 | CHAPTER XXXI.
THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. Haunted hearts |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE.
No formal and connected narrative of the circumstances
attending the death of Baultie Rawle was ever
extracted from Nicholas Bly, nor were charges against
any parties preferred by him of sufficient coherency and
weight to warrant the interference of government or the
apprehension of suspected individuals. Such hints and
explanations as dropped from the wretched man were
chiefly in the form of spontaneous confessions and involuntary
acknowledgments made to George, who, after
allowing him a few weeks in which to recuperate the
strength expended on the day of the trial, visited him
frequently in his cell, aided in the fulfilment of the
promises held out to him as a motive for confession by
ministering to his necessities, and inspired him with a
degree of confidence which the jailer and the prison
chaplain had failed to awaken. Disjointed and fragmentary
as these hints were, enough could easily be
gathered or conjectured from them to throw light upon
whatever mysteries connected with this foul transaction
still remained unsolved.
It did not appear, nor was it by any means probable,
that Bly was otherwise than a stranger to Bullet, until a
period immediately preceding the Christmas races at
Stein's Plains, when Bullet, who had a keen eye for the
choice of his tools, contrived to bring him under his
diabolical influence. Employed in the first place as a
pander to the vices and frauds of this high-handed villain,
believing in him implicitly as an aristocrat and a
gentleman, Bly was readily induced to lend himself to
crimes of greater magnitude, varnished and gilded as
they were by the artful hand of this magnate in villany.
Not until their design of extracting money from
Baultie Rawle, through the agency of George, had
signally failed, did Bullet broach the more desperate
scheme which was finally resolved on, and in the fulfilment
of which this cool and practised knave took care
to place Bly always in the foreground, shrouding himself
in such obscurity, guarding himself by such nice
precautions, that not even so much as his delicate footprint
on the snow could be brought up as evidence against
him, and that Hannah Rawle alone protested against the
otherwise universal belief that but one individual had
been engaged in the transaction.
And yet Bly persisted to the last, and doubtless with
truth, that while assenting to the plan of midnight
robbery, he had never meditated murder; that while
coveting Baultie's chest of gold, he had been no party
to any scheme of further outrage; that even in the final
struggle he shrank from the old man's cries, and
house empty handed, but for the stern command of his
leader, and plainly his master-spirit, Bullet. With bitter
and vindictive reproaches, aggravated by the keen pangs
of remorse which now preyed upon him, Bly told how,
at the critical moment, Bullet, perceiving the old man's
obstinate defence of his property, sprang upon the scene
armed with the broken sleigh runner, and flinging the
fatal missile within reach of his accomplice, charged
him with a terrible threat to strike hard, and strike
home, and silence the old brute's cries.
“And then when I'd done as he bade me,” continued
Bly, “and he'd disposed of the old 'ooman (and a tough
job he had of it, for she was a she-wolf to deal with),
to see him set down an' overhaul the money box, an'
count out the cash as cool as ef we'd 'arned it by an
honest day's work, an' slip all the gold into his own
pocket, an' trample on the old man's body afore it was
cold, an' laugh at me for a white-livered fool; — ah! I
tell yer, Mister Geordie, that's but the beginnin' o' the
dark deeds that I've seen done under his flag; but because
it was the fust, an' as fur's I was consarned, the
blackest, it 'll haunt me to my dyin' day, an' foller me,
like my shadder, inter the world to come that the parson
tells about. Bless yer stars, Mister Geordie, that when
yer fortunes was low, an' yer friends was false, you never
give ear to my bad counsels, much less put yerself in the
power o' that limb o' Satan, Bullet. Do you know, Mister
George” (and here Bly raised himself in bed, and gazed
“do yer know why I believe in you, an' trust in you,
more'n in any body else, even the parson, an' he ain't
a bad feller either? Wal, I'll tell yer. It's because
you're the only man that ever I see fight the devil an'
beat him when once he had yer down.”
No confession of Bly's served to implicate either
Diedrich or Peter Stein in the cruel outrage which lay
so heavy on his own conscience. Diedrich was doubtless
not only ignorant, but innocent of the whole transaction,
except so far as (to quote Bly's charge against
him in court), that tavern of his was the nest where
all the mischief in the Jerseys was hatched.
His son, however, though guiltless of any participation
in the crime, could not be thus wholly exonerated from
a knowledge of its authors, except on the plea which
Bly always inserted in his favor, namely, that Pete was
such a thick-headed numbskull, and for the most part so
muddled with rum, that it was doing him too much
credit to say that he really knew any thing. It was
true, that all the phlegm of his Dutch ancestry had in
him degenerated into downright stupidity. Still, Bullet
had found either in his dulness or his wit the material
for a useful, though a mean and despicable tool, and
Peter had been in league with the lordly villain at an
earlier date even than Bly. It was by means of his
landlord's son, indeed, that Bullet gauged the character
and abilities of the various rogues that came under his
eye and marked his future accomplice. It was Peter's
George's mare which insured success to her competitor
in the race, for it was no other than Peter's familiar voice
which whistled Nancy off her course. It was his compliant
tongue which first gave hint of his uncle's Baultie's
possessions, and which finally threw light upon the
nearest road to his house, his personal habits, the whereabouts
of his strong-box. Peter's attic room, too, was
the secret rendezvous of his fellow-conspirators; it was
here that they met by appointment on the night of the murder,
and here that Bullet, after returning from his visit
to Angie, proved himself ready for any game that
offered, high or low, by beguiling the time until midnight
in playing at old sledge with the maudlin youth
and winning his last cent.
Although, as Bly acknowledged in further extenuation
of Peter, they did not leave him that night until he was
stretched on the floor in a drunken stupor, in which he,
no doubt, lay until long after the murder had got wind,
and the murderers made their escape from the neighborhood,
it was next to impossible that he should have
been ignorant of the parties concerned in the atrocious
deed. That his stupidity did not amount to ignorance,
and that his conscience failed to acquit him of a share
in the guilt, were evidenced by the persevering secrecy
which he maintained on the subject; a secrecy which,
considering the shallowness of his brains and their frequent
bewilderment with drink, must have been due to
the instinct of self-preservation.
But though safe from justice and the retributions of
the law, who can tell how large a share fear, horror,
and remorse might have had in hurrying the young
man to his ruin? and how busily these haunting spectres
had been employed in digging the grave, — a drunkard's
grave, — which had long been yawning for him?
“I tell yer, Mister George,” exclaimed Bly, after
alluding to the easy prey which Peter had been to the
arts of Bullet, “that man was one that had a stomach
fur every thing that was a goin', and was as cool an' as
greedy as a shark. He even knew how to make the
most of his bad luck. Do you remember the arm he
carried in a handkercher, an' the wound they nussed
up so careful fur him at Stein's? Wal, that was an
ugly gash that he got with a cutlass, not long afore,
a boardin' a misfort'nate brig, — so I larned arterwards
from one o' the gang; — and Bullet made it tell there
among the country folks, an' 'specially 'mong the gals,
as if it had been a ginteel wound, an' he the hero of a
man o' war. And as to 'propriatin' whatever come
handy, great or small, it was a caution jest to see what
a talent he had fur that. It made me open my eyes,
an' I wan't no chicken either, to see him walk into
your great-coat the cold night we went out on that
murderin' business. Why, he took it down from a peg
on the wall as unconsarned as you please, buttoned
every button up snug, an' drew them woollen mittens
o' yourn on to his sleek white hands more like a student
lad in a consumption that was goin' a sleigh ridin' with
on an errand o' blood. But number one was his motter,
an' his own comfort was a thing he knew how to look
out fur; why, he'd lord it like a prince over old Stein
in the parlor, make love to his darter, to her ruin, in the
kitchen, cheat Pete out of his last copper at old sledge,
steal your coat, wind up with the murder o' yer old
uncle, an' sleep as sound arter his night's work as a
farmer boy arter a huskin' frolic!”
“My great-coat, Bly?” cried George, catching
eagerly at the one clause in this summary of crime,
which, though thrown out merely in illustration of
Bullet's light-fingered propensities, had a deeper significance
than this to the owner of the garment. “My
coat, with the metal buttons, that I left in Peter's room
at the tavern? What more about that, Bly? I have
an interest at stake there.”
“You hope to recover the property, do yer?” queried
Bly, with a mingling of simplicity and facetiousness.
“I have recovered it. My folks at home have had
it laid up in lavender these five years.”
“Yer don't say so! That's a tough story for me to
swaller! I can't make that out no how.”
The expression of Bly's face was a mixture of wonder
and incredulity.
“Jest tell a feller how that 'ere thing came about,
if yer can.”
George related the tragical particulars attending the
of the corpse, and its supposed identification,
making no comment, offering no conjecture, purposely
leaving Bly to an unbiased deduction from the facts,
and earnestly hoping that he would be able to fill in the
meagre outline and explain the mystery.
Nor was he disappointed. Bly listened with the intense
eagerness, the sharpened curiosity, of one who
had a vital interest in every word. Repressed passion
distorted his features, fierce conviction dilated his eye,
as George proceeded, and almost before his tale was
completed they burst forth in the words, “The all-fired
rascal! Here we have him at his own work agin.
So, Cock Roger, my fine feller, that was the end you
come ter, was it? I allers mistrusted you'd meet with
foul play!”
These explosions, though significant, were enigmatical
to George, and the deep mutterings and imprecations
against the pirate captain which succeded, merely proved
that George's story had excited in Bly suspicions that
were fresh fuel to his rage against Bullet. But by patiently
waiting for the storm to subside, and adroitly leading the
mind of Bly back to memories connected with the man
whose fate he seemed to deplore. George at length
gleaned the following facts:—
During the few days which intervened between the
murder of Baultie Rawle and the sailing of a vessel,
nominally a merchantman, commanded by Roger, but in
reality the pirate craft of Bullet, Bly had, with others of
on the edge of the wharf from which their vessel, then
lying at anchor in the stream, had lately cleared. Frequent
disputes and quarrels had here arisen between the
members of the gang, who spent most of their time in
gambling, and were usually more or less inflamed with
brandy; but the most noticeable and obstinate difficulty
was one which occurred between Bullet and Roger, hitherto
the most fully trusted and esteemed of his men. This
contest had its origin in a division of the profits resulting
from some illicit transaction, and the property stolen from
George, and accepted by Roger as a make-weight in his
share of the spoils, gave rise to the fierce dispute which
ensued. Cock Roger, who had somewhat reluctantly
consented to receive the coat in lieu of a considerable
sum, which he claimed as his due, was proportionately
elated at discovering the watch, which, hitherto concealed
in the breast-pocket, had escaped the notice and the
clutches of Bullet. But his triumph was cut short by a
demand for its restitution on the part of Bullet, who
secretly chafed at being worsted by his subaltern, and
covetous of the watch, a valuable timekeeper, swore
that it was not included in the bargain. High words
succeeded. Accusations and threats were not wanting
on either side. For once, the authority of Bullet was
defied; Roger maintained his ground, and the quarrel
seemed about to terminate in a personal struggle and
wrestle for the prize, when, abruptly, and to the amazement
of the spectators, Bullet, finding his antagonist
subside, and seemed, by his sudden withdrawal from the
contest, to acquiesce in Roger's view of the case.
“But nobody congraterlated him,” was Bly's comment
on this point of his narrative. “Not a man on us would
ha' dared to pocket the watch under them 'ere circumstances.
We all felt it wan't paid fur yet. Cock Roger
was a brave feller, though; too brave fur the cap'n by
half. He went about his business jest as if nothin' had
happened; but he'd better ha' been the one to cave in.
It wan't nat'ral in the cap'n, an' it wan't safe. The
watch cost Roger a big enough price 'fore he'd done
with it.”
“You think it cost him his life,” said George.
“Think, Mister George! I thought so at the time; now
I know. It was the night 'fore we sailed that they had
the row. The cap'n managed to keep Roger busy
ashore until he had sent us all aboard. Them two were to
foller sometime arter midnight in the cap'n's gig. Only one
on 'em ever come up the ship's side. `Roger was late,'
the cap'n said; `the tide sarved, an' he couldn't wait fur
him. No great loss,' he muttered, and then he give
orders to weigh anchor an' be off. The tide sarved, no
doubt, an' swept Cock Roger inter etarnity. It was no
wonder the cap'n couldn't wait, — an' as to missin' him,
— wal, I never heard much said on that score, an' there
were no questions asked; but there was one aboard, I
can tell yer, that missed him, an' mistrusted the end he'd
come ter, an' often expected, in a dark night, to see his
light-complectered feller, Mister Geordie, an' about
your height an' build, — the best o' the gang, an' the most
of a man, to my thinkin'. Give 'em fair play and he'd
ha' beat Bullet, out an' out, — an' so the rascal give him
foul play, which was more in his line, an' pra'ps saved Cock
Roger, arter all, from a wuss fate. There's a sayin', yer
know, `them that are born to be hung 'll never be
drowned,' an Cock Roger was meant for a better fate
than the cap'n 's a comin' ter, if he was a London cockney,
an' Bullet, as he purtended, a gentleman born.”
Bly would have dilated at length upon the event which
had been elucidated and explained by the comparison of
facts between himself and George; but George, sickened
and shocked at the final act of depravity thus exhibited,
shrank from further comments or details, and was glad
to escape, at length, from the presence of Bly, and from
the picture of crime which, together, they had conjured
up. For Bly's sake, too, he forbore dwelling upon a
topic calculated to excite the angry emotions, which true
benevolence sought to quiet and dissipate in the mind of
the dying man. He devoutly trusted that the veil, being
at length removed from the last of those mysteries
which the hand of Bullet had woven, he should be spared
any further acquaintance with the vile practices of one,
whose career had been so singularly interwoven with his
own.
One phase, however, still remained to the completion
of the moral portrait of a man, the cruel depravity of
meanness and cowardice.
“You've been paying a visit to poor Bly, I believe,
sir,” was the remark addressed to George by the prison
chaplain, whom he met in one of the corridors, just after
leaving the sick man's cell.
George assented by an affirmative nod, and added a
few words of compassion for the prisoner's wasted and
hopeless condition.
“Yes,” responded the minister, an earnest, intelligent
missionary, whose services at the prison were voluntarily
rendered, “it's a terrible thing to see death fasten itself
upon a fellow-being whose abuse of life has steeped him,
soul and body, in corruption already. And yet Bly isn't
the worst man in the world. His ignorance of every
thing except what the animal instincts teach is pitiable.
His appeal on the score of this ignorance of good, and of
that carly initiation into evil which was the only education
he ever had, is almost childlike, and touches me
deeply. It is an appeal which will avail him, I am sure,
at Heaven's bar, though I am by no means hopeless that
he will carry with him there the more certain passport
of a penitent and forgiven soul. No, Bly is not the
worst man I ever saw; but I'll tell you, Captain Rawle,
who is;” and pointing towards the door of a vaulted and
well-secured cell in which Bullet was awaiting his execution,
the chaplain continued, in a sad and meditative
tone, — “that man there has revealed to me more of the
possible degradation of our human nature than I ever
saw before or expect to see again.
“His crimes have not the same palliation as those of
Bly, or the other poor fellows of his gang. He has evidently
had some early opportunities, and at least affects
education and refinement, though he has debased them
into education in sin and refinement in cruelty. God
knows the processes by which his heart has been turned
to flint, and God has the means, I doubt not, to soften it.
But I have lost all hope of serving as his instrument.”
“He scoffs at religion, I dare say,” remarked George;
“insults you, perhaps, when you name it to him.”
“O, that wouldn't discourage me,” replied the chaplain.
“I have not labored in our city prisons these ten
years without being used to all that. But my time, or
rather God's time, usually comes at last, and I have
learned to wait patiently for it. The scoffer discourages
me the least of all men, — especially in cases of criminals
condemned to death.”
“Bullet, then, does not fear death?”
“Ah, captain, there's my trouble, and the secret of my
discouragement. The man is so entirely possessed with,
and given over to this fear, that he is insensible to every
thing else. I don't mean fear of the hereafter; I can't
detect a spark of that. It is simply an abject, craven
fear of the gallows. As the time draws near for his
execution he is losing all his self-control; even his pride
and impudence are forsaking him. He creeps to the
very knees of the head jailer, and entreats the lowest
turnkeys to solicit the mercy of government for him.
During the time that I spend with him he can speak and
not, of course, a shadow of chance for him, and I have
told him so plainly.”
“But he cannot realize it? — will not believe it?”
“He will believe nothing — realize nothing but this
nightmare of dread. The attendants ridicule and despise
the poor wretch; and even I, Captain Rawle, in
spite of my cloth,” — and here the clergyman seemed to
address George confidentially, (every body, some how,
recognized and confided in George's sympathetic qualities)—“I
confess to you that I had hoped to find in this
bad man the one virtue of courage, even though it were
of the ruffianly sort. It would have been a better groundwork
of hope than a state of mind that is debasing and
brutalizing him to the last degree. Upon my word I
believe it will end in their being compelled to drag him
to the gallows at last. Young man, you are a Christian;
I know it by your deeds of charity to Bly,” — and the
minister grasped George's hand, — “pray for me that I
may be inspired with some power to help and sustain
this degraded fellow-creature.”
But prayers and efforts failed to arrest the fulfilment
of the chaplain's prophecy; and when the day of execution
came it was verified to the letter.
Here was revenge for Hannah, if she still sought and
coveted it. But Hannah was not so unlike the rest of
the community that she could derive satisfaction from
such horrors. Hannah's mood was altered — humbled.
She sat often with the Bible open on her lap, reading
prophetic warnings of an avenging God; but she listened
now in silence, sometimes in tears, to reports that
from time to time reached her of the sufferings and penitence
of Bly, and showed no such bitter rancor towards
Bullet as might once have been anticipated from her. I
do not think she would have liked to have them go free
and unpunished altogether of God or man. Her ideas
of justice and retribution were still stringent. But she
did not now seek to have any voice in the matter. “She
had washed her hands of them,” she said, “and was content
to leave them in the hands of Heaven and the law.
| CHAPTER XXXI.
THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. Haunted hearts | |