University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Rawlins was not altogether satisfied that the Methodist
should take the business so completely out of
his hands, but he well knew that there was no hope
of successful resistance against the usurpation. The
self-esteem of William Badger was well sustained
by the firm rigidity of his character, and the perfect
unconsciousness of any thing like presumption in the
lead which he was resolved to take. The woodman
shrugged his shoulders, therefore, and said nothing;
congratulating himself that he had kept the suspected
names to himself, and inly determining to continue
his own plans, which, though less dignified and imposing
than those of the senior, yet promised to be,
for that very reason, far more effective. He followed
the squire into the salle a manger, where the
young men had been left, and where he found them
busily engaged in the discussion of sundry subjects,
all of which were necessarily made to give way to
that which was always the most important to William
Badger,—that, namely, which most interested
himself. The latter proceeded, as if from his own
knowledge and thought,—for he made no sort of

reference to Rawlins in the progress of his narrative
—to give the substance of what he had heard, to describe
the evil condition of the neighbourhood, and
to expatiate upon the necessity of gathering the young
men together for the purpose of routing the evil-doers.
Vernon heard him with a degree of pleasure
and interest which he found it not so easy to suppress;
but he regarded the young Badger with eyes
of too much keenness and suspicion to suffer his real
sentiments to be known. Without hesitation, he
joined issue with the venerable elder, as well on the
propriety as the necessity of the course he proposed
to pursue; deliberately questioning the correctness
of the assumption, that there was any number of
men engaged in the outlawry which had troubled
the neighbourhood; and insisting upon the strong probability
of all the detailed offences having been committed
by the same two or three individuals who had
been conspicuous in each. Much of his argument
was founded upon the broad, patriotic text, that in a
country like ours, where the means of life are so
readily and universally to be obtained, it was morally
impossible that any numerous set of men could be
found, wilfully disregarding the laws, and making
themselves liable to their penalties. His views were
supported at large, and with much more earnestness,
by Gideon Badger, who took especial care to wind
up his notions of the subject, by an elaborate eulogy
upon the moral and religious influences which had
been exercised over the neighbourhood by the burning
and shining light fixed upon Zion's Hill. But neither
the well-tempered courtesy with which Vernon had
spoken, nor the closing and rather bald flattery of
Gideon's speech, saved them from the charge of
vaingloriousness and presumption from the venerable
elder, who was never more full of Christian
texts than when he was following his own mind, and
resolved upon making others do so likewise. Having
adopted the notions of Rawlins as his own, he
was as rigid in their maintenance as he ever could
have been in that of a favourite text. He went into
a history of all the robberies and murders in the
county and in the neighbouring counties for the ten
previous years; connected them together by a supposititious
train of circumstances, ascribed them all
to the same set of men, and concluded by declaring,
that “the time was at length come for the punishment
of the offenders; that the vengeance of God
was at length ripe; that the sword was unsheathed
to smite, and sharpened for destruction, and that
he”—though this was rather left to the implication
of the hearers—“was the appointed messenger of
wrath, who was at once to denounce the judgment
and carry it into execution.” His resolution to obey
the commission which had been given him, was followed
by a direct demand of Vernon's services, to
assist in carrying out his purposes, which he resolved
to begin forthwith.

“Impossible, Mr. Badger, impossible!” was the
reply of Vernon. “I am not the master of my own
time, and can delay no longer than is absolutely necessary.
I must pursue my journey to-morrow, and
should have resumed it to-day, but that my thigh felt
too sore and stiff to justify the attempt to ride so soon
after my hurts.”

“Young man, would you fly from your duty?”
demanded the other with solemnity.

“No, sir, it is in the performance of my duties
that I would fly so soon from your hospitable dwelling.
I have occasions which command my haste
and attention elsewhere; and I propose to leave you,
at the rise of to-morrow's dawn, with the view to
their performance.”

The elder was not to be gainsayed, and he showed

himself as tenacious on the present, as upon most
other occasions.

“There can be no call so urgent, young man, as
that of our country; no duty so clearly necessary
as the detection and punishment of crime.”

“You forget, Mr. Badger,” replied Vernon, availing
himself of his own expressed opinions rather than
those which he really felt; “you forget, Mr. Badger,
that I take a different view of these facts from yourself;
that I see not the same dangers, and do not recognise
the same necessity; but, even were it otherwise,
I see not how I could assist you materially,
and acknowledge the presence of other, and as you
may think them, selfish obligations, which compel
me elsewhere. Should it occur that I may do any
thing to promote your wishes, I believe I may safely
assure you that you should not find me wanting.”

“We must even try to carry on the good work
without you,” replied the other stiffly; and with this
the farther conference between the two ended. But
the reluctance of Vernon rather stimulated than discouraged
the Methodist, who was always strengthened
in purpose and performance by the increase of
his own personal responsibilities. Having despatched
a servant to summon his constable, Harvey, to his
presence, he proceeded to concoct his plans for
taking the outlaws, or, at least, breaking up their
nest in the Loosa-Chitta swamp, with more earnestness
than secrecy. The arrival of Harvey enabled
him to issue the warrant against Yarbers for horse-stealing,
based upon the oath of Edward Mabry.

“This knocks up your affair with Mary Stinson
for ever, Ned,” was the consolatory remark whispered
in the ears of the lover by his friend Rawlins,
as the warrant was given to the constable.

“Well, I know it—I don't care a d—; I'll make
him sweat for his impudence, though it makes me
lose every thing.”

Harvey, who was a stout fellow, of a bold heart
and well-tried honesty, was made a party to the
farther deliberations on the subject of the outlaws
of the neighbourhood, and so much time was consumed
in the discussion of projects and difficulties,
that night came on ere he was permitted to depart
for the purpose of arresting Yarbers. This duty
was therefore deferred to the ensuing morning; but
that very night, a trusty messenger conveyed the
tidings of his danger to the horse thief, who left a
warm nest, but nothing in it, to reward the industry
of the constable, who returned to the magistrate
with another proof to the many commented on by
Rawlins, that there was some secret and sinister influence
continually busy to find out his designs, and
defeat his warrants. Yarbers, who was neither
worse nor better than a squatter, before daylight
the next morning, was speeding on with bag and
baggage, wife and daughter, to a place of hiding
well known to all the beagles in the swamp.

But Vernon, though he refrained from yielding
himself to the importunities of Badger, had no such
indifference to his project, nor did he entertain those
doubts of the necessity of proceeding against the
outlaws which he yet professed. In his chamber
that night, alone with Rawlins, he declared himself
more fully.

“I agree with you, Rawlins, in my doubts of the
integrity of this youth, Gideon Badger, and I have
as little faith in the judgment of his father. The
one would wilfully and dishonestly betray,—the
other would commit the same fault through the
mere love of display and authority. I am pleased
at the reserve which you have shown, and will requite
it by a degree of confidence which must move
you to increased reserve. What I do and say to
you, must, of all things, be most studiously kept from

this old man and his son; and, indeed, whatever
you propose to do in the case of these robbers, must
be also withheld, if you hope to be successful in your
projects. Your passionate friend, Mabry, too, should
have none of your confidence in such matters, for,
though honest enough, he lacks all discretion, and
would blow us in the first gust of phrensy that happened
to seize upon him. See to that door—I heard
footsteps—I speak for your ears only.”

This done, and assured that there was none to
hear but Rawlins, Vernon proceeded to inform the
astounded woodman of those facts in the history of
the mystic brotherhood, and the flight of Clem
Foster from Alabama, and his probable presence in
the neighbourhood, all of which had been gathered
by him in his interview with the Governor of Mississippi.
We forbear the long detail, so unnecessary
to us, and avoid repetition of the still longer
conversation which ensued between the two in reference
to the subject, and the proper course to be
pursued by Rawlins in the management of the game
before him. Vernon studiously counselled the other
to forbear taking any active part in the affair, until
events had more completely developed the persons,
the aims, and the particular whereabouts of the outlaws.
In all circumstances he especially counselled
the sturdy woodman—who already regarded him
as an oracle,—while using the influence of William
Badger, on no account to admit his privity to any
plan which he might deem it advisable to pursue.

“It may be that I shall be able to assist you in
person before many days. My present hope is to
accomplish the urgent business upon which I shall
set forth to-morrow, in time to fulfil the partial
promise which I made, on leaving Raymond, to the
Governor. But, at all events, I will provide you
with authority for your own action, which will

strengthen your power, and confirm your influence
over your neighbours. Here is a commission, with
his Excellency's signature, which makes you a
captain over such a body of men as you may
gather together willing to obey your command.
Here, farther, is a small list of suspected persons.
To none of these should you extend your trust.
Some of the persons, perhaps, may be among your
acquaintance, and it would be advisable, however
well you may esteem them, to maintain towards
them the utmost reserve respecting all your plans.
I will write to his Excellency to-night, under an
assumed name, and leave the letter with you, to
despatch from the nearest post-office. The address
will be one already agreed upon between us, and he
will give you farther instructions—perhaps send to
you a special messenger—as George Jenkinson.
You will answer to the name for a time, since it
would be unsafe to address you by your own. I
will also give you another letter to a friend, which
you will oblige me by despatching by the same post
as that which takes my letter to the Governor.
There are other matters upon which I will reflect
before sleeping to-night, which will, perhaps, enable
us to correspond while apart, and play this difficult
game with some good prospects of success. For
the present, let us separate, that there may be no
suspicions of the confidence between us.”

That night Vernon prepared his letters for the
Governor, and his friend and patron, Carter. To the
former he detailed such a portion of his adventures,
and his brief experience at Zion's Hill, as would
enable him to form an idea of the material he had
to depend upon in the issue which, it was obvious
enough, was approaching fast between the outlaws
and the government. The merits of Walter Rawlins
were set forth in proper language, and a list of

names, which had been furnished by the worthy
woodman, of persons to be relied on, was included
in the letter. To Carter he wrote a more comprehensive
epistle, in which his fortunes from the moment
of their separation, were described at large.
He did not fail to apprise him of the discovery,
which he thought himself to have made, of Maitland
in the person of the traveller whom he had
rescued from the robbers. His hurt, slight as it
was, was spoken of even more slightingly than it
deserved; and he declared his ability and intention
to renew his pursuit on the morning following. His
language was full of hope and light-heartedness, his
tone being studiously assumed to encourage his
friend and patron. But it might have been remarked
that though Vernon spoke freely and fully of all
other matters, he yet found, on finishing the letter,
that he had said not a word on the subject of the
two daughters—or, rather, the one daughter of
Maitland—who accompanied him. He was reminded,
on re-perusing the epistle, to say something
to supply this omission in the form of a postscript,
but finding that he had not room to say much, he
adopted the satisfactory determination to say nothing;
and so his labours closed for the night.

While the conference was going on between
Vernon and Rawlins, Gideon Badger was making
his way to the woods, where he found Saxon, Jones,
and another of the confederates. To them he narrated
the discussion which had taken place, under
his father's lead, between the assembled company at
Zion's Hill.

“This fellow, Mabry,” said Saxon, “will not
sleep soundly until he's knocked on the head. We
must send Yarbers off, for it won't do to kick up a
bobbery on his account. Mack,” he continued, addressing
the confederate hitherto unnamed, “take

horse instantly for Yarbers—tell him what's going
on, and say from me, that we can do nothing for
him just now. Let him make tracks for Bear Garden
before day peeps.”

To hear was to obey. The fellow was off in the
twinkling of an eye, and Saxon continued thus:

“What the devil shall we do to quiet your father,
Gideon? I am puzzled what to do with him.”

“Knock him on the head, too,” was the answer
of Jones, “if it's only to help Gideon to a little that
he ought to have, and rescue him from the straight
jacket of Methodism. Lord! Saxon, it's the most
funny thing in the world, to see the pompous old
parson, his round, red face looking forth from his
white neckcloth, and half fenced in by his high
shoulders and black cape, like a terrapin on a wet
log, meditating the ways and means for a Sunday
dinner, and Gideon, meek as a mouse in the corner
of a trap that has baffled all his efforts at escape,
patiently resigned to what is coming—an evening
prayer and sermon three hours long, church measure—cursing
in his heart, all the while, that sort of
heavenly unction which keeps him in a stew worse
than any ever known in hell. I have peeped in
once when I went to look after Gideon, and once
was enough. After that I never went nigher than
the garden fence, and there I gave the signal. That
sermon was quite enough to keep off any beagle of
any taste, and sure am I, that the old man had better
begin to hunt us with a full mouth, such as he
had that day, than with a six pounder. We could
dodge the shot, but that sermon would be sure to
reach us wherever we might skulk. For my part,
let me be safe hidden in a hollow, and put Billy
Badger near by, well wound up for a long run, he'd
be sure to drive me out. I must stop my ears, or
let my heels go, for stand him ten minutes I neither

could nor would, for all that head or heels might be
worth. I'm clear, the shortest and best way for all
parties is to knock him on the head with Mabry.
We have good reason for thinking that Gideon
would never take up preaching as a trade, certainly
he cannot give us such prayers as his father; and
so the sooner the old man is gathered, the better for
the goodly seed which he leaves behind him.”

Gideon, who was one of those goodly rogues that
like to keep up appearances even in situations
where hypocrisy seems to be the last thing necessary,
growled out something in reply to this, of an
angry savour; but Jones knew his man and answered:

“Tut, tut, Gideon, you waste breath. You know
as well as I, that were the Lord in his mercy—to
use the goodly phraseology of Zion's Hill—to summon
to his keeping the blessed head thereof, it
would be a call more grateful to his devout and
affectionate son Gideon, than any his ears ever
heard.”

“Enough, Jones,” said the more considerate Saxon,
“this talk, which Gideon may suppose you to
utter earnestly, brings us no nigher to our object.
Of course we should never think of doing hurt or
harm to any of the family of one who belongs to,
and acts with us, unless it became absolutely necessary
to his and to our interests. The only course
which seems clear to me, if the old man gets up
his squad, which he will find it hard work to do, is
that we must skulk and run for it. That he can
neither find nor trouble us, is sufficiently certain.
Gideon, alone, as one of his band, will give us all
intelligence; and there is Cotton, Saunders, Furst,
Mason, Wilkes, and others, whom he will no doubt
muster with him, and who will tell us just when and
where the cat will jump, so that we may leave the

nest empty. We must leave you, Jones, to receive
notice from Gideon, whom you can see nightly, of
any thing that may be determined on, and this intelligence
you must send by the quickest beagle you
can call up, so that we may know at Cane Castle
and Bear Garden what to look for and when. What
you tell me of this young fellow, Vernon, is the
most surprising of all. Can it be that I am mistaken
in the man? Is it possible that he is only going for
private business? But what business? It may be
the location of Yazoo lands; he may be another of
the mad fools who dream nothing but pre-emptions,
and fancy they are playing the great game to themselves,
while all the rest of the world is gaping and
looking on. You say you searched his baggage
and found no papers?”

“None. I emptied his portmanteau while he
slept on the sofa in the hall, and found nothing but a
few changes of linen, a vest, some handkerchiefs,
and half a dozen stockings. There was neither
letter nor writing.”

“Did you open the stockings?”

“No! I didn't think of that.”

“Ah! that was half doing the business only. But
you say that he not only objected to going with
your father, but doubted the truth of his conjectures.”

“Made light of it—nay, laughed at it; and concluded
by declaring his intention to resume his own
journey upward by to-morrow's sun.”

“I must meet with him. I must look into him
myself,” said Saxon. “I will join him on the road,
to-morrow, and he will be a keen lawyer, indeed, if
I do not probe his depth, and find out his secrets.
It may be that I am deceived, yet the circumstances
are all strong and strange. He may have laughed
at the Governor's fears as he laughed at Badger's;

and yet, after all, it may have been a private speculation
only. Would I could have heard that conversation;
but regret is useless. We must make
up in skill the deficiencies of fortune, and make
ingenuity do that which necessity requires to be
done. If I do not sound him thoroughly to-morrow
we must call Justice Nawls to our assistance.”

Much of this was spoken soliloquizingly; and
was, possibly, beyond the immediate comprehension
of his comrades. At its close, Gideon Badger
asked—

“Did you suffer the old man, Wilson, to get
off?”

“Yes:—your blundering the day before, and the
death of Weston, persuaded me that it was proper
for us to do so, at least in this neighbourhood. I set
a hound on his track, however, so that we may
know where he earths, and what course he takes.
If he has any thing, we can easily cover him before
he touches the Tennessee line. But enough with
you to-night, Gideon. A dog will bark at the foot
of the garden at noon to-morrow—let him know
what the old man has done, or is about to do. Good
night.”

The confederates separated; Saxon and his companion,
Jones, sinking into the deep woods beyond
the garden, and Gideon Badger, leaping the fence,
and taking a shorter way to the house. They had
fully gone from sight and hearing—ten minutes had
been allowed to elapse after their absence—when
Rachel Morrison emerged from the cowering attitude
in which she had crouched and found concealment
in a thick body of young plum saplings, brier
and shrub shoots, that skirted the spot where the
conspirators had carried on their conference, and in
which she had heard every syllable that had been
uttered. Her cheeks were pale, very pale, when

she came forth from her place of concealment; her
form trembled with the crowding and conflicting
emotions of her soul; but her resolution, which had
brought her to the spot, and had kept her firm, and
above any of those apprehensions which afflict most
women, was still as strong and unyielding as at
first. Sick at heart, and sad, with a bitter sadness,
she was yet glad that she had so far conquered her
womanly fears—the scruples of a nice, and in ordinary
necessities a proper delicacy—and had listened
to that cold, calculating conference of villany, in
which the fate of those to whom she was linked by
innumerable ties, was so intimately interested.

“It is, then, true, all true,” she exclaimed; “even
as Mother Kerrison assured me, and as my own
fears were most ready to believe. Gideon Badger
is lost—lost for ever; and my poor old uncle—so
proud in himself—so confident of all around him—
with such hope in his only son—what will be the
pang at his heart—what the crushing and humbling
misery of his soul, when he shall hear of this? And
hear of it he must. Even if my lips remain closed
upon the subject, the truth will reach his ears at
last. There must come the hour of discovery, when
all will be known; and he—God strengthen and
sustain him in that dreadful hour! For me, for me,
what is left now? Shall I speak of what I have
seen and heard? Shall my lips declare these dreadful
tidings, and my hands offer him the bitter cup of
desolation? No! no! I may not—I must not. I
have not the strength—not the heart for this. I
must contrive other means to prevent the utter ruin
of the one, and the heart-wasting desolation of the
other. God of Heaven—eternal and preserving
Father, be with me this blessed night, and counsel
me in the fitting course, which shall defeat the danger,

and disarm the sting of this threatening sorrow.
To thy grace and saving mercy, Lord Jesus, I
commend myself, in this moment of doubt and
difficulty.”

Never was prayer more humble and devout, and
offered with a more becoming sense and spirit,
than that of Rachel Morrison, kneeling among
the withered leaves, in the silence of the night, on
the edge of that deep, dim, and mournfully sighing
forest.