 | CHAPTER IX.
A CRISIS. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
A CRISIS.
The sensation produced on all the parties by this
sudden stroke of retribution was indescribable. The
fate of Clarence Conway was suspended for a while.
The executioners stood aghast. They relaxed their
hold upon the prisoner; all their powers being seemingly
paralyzed in amazement and alarm. Tacitly,
every eye, with the instinct of an ancient habit, was
turned upon Edward Conway. He, too, had partaken,
to a large degree, of the excitement of the scene. The
old habits of command re-obtained their ascendancy.
He forgot, for the instant, the novel position in which
he stood; the assumed character which he played, and
all the grave mummery of his bondage and disguise.
Starting to his feet, when the first feeling of surprise had
passed, he shouted aloud in the language of authority.
“Away, knaves, and follow. Why do you gape and
loiter? Pursue the assassin. Let him not escape you!
Away!”
He was obeyed by all the troopers present. They
rushed headlong from the dwelling with a sanguinary
shout. The two brothers, still bound, were left alone
together. The paroxysm of passion in the one was
over. He was recalled to a consciousness of the wily
game he had been playing the moment that he started to
his feet and issued his commands. The pressure of the
tight cords upon his arms, when he would have extended
them to his men, brought back all his memories. In an
His eye naturally turned in search of his
kinsman, who stood erect, a surprised but calm spectator.
He had witnessed the action, had seen the excitement,
and heard the language of Edward Conway; but
these did not seem to him too extravagant for the temper
of one easily moved, who was yet innocent of any improper
connexion with the criminals. The circumstances
which had taken place were sufficiently exciting to account
for these ebullitions, without awakening any suspicions
of the truth. It is true that the fierce command,
so familiarly addressed to the robbers by their prisoner,
did seem strange enough to the unsuspecting Clarence;
but even this was natural enough. Nor was it less so
that they should so readily obey orders coming from any
lips which, to them, conveyed so correctly the instructions
to their duty. Besides, the clamour, the uproar,
the confusion and hubbub of the scene, not to speak of
those conflicting emotions under which Clarence Conway
suffered at a moment so full, seemingly, of the last
peril to himself, served to distract his senses and impair
the just powers of judgment in his mind. He felt that
Edward Conway had acted unexpectedly—had shown a
singular activity which did not seem exactly called for,
and was scarce due to those in whose behalf it was displayed;
but, making due allowance for the different
effects of fright and excitement upon different temperaments,
he did not regard his conduct as strange or unnatural,
however unnecessary it might seem, and, perhaps,
impolitic. It was the first thought in his mind that
Edward Conway, in his great agitation, did not seem to
recollect that the assassination which had taken place
was probably the only event which could then have
saved his life.
These reflections did not occur to the mind of the
latter. Conscious of equal guilt and indiscretion, the
apprehensions of Edward Conway were all awakened
for his secret. The lowering and suspicious glance
which he watched in the eye of his kinsman, and which
had its origin in a portion of the previous conference between
by the latter, of his own criminal connexion with
the outlaws. In his anxiety, he was not aware that he
had not said enough to declare his true character—that
he had only used the language which any citizen might
employ without censure, on beholding the performance,
by another, of any sudden and atrocious outrage. So
impressed was he with the conviction that he had betrayed
the whole truth by his imprudence, that the resolution
in his mind was partly formed to declare himself
boldly and bid defiance to all consequences. What had
he now to fear? was his natural reflection. Why should
he strive longer to keep terms with one with whom he
must inevitably break in the end? Clarence Conway
was his rival, was his enemy, and was in his power.
He had already felt the humiliation resulting from the
unbecoming equivocal position in which he stood to him.
He had bowed to him, when he better felt the mood to
battle with him. He had displayed the smile of conciliation,
when, in his heart, he felt all the bitterness of
dislike and hate. Why should he longer seek to maintain
appearances with one from whom he now had
seemingly nothing to fear? Why not, at once, by a
bold avowal of his course, justify, in the language of
defiance, the hostile position in which he stood equally
to his country and his kinsman? Such a course would
amply account for the past; and, in those arguments by
which the loyalists of that day found a sanction for their
adherence to the mother country, he might well claim
all the rights of position due to one, whatever may be his
errors of judgment, who draws his sword in behalf of his
principles. Such were some of the arguments drawn
from the seeming necessity of the case, which rapidly
passed through the mind of Edward Conway as he
watched the play of mingled surprise and scorn in the
features of his kinsman. But they were not conclusive.
They were still combated by the last lingering sentiments
of humanity and blood. Clarence Conway was
still his kinsman, and more than that, he owed him a life.
“Besides,” was the language of his second thoughts, “his
see the result of this pursuit.”
New apprehensions arose from this last reflection.
That the followers of Clarence Conway were not far off
was the very natural reflection of every mind, after the
sudden and fearful death of him who had been the chosen
representative of their chief. That the shot which slew
Williams was meant for the chief of the Black Riders,
was his own reflection; and it counselled continued
prudence for the present. The game which he proposed
in prosecuting his purposes equally with Flora Middleton
and his brother, was best promoted by his present
forbearance—by his still continuing, at least while in the
presence of Clarence Conway, to preserve his doubtful
position as a prisoner. He sank back, accordingly, upon
the bulk from which he had arisen in the first moment
of the alarm. His efforts were addressed to the task of
composing his features, and assuming the subdued aspect
of one who stands in equal doubt and apprehension of
his fate. Some moments of anxiety elapsed, in which
neither of the kinsmen spoke. Clarence, in the mean
time, had also resumed his seat. He no longer looked
towards his companion. His heart was filled with apprehension,
in which his own fate had no concern. He
trembled now for the life of the faithful woodman—for
he did not doubt that it was he—who had tracked his
footsteps, and so promptly interfered at the hazard of his
own life, to exact that of his enemy. The senses of the
youth were sharpened to an intense keenness. He could
hear the distant clamours of the hunt without. The shouts
and shrieks of rage, breaking, as they rose, far above the
rush of the winds and the monotonous patterings of the
rain. He was roused from an attention at once painful
and unavoidable by the accents of his kinsman.
“Clarence!” said the latter, “this is a terrible affair—
the murder of this man!”
“Scarcely so terrible to me;” was the cold reply—
“it prolonged my life—the wretch would have murdered
me, and I look upon his corse without horror or regret!”
“Impossible! His purpose was only to intimidate—
crime.”
“You are yet to learn the deeds of the Black Riders—
you know not how much such outlawed wretches will
dare in the very desperation of their hearts.”
“That was a dreadful deed, however;—so swift—so
sudden—I confess it almost unmanned me. I felt desperate
with terror. I know not what I said.”
“So I thought,” replied Clarence, “for you actually
shouted to the wretches to pursue the murderer, and he,
too, that noble fellow, Jack Bannister. He has stood
between me and death before. You, also, Edward
Conway, owe him a life.”
“Do you think it was he, Clarence?”
“I have no doubt of it. I am sure of his halloo.”
“If they catch him!—”
“God forbid that they should!”
“If they should not, we shall probably pay for his
boldness. They will wreak their fury on our heads, if
they be the bloody wretches that you describe them.”
“I am prepared for the worst. I am their prisoner, but
I fear nothing. I, at least, Edward Conway, am somewhat
protected by the rights and usages of war—but
you—”
“Much good did these rights promise you a few
minutes past,” said the other sarcastically, “unless my
conjecture be the right one. According to your notion,
precious little respect would these men have had for the
usages of war. Their own usages, by your showing,
have long since legitimated hanging and burning, and
such small practices.”
“I should not have perished unavenged. Nay, you
see already how closely the avenger follows upon the
footsteps of the criminal. For every drop of my blood
shed unlawfully, there would be a fearful drain from the
heart of every prisoner in the hands of Sumter.”
“That, methinks, were a sorry satisfaction. To me,
I confess, it would afford very little pleasure to be told,
while I am swinging, that some one or more of my enemies
will share my fate in order that the balance sheet
satisfaction. My manes on the other side of Styx, will
derive small comfort from beholding the ghost of my foe
following close behind me, with a neck having a like
ugly twist with my own, which he admits having received
on my account.”
“The jest is a bald one that's born under the gallows,”
replied Clarence gravely, with a Whig proverb.
“Ay, but I am not there yet,” replied the other;
“and with God's blessing I hope that the tree and day
are equally far distant which shall witness such an unhappy
suspension of my limbs and labours.”
“If I stand in such peril,” replied Clarence Conway,
“holding as I do a commission from the state authorities,
I cannot understand how it can be that you should
escape, having, unhappily, no such sanction, and being
so much more in danger from their suspicion. I sincerely
trust that you will escape, Edward Conway, but
you see the perilous circumstances in which you are
placed by your unhappy neglect of the proper duties to
your country and yourself.”
“I am afraid, Clarence, that your commission will
hardly prevail upon them to make any difference in their
treatment of us.”
“And yet, I wish to Heaven, Edward Conway, that
both of my father's sons were equally well provided.”
“Do you really wish it, Clarence?”
“From my soul I do,” was the reply. “Gladly now,
could I do so, would I place my commission in your
hands.”
“Indeed! would you do this, Clarence Conway?
Are you serious?” demanded the elder kinsman with
looks of considerable interest and surprise.
“Serious! Do you know me so little as to make such
an inquiry! Would I trifle at such a moment with any
man?—Could I trifle so with a kinsman? No! Bound
as we both are the desire is idle enough, but, could it be
done, Edward Conway, freely would I place the parchment
in your hands with all the privileges which belong
to it.”
“And you—”
“Would take my risk—would defy them to the last,
and rely upon their fears of that justice which would
certainly follow any attempt upon my life while I remain
their prisoner.”
The chief of the Black Riders rose from the bulk on
which he had been seated, and twice, thrice, he paced
the apartment without speaking. Deep shadows passed
over his countenance, and low muttering sounds, which
were not words, escaped at moments through his closed
teeth. He seemed to be struggling for a space with some
new emotion. At length he stopped short in front of his
kinsman. He had succeeded in composing his features,
which were now mantled with a smile.
“Clarence,” he exclaimed, “you are a very generous
fellow. You always were, even in your boyhood. Your
proffer to me loses nothing of its liberality because it
would be injurious rather than beneficial to me. Your
intention is every thing. But, I cannot accept your gift—
it would be to me the shirt of Nessus. It would be my
death, and if you take my counsel you will say nothing
of it. Better by far had you left it in the swamp. Have
you forgotten that I am here, under these very bonds,
charged with no worse offence than that of being Colonel
Clarence Conway. If I could be secure from this imputation,
perhaps, I would escape with no worse evil than
the scars they have given me.”
“True, true! These after matters had driven the
other from my thought. I recollect—I had even given
my testimony on that head. If it will serve you, I will
again repeat the truth, though they hew me down the
next instant.”
“Say nothing rashly, Clarence. You are as excessively
bold as you are generous—every way an extravagant
man. Suppress your commission, if you can, for
I'm doubtful if it can do you any good with these people,
and it may do you serious harm. They make little heed,
I fear, of law and parchment. But hark! The shouting
becomes nearer and louder. They are returning—they
have taken the assassin!”
“God forbid!” was the involuntary ejaculation of Clalence,
while a cold shudder passed over his frame at the
apprehension.—“God forbid! Besides, Edward Conway,
he is no assassin.”
“Still generous, if not wise!” was the remark of his
companion, who added—“Perhaps, Clarence, our only
hope of safety depends upon their having their victim.”
“I love life—life is precious to me,” said the other,
“but it would be a bitterness and a loathing could I feel
that it had been purchased by the sacrifice of that worthy
fellow.”
“We shall soon see. Here they come. Our trial is
at hand.”
No more words were permitted to either speaker.
The uproar of conflicting voices without—the questioning
and counselling—the cries and clamours, effectually
stunned and silenced the two within. Then came a rush.
The door was thrown open, and in poured the troop,
with fury, vexation and disappointment. They had failed
to track the assassin. The darkness of the night, the
prevalence of the storm, and the absence of every trace
and track of his footstep, which the rain obliterated as
soon as it was set down, served to baffle their efforts and
defeat their aim. They returned in a more savage mood
of fury than before. They were now madmen. The
appetite for blood, provoked by the pursuit, had been
increased by the delay. Ben Williams, the man who
was slain, was a favourite among the troop. They were
prepared to avenge him, and in doing this, to carry out
the cruel penalty which he was about to inflict on the
prisoner in the moment when he was shot down. Led
on by one of the party, by whom Clarence had been originally
made prisoner, they rushed upon him.
“Out with him at once;” was the cry of the infuriate
wretches. “To the tree: to the tree!”
“A rope, Muggs!” was the demand of one; and
knives flashed about the eyes of the young partisan in
fearful proximity.
“What would you do, boys?” demanded Muggs interposing.
He alone knew the tie which existed between
in part at least, the objects for which the latter had put
on his disguise. “Let the prisoner alone to-night, and
give him a fair trial in the morning.”
“Who talks of fair trial in the morning? Look at
Ben Williams lying at your foot. You're treading in his
blood, and you talking of fair trial to his murderer.”
“But this man aint his murderer!”
“Same thing—same thing—wa'nt it on his account
that he was shot. Away with him to the tree. Away
with him!”
“Haul him along, fellows! Here, let me lay hand on
his collar,” cried a huge fellow from behind. “Give's
a hold on him and you'll soon see him out.”
A dozen hands grappled with the youth. A dozen
more contended that they might do so likewise.
“Scoundrels, give me but room, and I will follow
you,” cried Clarence with a scorn as lofty as he would
have shown in a station of the utmost security, and with
tones as firm as he ever uttered at the head of his regiment.
“If nothing but my blood can satisfy you for
that which is shed, take it. You shall not see me shrink
from any violence which your ruffian hands may inflict.
Know that I despise and defy you to the last.”
“Gag him—stop his mouth. Shall the rebel flout us
on our own ground.”
“Bring him forward. The blood of Ben Williams
cries out to us;—why do you stand with open mouths
there. Shove him ahead.”
Amid such cries as these, coupled with the most
shocking oaths and imprecations, they dragged forward
the youth slowly, for their own numbers and conflicting
violence prevented co-operation. They dragged him on
until, at length, he stood in the blood, and just above the
body, of the murdered man. He did not struggle, but he
shrunk back naturally, with some horror, when he felt
the clammy substance sticking to his feet. He readily
conjectured whence it came—from what sacred sources
of human life;—and, though a fearless soldier—one who,
in the heat of battle, had often shed the blood of his
that he stood in a puddle, which, but a little time
before, had beat and bounded, all animation and strength
and passion, in the bosom of a living man. His shuddering
recoil was mistaken by the crowd for resistance, and
one ruffian, more brutal than the rest, renewing his grasp
with one hand upon the collar of the youth, with the
other struck him in the face. The blow, that last indignity
and violence to which the man submits, roused the
swelling tides in the bosom of the youth beyond their
wonted bounds. With an effort which seemed rather an
emotion of the soul than a physical endeavour, he put
forth his whole strength, and the cords snapped asunder
which had confined his arms, and with the rapidity of
lightning he retorted the blow with such sufficient interest
as prostrated the assailant at his feet.
“Now, scoundrels, if you must have blood, use your
knives—for no rope shall profane my neck while I have
soul to defy and power to resist you. Dogs, bloodhounds
that you are, I scorn, I spit upon you. Bring forth your
best man—your chief, if you have one to take the place
of this carcass at my feet, that I may revile and defy,
and spit upon him also.”
A moment's pause ensued. The noble air of the man
whom they environed—the prodigious strength which he
had shown in snapping asunder the strong cords which
secured his limbs, commanded their admiration. Courage
and strength will always produce this effect, in the minds
of savage men. They beheld him with a momentary
pause of wonder; but shame to be thus baffled by a single
man, lent them new audacity. They rushed upon him.
Without weapons of any kind, for he had been disarmed
when first made a captive, they had no occasion to resort
to that degree of violence in overcoming him, to which
he evidently aimed to provoke them. It was his obvious
desire to goad them on to the use of weapons which
would take life and thus effectually defeat their purpose
of consigning him to the gallows;—that degrading form
of death from which the gentle mind shrinks with a
revulsion which the fear of the sudden stroke or the
strong language which he employed—language otherwise
unfamiliar to his lips. His desire might still have been
gratified. Several of the more violent among the young
men of the party were rushing on him with uplifted
hands, in which the glittering blade was flashing and
conspicuous. But the scornful demand of Clarence, with
which he concluded his contumelious speech, brought a
new party into the field. This was no other than his
kinsman. He had been a looker on for some moments—
not long—for the whole scene took far less time for
performance than it now takes for narration. He had
watched its progress with new and rather strange emotions.
At one moment, the selfish desires of his heart
grew predominant. He thought of Flora Middleton, and
he sank back and closed his eyes upon the objects around
him, saying, in his secret heart—“Let them go on—let
him perish—why should I preserve from destruction the
only obstacle to my desires.” At the next moment, a
better spirit prevailed within him. He remembered the
services of Clarence to himself.—He owed to him his
life; and but now, had not the generous youth tendered
him for his extrication and sole use that document, which
he fancied would be all powerful in securing his own
safety. The image of their mutual father came, also, to
goad the unworthy son to a sense of his duty, and when
he heard the fierce, proud accents of the youth—when
he heard him call for “their best man, their chief, that
he might defy and spit upon him,” he started to his feet.
There was but a moment left him for performance if his
purpose was to save. The knives of the infuriate mob
were already flourishing above their victim, and in their
eyes might be seen that fanatical expression of fury
which is almost beyond human power to arrest. A keen,
quick, meaning glance, he gave to the landlord, Muggs;
whose eyes had all the while been anxiously watchful of
his leader. At the sign the latter made his way behind
him, and, unobserved, with a single stroke of his knife,
separated the cord which bound his arms. In another
instant his voice rose superior to all their clamours.
“Hold, on your lives!” he exclaimed, leaping in
among the assailants. “Back, instantly, fellows, or you
make an enemy of me! Let the prisoner alone!”
“Gad, I'm so glad!” exclaimed Muggs, while the
big drops of perspiration poured down his forehead.
“I thought, cappin, you couldn't stand by, and see
them make a finish of it.”
| CHAPTER IX.
A CRISIS. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree | |