
him kill a night-hawk on the wing. Brother, you will be my heir--give him what
you will, give him all, and let him come to-morrow night on the square, and
when he sees a candle held at this window, let him fire at it,--let him aim
well,--at the candle, brother, at the candle! Oh heaven! do you not hear me?”
“I hear,” said Oran. “A
wild freak that, but good! ay, boy, good, good, good! But Staples-- ha, ha!
Choose another: take the whole band; one will be as ready to serve you as
another.”
Had not the prisoner
been prevented by his own feelings from giving note to any thing save the mere
words of the refugee, he might have detected the traces of some extraordinary
emotion in the unusual abruptness of his expressions. He even failed to observe
the incongruity between Oran’s invitation to choose an executioner from his
whole band, and the late declaration he had made, that the band was broken up.
He repeated the name of Staples, adding, “Let it be Staples, brother, for he is
the boldest and truest: he fears nothing, and he misses nothing.”
“Call him out of the
yard then,” said Oran; “he lies there cold as a stone.”
“Ashburn then, Tom
Ashburn!” cried Hyland, after an exclamation of dismay at the intelligence; “he
is the next boldest, and a true shot.”
“Another, another! They
fished him out of the river at the Foul Rift, yoked fast to the carcass of his
horse.”
“Bettson, then!”
“He lies, with Staples,
dead in the yard here.”
“Good God! is there
none left then to save me from this horror. Oh brother, send any one. Is there
not one?”
“There is one,” said
Oran, and his teeth chattered as he spoke; “there is one, and only one; but he
shoots well too, and is as bold as any. Farewell, young brother--the streaks
are in the sky: we will never see one another more. Reach forth your hand,
brother, and let me touch it.”
“Alas, Oran, I am
chained to the floor.”
“Ay,--I forget: ’tis
all one. Say that you beg God to forgive me, and that you forgive me
yourself--let me hear you say it.”
“Wherefore, Oran? Alas,
wherefore?”
“For what I have done
to you; for what-- But it is nothing. But say it, though; say it, or hope for
no friend in the thing you speak of.”
“God forgive you then,
Oran,” muttered the brother, almost mechanically; “I forgive you myself.”
“It is enough,” said
Oran--“Farewell.” And these were the last words Hyland ever heard him utter. He
descended from the wall--how the prisoner knew no more than how he had climbed
it,--and that so suddenly, that although Hyland called to him again, the moment
the farewell had past his lips, he was already beyond hearing. Finding that he
was really gone, the prisoner fell upon his knees, and strove to invoke
forgiveness of the act he meditated: for he rightly felt that it must be but a
form of self-murder.
He then threw himself
on his couch, looked back upon the events that had marked his existence in the
valley, and wept over the misery they had entailed upon one whom his love had
wrapped in the same destruction with himself.
Convict by many
witnesses and proofs,
And by thine own
confession.
Mahino Faliero
The Master of Fiction
has compared the course of a supposititious history to the career of a stone,
rolled down the side of a mountain; which, at first, labouring and stumbling
along, in a slow and hesitating manner, as if on the point of being arrested by
every petty obstruction, gathers force as it descends, and at last pitches
onwards with impetuous leaps, which soon conduct it to the bottom. To give the
figure the completeness of an allegory, it may be added, that when the moving
body has once acquired a little superfluous momentum of its own, it communicates
it to other stones, and these again to others, which, increasing in number as
they grow in velocity, are at last seen rattling down to the vale below, in a
perfect avalanche, as confounding to the sense as it is hurrying to the
spirits. In this manner, a single incident begins its weary course along the
declivity of story, stirring up others as it rolls onward; until, in the end,
there is such a mass in motion, that, if all were to be described as fully as
at the starting, it would require a Briareus himself to do them justice. It is,
then, difficult to keep pace even with the original event, the course of which
is as violent as the others; and this can be done only by imitating the hurry
of the moving body, and marching, in great leaps, to the end.
We must pass by, with a
word, the confusion caused throughout the whole village by the rencounter in
the prison-yard; the steps that were taken in consequence to follow the refugee
who had escaped; the proceedings that were had in relation to the bodies, (for the
wounded Staples expired within a few hours after his surrender;) and, finally,
those that paved the way for the trial of the unfortunate Hyland.
The morning broke; the
hour of trial approached; the village was thronged with the idle and the
curious; the court was opened, the grand jury empannelled and charged, and in a
short time returned into court a formal bill of indictment against Hyland
Gilbert, with some two or three aliases, for the wilful murder of Henry
Falconer.
The details of the
trial it is not our purpose to narrate. There were the usual preliminary
flourishes, thrusts, and counter-thrusts, on the part of the counsel, with
those applications for postponement and arguments against it, that weary the
patience of the good citizens who come to a tribunal of life and death as to a
raree-show; and perhaps with some such feelings as conducted the ancient Romans
to the amphitheatre. There was even an attempt made by the prisoner’s counsel
(of whom the unlucky Affidavy was not one--at least, he did not make his
appearance,) to oppose the jurisdiction of the court, precisely as Affidavy had
boasted he would do, but with so little zeal and energy, that it was soon seen
the prisoner was to derive no benefit from such a plea. In fact, from the
beginning to the end, the counsel for the prisoner conducted the case in so
spiritless and desponding a manner, as to convey the most melancholy prognostic
to those who judge of the goodness or badness of a cause by the colour of a
counsellor’s complexion. It seemed as if they were themselves too well
satisfied of his guilt to think of contending for his innocence; and it was
soon seen that they had good cause to despair; for the prisoner, upon being
formally arraigned at the bar, rose up, and despite the opposition of his
counsel, insisted upon pleading Guilty to the indictment.
From the consequences
of this rashness--a result of mingled remorse and despair--the unhappy young
man was saved by the humanity of his judges, who directed the plea of Not
Guilty to be entered, as, we believe, is usual, or at least frequent, in such
cases.
Upon being asked ‘How
he would be tried?’ he answered, with the same readiness, “By God and my
country;” and the elder of his counsel making some trivial remark on the latter
word, coupled with the hint that his domicil was strictly within a foreign
territory, he repeated the word with great vehemence, insisting ‘that he was
born upon the soil on which he stood, and whether he lived or died, and whether
it owned the sway of the royal government, or assumed the state of a free
Republic, it was still as much his country as before, since still the land of
his birth.’
He was directed to
resume his seat; but the readiness with which he seemed to abandon all the
little hopes remaining to him softened the hearts of his judges, and brought
tears into the eyes of many who came to see, in a Gilbert and refugee, some
dread-looking monster, and beheld only an emaciated youth, evidently nurtured
on the lap of gentleness. Indeed, there was no little confusion produced on
several occasions, by the compassion his appearance excited; one instance of
which happened, when Captain Loring, summoned entirely without the knowledge of
Hyland, along with two or three others, for no imaginable purpose, but to
testify to the mildness of his disposition and the excellence of his previous
character, entered the witness’s box, and laid eyes on the youth for the first
time since his arrest. He no sooner beheld his wretched plight, than forgetting
half his own wrongs, he began to blubber and stretch out his arms, and declare,
‘after all, adzooks, he didn’t believe his young Herman had committed the
murder, for all they said of him.’ Then being reproved, and something in the
rebuke reminding him of his daughter, he burst into a rage, reproaching the
young man for his deceit and base outrage, from which he was only diverted by a
second rebuke, to begin to blubber and defend as before. In short, it was soon
found that his testimony was not to be obtained, and as his wits were pretty
generally thought to be infirm, he was directed to be removed. This was,
however, at a later stage of the trial, and after the more important witnesses
had been examined. These comprehended those individuals who were present at the
scene of blood, the chief of whom were captain Caliver, lieutenant Brooks, and
the adventurer Sterling. The evidence of the two former might have been
esteemed sufficient of itself to convict the prisoner, and there seemed a
degree of cruelty in bringing into the court, merely to confirm their
testimony, a man enduring so much bodily suffering as this wretched Sterling.
It seemed, that he had received some serious injury, when hurled so roughly by
Oran Gilbert among the rocks; for it was remarked, soon after the cavalcade was
formed that conducted the body of young Falconer to Hawk-Hollow, that he became
wan and troubled, and occasionally a little wandering in his behaviour. He had
grown worse during the three days he was confined in prison, and had caused no
little trouble by his groans at night. In addition to all this, he had bled
freely from the cut he received from the jailer, while attempting to escape;
that attempt, as he averred on a previous occasion, having been made in his
sleep, he being occasionally afflicted with the infirmity of somnambulism. When
he appeared in court, all were struck with his haggard appearance; the light of
cunning had departed from his eyes and mouth, being superseded in the one by a
certain wild, yet torpid and smouldering ray, such as might be looked for in
the organs of an expiring maniac, while the other was distorted with pain, of
which it was hard to say whether it existed most in mind or body. Upon being
called upon to declare what he knew in relation to the prisoner and the
deceased, he swore, to the surprise of every one, ‘that he knew nothing to
prove the prisoner’s guilt, but much that spoke in favour of his innocence.’
Even Hyland, who had
leaned his head down in passive despair, was startled at a declaration so
unexpected; his counsel became a little animated, and the Deputy Attorney
General reminded the witness, ‘that he was now in a court of justice, speaking
to truth upon oath, and not upon the boards of a theatre, delivering the
tricksy paradoxes of a play-wright.’
“Very true,” said
Sterling, with a ghastly smile; “but that day is over.”
Upon being asked what
he meant by the last expression, he replied, ‘that he alluded to his original
profession of the stage, on which he once had his day, like others.’ He then
proceeded to state, that while pursuing his vocation, some years before, in the
island of Jamaica, he had several times seen the prisoner, then a young man of
eighteen or twenty, the heir of a rich widow, his kinswoman, and occupying a
highly favourable situation in society, and being, as far as he knew, of
estimable character. He next encountered him in the month of May, at the tavern
of Elsie Bell; although he did not immediately recognise him. The third time he
saw him was at the Terrapin Hole, among, or near to, the refugees, among whom,
as he caused it to appear, he had himself stumbled by accident; the consequence
of which was that he was induced to join the band, to protect himself from a
peculiar peril in which he was placed. On the evening of that day, he
accompanied the leader of the band to the park of Gilbert’s Folly, where the
prisoner was found struggling in mortal combat with the deceased. A conflict
ensuing, of which he could say but little, having spent several hours
previously in drinking, he did himself attack the deceased with a pistol,
scarce knowing, in his intoxication, what he did, and would have killed him,
had he not been restrained by the prisoner, who took the pistol from his hand,
and assisted the deceased to make his escape; “and this the prisoner did,”
added the witness, with a firm voice, “although, at that moment, he was
bleeding from a pistol-shot, received but a moment before from the deceased,
with whom he had fought a duel, and by whom he had been treated with some
unfairness and much barbarity.”
He then continued to
state, that the design having been communicated to him of carrying off Miss
Loring, he himself, esteeming it rather a wild frolic than a serious outrage,
had obtained permission to co-operate in an assumed character; and that what
confirmed him in the belief that no wrong was meditated to any one, was his
overhearing a conversation betwixt the prisoner and Oran Gilbert, in which the
former insisted that no one should be injured, particularly naming the deceased
and his father, Colonel Falconer. At the time the band broke into the house,
he, being again overcome by wine and in a mischievous mood, knocked down the
deceased with a fiddle; and had the prisoner been moved by any malicious
impulse, he could have easily killed him at that time. As for the murder
itself, all that he could say was, that at the moment the pistols were
discharged, he was himself nearer to the prisoner than was any other person on
the ground; and yet he could neither swear upon his knowledge nor to the best
of his belief, that the prisoner had fired the pistol that terminated the
deceased’s career. There were several pistols fired, he knew not by whom, nor
did he believe any man could say by whom, for the morning was still dark, and
all were in confusion. It was as likely that the deceased had been killed by
his own (the deceased’s) pistol, as by the prisoner’s; for being notoriously an
expert shot, nothing but accident could have caused him to miss the prisoner,
at whom he aimed, and who was so night at hand; and the accident that diverted
the pistol from the prisoner, might have turned it against the neck of the
deceased himself. Finally, he was convinced, that, be the matter as it might,
there could have been no malice aforethought on the prisoner’s part, or he would
have taken advantage of those moments to execute his purpose when he could have
done so without risk or discovery.
This testimony, which
was justly esteemed extraordinary, coming as it did from one who had been
admitted as evidence against the prisoner, produced a remarkable effect
throughout the whole court and jury, as well as the spectators; and was indeed
more like a harangue designed for the prisoner’s benefit than any thing else.
It was delivered with pain, but still firmly, and at the close, the witness
appearing to be exhausted, he was allowed to retire, while the Deputy, saying, ‘he
was gratified to hear such mitigating circumstances advanced in the prisoner’s
favour,’ added that he would summon two witnesses to prove the murder from the
prisoner’s own voluntary confession, and would then produce two pistols, the
only ones discharged, one of which he would prove had been fired by the
deceased, the other by the prisoner.
The jailer and his
assistant were called, and both swore, that the prisoner had repeatedly called
himself a murderer.
Honest
Schlachtenschlager, who had officiated as coroner, was then summoned, and
appeared in court, bearing five pistols, being those delivered to him by
Brooks, while sitting on the inquest. These being handed to the latter
gentleman, he immediately identified one as the weapon discharged by the
deceased; the second, he averred, he had taken from the ground at the prisoner’s
side, and the other, its fellow, from his holsters: the remaining pair belonged
to Sterling, and had been taken from him before or after the murder, he knew
not which, and had been by the witness given into the possession of
Schlachtenschlager.
“Yes,” said
Schlachtenschlager, “that fas fat the young man said. T’at pistol mit the
colden star on the preech, and the plue parrel, fas the ploodty feapon.”
Here the worthy
magistrate was directed to hold his tongue, his evidence not having been
required, and his commentaries being wholly superfluous. But he had said enough
to give a new and unexpected turn to the whole proceedings; for the prisoner,
who had been staring from the pistols to the witness, with a sort of passive
recklessness, no sooner heard the words ‘golden star,’ and ‘blue barrel,’
uttered than he started up as if seized with a fit of madness, his eyes staring
out of his head, his arms outstretched, and his whole figure displaying the
influence of some extraordinary conception.
“The golden star! the
blue barrel!” he cried, in a voice that thrilled every bosom. “Oh heaven! have
I been mad up to this moment? Ha, ha, ha! what a fool! what a dolt! Give me the
pistol!”
“Sit down,” said one of
the judges; and even his own counsel endeavoured to force him back on his seat.
“I won’t sit down,” he
cried in the same tones. “The pistol! the pistol! my life depends upon it! Oh,
heaven be thanked! I am an innocent man. The pistol! look at the pistol: there
is a shot in the vent, and it will not fire! I remember now, it flashed when
aimed at Sterling. Call Dancy Parkins--examine it, look at it, prick it with a
needle, --blow in it, pour water in it--it could not harm him! No! heaven be
thanked! no, no, no!” And so great became his agitation, that he fell to the
floor in a fit of convulsions.
This singular
announcement produced unspeakable agitation. The court was ordered to be
cleared, and the prisoner to be withdrawn a moment, until restored to his
senses. Dancy Parkins was then called, and upon being shown the pistol, swore
positively to the effect, that one of them (he knew not which,) had become
useless in consequence of a leaden shot, or some other substance, getting into
the vent; that the day before the attempt upon Gilbert’s Folly, he had been
directed by the prisoner, upon whom he attended, to remove the obstruction;
that he had received it for that purpose, but finding the removal more
difficult than he anticipated, and being hurried by other circumstances, he
returned it to the prisoner’s holsters, intending to resume the task at another
time; and then being separated from him, for the purpose of intercepting the
clergyman, had forgotten it entirely. He knew not which of the two pistols it
was; but if, as he supposed, the prisoner had not attempted to fire both, one
would be found charged: the other, that is to say, the one out of order, he had
himself taken care to empty of its contents before attempting to remove the
shot from the vent.
The pistols were
immediately examined, and one found well charged. The other was empty; and, as
had been said, and as was hoped by almost every man present, it was discovered
that there was some foreign body in the vent, which rendered it wholly
unserviceable.
“This is indeed
extraordinary!” said a judge on the bench.
“With your honour’s
permission,” said the Deputy, who had been whispering to one of the under
functionaries of justice, and now looked up in some perplexity, “I will recall
the witness Sterling to the stand; though I humbly submit, I know no more than
your honour what he has to say more. Yet he desires to be recalled.”
“Ay, let him come,” said
Hyland, clasping his hands with joy. “He remembers the circumstance; for I
showed him the pistol, and he told me the shot could be only taken out by a
drill.”
At this moment, the
current of feeling was strongly in the prisoner’s favour, and the condition of
his weapon rendering it impossible that it could have discharged the fatal
bullet, there was scarce a man present who did not believe him innocent, and
believe so with pleasure, notwithstanding his unhappy connexion with the
outlaws. But it was destined to be seen upon what a reed they had based their
commiseration and belief, when Sterling, appearing again, craved to mention a
circumstance which was now recalled to his memory by the turn of proceedings,
and of which his previous forgetfulness should be rightly attributed to illness
and disorder of mind. He remembered well the conversation of which the prisoner
spoke; he had said, that nothing but a drill would remove the obstruction;
but--and here he spoke with a degree of agitation that showed his reluctance to
advance any thing against the prisoner--it happened that the conversation
terminated in himself offering to remove the difficulty, by taking the pistol
with him to Elsie Bell’s, where some instrument might be found to serve the
purpose; that he had, accordingly, taken it, leaving one of his own pistols
with the prisoner, but had found neither leisure nor opportunity to repair it;
that the circumstances of flight had prevented a re-exchange; and finally, that
the incident had not been again thought of by him until the present moment. He
was not himself disarmed until after Falconer’s death; he had a pistol in his
hand at the moment, which he dropped, while seizing upon the prisoner; and
taking it up again (as he supposed) afterwards, it was probable he had then,
without observing it, regained his own; and this might perhaps be the weapon
with which the unfortunate shot had been fired. He was disarmed a few moments
afterwards, and was then seized with indisposition, which prevented his
examining into the matter, or indeed thinking of it.
This testimony was as
decisive as it was wholly unexpected. It struck the prisoner dumb, and his
looks of horror were esteemed the best proofs of guilt. It was in vain that he
afterwards exclaimed that the witness had sworn falsely; he had no testimony to
disprove the story, and it was one that all others found apt and true,
especially when Sterling’s pistols having been examined, one of them was
discovered to be empty. No one had dreamed of doubting the prisoner’s guilt,
until the moment when his sudden burst of animation at the sight of the
weapons, threw all into confusion; and such was the change of feeling produced
by Sterling’s testimony, that it soon became the general impression that the
prisoner had been playing a part in first acknowledging himself guilty, and
then affecting to be surprised into a belief of his own innocence. Such an
opinion as this could not, indeed, long prevail; for it was manifest, upon
considering the circumstances, that the prisoner must have been as ignorant as
others of the true condition of the pistols, unless he had previously, as if in
anticipation of arrest, founded his whole scheme of bloodshed upon the accident
of the obstruction; in which case he must have fired the other pistol, which
was still loaded, or used some third one, which he had cast out of sight,
although instantly surrounded by many different persons. The testimony of
Sterling afforded the only and the best solution of the riddle, as far as it
related to the crime; while in regard to the prisoner himself, all that could
be imagined to account for his change of deportment, was to suppose that even
he had forgotten the original exchange of weapons,--that he was inspired with
the hope of escape, upon the presentation of his own as that by which the
murder had been committed,--and that that hope, thus accidentally excited,
still nerved him to assert his innocence.
The contest was however
over, the hour of grace was past, and the jury, after being charged in a manner
highly unfavourable to him, were sent out to form a verdict, the character of
which no one thought of doubting. It was even supposed that a few moments would
suffice to terminate their deliberations, and that they would shortly return,
to pronounce the word of doom. In this, however, the spectators were
disappointed: some merciful, or doubting member of the panel had thrown a
difficulty in the way of others; and, the prisoner being remanded, the court
was adjourned until such time as they should be found to have agreed upon a
verdict.
In the meanwhile,
expectation was still on the stretch; the spectators from a distance still
lingered in the village, the villagers themselves wandered up and down, or
collected together at their doors in groups, all awaiting the tap of the bell
that should call the court together to receive the verdict, and all agitated by
the thousand rumours that were supposed to have made their way from the
jury-room. It was twenty times, at least, in the course of the night, reported
that the jury had already agreed, and twenty times there was a rush of people
towards the court-doors, anxious and eager to behold the bearing of the
prisoner, while listening to the word that should consign him to the death of a
felon; but twenty times curiosity was disappointed; and the morning came
without bringing the jury from their place of deliberation.
But long before the
night had passed away, a new feature was added to the story of Hyland’s fate,
and new characters mingled in the drama, bringing with them new revolutions.
Peace: thou hast told a
tale, whose every word
Threatens eternal
slaughter to thy soul.
-- Heaven is angry,
and, be thou resolved,
Thou art a man remark’d
to taste of mischief:
Look for’t; though it
come late, it will come sure.
Ford
The appearance of the
refugees, with the fierce though unavailing contest they had attempted with the
pursuers on the night of the outrage, had spread the alarm far and wide; and
this was not diminished by the daring assault on the prison, as it was called,
the real character of that enterprise not having yet generally transpired. One
consequence of the alarm was, to draw to the scene of commotion the governor,
or President as he was then called, of the commonwealth, who happened in the
neighbourhood upon some tour of duty, and arrived after nightfall, so that his
person was not generally known before day. One of the first persons upon whom
he laid his eyes, after entering the hotel, was his old and distinguished
acquaintance Colonel Falconer, with whose unhappy loss he was already
acquainted, as well as with many incidents of the trial. Upon saluting him by
name, the Colonel became greatly agitated, and besought him not to repeat the
word, if he would not have him murdered before his eyes; with other expressions
indicative of a disordered mind, which the dignitary attributed at once to his
melancholy bereavement. He then accompanied him to a private apartment, where
he attempted to soothe him by condoling with him on his loss, but found him
incapable of listening to argument or entreaty. The death of his son did not
seem to affect him so deeply as the malice of the murderer, of whom he spoke
with a bitterness and vindictiveness of feeling that shocked his hearer. It has
been seen how his heart softened over this unhappy youth, when he met him at
the water-fall, and deemed that he owed a life to his virtue. The death of his
son had, however, converted his feelings into a new channel; and he saw in the
humanity that drove him from the Hollow, only the evidence of a coldblooded
design to withdraw him from the scene, that his son might perish unaided; and
this design he contrasted with his own friendly resolutions. In short, the demon
of revenge had entered his spirit, along with that of fear; for, it seemed, the
repeated discoveries of Oran Gilbert penetrating even to the haunts of his
foes, had infected him with terror on his own account. The sight of the
governor, in whose hands lay the power of life and death, seemed to throw him
into alarm, lest he had come with the design of pardoning the murderer; and he
lanched at once into a strain of vehement complaint, in which he mingled
denunciations against the prisoner with personal calls upon the governor for
justice.
In the midst of this
scene, which the magistrate strove in vain to bring to an end, the door of the
chamber was thrown open, and the figure of Elsie Bell entered the apartment.
She had risen from a bed of sickness,--it might have been supposed from a bed
of death, for her appearance was more like that of a moving corse than a living
being: and as she tottered up to Colonel Falconer, who stood aghast at the
spectacle, her bloodless cheeks, livid lips, and eyes shining, almost without
speculation, through the gray locks that had escaped from her head-dress,
filled even the governor with awe.
“Where is Richard
Falconer?” she cried, “I heard his voice but now; and it called for justice!”
Her looks wandered from
the governor, upon whom they were first fixed, to the object of her inquiry;
and it is impossible to describe the expression of mingled triumph and horror
with which she surveyed him. She raised her shrivelled hands, and shaking them
with a fierce but palsied motion, cried,--
“Yes, Richard Falconer,
you called for justice, and now you have it. It has come, at last, in blood,
and in blood richer than that of your own bosom. The death-bed curse of a
ruined woman will not be forgotten,--it curses for ever!”
“For God’s sake,
governor,” cried Falconer, trembling from head to foot, “leave me, or take the
wretched creature away.”
“Yes, leave us,” said
the widow: “let no one look upon him more, let no one look upon him now. Away,
if you have pity for him who has none for himself.”
The governor looked at
Falconer, and perceiving that, although incapable of utterance, he made earnest
gestures to him to depart, he left the chamber without speaking a word, but
with a look indicating amazement and suspicion. He was no sooner gone than
Elsie, stepping up to Falconer, laid her hand on his arm, now seemingly as
palsied as her own, and said, with accents that sounded in his ear like the cry
of a raven,--
“You asked for
justice--ay, I heard the words with my own ears! you asked for blood,--the
blood of him who has shed that of your son! You called for justice--it was for
justice on your own head! Richard Falconer,” she continued, “well may you
tremble; the curse of Jessie Gilbert is now upon your soul, and it will be on
it for ever.”
“Woman,” said Falconer,
endeavouring to shake her off, but in vain, “you will drive me distracted.”
“I will do you no such
mercy,” said Elsie: “Hearken--the last words of Jessie Gilbert were a
curse,--the curse of a broken-hearted woman upon her betrayer: she died cursing
you, and now the curse you feel, without knowing half its dreadfulness. Richard
Falconer, you ask for the blood of Henry Falconer’s murderer. Miserable man.!”
she added, relaxing her grasp, and clasping her hands with horror, “it is the
blood of your own son,--the blood of the child of Jessie Gilbert!”
“Hah!” said
Falconer,--but said no more. He gazed in the face of the speaker, and read a
dreadful confirmation of her words, while she continued to utter, as in a kind
of insane exultation,
“Is not this revenge
for Jessie Gilbert? The brother kills the brother, and the father kills the
son!--ay, as he before killed the mother! Now, Richard Falconer, repent and
die--the victim is avenged! It is true!”
“It is false! false as
hell!” said Falconer, recovering speech; “or what, oh God of heaven! what am I!”
“The avenger of your
own black and heartless villany,” said the woman. “Hearken, Richard Falconer,
and you shall know all. When Oran Gilbert knew the shame of his sister, he
swore its miserable fruit should never see the light; and I knew he would slay
it, even out of hatred of the father. That night! that night! it was a night of
horror. Jessie Gilbert lay dead, with a babe wailing on her bosom; and the
mother, the broken-hearted step-mother gave to my hands her own untimely and
still-born offspring--the brothers raved at the door, calling for the child of
shame. I had mercy--mercy on your child,--not because it was yours, but because
it was the babe of Jessie. I laid it in the arms of the step-mother, and it
lived. She kept the secret, and the father of her you betrayed kept it also,
though he sent it afar from his sight. Thus was it saved--thus was the child of
sorrow preserved, that he might imbrue his hands in the blood of his brother, and
then perish at the call of his father!”
“Wretch!” said
Falconer, sinking on a seat, “and this dreadful secret you kept, that I might
be made the most miserable of men? And you incited on the unhappy Hyland to the
murder of his brother?”
“I did what I could to
save him,--not for your sake, though, Richard Falconer, but for the love of
Jessie. I warned the boy of his danger--nay, I would have told him of his
birth, but that I knew it would kill him; and I loved him for his goodness. Why
should I have filled him with shame, staining him who was innocent of his
father’s crimes, with the disgrace of his birth?”
“Elsie Bell,” said
Falconer rising and advancing towards her, “I am a villain.--My poor Harriet!
my poor Harriet” he added, and as the widow looked into his face, she was
amazed to see it streaming with tears. “But for her, but for her,” he added, “but
for her and my wretched Henry--but for my children, Elsie, I might, I would
have done justice to Jessie’s memory. Oh God! had I but known of this thing
before! But why, now, should it be known? You revenge the murdered Jessie not
on me, Elsie, but on my poor Harriet. The stain you feared to cast on the name
of Hyland, you fling on the forehead of my daughter. Elsie Bell, Elsie Bell,”
he exclaimed, in unspeakable agitation, while drops of sweat rolled from his
temples and mingled with his tears, “if I tell you what you know not, though it
show me to have done worse by Jessie Gilbert than you dream, it will destroy my
remaining child. And why should I destroy her? Why fling her before the world
as a creature to be scorned, for the sake of a wretched fratricide? I will not
do it,--I will say no more--what have I said? When they are dead, --when all
are dead, then let me lay bare my baseness, and think of the memory of Jessie.
But this child,--this wretched, this blood-stained Hyland,--I will save his
life,--the governor shall grant me his pardon; it cannot be that he will refuse
me--But I will never see him, no, never-- Hah! hear! what is this? They are bringing
him forth! Hark! they are shouting aloud for his condemnation!--Oh heaven
support me! To this I--I have brought him!”
But we have not the
courage to pursue further the agonies of the wretched father, whom a sudden
commotion in the street, with loud cries of “To the court! to the court! the
jury have made a verdict!” one of twenty false rumours to which expectation
gave birth,--threw into new transports of anguish. At last, moved by an
irresistible impulse, he started up and ran into the streets, through which he
made his way to the prison.
In the meanwhile,
Hyland strode (for though securely fettered, he was no longer chained to the
floor,) to and fro in his cell, a changed, we might almost say, a happy, man.
The sight of his pistols in the court had introduced a new set of associations,
from which he perceived clearly, that, although he had so long esteemed himself
the author of Falconer’s death, that young man had, in truth, fallen by some
other hand. The story told by Sterling of the exchange of pistols between him
and the prisoner, was, as Hyland had pronounced it, a sheer fabrication;
although he was unable to devise any reason Sterling could have for swearing
falsely; his original testimony having made it clear, that he was not actuated
by motives of malice. He remembered that he had raised a weapon against his
rival, which, as others were, discharged at the same moment, he did not dream
had failed to go off; although he now recalled to mind that the same one--he
had taken it from the same side of the saddle--had flashed in his hands, when
aimed at the head of Sterling. Remembering these circumstances in connexion with
Dancy’s declaration that he had restored the pistol, entirely empty, to the
holsters, he saw at once, however others failed to see it, that Providence had
interposed to save him from the crime of bloodshed, and that he was therefore,
save in intent, wholly innocent. This persuasion was enough to banish his
despair, which was founded chiefly on remorse; and perhaps, in great measure,
also, his apprehensions; although in a cooler moment, he would have perceived
upon how weak a foundation he built his hope of escape, so long as the
falsehood of Sterling was not exposed.
Twenty times he
endeavoured to throw himself upon his knees, to thank Heaven for its signal
interposition in his favour; but his devotions were checked by the tumult of
his mind, which increased at last into such distraction, that although he
received a visit from his jailer, whose errand had no unimportant bearing upon
his interests, he failed to take any advantage of Lingo’s good will, or even to
understand the purport of his communications. The fact was, the note of hand
which he had drawn from Affidavy’s pocket, besides affording confirmatory
evidence of that worthy individual’s connexion with the attempted rescue, had
made a strong impression upon Lingo’s cupidity; and his object in the visit was
nothing less than to intimate his willingness to serve the prisoner in the same
way, and on much more reasonable terms. But he found the prisoner in no
condition to treat with him on such a delicate subject; and after unmasking his
battery, and uttering several broad hints in regard to his friendly intentions,
he was forced to give over in despair, resolving, however, to open negotiations
at a more favourable moment.
In the meanwhile,
Hyland still paced to and fro through his dungeon, till his feeble limbs
refused to support him longer. He then threw himself upon his couch, and
becoming more collected, pondered bitterly over his situation. He heard the
rush of the people towards the court-house, which was at no great distance, as
well as their shouts ‘that the jury had descended!’ and he felt at once, with a
thrill of fear, that he still lay hovering on the brink of a precipice. He
started up in an agony of mind not to be controlled, and throwing himself upon
his knees, began to invoke heaven with wild exclamations; when the door of his
cell was thrown open, a bright lamp flashed in his face, and looking up, his
eye fell upon that of Colonel Falconer, who entered the room, followed by the
tottering Elsie. The door was closed behind them, and Falconer stood rooted to
the floor, surveying his wretched offspring, who seemed petrified at his
appearance, while Elsie stepping up to him, held the lamp to his face, and bade
the father look upon the features of his son.
“It is Jessie’s face
over again,” she muttered, “and as pale, as ghastly, and as distracted as when
she cursed her betrayer. She cursed him, but do not you, Hyland--the curse has
fallen upon all. Now, Richard Falconer, behold your son, and remember Jessie
Gilbert!”
“His son!” cried
Hyland, starting to his feet; “his son! Are you mad? Oh, Elsie, I am half
distracted myself. Why do you bring that man to me?”
“Because,” said Elsie; “he
claims to see his offspring.”
“His offspring! Vain
old woman!”
“Would that you were
not,” said Colonel Falconer, with clasped hands. “I am now punished enough.
Alas, wretched boy, you have killed your father’s son. Hearken to this woman,
and then add to the crime that already stains you, a malediction upon your
parent.”
“It is true, Hyland, it
is true,” said Elsie. “As there is a heaven above you, you look upon your own
father, and you have killed your half-brother.”
“I have killed nobody,”
said the youth, impetuously; “and if you would have me still innocent, drive
that man away. His son! sooner make me the way-side beggar’s--nay, make me
believe myself a murderer rather. His son!”
“Ay,” said Colonel
Falconer, with deep emotion, “the sinful son of a sinful parent.!”
“Stand away! approach
me not!” said Hyland, for Falconer was approaching. “Your misfortune has turned
your brain. Touch me not, for I remember my sister!”
“Your mother, boy, your
mother!” said Elsie.
“Be it my mother, if
you will: what then have I but more cause to curse the author of her shame?”
“The author of her
death, not shame,” said Falconer, with a smothered voice. “Murderer of your
brother, even for your sake I will take that veil of disgrace from your mother’s
memory that must be hung round the brows of my daughter. Do not curse me, my
son--Elsie Bell, I deceived you all, and it was the deceit that killed my poor
Jessie. This boy was born in wedlock,--the child of the abandoned and
broken-hearted, yet wedded, wife of her destroyer.”
“Your wife! gracious
heaven, your wife!” said Elsie, on whom these words produced as strong an
effect as upon the bewildered Hyland. “Now, Richard Falconer, if you have
spoken the truth, you are indeed a blacker villain than ever men believed you.”
“I am,” said Falconer; “for
with the lie I killed my wife and laid her in a grave of dishonour. You were
made to believe it was but a mock ceremony that united us: it was a legal and
honourable tie, and broken only by the death of Jessie. And for what purpose?
You know, Elsie Bell, you know very well, yes, surely you know,” he added, with
much agitation, and as if afraid to speak further. But Elsie sternly affirming
her ignorance of any cause he had for destroying the peace and good name of her
whom he acknowledged his lawful wife, and Hyland now regarding him with a look
of mingled fear and entreaty, he essayed to speak; and again the sweat-drops,
oozing from his temples, betrayed the anguish and shame of mind with which he
exposed an act of unexampled duplicity and baseness. His confession was indeed
one which no light remorse could have wrung from his spirit; but it was made,
and made without concealment or attempted extenuation, although it undoubtedly
revealed a strong if not just reason for his failure to rescue from shame the
memory of his betrayed wife. He had begun the world as a needy adventurer; but
was early patronized by a gentleman of great wealth, with whose daughter, an
only child, he soon presumed to fall deeply in love; the consequence of which
was the withdrawal of his patron’s favour, and immediate expulsion from his
house. It appeared, that he had not failed to make some impression upon the
lady’s heart; but she was a spoiled child and coquette, and he left her with
but little hope of ever deriving any advantage from her tenderness. He betook
himself to the army, was transferred, in course of time, to the frontiers, and
in less than two years after his departure, found himself recovering from the
wounds he had received at the Moravian town, under the roof of Gilbert’s Folly.
The youth and beauty of Jessie, his gratitude for her kindness, and still more,
perhaps, for her affection, which the simplehearted maiden gave him almost at
first sight, and had not the power to conceal, touched his imagination, if not
his feelings; and in a moment of excitement, and folly, he proffered her his
hand, and was married. The marriage was secret--it might be added, accidental;
for the freedom of manners, at that day, and in that country, allowing such
license, he often, as he recovered, found himself galloping with the merry
maiden on visits among the settlements a dozen or more miles distant; and it
was upon one of these occasions that he gave his love and faith together to the
thoughtless maiden. The knot was, however, no sooner tied, than he was seized
with fears and regrets: he had already received overtures towards a reconciliation
by his old patron, and without well conceiving in what manner he could profit
by a return of friendship in such quarter, he persuaded himself, and his bride
also, that his interest demanded some temporary concealment of their union. To
this Jessie was easily induced to accede; for having no distrust in her lover,
she saw in such concealment only an additional frolic, such as she esteemed her
marriage to be. She feared no censure from her parent, who had indeed long
since signified the pleasure with which he would receive so gallant a gentleman
for his son-in-law; and she looked forward with merry anticipation to the hour
when she should present herself to him as a bride of a month’s standing. She
consented therefore, not merely with readiness, but alacrity, to preserve the
wedding a strict secret; and in that fatal consent paved the way for her own
ruin and untimely end. We will speak the remainder of the mournful story in a
word. The overtures from the patron were renewed, and were accompanied by the
smiles of his daughter. Falconer looked upon Jessie with anger, perhaps with
abhorrence,--she stood in the way of his fortune. The old love smiled again,
and forgetting that now the smile came too late, he yielded to the intoxication
of his original passion, threw himself at her feet, and became, even with her
father’s consent, an accepted lover. The state of his mind can be now better
imagined than described; love, avarice, and ambition together, as well as a
consciousness that he had involved himself beyond all retreat, urged him to
persevere in a suit both dishonourable and criminal; and Jessie was now thought
of only to be hated. Months passed by, and the jest of the frolic was over; yet
the marriage was not divulged; the young bride begged to disclose the secret,
and every entreaty filled him with new alarm and anger; until the accidental
death of the regimental chaplain by whom they had been united, and the previous
decease of the only witnesses to the ceremony, put him upon a scheme for
relieving himself from his bonds worthy rather of a fiend than a human being.
His witnesses were two soldiers of his company, whom he had bribed to silence
so liberally, that they quarrelled together in their cups, and fought, and that
with such fury, that one was killed on the spot, and the other died before he
could be brought to a trial. The chaplain was drowned five months after in
attempting to cross a flooded river. There remained therefore no witness of the
union, and the only testimony remaining, to wit, the certificate signed by the
unfortunate chaplain, was already in Falconer’s hands. Opportunity--the devil
that seduces beyond all other fiends--destroyed every vestige of honour and
humanity in his bosom; he fled from his betrayed wife, leaving her to believe
that the ceremony of marriage between them had been only a brutal mockery,
contrived by a villain for her ruin. He left her to believe this, to madden,
and to die; and before she had drawn her last sigh,--nay, upon the morning of
that dreadful midnight that saw her expire,--he had yielded to the fate he had
encouraged, and taken a second wife to his bosom.
“I lived, I prospered,”
he cried, when he had brought his dark confession to a close; “and two fair
infants sat upon my knee; but their looks were curses to me--their birth was
infamous; and I myself, though men knew it not, was in the eye of God and the
law, a felon!--Now, Hyland, son of the wronged Jessie, I have defended your
mother’s memory; but I am not less a villain. Expose me to the world, curse me,
for I deserve it--yes!” he added, with wildness, and even falling upon his
knees before the horror-struck son,--“expose me and curse me, but have pity
upon my child,--have mercy upon your sister,--the sister of the brother you
slew,--my poor, wretched, dishonoured Harriet.”
“God forgive you, sir,”
said Hyland, with tears. “Leave me--I cannot call you father: but I will not
disgrace your daughter. No, I will not--but my mother--And she was my mother
then?-- my mother’s name must rest no longer in infamy. Go, sir; I forgive
you--that is, I will not upbraid you; but I cannot, I cannot call you father. I
am innocent of Henry’s--of my brother’s death-- Yes, I will call him brother,
for surely he never wronged my poor mother. Take this much comfort--my hand never
fired the pistol that killed him; and, whether I live or die, it will soon be
seen that I am innocent of his blood.”
“God grant it,” said
Colonel Falconer, but with an accent showing how vaguely the thought of Henry
now sat on his bosom. “God grant it-- but--hark! what is that? They cry again!
It is the descent of the jury! Oh Heaven, I am punished indeed for that act of
baseness! Farewell, my son: I do not ask you for forgiveness--but touch my
hand, grasp my hand but once”--
“I cannot,” said Hyland,
recoiling with such horror, that the unhappy father bowed his head with shame.
He then snatched up the light, unconscious of what he did, and moved towards
the door, as if to depart; but a louder cry from the street striking his ear,
he again turned round, and looked Hyland in the face.
“They are calling for
your blood,” he said, “but they do not know you killed your brother!-- What!
not touch my hand? Well, it is but justice,--I will not trouble you more.”
With these words, he
turned to depart, still holding the lamp; but had scarce moved his foot, before
there was heard, at a little distance without, the sound, as it seemed, of a
rifle, or other small arms.
“Oh Heaven! my father!”
cried Hyland, starting up, with a voice that thrilled Elsie to the brain,-- “I
have killed my father!”
The lamp fell from
Colonel Falconer’s hands, and all was in darkness. As Hyland rushed to where he
had stood, his foot struck against a prostrate body; and reaching down, he
found his hand slipping in a puddle of warm blood.
“Elsie! Elsie!” cried
the distracted youth, “a light for God’s sake! It was meant for me, but it has
struck my father! Why did I forget? Oh, I thought not of my folly.--Help me,
Elsie--he groans.”
“Enough,--let me lie
where I am,” said Falconer, with a voice almost inaudible. “There is
retribution for all.”
“Call the
jailer!--Quick, jailer, quick!” cried Hyland, as the door opened, disclosing
the broad and wondering visage of Hanschen: “help me to place him upon the bed;
and then, oh for God’s sake, quick for a surgeon!”
But Hanschen answered
only by slapping to the door, without uttering a word; and making his way as
fast as he could towards the cell of Sterling, in which was, at that moment,
presented a scene of not less fearful character than that which had passed
before Hyland’s eyes.
Let me sit heavy on thy
soul to-morrow.
King Richard III.
It was not until long
after noon of the day of trial that Affidavy woke from the stupefaction into
which he was plunged by the cup he had so craftily qualified; and then it was
some time before he could summon his recollection, and conceive where he was.
He found himself in a cell obviously of the prison; for the single window that
lighted it was strongly grated, and the door fast bolted on the outside. There
was a bed hard by, in which, as was apparent from its condition, some one had
passed the night; but who that might have been he knew not, no one being now
visible. As for himself, he found that his couch had been nothing better than
the hard floor; and close by where he lay, he discovered a pool of coagulated
blood. He was seized with alarm, and finding the door refuse all egress, he ran
to the window, and beheld in the yard which it overlooked, a sight that,
besides filling him with new terror, conveyed an inkling to his mind of his
true situation and its cause. This was nothing less than the dead bodies of two
men, lying stiff and gory upon a bench, without even a cloth to conceal them
from the light of day.
“Botheration, and God bless
my soul!” he cried, “I’m a ruined man!”
“Done up,--as clean as
a skinned eel,” said a voice at his back; and, looking round, he beheld his
friend, the jailer, enter the cell, with a grim smile on his visage, which was
not much improved in beauty by a red handkerchief, that swathed it round from
jaw to top-knot. “Done up, Teffy, my boy, as slick as a new bolt. Who’ll you
have for your counsel?--or do you think of pleading your own cause? Ods bobs,
you can make a good speech;--I always said that for you.”
“Counsel!--cause!--speech!”
echoed the man of law;--“God bless our two souls!”
“Amen,--or e’er a one
of ’em,” said Lingo, with solemn utterance; “for I’m thinking it will go hard
with one of us. Howsomever, I’m glad to see you in your senses. Sorry you had
so hard a bed of it; but howsomever, when they hang your client up there, I’ll
give you better quarters. I reckon, it will be imprisonment for life with you;
though some says, they are to try you on the capital charge of aiding and ’betting
with the tories, which is clean hanging treason.”
“God bless our two
souls!” said Affidavy, with an air of wo and terror so irresistibly ludicrous,
that Lingo, perceiving his utterance failed to supply any further expressions,
burst into a loud laugh, and threw himself on the vacant bed, where he rolled
over and over, giving way to mirth and triumph together.
“Blarney and ods bobs!”
he cried, after he had amused himself awhile in this fashion; “and so you
thought to come the humbug over me, old Teff! Ha, ha, ha! I always said you
could make a good speech, and so you can; but as to pulling straws with Bob
Lingo, why I never said no such thing, for I won’t lie for no man. How did you
like the cock-tail, with the cherry-bounce and doctor’s stuff in it? Ods bobs,
did you think I could go any such liquor as that? But now you see what you’ve
come to,--clean done up, broke, smashed, pounded into hominy, and cribbed under
lock and key. So much for not playing fair, and making honest snacks of the
plunder! Where’s them seventeen guineas in goold? and the note for two thousand
more? Oh, you old ox-fly! would you have sucked the poor young feller’s blood?”
At the mention of these
valuables, Affidavy, who stood mute with surprise and dismay, clapped his hands
into his pockets, first into one and then the other, and groaned to find them
empty. “You’ve robbed me, Bob Lingo!” he said.
“As clean as ever I
curried a horse,” said the jailer, betaking himself to his own pockets, and
displaying both the money and the treacherous note, the latter of which he
moved before Affidavy’s eyes with peculiar glee, saying,
“Here’s evidence that’ll
be a smasher; and then the bottle of laudanum! Oh, you old Teff,” he cried,
shaking his fist, but more in exultation than anger, “when you mean to p’ison
any of your friends, don’t you go for to get the p’ison the same day; lay it up
a month before-hand. Ods bobs, if you wasn’t as poor as a rat, I’d have an
action ag’in you on my own account, for an attempt to murder. But, ods bobs, I
do think now you look like a singed cat,--I do, Affidavy!”
Here he burst into
another roar, having indulged which, he rose, and satisfied with the terror he
had inflicted, proceeded very cooly to inform the discomfited prisoner that his
case was not so bad as he thought; that he had not ‘blowed him’ yet; and that
he didn’t know whether he would, for he was a merciful man in his way. “I
smoked you, Affidavy,” said he, “as soon as I heard you talk of your client,
and saw you show that ’ere guinea, --’specially when you fell so much in love
with me of a sudden, and with the jail here. I sent Hans after you, and he saw
you ride out on the prisoner’s horse; and, ods bobs, I thought of sending some
so’diers to dog after you; but they was all out in the bushes already. Then I
went to the doctor’s shop, to get some laudanum for an aching tooth, and said
he, ‘Vy there’s Affidafy has peen pying laudanum for an aching tooth, too!’--Oho!
said I; and then, old boy, I was ready for you. And you see the end! while you
was lying snorting here like a corn-fed pig, we was knocking the tories on the
head at the yard-gate. And then we had the coroner on ’em, and you no wiser;
and the magistrates and all the town inquiring into the fuss, and you no wiser;
and there, indeed, there’s your client, poor fellow, they’re trying in court as
hard as they can, the evidence all over, the speeches half done, and still,
Affidavy, my boy, you no wiser. Ha, ha! I do think you look like an
apple-dumpling that’s tumbled out of the pot, and staring up out of the ashes!”
“Well, Bob,” said
Affidavy, with an attempt at a laugh, that ended in a groan, “I knock under to
you: you’ve beat me hollow. But now, if you please, and with many thanks to you
for not blabbing, I’ll take that wallet, and the guineas; and as for the
silver, why I don’t care if you keep it.”
“No, I reckon not,”
said Lingo, with a grin. “But, I’m thinking, you’ll just take the silver
yourself, and be thankful I let you off so easy. What, man, do you suppose I’ll
run the risk of defending you from a prosecution--a criminal prosecution, d’ye
see--by holding my tongue, for nothing? Don’t go to be such a fool.”
“Well then,” said
Theophilus, with a groan, “do as you like, and let me out.”
“Not so fast, neither,”
said Lingo; and then added, with a nod of the head, “I reckon there’s more of
the shiners where these come from?”
“Well,” said Affidavy, “what
then?”
“Why then,” said Lingo,
“I don’t care if I run a risk with you, and go snacks.”
“Will you?” said
Affidavy. “Then, ehem, humph!--You know what I mean; and there’s a thousand
a-piece on that note!”
“The ready, old boy,
the ready! hang all your paper promises; I go for the ready.”
“Well then, let me out,
and I’ll state the case to one we know of. But, I fear, the ready’s not to be
had--We’ll take a second note of the prisoner.”
“Ods bobs! are you
there with your notes still? Now if you come to that, I reckon I can do all
that without assistance, and no snacks neither. And so good by to you.”
With that the jailer,
giving the attorney another nod, flung out of the cell, taking good care,
however, to lock the door behind him; leaving Affidavy to suspect, as he did,
that Lingo was resolved to manage the case, and reap the harvest, on his own
account.
“Oh the villain!”
sighed the disconsolate attorney. “But I’ll be even with him yet. Let me see
--hum--good! the rascal is already implicated, having concealed my--faugh! So
he will not dare to accuse me now. Well, I’ll see through it by and by. That cursed
laudanum! I do think it has turned my brain into a dough-cake--Very well-- Was
there ever such an ass!--That I should let such a jolterhead get the upper hand
of me!--I wonder what’s the matter with my ribs!--Nothing to drink!--no,
botheration, nor to eat, neither.-- Very well, Bob Lingo; I’ll remember you.”
He then sought to
relieve the perplexity of his mind by walking about; but the excessive and
unnatural debauch had bereft him of strength, so that he was soon compelled to
sit down upon the bed, where he found the stupor, which had not yet entirely
deserted his faculties, returning and growing upon him, in spite of all his
efforts to resist it. In a word, he became again very drowsy, and fearing lest
some additional evil should befall him if caught again napping, he rose up and
looked from the window, to divert his mind from its lethargy. He saw, from the
ruddy hue of the sunshine on the neighbouring roofs, and the golden tinge of
the floating clouds, that the day was already declining; by which he perceived
how long he had already slept, and wondered that, after such a siege of
slumber, he should so soon feel any inclination to sleep again. But, while he
wondered, he found the clouds and house-tops blending their outlines together
on his vision, while the hum of the village grew confused in his ear. He
stalked about again, then again sat down on the bed; when, fearing lest that
should seduce him into slumber, and being incapable of remaining longer upon
his feet, he betook himself to a corner, where he sat down on the floor,
pursuing his meditations; and there, after much nodding, musing, and scratching
of head, he fell, in spite of all efforts to the contrary, fast asleep.
He slept long and
soundly; and the shadows of night had been long gathered over the earth, before
certain sounds in the narrow apartment, mingling with his dreams, imparted to
them the horrors of nightmare, and then suddenly dispelled them. He was
awakened by a human groan, hollow and sepulchral, but so loud that he deemed it
was breathed just at his ear; and looking up, he beheld a spectacle that caused
his hair to bristle with terror. It was, as he perceived, dark night; but a
lamp, standing upon a little table near the bed, poured a dim and ghastly light
over the cell, sufficient to reveal the few objects it contained. Upon the bed
sat a tall man, in his night-gear, with a visage of death-like hue, and eyes
staring out of his head, which he rolled now to the right hand and now to the
left, as if gazing upon objects invisible to the attorney; although Affidavy
was accustomed to declare afterwards, when good cheer made him communicative,
that he distinctly saw at the right hand of the sick man, and not fifteen feet
from himself, a figure as of a man swathed in a bloody sheet, that stood gazing
the other in the face, and gradually melted into the obscurity, as he himself
surveyed it more intently. Be that as it may, there was enough of the ghostly
and terrific in the appearance and expressions of the sick man, to keep the
attorney cowering with fear in his corner, without any addition of horrors from
the world of spirits; and accordingly, Affidavy sat looking on and listening,
without the power to move, or even to rise.
The sick man continued
to roll his eyes, occasionally uttering deep groans, and now and then muttering
expressions that showed the horror of his mind, without, at first, clearly
disclosing the cause.
“Ay, wave your hand,”
he heard him say, as if addressing some phantom revealed only to his own
senses; “wave your hand, and point to the bloody throat: it was well aimed,
boy, well aimed, and it was well done. I care not for you: it is the other that
moves me; for him I killed with a lie, and there he sits smiling! His face is
black and swollen, yet he smiles; his arms are bound behind, yet he smiles; a
rope is round his neck, yet he smiles.--Ay, smile, boy, smile! that smile is
heavier on my heart than the frown of the soldier!-- A smile! men would call
that poor revenge; but we, boy, ha, ha! we know better!”
He then fell back upon
the bed, and lay for a moment quiet; so that Affidavy had leisure to recall his
spirits, and penetrate the mystery, which had at first so deeply appalled him.
His first thought was, that he was enclosed with some wounded refugee, captured
in the toils to which he himself had unwittingly brought him; but remembering
presently that he had seen two bodies stretched in the yard below, and had good
reason, from Lingo’s expressions, to believe the third man had made his escape,
he perceived that this must be some prisoner of an earlier date; and he knew
that, the night before, there were but three in Lingo’s charge. With the person
of the unfortunate Hyland he was already well acquainted, and Dancy Parkins
was, it might be said, his old acquaintance. His thoughts reverted immediately
to Sterling, whom he had never seen; and he remembered, at the same time, that
Lingo had hinted to him the ease with which he might weaken this man’s
testimony, if that were desirable, by convicting him of insanity. “Oho, the
dog, Lingo!” said he to himself; “he has shut me up with a madman then? Now, if
he should be dangerous, God bless our two souls!--Ha! there, he’s rising again!
God bless our two souls!”
“They are gone then?”
muttered the wretch, in whose sunken features, hollow voice, and altered
spirit, one would with difficulty have recognised the humorous, bold, and
reckless adventurer; “they are gone; but it will not be long. Hah!” he added,
fixing his eye, with a fearful stare, upon the vacant wall, “you come again, and
frowning! Yet I fear not: other men have shed blood, and lived happy. It is not
for you, but for the other-- him that lies across my feet smiling! Hah, what!”
he screamed, rather than said, as his eye, wandering towards the foot of the
bed, suddenly fell upon the figure of Affidavy, in his corner, now cowering low
with terror, “are there three? Devil! you lie!” he exclaimed, leaping out of
bed, “there were but two--him that I shot, and him that I killed with false
witness. Ha, ha, ha! these are juggling fiends! devils of legerdemain! that
make a man worse than he is! You look me in the face --Well! I look back:--do
you think to fright me? Look at me then, and say, if you dare, that I hurt you!”
And with these words,
he advanced towards Affidavy, who now perceived that his right arm was swathed
in bandages across his breast, as if maimed by some injury. But his left hand
he brandished with menacing gesticulation, and his countenance was covered with
a ghastly frown; so that Affidavy feared nothing less than that he should be
immediately torn to pieces. From this apprehension, which deprived him of the
power of raising a finger in self-defence, he was relieved by the sudden
appearance of the jailer, who, entering the cell with an oath, seized upon the
madman, and shook him with violence, until he groaned with pain, suffering
himself to be pushed back upon the bed.
“I’ll have the law of
you, Bob Lingo!” said the attorney, starting up from an ecstasy of fear to
lanch into a tumult of rage; “I’ll have the law of you, you villain! and what’s
more, I’ll chouse you out of your fees and bribes,--your cheating and tampering
with the prisoner, Hyland Gilbert: he’s an innocent man, you rascal, and you
know it! and here’s this man Sterling has avowed the murder himself.”
“Ods bobs!” said Lingo,
“what do you mean?”
“I mean what I say,”
cried Affidavy, whom rage, the desire of requiting upon Lingo some of the
disappointments he had himself endured, and a sudden prospect that seemed to
open on him of retrieving his lost fortune, had restored to the possession of
his faculties. “I mean, that my client, Hyland Gilbert, whom you cheated out of
my services, is an innocent man; and that there lies the true criminal. He has
confessed the whole matter; murder and perjury--murder and perjury, you
villain! do you hear that? and I’ll make him depose the particulars, you
cheating, covetous, conniving rapscallion! and so chouse you out of all your
expected fees, you rascal! botheration, I will!--Harkee, you Sterling!” he
said, now advancing boldly towards the object of his late fears, “you’ve
blabbed all, and so you may as well confess at once. I overheard all you said;
and my testimony will settle the matter; so, for the good of your soul,
confess. You’re a dying man; the devil’s as good as got you already--you’ll not
last a day longer; so confess, confess, and don’t damn yourself for ever, by
hanging an innocent man. What! do you pretend to deny it?” he continued;
adopting a course of persuasion founded on what he had witnessed of the
prisoner’s hallucinations--“ do you see that young man there, with the bloody
throat, frowning? Look-- I know him well--it is young Harry Falconer!”
“Ay,” said Sterling,
rolling his eyes to the wall; “but where is the other?”
“Why, they are hanging
him; and all because you swore falsely against him.”
“Is he alive yet?”
muttered Sterling; “I thought he was dead. Send me a priest, and I’ll confess.”
“A priest! A
magistrate, you mean.”
“It is all one--I am a
dying man; there is something wrong here,--here,” he murmured, striking his
forehead. “I will do reparation--ask me what you will; but drive Henry Falconer
out of the room; ay, and take that young Hawk off my feet--he chills them to
the marrow.”
“It was your pistol
killed Henry Falconer?” cried the lawyer.
“Ay; I shot him over
Gilbert’s shoulder. I fired at both; either would have served me. But who was
the third one? Old Falconer did not die!”
“A justice of the
peace, Lingo! do you hear?” said Affidavy, grinning with triumph. “I reckon I’ll
sort you, you covetous, cheating dog!”
“Come, squire, don’t be
mad,” whispered the jailer, with two or three significant winks: “We’ll go
snacks yet.”
“What, you rascal, do
you think to bribe me to keep silence? Oho! you cormorant, I’ve got the play
now in my own hands; and we won’t go snacks: I work on my own foundation. You’ve
heard the man’s words here; deny them if you can. Send for a squire, or refuse
at your peril; I’ll bawl out the window, and raise the town.”
“There’s no need of
being contractious,” said Lingo, coolly. “I sent Hanschen for old Squire Leger
an hour ago; for I reckon I was a leetle before you! The man asked for him of
his own accord, while you was a snoozing in the corner; for it’s a gone case
with him, and he knows it.”
The lawyer was
petrified at this announcement; it was a new and mortal disappointment; for he
designed to make profitable use to himself of his discovery; and to complete
his confusion, the door was opened at that moment, and Hanschen entered,
ushering in the worthy Schlachtenschlager, whom he had lighted upon by
accident, after searching in vain for the other magistrate, after whom he had
been sent an hour before. The attorney groaned; with one hand he grasped the
Squire’s extended palm, and the other he shook in the face of Lingo, who
grinned, and winked, and nodded at him, with the most provoking good-humour.
But Affidavy was not a man to be disheartened even in such an extremity; he no
longer dreaded an exposure of his extra-professional services on the prisoner’s
behalf; and he perceived that there was still a field, although a narrow one,
on which to display his zeal. Trusting therefore to his skill to make his
client sensible of the full merit of his labour, he addressed himself to the
task of shriving the discovered felon, with a tact and sagacity that were soon
perceived to be as useful as they were really indispensable.
It was found that
Sterling was in a very critical state, his bodily powers being completely
wrecked, and his mind so much unhinged that he could scarce answer two
consecutive questions without wandering. The causes that had brought him to
this condition it was not easy to imagine, unless by supposing he had received
some fatal internal injury during his struggle with Oran Gilbert; or by
referring all at once to the horror of mind with which, it seemed, he had been
affected from the moment he felt himself a homicide. A homicide he was, as was
soon made apparent; for being led on and assisted by the questions of Affidavy,
he confessed, without any reluctance or attempt at equivocation, that he had
sworn falsely in regard to the exchange of pistols betwixt himself and Hyland,
such exchange never having taken place; and that he, and no other, had shot the
pistol that killed young Falconer. The reasons for this act were but
imperfectly developed; and the strongest seemed to be a bitter hatred he had
conceived against the deceased, in consequence of an indignity offered him long
since in the theatre, from which he had been hissed, chiefly through Falconer’s
instrumentality. Such a cause for vengeance may be understood by those who
remember the rivers of blood poured out at Lyons, ten years after, to satiate
the rankling fury of a Collot d’Herbois. It will be remembered in what manner
he volunteered, while in the swamp with Oran Gilbert, to take the life of this
unlucky youth; as well as the attempt he made upon it the following night, in
the park, when he discovered him struggling with Hyland. It appeared, besides,
that after having rendered himself into the hands of the pursuers, and
confessed his true name and character, the reckless lieutenant pursued him with
divers jests and jeers, which were the more intolerable that his quarrel with
the Gilberts had left his mind in a state of furious passion; and an additional
incentive was offered by the scuffle between the two rivals, in which any
execution of vengeance would be so readily imputed to accident, if traced to
him at all. He succeeded beyond his expectations; the object of his hatred lay
a corpse before him--but from that moment Sterling was another and a changed
man. His mind was filled with horror--not remorse, for to the last he testified
nothing like penitence--but with a nameless and oppressive dread, which was
increased tenfold by the reflection that this act had, or would in the end,
deprive a second fellow being of life, that second being the unfortunate youth
whom an extraordinary accident had imbued with a belief that he was himself the
murderer. Hence the singular turn of his testimony, and his attempt to throw a
doubt upon the prisoner’s guilt; until the sudden discovery of the damaged
pistol struck him with a fear, until then unfelt, for his own safety. He
dreaded lest his own weapons, which had been taken from him immediately after
the catastrophe, and from which, in the agitation of his spirits, he had
forgotten to remove the evidences of guilt, should be examined, and thus
suspicion diverted upon himself. To prevent this, he invented the falsehood
concerning the exchange, and thus screened himself from suspicion, at the
expense of a second act of murder. But from that moment his horror became
insupportable; and after struggling with it in vain, and becoming persuaded
that his own fate was drawing nigh, he summoned Lingo, made a deliberate confession
of his villany, and desired that his deposition might be taken, before his
madness, of whose approaches he seemed conscious, should render reparation
impossible.
It was now taken, and
with difficulty, but it was conclusive; and so intent became all present upon
the strange and impressive story, and, after it was concluded, so eager were
all to confirm it by inducing repetitions of the most important circumstances,
that even the sudden sound of fire-arms on the square, followed by the outcries
in Hyland’s cell, were unheard and unnoticed, until Hanschen suddenly rushed
among them, with the intelligence, as he expressed it, ‘that there fas murdter
going on in the Hawk’s room.’
All started up, leaving
Sterling to rave, perhaps to die, alone, and made their way to the prisoner’s
apartment, where Colonel Falconer was found weltering in blood in the arms of
Elsie and his son, a rifle-bullet having penetrated his side, and lodged in the
body; and it was soon gathered, from the remorseful expressions of Hyland, that
it had been shot by a refugee--the last act of friendship that could be
rendered to a helpless and hopeless comrade.
“It was shot by Oran
Gilbert,” said Elsie Bell, “for there is none left but him! Yes, Richard
Falconer, I said it would come sooner or later! It is well for you, too,--you
will not see the death of your son’s murderer!”
“He is innocent!” said
Affidavy, snatching at his client’s hand. “Botheration, my boy, we’ve found the
true murderer! He has confessed, and you are an innocent man. The pistol was
shot by Sterling! We’ll clear you, or secure a free pardon.”
“By Sterling!” murmured
Colonel Falconer. “Then, oh heaven! then is my son guiltless of his brother’s blood!”
“I am, father, I am!”
said Hyland; “but, wretch that I am, my madness and folly have killed my
father!”
“I die content.--I will
do you justice, my son-- I am not so faint as before--They shall carry me
to--to--I forget--it is no matter--Well, well”--
With these words he
fell into a swoon, in which he was at first esteemed dead; but a surgeon having
been sent for, and now entering the cell, he declared, upon a hasty inspection
of the wound, that it was by no means mortal, and that there was every reason
to prognosticate a speedy recovery. The sufferer was then carried to the inn,
and put to bed; but with no such assurances of life as had been pronounced in
the prison. A consultation was called, the result of which was a more rational
declaration, that his days were already numbered.
Farewell ye dungeons
dark and strong,
The wretch’s destiny; M‘Pherson’s
time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree. M‘Pherson’s Farewell.
The singular discovery
of Hyland’s innocence was long before morning bruited over the village, and
besides exciting a double interest in his fate, produced no little curiosity in
regard to the movements of the jury, who were still deliberating over the
charge, as well as to the course to be pursued by the court, in such a strange
conjuncture of circumstances.
Expectation was not,
however, kept long at stretch. An early and formal representation of the
discovery being made by the prisoner’s counsel to the presiding judge, the
court was straightway convened, and the jury ordered to be recalled, for the
purpose of receiving the new testimony. This, consisting of Sterling’s
deposition and the evidence of witnesses as to its authenticity, it may he
supposed, was sufficient to terminate their deliberations in a moment. Had the
confession been made at a later period, it would undoubtedly have saved the
prisoner’s life; but it occurred at a time to save his good name,--to save it,
at least, from the reproach, which, however undeserved, must ever follow upon
even unjust conviction. His true story and character, and, in fact, his real
parentage, were now becoming generally known; new friends, as well as many an
old one, were labouring in his service, and all were desirous to see the end of
a prosecution, that had caused him so much unmerited suffering. The trial was
therefore despatched without difficulty; the evidence was given; a few brief
and impressive words, indicative of their gratification at the defendant’s
happy escape from his difficulties, and their own from a share in wrong-doing,
were pronounced by the bench; after which the whole matter was submitted to the
jury, who, without leaving their seats, immediately returned a verdict of
acquittal. The defendant was then discharged, in the ordinary way, by
proclamation, and shed tears of genuine transport to find himself released from
the ignominy that had before, as strongly almost as his remorse, crushed him to
the earth. He had scarce stepped from the bar before he found himself in the
arms of Captain Loring, who hugged and blubbered, and swore ‘adzooks, he always
thought him an honest fellow, for all of their talking; and adzooks, it was no
wonder he loved him, since he was of his own blood and bone, though he didn’t
like his having so much Gilbert blood in him; and if he had only told him as
much before, it would have been much better for him, and, adzooks, for his poor
Kate, and, adzooks, for the picture!’
At the bed-side of the
dying Falconer he found his father’s daughter. His sister!--With what strange
and contradictory emotions he received the hand of the being, to whose unhappy
hostility he owed the long series of sufferings and indignities that had
brought him almost to the grave. And she,--with what feelings she must have
herself seen in the object of her greatest hate, one to whom nature had given
the strongest claims on her love. But the place in which they met called for
other than selfish emotions: it was at the deathbed of their common parent.
It is not our design to
pursue further in detail the history of this unfortunate man. The bullet of
Oran Gilbert (for it was now known that the shot could have been fired by no
other, all the members of his band having been either killed or captured,) had
been well aimed, though he who fired it deemed it was speeded against the
breast of his own brother. The better victim lingered but a few days, and then
expired; so that the same grave which received his unlucky son closed over the
guilt and sorrow of the parent. He lived long enough to remove the veil of
shame from the sepulchre of the betrayed wife, and to do her reparation in the
person of her son; but it was, as he had before declared, at the expense of his
daughter. She never more lifted up her head. A sense of her parent’s baseness,
and the disgrace now attached to her own origin, with perhaps the bitter
consciousness that her cruel design upon the happiness of her friend had caused
the ruin that surrounded her, weighed her to the earth; and two years after her
father’s death, she was herself borne to the grave, the last victim of the
retribution which so often visits the sins of the father upon the heads of his
children.
It remains but to
reveal the fate of two other prominent persons in the story, before exchanging
the gloom pervading the last act of the tragedy, for the sunshine that should
mark the close.
The prisoner Sterling,
notwithstanding his own expectations of a speedy dissolution, lingered a full
month before he expired; and in all that time displayed the workings of the
hallucination which had been the consequence of his crime. He saw before him
continually--for day and night were now alike to him--the ghastly figure of
young Falconer,frowning at his bed-side; and frequently the phantom of the
elder brother was added, in imagination, to the terrors of the other. He died
in this fearful frame of mind; and thus carried to the after-tribunal the guilt
which escaped the punishment of man.
The fate of Oran
Gilbert remained for many months wrapped in obscurity. He must have fired the
shot that struck a bosom he had so often coveted to pierce, from the open
square behind the prison; yet he effected his escape from the village without
pursuit and almost without observation, the discharge of the rifle having
excited but little notice at a moment when all the crowded throngs in the
streets were rushing towards the court. The alarm, however, being soon given,
many men armed themselves and started in pursuit, though without any knowledge
of the direction in which he had fled, and, indeed, without at first being
aware whom they followed. The first traces of him were discovered in the
Hollow, at Elsie Bell’s cottage, which it seems he had entered before day, and
there rested for awhile, to the great terror of the little negro girl Margery,
who was at that time the only inmate of the hovel, and to whom he appeared
little short of a demon, his countenance being wild and dreadful, and his words
and actions, at least in her opinion, distracted. It was from the circumstances
developed here, that the pursuers found they were upon the track of Oran
Gilbert himself, now deprived of all followers, and flying with the dreadful
persuasion at his spirit, that his hand had slain the last of his father’s
children.
It appeared from little
Margery’s account, that, after wildly searching the house over, he asked for
Elsie, and being told she was in the village, sat down upon a chair, whence the
girl soon saw blood fall upon the floor; and, in fact, upon examination, it was
found that a considerable quantity of gore still lay by the chair on which he
had rested. He then called for water, and a napkin, the latter of which he put
upon his right side, securing it under a leathern belt; after which he drank
freely of the water, and going into Elsie’s private apartment, he took from the
wall a little sampler, a relic, as it appeared, of his deceased sister, tore it
to pieces, and scattered it over the floor. He then proceeded to the chamber so
long inhabited by Hyland, where finding many little sketches, and other
neglected scraps, he destroyed them in like manner. After this, he descended to
the room below, took up his gun, which he charged with great care, and hunted
about until he had found a strong and sharp-pointed knife, which he stuck in
his belt; and then, drinking again from the pitcher, he left the hovel, without
uttering a single word, and Margery heard him ride away, apparently towards the
mountain.
This was enough for the
pursuers, whose numbers had been increased by volunteers along the way; and
they instantly resumed the road, though with no great hope of coming up with
the fugitive, who had foiled them so many times already. They knew, however,
that the land was full of parties still in search of him, none of which had
perhaps been so close upon his track as themselves. They were also inspired by
a discovery that was made when they came to examine the marks of his horse’s
feet in the moist earth bordering the runlet in the oak-yard, and this was,
that the animal had cast a shoe; for which reason, they supposed, the rider
would be soon compelled to abandon him, and seek shelter in some fast place
among the woods, where he might be surrounded, and perhaps taken alive. They
rode on therefore with new spirit, and coming at an early hour in the morning
upon the river bank, led by the tracks of his horse, which did not seem once to
have left the road, they descried him, or at least a horseman they supposed to
be him, riding along the bluff, at a slow gait, indicative of the daring or
recklessness of his character.
He rode a black horse,
apparently of great native strength and spirit; but, it was now obvious, the
animal had been of late taxed severely, and beyond his powers; for which
reason, it was not doubted, the fugitive could be overtaken, before he reached
the mountain, which was still distant three or four miles. The party proclaimed
their discovery and their hopes, by setting up a great shout. At this, to their
surprise, the refugee checked his wearied steed, and turned round, as if for
the purpose of making battle,--a display of andacity and resolution that went
far to cool the ardour of many who had been, a moment before, the bravest of
the whole party. They saw him fling the rifle he carried into the hollow of his
left arm, and then, with his right hand, remove from his visage the long locks
of black hair that had, a moment before, swung wildly in the wind; and they
fancied they beheld, even at the distance which separated them from him, a
smile writhing over his pallid features, like that of the panther at bay.
“Well done, old Oran
the ’Awk!” cried one of the party, taking a long rifle from his shoulder, and
advancing to the head of the others, who had come to an universal halt. He was
a man of middle age, with a face as bleak and weather-worn as the rocks at the
river’s edge, tall and gaunt of frame, but sinewy, and of a certain bully-like
look about the fists and eyes, that showed him to be no inconsiderable man in
his degree. “Well done, old Oran the ’Awk!” he cried; “I up’old you to be game,
chock-full; and so, if you’re for a pull ag’in’ current, why, I’m clear for
showing fair play. So men, just ’old by, like honest fellers; and, my logs ’gin’
his, I’ll show him what long shots is; for he and me was good friends of old.”
“Go it, Dan Potts, the
raftsman!” cried several of his companions, handling their own arms, as if to
try their virtues at a distance, while others cried out, to advance in a body
without further delay, but set no example themselves, the appearance of the
outlaw being uninviting to all save the bold raftsman, who continued to move
onwards, though slowly and cautiously, as if well aware of the danger of a
personal contest with one who had been, as he said, his good friend in old
times. But the refugee, without regarding the challenge of the raftsman, took
advantage of the hesitation of his companions to change his own plans, and by
suddenly turning his horse and spurring off with unexpected speed, he gained a
considerable space before they could recover from their surprise and follow.
They darted after him, however, with what activity they could; and cheering one
another with their voices, they rode on at such a pace that, in a few moments,
the whole party was sweeping betwixt the yawning jaws of the Gap, up the course
of which he directed his flight.
The mountain is here
perhaps two thousand feet or more, in elevation. Its course is oblique to the
river, which itself is bent and twisted out of its path by the irregular
protrusion and retrogression of cliffs and promontories. The right bank of the
river, looking to the east, is fenced by a dizzy and inaccessible wall of
crags; while the mountain on the other side, presenting a similar wall to the
south, dips down, westward, to the water in an angle more practicable to human
daring, though the whole declivity is covered over with loose rocks, the
remnants of some stony avalanche, tumbled from pinnacles above by the same
convulsion that thrust the mountain from the bowels of the earth, or shivered
it, already uprisen, asunder. A few withered hemlocks are here and there seen springing
from between these disjointed fragments, which are, in other places, veiled by
patches of flowering-raspberry, alder, and other shrubs; though, in general,
the eye reposes on rocks entirely bald and naked, or, at best, tufted with
mosses, lichens, and ferns. It presents a scene of dreary sterility and gloom;
but its savage wildness can be only appreciated by those who clamber up to its
summit over those loose and ever-precarious rocks, which afford the only
footing.
Into the gorge bounded
by these frowning limits the refugee was seen to urge his steed; when suddenly,
to the amazement of the pursuers, he turned from the road, dashed through a
wall of rosebays that hedged it in, and the next moment plunged into the river,
swimming his horse right towards the opposite mountain. The cause of this
extraordinary step was soon perceived; for the next instant a troop of horse in
the continental uniform, came dashing down the Gap, uttering a wild hurrah,
that made the rocks ring. It was one of the many parties of military by whom
all the passes of the county were guarded; and it seemed the fugitive had
rushed almost amongst them, before he discovered their presence. Nothing
remained for him, thus checked in front, and retreat cut off behind, but to
fling himself into the river, and seek refuge among the dens of the eastern
mountain; and this he attempted, though the chances were ten to one that he
should be shot from his horse, before he reached the opposite bank. In fact, he
had scarce swum beyond the middle of the stream, before the two parties rushed
to the water’s edge and let fly a volley, which, had it not been fired almost
altogether from pistols, must have brought his flight to a bloody close. The
water was seen bubbling around him, as the bullets pattered like rain-drops
over its surface; but he still swam on, as if unhurt, and some dozen or more of
the boldest riders present spurred their horses into the river to follow.
“Well done, old Oran
the ’Awk!” cried Dan Potts, waving over his head the long rifle he had not
thought fit yet to discharge; “it’s agin my conscience to shoot an old friend
in the back, ’specially when there’s no tree to cover him.”
“Bang away, Dan Potts,”
cried others; “shoot, for the honour of the county.”
“The county be d--d,”
said Dan Potts; “I shoots from my own raft.” And with that, he raised his
weapon, and taking deadly aim right betwixt the refugee’s shoulders, drew the
trigger. But at that moment, the horse, which had until now breasted his way
gallantly through the deep water, flung himself aloft in terror or in agony,
and rolling backwards, plunged his rider into the water, so that he escaped the
shot entirely, as perhaps the animal did also, though that could never be known
with certainty.
“I swog! and may I
wreck my next raft on the Foul Rift, if I didn’t!” said Dan Potts, “but I hit
the’ oss on the ’ead, and cuss the bit of his master! Neversomever, I’ll try
for a spell ag’in, and the next’ll be a right-down rusty!”
With these words he
spurred his horse into the river, with which his employment as a raftsman had
doubtless made him familiar; for, whether it proceeded from this circumstance,
or some other advantage he possessed over the others, he was soon at the head
of the swimmers, and leading the pursuit.
In the meanwhile, Oran
Gilbert was seen to spring erect on his horse’s back; but the animal never
raised his head again from the water, and Oran, abandoning him entirely,
trusted to his own courage and strength of arm to reach the rocks that were now
close at hand. In this attempt he succeeded. He was seen to issue from the
water, and aim his rifle, which he still retained, at the advancing Potts.
“Try it ag’in, old ’Awk!”
roared Dan, as he saw the imperfect flash expire, without being followed by any
explosion; “try it ag’in, old boy; or out knife and be ready!”
The only answer the
tory deigned the bravado was, to fling his now unserviceable and burdensome
piece into the river, and then rush up the mountain with all his speed. He was
soon lost sight of among the rocks and bushes; a piece of good fortune which he
owed to a simple expedient. As he clambered up, he took care to spurn from its
lodgment every stone that shook under his foot, which rolling down the
declivity, became a source of extreme confusion and peril to the pursuers, (as
such are indeed yet to the laggards in a mere party of pleasure,) who were thus
forced to loiter in the ascent, after having previously lost some time in
securing their horses at the bottom of the hill, until there remained little hopes
of overtaking him. The raftsman was the only individual who, in this
conjuncture, was able to proceed with any spirit. He pressed upward, dodging
the descending rocks with infinite address and agility, and was soon lost sight
of; until, finally, even his voice, with which he continued to cheer the
others, was no longer heard.
The mountain was,
however, climbed at last; but the refugee had vanished. The only practicable
path conducts you to the summit of the hill along the edge of the southern
precipices; and the last step is from a shelf that overhangs the wooded abyss
below, whence, peeping over the brink of the cliffs at their most tremendous
height, the eye looks over many a league of blue hill and misty hollow, of
living wood and winding river,--a scene whose loveliness is made more
impressive by contrast with the savage desolation that reigns around the point
of view. A broad table of stone, shelving downwards, and in part overhanging
the abyss, lies like a parapet upon the extreme brink of the precipice; and it
is from this, lying upon his breast, clinging with foot and hand to its
crevices and the stunted bushes that grow upon its surface, and advancing his
head beyond the naked verge, that the adventurous spectator looks down into the
dizzy gulf below,--if he have indeed the courage to look.
Upon this platform the
raftsman was found reposing, his elbows resting upon the parapet stone, and his
countenance betraying wonder mingled with perplexity. Upon being asked what had
become of the fugitive, he pointed to certain marks of fresh blood that lay on
the stones where he stood, hard-by the parapet, which was itself dabbled with
blood; and, in addition, the black lichens with which it was overgrown, were
torn up, as by the struggles of some human being sliding down its inclined
surface towards the horrible abyss beneath; and a shrub springing from the
verge, was snapped off, as if broken by a human hand.
“I once,” said the
raftsman, “chased a two-year buck off this here very rock; and I reckon, you may
see some of his bones among the bushes below. I was hunting with Oran Gilbert;
we were boys together; and, I remember, he said, ‘It was a brave jump for a
hard-pushed beast, and a wise one, too.’ Now let any man run his nose over the
rock’s edge, and tell me what he sees swinging to a bush some fifty or sixty
fathoms below; for, to my eyes, it has much the look of a green hunting-shirt,
or a big rag of it. There’s a stream of blood running up along the rocks, and
here’s the ending of it. There was some old wound bursting out on him afresh,
and, to my thought, the man was not able to run further; and so he remembered
the deer, and took a jump;--and I must say, it was a brave fancy of his, and a
wise one too.”
To this conjecture
confirmation was given, when one of the party, having peered over the rock,
declared that he saw the flutter of some garment, hanging on a bush many a
weary foot below. The stones were hunted over again; a track of blood was
plainly distinguished, and had been remarked before, staining the rocks for
some distance below; and on this platform it ended. The closest search could
not detect any mark to show that the fugitive had proceeded a step further; it
was believed at once, that, having reached this spot, and found himself
incapable of proceeding further, the pursuers, headed by Potts, pressing him
close, he had thrown himself from the rocks, preferring a death in keeping with
his savage career, to falling alive into the hands of his foes. There was no
other way to account for his disappearance, the presence of blood on the
parapet, and the wave of the garment below; and, indeed, a second, and then a
third person, looking down, they swore they could see, among the bushes at the
bottom of the cliffs, something that looked like a human form, as they doubted
not it was. It was accordingly resolved to descend the mountain without delay,
which, after uttering a loud shout of triumph they did, with the single
exception of the raftsman; who, declaring himself overcome with fatigue, sat
down upon a stone on the platform to rest, and was soon lost sight of by the
others. As the last man left the shelf, he beckoned to him with his hand,
nodded his head, and took other means to arrest his attention; but these being
disregarded, or perhaps unperceived, he ceased his signals, and muttered half
to himself, half aloud,--
“Well done, Tom Wolf;
you’re no fox, and a man must ha’ said, ‘Fifty guineas!’ aloud, to fetch you.
But I was a fool to think on’t; no ’alves and no quarters, is my cry; and a man
mought as well take the money and the credit into his own hands, without
sharing; for, I reckon, the creatur’s clean done up, and can make no more fight
than a ’possum. Neversomever, there’s no varmint of the woods or water can
stand by him for a trick; and so we’ll look sharp, Dan Potts, and see what’ll
come out of it. I reckon I shall make them ’ere fellers stare! They say, the
governor has offered five hundred dollars for him, hard money, dead or alive.
Five hundred dollars isn’t to be made, every day, a-rafting. There’s a big hole
under that stone; and, I remember, he boasted he had been down in it afore;
which was like enough, for he was always a ventur’ing devil.”
It may be gathered from
these expressions what cause had prevented the raftsman leaving the shelf with
his companions. Immediately beneath the projecting portion of the table-rock,
so often mentioned, there is a cavity or niche in the face of the cliff,
visible, on a clear day, even from the foot of the mountain, and inaccessible
from the top only because there are few men in the world of sufficient nerve to
attempt reaching it, by climbing over the face of the cliff,--an exploit the
very thought of which is appalling. It occurred to the ancient comrade of the
refugee, that the latter, persuaded he must be captured, unless he could throw
his pursuers off the scent, or delay the chase for a time, might have bethought
him of the stratagem of causing them to believe he had thrown himself from the
rocks, while, all the time, he was lying snugly and safely in the cavity
beneath the shelving rock, from which he might be expected to sally out, the
moment the pursuers had descended. This was rather a conceit in the raftsman’s
mind than a positive suspicion; but it was sufficient to impel him upon a new
course of action, a main incentive to which was the prospect it seemed to open
to him of securing the rewards that had been offered for the apprehension of
the noted outlaw.
He sat down therefore
upon a stone opposite to the parapet, and scarce twenty feet from it, holding
his rifle ready cocked upon his knee, his knife loosened in the sheath, and his
little hunting-axe lying at his feet; and he sat thus without fear, knowing
that, even if the refugee were armed and in the pride of his strength and
daring, he could not ascend to the shelf, without being entirely at his mercy.
He sat in silence, expecting each moment to see the fierce eyes of the outcast
peering over the rock, or to hear the rattling of stones along the face of the
cliff, denoting that he had left his hiding-place, and was beginning to ascend.
He sat watching, however, a long time in vain;--and was beginning to believe
that his suspicion was groundless, and that the desperate Oran had in truth
leaped from the cliff, when suddenly there rose beyond the verge of the rock
the apparition of a human head, but so spectral, so pale, so ghastly with
blood, and so wildly unnatural of expression, that he was seized with a sudden
fear, and beheld the whole body succeed it, and the refugee himself (for it was
he) stand erect upon the parapet, before he could raise his piece, and charge
him to surrender.
“I have you, Oran, old
friend!” he said, at last; “so down knife, and take quarter. If you move foot
or hand, I’ll fire upon you.”
The outlaw heard his
voice, and beheld the threatening weapon, without any manifestation of
surprise. He bent his eyes upon him with a stare that curdled the raftsman’s
blood. “Fire!” he said, and laughed; and then suddenly drawing the knife he had
taken from Elsie’s cottage, he made a fierce spring from the rock right against
the uplifted rifle. The attack was so unexpected and energetic that Potts had
scarce time to pull the trigger, before the tory lighted on the shelf at his
feet. He drew it, however, with the certainty that the next moment the
assailant would be lying dead at his foot--he drew it, and not even a flash
burst from the treacherous powder; it snapped in his hands; and before he could
exchange it for another weapon, nay, before he could even draw his knife, he
found the blade of his opponent glimmering at his breast. He caught at his
wrist, the only expedient that saved him from a mortal thrust: and being of
great nerve, he strove, at the same time, to hurl the tory upon the rock. But
great as was his strength, and feeble as he had supposed the powers of Oran to
be, the attempt was foiled, and he began in his heart to curse the
covetousness, that had deprived him of a helper, in such a time of need. As he
caught the wrist of Oran in his left hand, he sought, with the other, to snatch
his own knife from the sheath; but the motion was anticipated, and his own
right hand grasped in Oran’s left; so that the two stood for an instant facing
one another, entangled, as it might be said, like two wild bucks, that have, at
the first blow, interlocked their antlers together, and thus remain glaring at
each other, waging battle only with their eyes. In that instant, the raftsman
beheld enough to make him repent the temerity with which he had sought to bring
the refugee to bay. Instead of being weakened by loss of blood, or exhausted by
the toil of ascending the mountain, it seemed as if he was suddenly imbued with
new strength, as well as additional fury, by the mere presence of a foe; and
there was that in his countenance, which expressed, along with a native love of
conflict, the malignant ferocity of a maniac. Indeed, his appearance was so
fearful, and his ability to resist to the uttermost so manifest, that the
raftsman felt strongly moved to call for a parley and propose a mutual release;
but the desire came too late. The tory perceived the fainting of his heart, and
laughed:
“I never did harm to
you or yours, Dan Potts,” he said; “but you shall never say so more. You would
sell the blood of a dying man--you must first win it.”
With that, he relaxed
his grasp on the raftsman’s right hand, as if for the purpose of seizing him by
the throat; and Potts took instant advantage of the motion, to snatch his knife
from its sheath. The motion was a trick of juggling, such as the outlaw had
learned among the red associates of his boyhood, and perhaps practised in
similar encounters before. The next instant, he had thrown the whole weight of
his body upon the raftsman’s breast, and directing the half-drawn blade at the
same time with his hand, Potts fell upon the rock, his own weapon buried to the
handle in his side.
“Go!” shouted the
victor, leaping up, and dragging his victim towards a corner of the shelf,
where no parapet intervened betwixt them and the abyss,--“to your fellow
bloodhounds below!-- Something in memory of Hyland Gilbert!”
He struck the body with
his foot,--it rolled crashing over the slender twigs and decaying flakes of
stone on the brink of the precipice, and then disappeared, with not a sound to
indicate its fall upon the shivered rocks below. The next moment, the victor
ran from the platform, and was buried among the forests that darken the long
and desolate summit of the ridge.
It was perhaps two
hours, or more, before the party of pursuers, descending the mountain to the
river, and making their way along the lesser elevation of rocks, heaped at the
foot of the great southern precipice, from which they have fallen, reached the
spot where they expected to find the mangled corse of the outlaw. Their
astonishment and horror may be conceived, when, instead of that, they lighted
upon the body of the raftsman, known by his garments, for scarce a vestige of
humanity remained, and sought to penetrate the mysterious cause of his fall.
The true reason was rather supposed than inferred; but their suspicions were
confirmed when the mountain was re-ascended, and his axe and cap found lying on
the shelf, as well as a new track of blood, leading along the ridge. This was
followed, until it led them to a spot, where, it was evident, the fugitive had
rested awhile and bound up his wounds. But here the trace entirely failed, and
was never again recovered. The mountains were hunted over and over for weeks,
but not the slightest vestige of the refugee rewarded the search.
In the course of the
ensuing winter, a party of hunters, following a wolf, were led to the banks of
one of those little lakes, that lie, like dots of sapphire and crystal, along
the broken ridges of the mountain. In this remote nook, in a hollow, surrounded
by jagged rocks and hemlock-trees, were found several rude huts, or wigwams, of
boughs, now in ruins, such as the hunters make, when they ‘camp out’ in the
wilderness, with the remains of fires in front of each. This place was supposed
to have been one of the chief retreats of the refugees. At some distance from
the huts, on the edge of the lake, they fell upon the bones of a human being,
scattered about among the stones and bushes, as if rent asunder by wild beasts;
and near them was discovered a rusted rifle, which, being taken to the valley,
was recognised as the weapon of Potts, the raftsman, which had not been found
either upon the platform where the party of pursuers had left him, or near his
body. This circumstance induced a suspicion that the bones were those of Oran
Gilbert, who had armed himself with the raftsman’s piece, before leaving the
platform. There remained no other memorial of his fate, and no other
circumstance was found to identify the skeleton with the man once so much
dreaded and detested; but it was not doubted that hither, into the savage
wilderness, he had dragged his mangled frame, and perished miserably.
The close of Hyland’s
story may be readily imagined. His sufferings he might have considered as being
retributive in their nature,--since his return to the land of his birth had no
worthier cause than a desire to take part in the conflict against her
liberties. This desire had been indeed cooled by personal observation of the
feelings and principles which supported his countrymen through a long period of
disaster and suffering; and the last blow was given to the unworthy ambition by
the love for one of his country’s daughters that soon entangled his spirit. The
giving way to wrath and the lust of blood, though but for a moment, had been
followed by the last and heaviest of his griefs, not the lightest of which was
his temporary belief in his own guilt, and his consequent remorse. But the
shadow had now departed from him, and for ever; and it was soon perceived by
all who chose to ponder over his history, that his greatest crime had been his
affection, and the ill-judged deed of violence into which it had led him.
His meeting with the
Captain’s daughter, after his liberation, was one of mingled joy and grief; but
it was the last one marked with tears. The bloom returned again to Catherine’s
cheek, and, in course of time, the gay and merry spirit, native to her bosom,
revisited its former cell; and if a shadow ever again darkened her countenance,
it was only when, sometimes wandering along the brook and by the waterfall,
(whence the bones of Jessie had been long since removed, to be deposited near
those of her step-mother in the village church-yard,) she remembered the trials
of sorrow, and the scenes of blood, through which she had been conducted to final
happiness. She wept, indeed, when Harriet died, for she had forgiven her; but
that was the only grief that clouded a long period of peace and sunshine.
Our inquiries after the
fate of the less important personages of our tradition have never been very satisfactory
in results. Americans are a race of Utilitarians, all busied in the acquisition
of profitable knowledge, and just as ready, if not as anxious, to forget all
lore of an useless character. The little anecdotes of a district last but for a
generation; the fathers tell then to the children, but the children find
something better to think about, and so forget them. We know nothing of the
latter years of Elsie Bell, but can readily believe they passed in comfort and
peace. Her little cottage has long since vanished from the earth, the running
of newer and better roads in other places having long since diverted all travel
from the precincts of Hawk-Hollow.
Dancy Parkins, we
suppose, under the auspicious patronage of the new master of the valley, pursued
his claims to the love of the fair Phœbe; but as that was a matter of much more
consequence to him than the reader, we never cared much to inquire his fate.
Our curiosity in
relation to the career of the unworthy limb of the law, Theophilus Affidavy, Esq.,
has been somewhat stronger; yet we could never find that a single act of his
life, or even his name, has been retained by those who dwell near the scene of
his exploits. His adventure in the brook, with his ride on the back of the
buttonwood tree, has, by some strange accident, travelled into an adjacent
county, where it is told as a very good story, though the honour is supposed to
attach to an individual of another name and profession. But it is with a
strange story as with an old pun; it finds fathers, as it travels.
As for Captain Loring,
all we have to say of him is, that he lived long enough to rejoice over the
union of his daughter with Hyland Falconer as much as he would perhaps have
mourned over her early grave, had her destiny wedded her to the unlucky younger
brother. He lived also to see, with a rapture that lasted to his dying day, the
painter resume the brush, and put the last finish to ‘the grand picture of the
Battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring, dying.’
THE END.