 | The wigwam and the cabin |  |
THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN.
GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT.”
1. CHAPTER I.
The world has become monstrous matter-of-fact in latter days.
We can no longer get a ghost story, either for love or money.
The materialists have it all their own way; and even the little
urchin, eight years old, instead of deferring with decent reverence
to the opinions of his grandmamma, now stands up stoutly for his
own. He believes in every “ology” but pneumatology. “Faust”
and the “Old Woman of Berkeley” move his derision only, and
he would laugh incredulously, if he dared, at the Witch of Endor.
The whole armoury of modern reasoning is on his side;
and, however he may admit at seasons that belief can scarcely
be counted a matter of will, he yet puts his veto on all sorts of
credulity. That cold-blooded demon called Science has taken
the place of all the other demons. He has certainly cast out innumerable
devils, however he may still spare the principal.
Whether we are the better for his intervention is another question.
There is reason to apprehend that in disturbing our human
faith in shadows, we have lost some of those wholesome moral restraints
which might have kept many of us virtuous, where the
laws could not.
The effect, however, is much the more seriously evil in all that
concerns the romantic. Our story-tellers are so resolute to deal
in the real, the actual only, that they venture on no subjects the
details of which are not equally vulgar and susceptible of proof.
With this end in view, indeed, they too commonly choose their
of the evidence which led to their conviction; and, to prove
more conclusively their devoted adherence to nature and the truth,
they depict the former not only in her condition of nakedness, but
long before she has found out the springs of running water. It
is to be feared that some of the coarseness of modern taste arises
from the too great lack of that veneration which belonged to,
and elevated to dignity, even the errors of preceding ages. A
love of the marvellous belongs, it appears to me, to all those who
love and cultivate either of the fine arts. I very much doubt
whether the poet, the painter, the sculptor, or the romancer, ever
yet lived, who had not some strong bias—a leaning, at least,—
to a belief in the wonders of the invisible world. Certainly, the
higher orders of poets and painters, those who create and invent,
must have a strong taint of the superstitious in their composition.
But this is digressive, and leads us from our purpose.
It is so long since we have been suffered to see or hear of a
ghost, that a visitation at this time may have the effect of novelty,
and I propose to narrate a story which I heard more than once in
my boyhood, from the lips of an aged relative, who succeeded, at
the time, in making me believe every word of it; perhaps, for the
simple reason that she convinced me she believed every word of
it herself. My grandmother was an old lady who had been a resident
of the seat of most frequent war in Carolina during the Revolution.
She had fortunately survived the numberless atrocities
which she was yet compelled to witness; and, a keen observer,
with a strong memory, she had in store a thousand legends of that
stirring period, which served to beguile me from sleep many and
many a long winter night. The story which I propose to tell was
one of these; and when I say that she not only devoutly believed
it herself, but that it was believed by sundry of her contemporaries,
who were themselves privy to such of the circumstances as
could be known to third parties, the gravity with which I repeat
the legend will not be considered very astonishing.
The revolutionary war had but a little while been concluded.
The British had left the country; but peace did not imply repose.
The community was still in that state of ferment which was natural
enough to passions, not yet at rest, which had been brought
through which the nation had just passed. The state was
overrun by idlers, adventurers, profligates, and criminals. Disbanded
soldiers, half-starved and reckless, occupied the highways,
—outlaws, emerging from their hiding-places, skulked about the
settlements with an equal sentiment of hate and fear in their
hearts;—patriots were clamouring for justice upon the tories, and
sometimes anticipating its course by judgments of their own;
while the tories, those against whom the proofs were too strong
for denial or evasion, buckled on their armour for a renewal of
the struggle. Such being the condition of the country, it may easily
be supposed that life and property lacked many of their necessary
securities. Men generally travelled with weapons which
were displayed on the smallest provocation: and few who could
provide themselves with an escort ventured to travel any distance
without one.
There was, about this time, said my grandmother, and while
such was the condition of the country, a family of the name of
Grayling, that lived somewhere upon the skirts of “Ninety-six”
district. Old Grayling, the head of the family, was dead. He
was killed in Buford's massacre. His wife was a fine woman,
not so very old, who had an only son named James, and a little
girl, only five years of age, named Lucy. James was but fourteen
when his father was killed, and that event made a man of
him. He went out with his rifle in company with Joel Sparkman,
who was his mother's brother, and joined himself to Pickens's
Brigade. Here he made as good a soldier as the best. He had
no sort of fear. He was always the first to go forward; and his
rifle was always good for his enemy's button at a long hundred
yards. He was in several fights both with the British and tories;
and just before the war was ended he had a famous brush with
the Cherokees, when Pickens took their country from them. But
though he had no fear, and never knew when to stop killing while
the fight was going on, he was the most bashful of boys that I ever
knew; and so kind-hearted that it was almost impossible to believe
all we heard of his fierce doings when he was in battle.
But they were nevertheless quite true for all his bashfulness.
Well, when the war was over, Joel Sparkman, who lived with
down into the low country. I don't know what reason he had
for it, or what they proposed to do there. They had very little
property, but Sparkman was a knowing man, who could turn
his hand to a hundred things; and as he was a bachelor, and
loved his sister and her children just as if they had been his own,
it was natural that she should go with him wherever he wished.
James, too, who was restless by nature—and the taste he had enjoyed
of the wars had made him more so—he was full of it; and
so, one sunny morning in April, their wagon started for the city.
The wagon was only a small one, with two horses, scarcely
larger than those that are employed to carry chickens and fruit
to the market from the Wassamaws and thereabouts. It was
driven by a negro fellow named Clytus, and carried Mrs. Grayling
and Lucy. James and his uncle loved the saddle too well
to shut themselves up in such a vehicle; and both of them were
mounted on fine horses which they had won from the enemy.
The saddle that James rode on,—and he was very proud of it,—
was one that he had taken at the battle of Cowpens from one of
Tarleton's own dragoons, after he had tumbled the owner. The
roads at that season were excessively bad, for the rains of March
had been frequent and heavy, the track was very much cut up, and
the red clay gullies of the hills of “Ninety-six” were so washed
that it required all shoulders, twenty times a day, to get the wagon-wheels
out of the bog. This made them travel very slowly,
—perhaps, not more than fifteen miles a day. Another cause
for slow travelling was, the necessity of great caution, and a
constant look-out for enemies both up and down the road. James
and his uncle took it by turns to ride a-head, precisely as they
did when scouting in war, but one of them always kept along
with the wagon. They had gone on this way for two days, and
saw nothing to trouble and alarm them. There were few persons
on the high-road, and these seemed to the full as shy of them
as they probably were of strangers. But just as they were about
to camp, the evening of the second day, while they were splitting
light-wood, and getting out the kettles and the frying-pan, a person
rode up and joined them without much ceremony. He was
a short thick-set man, somewhere between forty and fifty: had
horse of remarkable strength and vigour. He was very civil of
speech, though he had but little to say, and that little showed him
to be a person without much education and with no refinement. He
begged permission to make one of the encampment, and his manner
was very respectful and even humble; but there was something
dark and sullen in his face—his eyes, which were of a light
gray colour, were very restless, and his nose turned up sharply,
and was very red. His forehead was excessively broad, and his
eyebrows thick and shaggy—white hairs being freely mingled
with the dark, both in them and upon his head. Mrs. Grayling
did not like this man's looks, and whispered her dislike to her
son; but James, who felt himself equal to any man, said,
promptly—
“What of that, mother! we can't turn the stranger off and say
`no;' and if he means any mischief, there's two of us, you know.”
The man had no weapons—none, at least, which were then
visible; and deported himself in so humble a manner, that the
prejudice which the party had formed against him when he first
appeared, if it was not dissipated while he remained, at least
failed to gain any increase. He was very quiet, did not mention
an unnecessary word, and seldom permitted his eyes to rest upon
those of any of the party, the females not excepted. This, perhaps,
was the only circumstance, that, in the mind of Mrs. Grayling,
tended to confirm the hostile impression which his coming
had originally occasioned. In a little while the temporary encampment
was put in a state equally social and warlike. The
wagon was wheeled a little way into the woods, and off the road;
the horses fastened behind it in such a manner that any attempt
to steal them would be difficult of success, even were the watch
neglectful which was yet to be maintained upon them. Extra
guns, concealed in the straw at the bottom of the wagon, were kept
well loaded. In the foreground, and between the wagon and the
highway, a fire was soon blazing with a wild but cheerful gleam;
and the worthy dame, Mrs. Grayling, assisted by the little girl,
Lucy, lost no time in setting on the frying-pan, and cutting into
slices the haunch of bacon, which they had provided at leaving
home. James Grayling patrolled the woods, meanwhile for a
foot to foot with the stranger, seemed—if the absence of all
care constitutes the supreme of human felicity—to realize the
most perfect conception of mortal happiness. But Joel was very
far from being the careless person that he seemed. Like an old
soldier, he simply hung out false colours, and concealed his real
timidity by an extra show of confidence and courage. He did
not relish the stranger from the first, any more than his sister;
and having subjected him to a searching examination, such as
was considered, in those days of peril and suspicion, by no means
inconsistent with becoming courtesy, he came rapidly to the conclusion
that he was no better than he should be.
“You are a Scotchman, stranger,” said Joel, suddenly drawing
up his feet, and bending forward to the other with an eye
like that of a hawk stooping over a covey of partridges. It was a
wonder that he had not made the discovery before. The broad
dialect of the stranger was not to be subdued; but Joel made slow
stages and short progress in his mental journeyings. The answer
was given with evident hesitation, but it was affirmative.
“Well, now, it's mighty strange that you should ha' fou't with
us and not agin us,” responded Joel Sparkman. “There was a
precious few of the Scotch, and none that I knows on, saving
yourself, perhaps,—that didn't go dead agin us, and for the tories,
through thick and thin. That `Cross Creek settlement' was a
mighty ugly thorn in the sides of us whigs. It turned out a raal
bad stock of varmints. I hope,—I reckon, stranger,—you aint
from that part.”
“No,” said the other; “oh no! I'm from over the other
quarter. I'm from the Duncan settlement above.”
“I've hearn tell of that other settlement, but I never know'd
as any of the men fou't with us. What gineral did you fight
under? What Carolina gineral?”
“I was at Gum Swamp when General Gates was defeated;”
was the still hesitating reply of the other.
“Well, I thank God, I warn't there, though I reckon things
wouldn't ha' turned out quite so bad, if there had been a leetle
sprinkling of Sumter's, or Pickens's, or Marion's men, among them
two-legged critters that run that day. They did tell that some of
Now, stranger, I hope you warn't among them fellows.”
“I was not,” said the other with something more of promptness.
“I don't blame a chap for dodging a bullet if he can, or being
too quick for a bagnet, because, I'm thinking, a live man is always
a better man than a dead one, or he can become so; but to
run without taking a single crack at the inimy, is downright cowardice.
There's no two ways about it, stranger.”
This opinion, delivered with considerable emphasis, met with
the ready assent of the Scotchman, but Joel Sparkman was not
to be diverted, even by his own eloquence, from the object of his
inquiry.
“But you ain't said,” he continued, “who was your Carolina
gineral. Gates was from Virginny, and he stayed a mighty short
time when he come. You didn't run far at Camden, I reckon,
and you joined the army ag'in, and come in with Greene? Was
that the how?”
To this the stranger assented, though with evident disinclination.
“Then, mou'tbe, we sometimes went into the same scratch together?
I was at Cowpens and Ninety-Six, and seen sarvice at
other odds and eends, where there was more fighting than fun.
I reckon you must have been at `Ninety-Six,'—perhaps at Cowpens,
too, if you went with Morgan?”
The unwillingness of the stranger to respond to these questions
appeared to increase. He admitted, however, that he had been
at “Ninety-Six,” though, as Sparkman afterwards remembered,
in this case, as in that of the defeat of Gates at Gum Swamp, he
had not said on which side he had fought. Joel, as he discovered
the reluctance of his guest to answer his questions, and perceived
his growing doggedness, forbore to annoy him, but mentally resolved
to keep a sharper look-out than ever upon his motions.
His examination concluded with an inquiry, which, in the plain-dealing
regions of the south and south-west, is not unfrequently
put first.
“And what mout be your name, stranger?”
“Macnab,” was the ready response, “Sandy Macnab.”
“Well, Mr. Macnab, I see that my sister's got supper ready
Sparkman rose while speaking, and led the way to the spot, near
the wagon, where Mrs. Grayling had spread the feast. “We're
pretty nigh on to the main road, here, but I reckon there's no
great danger now. Besides, Jim Grayling keeps watch for us,
and he's got two as good eyes in his head as any scout in the
country, and a rifle that, after you once know how it shoots,
'twould do your heart good to hear its crack, if so be that twa'n't
your heart that he drawed sight on. He's a perdigious fine shot,
and as ready to shoot and fight as if he had a nateral calling that
way.”
“Shall we wait for him before we eat?” demanded Macnab,
anxiously.
“By no sort o' reason, stranger,” answered Sparkman.
“He'll watch for us while we're eating, and after that I'll change
shoes with him. So fall to, and don't mind what's a coming.”
Sparkman had just broken the hoecake, when a distant whistle
was heard.
“Ha! That's the lad now!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet.
“He's on trail. He's got a sight of an inimy's fire, I reckon.
'Twon't be onreasonable, friend Macnab, to get our we'pons in
readiness;” and, so speaking, Sparkman bid his sister get into the
wagon, where the little Lucy had already placed herself, while
he threw open the pan of his rifle, and turned the priming over
with his finger. Macnab, meanwhile, had taken from his holsters,
which he had before been sitting upon, a pair of horseman's
pistols, richly mounted with figures in silver. These were large
and long, and had evidently seen service. Unlike his companion,
his proceedings occasioned no comment. What he did seemed a
matter of habit, of which he himself was scarcely conscious.
Having looked at his priming, he laid the instruments beside him
without a word, and resumed the bit of hoecake which he had
just before received from Sparkman. Meanwhile, the signal
whistle, supposed to come from James Grayling, was repeated.
Silence ensued then for a brief space, which Sparkman employed
in perambulating the grounds immediately contiguous. At length,
just as he had returned to the fire, the sound of a horse's feet
was heard, and a sharp quick halloo from Grayling informed his
moment after accompanied by a stranger on horseback; a tall,
fine-looking young man, with a keen flashing eye, and a voice
whose lively clear tones, as he was heard approaching, sounded
cheerily like those of a trumpet after victory. James Grayling
kept along on foot beside the new-comer; and his hearty laugh,
and free, glib, garrulous tones, betrayed to his uncle, long ere he
drew nigh enough to declare the fact, that he had met unexpectedly
with a friend, or, at least, an old acquaintance.
“Why, who have you got there, James?” was the demand of
Sparkman, as he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the ground.
“Why, who do you think, uncle? Who but Major Spencer—
our own major?”
“You don't say so!—what!—well! Li'nel Spencer, for sartin!
Lord bless you, major, who'd ha' thought to see you in
these parts; and jest mounted too, for all natur, as if the war was
to be fou't over ag'in. Well, I'm raal glad to see you. I am,
that's sartin!”
“And I'm very glad to see you, Sparkman,” said the other,
as he alighted from his steed, and yielded his hand to the cordial
grasp of the other.
“Well, I knows that, major, without you saying it. But
you've jest come in the right time. The bacon's frying, and
here's the bread;—let's down upon our haunches, in right good
airnest, camp fashion, and make the most of what God gives us
in the way of blessings. I reckon you don't mean to ride any
further to-night, major?”
“No,” said the person addressed, “not if you'll let me lay my
heels at your fire. But who's in your wagon? My old friend,
Mrs. Grayling, I suppose?”
“That's a true word, major,” said the lady herself, making her
way out of the vehicle with good-humoured agility, and coming
forward with extended hand.
“Really, Mrs. Grayling, I'm very glad to see you.” And
the stranger, with the blandness of a gentleman and the hearty
warmth of an old neighbour, expressed his satisfaction at once
more finding himself in the company of an old acquaintance.
Their greetings once over, Major Spencer readily joined the
reluctance—disappeared to resume his toils of the scout while the
supper proceeded.
“And who have you here?” demanded Spencer, as his eye
rested on the dark, hard features of the Scotchman. Sparkman
told him all that he himself had learned of the name and character
of the stranger, in a brief whisper, and in a moment after
formally introduced the parties in this fashion—
“Mr. Macnab, Major Spencer. Mr. Macnab says he's true
blue, major, and fou't at Camden, when General Gates run so
hard to `bring the d—d militia back.' He also fou't at Ninety-Six,
and Cowpens—so I reckon we had as good as count him one
of us.”
Major Spencer scrutinized the Scotchman keenly—a scrutiny
which the latter seemed very ill to relish. He put a few questions
to him on the subject of the war, and some of the actions in
which he allowed himself to have been concerned; but his evident
reluctance to unfold himself—a reluctance so unnatural to
the brave soldier who has gone through his toils honourably—had
the natural effect of discouraging the young officer, whose sense
of delicacy had not been materially impaired amid the rude jostlings
of military life. But, though he forbore to propose any
other questions to Macnab, his eyes continued to survey the features
of his sullen countenance with curiosity and a strangely
increasing interest. This he subsequently explained to Sparkman,
when, at the close of supper, James Grayling came in, and
the former assumed the duties of the scout.
“I have seen that Scotchman's face somewhere, Sparkman,
and I'm convinced at some interesting moment; but where, when,
or how, I cannot call to mind. The sight of it is even associated
in my mind with something painful and unpleasant; where could
I have seen him?”
“I don't somehow like his looks myself,” said Sparkman, “and
I mislists he's been rether more of a tory than a whig; but that's
nothing to the purpose now; and he's at our fire, and we've
broken hoecake together; so we cannot rake up the old ashes to
make a dust with.”
“No, surely not,” was the reply of Spencer. “Even though
occasion none now. But it should produce watchfulness and
caution. I'm glad to see that you have not forgot your old business
of scouting in the swamp.”
“Kin I forget it, major?” demanded Sparkman, in tones which,
though whispered, were full of emphasis, as he laid his ear to the
earth to listen.
“James has finished supper, major—that's his whistle to tell
me so; and I'll jest step back to make it cl'ar to him how we're
to keep up the watch to-night.”
“Count me in your arrangements, Sparkman, as I am one of
you for the night,” said the major.
“By no sort of means,” was the reply. “The night must be
shared between James and myself. Ef so be you wants to keep
company with one or t'other of us, why, that's another thing, and,
of course, you can do as you please.”
“We'll have no quarrel on the subject, Joel,” said the officer,
good-naturedly, as they returned to the camp together.
2. CHAPTER II.
The arrangements of the party were soon made. Spencer renewed
his offer at the fire to take his part in the watch; and the
Scotchman, Macnab, volunteered his services also; but the offer
of the latter was another reason why that of the former should be
declined. Sparkman was resolute to have everything his own
way; and while James Grayling went out upon his lonely rounds,
he busied himself in cutting bushes and making a sort of tent for
the use of his late commander. Mrs. Grayling and Lucy slept
in a wagon. The Scotchman stretched himself with little effort
before the fire; while Joel Sparkman, wrapping himself up in his
cloak, crouched under the wagon body, with his back resting
partly against one of the wheels. From time to time he rose and
thrust additional brands into the fire, looked up at the night, and
round upon the little encampment, then sunk back to his perch
and stole a few moments, at intervals, of uneasy sleep. The
first two hours of the watch were over, and James Grayling was
relieved. The youth, however, felt in no mood for sleep, and
taking his seat by the fire, he drew from his pocket a little volume
of Easy Reading Lessons, and by the fitful flame of the resinous
light-wood, he prepared, in this rude manner, to make up
for the precious time which his youth had lost of its legitimate
employments, in the stirring events of the preceding seven years
consumed in war. He was surprised at this employment by his
late commander, who, himself sleepless, now emerged from the
bushes and joined Grayling at the fire. The youth had been rather
a favourite with Spencer. They had both been reared in the
same neighbourhood, and the first military achievements of James
had taken place under the eye, and had met the approbation of
his officer. The difference of their ages was just such as to permit
of the warm attachment of the lad without diminishing any
of the reverence which should be felt by the inferior. Grayling
was not more than seventeen, and Spencer was perhaps thirty-four—the
talked of old times and told old stories with the hearty glee and
good-nature of the young. Their mutual inquiries led to the revelation
of their several objects in pursuing the present journey.
Those of James Grayling were scarcely, indeed, to be considered
his own. They were plans and purposes of his uncle, and it
does not concern this narrative that we should know more of their
nature than has already been revealed. But, whatever they were,
they were as freely unfolded to his hearer as if the parties had
been brothers, and Spencer was quite as frank in his revelations
as his companion. He, too, was on his way to Charleston, from
whence he was to take passage for England.
“I am rather in a hurry to reach town,” he said, “as I learn
that the Falmouth packet is preparing to sail for England in a
few days, and I must go in her.'
“For England, major!” exclaimed the youth with unaffected
astonishment.
“Yes, James, for England. But why—what astonishes you?”
“Why, lord!” exclaimed the simple youth, “if they only knew
there, as I do, what a cutting and slashing you did use to make
among their red coats, I reckon they'd hang you to the first
hickory.”
“Oh, no! scarcely,” said the other, with a smile.
“But I reckon you'll change your name, major?” continued
the youth.
“No,” responded Spencer, “if I did that, I should lose the object
of my voyage. You must know, James, that an old relative
has left me a good deal of money in England, and I can only
get it by proving that I am Lionel Spencer; so you see I must
carry my own name, whatever may be the risk.”
“Well, major, you know best; but I do think if they could
only have a guess of what you did among their sodgers at Hobkirk's
and Cowpens, and Eutaw, and a dozen other places, they'd
find some means of hanging you up, peace or no peace. But I
don't see what occasion you have to be going cl'ar away to England
for money, when you've got a sight of your own already.”
“Not so much as you think for,” replied the major, giving an
involuntary and uneasy glance at the Scotchman, who was seemingly
you know, but little money in the country at any time, and I must
get what I want for my expenses when I reach Charleston. I
have just enough to carry me there.”
“Well, now, major, that's mighty strange. I always thought
that you was about the best off of any man in our parts; but if
you're strained so close, I'm thinking, major,—if so be you
wouldn't think me too presumptuous,—you'd better let me lend
you a guinea or so that I've got to spare, and you can pay me
back when you get the English money.”
And the youth fumbled in his bosom for a little cotton wallet,
which, with its limited contents, was displayed in another instant
to the eyes of the officer.
“No, no, James,” said the other, putting back the generous
tribute; “I have quite enough to carry me to Charleston, and
when there I can easily get a supply from the merchants. But I
thank you, my good fellow, for your offer. You are a good fellow,
James, and I will remember you.”
It is needless to pursue the conversation farther. The night
passed away without any alarms, and at dawn of the next day
the whole party was engaged in making preparation for a start.
Mrs. Grayling was soon busy in getting breakfast in readiness.
Major Spencer consented to remain with them until it was over;
but the Scotchman, after returning thanks very civilly for his accommodation
of the night, at once resumed his journey. His
course seemed, like their own, to lie below; but he neither declared
his route nor betrayed the least desire to know that of
Spencer. The latter had no disposition to renew those inquiries
from which the stranger seemed to shrink the night before, and
he accordingly suffered him to depart with a quiet farewell, and
the utterance of a good-natured wish, in which all the parties
joined, that he might have a pleasant journey. When he was
fairly out of sight, Spencer said to Sparkman,
“Had I liked that fellow's looks, nay, had I not positively disliked
them, I should have gone with him. As it is, I will remain
and share your breakfast.”
The repast being over, all parties set forward; but Spencer,
after keeping along with them for a mile, took his leave also.
the high-spirited cavalier; and it was necessary, as he assured
them, that he should reach the city in two nights more. They
parted with many regrets, as truly felt as they were warmly expressed;
and James Grayling never felt the tedium of wagon
travelling to be so severe as throughout the whole of that day
when he separated from his favourite captain. But he was too
stout-hearted a lad to make any complaint; and his dissatisfaction
only showed itself in his unwonted silence, and an over-anxiety,
which his steed seemed to feel in common with himself, to
go rapidly ahead. Thus the day passed and the wayfarers at
its close had made a progress of some twenty miles from sun to
sun. The same precautions marked their encampment this night
as the last, and they rose in better spirits with the next morning,
the dawn of which was very bright and pleasant, and encouraging.
A similar journey of twenty miles brought them to the place
of bivouac as the sun went down; and they prepared as usual
for their securities and supper. They found themselves on the
edge of a very dense forest of pines and scrubby oaks, a portion
of which was swallowed up in a deep bay—so called in the dialect
of the country—a swamp-bottom, the growth of which consisted
of mingled cypresses and bay-trees, with tupola, gum, and
dense thickets of low stunted shrubbery, cane grass, and dwarf
willows, which filled up every interval between the trees, and to
the eye most effectually barred out every human intruder. This
bay was chosen as the background for the camping party. Their
wagon was wheeled into an area on a gently rising ground in
front, under a pleasant shade of oaks and hickories, with a lonely
pine rising loftily in occasional spots among them. Here the
horses were taken out, and James Grayling prepared to kindle
up a fire; but, looking for his axe, it was unaccountably missing,
and after a fruitless search of half an hour, the party came to
the conclusion that it had been left on the spot where they had
slept last night. This was a disaster, and, while they meditated
in what manner to repair it, a negro boy appeared in sight, passing
along the road at their feet, and driving before him a small
herd of cattle. From him they learned that they were only a
mile or two from a farmstead where an axe might be borrowed;
one. He found no difficulty in his quest; and, having obtained
it from the farmer, who was also a tavern-keeper, he casually
asked if Major Spencer had not stayed with him the night before.
He was somewhat surprised when told that he had not.
“There was one man stayed with me last night,” said the farmer,
“but he didn't call himself a major, and didn't much look
like one.”
“He rode a fine sorrel horse,—tall, bright colour, with white
fore foot, didn't he?” asked James.
“No, that he didn't! He rode a powerful black, coal black,
and not a bit of white about him.”
“That was the Scotchman! But I wonder the major didn't
stop with you. He must have rode on. Isn't there another
house near you, below?”
“Not one. There's ne'er a house either above or below for a
matter of fifteen miles. I'm the only man in all that distance
that's living on this road; and I don't think your friend could
have gone below, as I should have seen him pass. I've been all
day out there in that field before your eyes, clearing up the brush.”
3. CHAPTER III.
Somewhat wondering that the major should have turned aside
from the track, though without attaching to it any importance at
that particular moment, James Grayling took up the borrowed
axe and hurried back to the encampment, where the toil of cutting
an extra supply of light-wood to meet the exigencies of the
ensuing night, sufficiently exercised his mind as well as his body,
to prevent him from meditating upon the seeming strangeness of
the circumstance. But when he sat down to his supper over the
fire that he had kindled, his fancies crowded thickly upon him,
and he felt a confused doubt and suspicion that something was to
happen, he knew not what. His conjectures and apprehensions
were without form, though not altogether void; and he felt a
strange sickness and a sinking at the heart which was very unusual
with him. He had, in short, that lowness of spirits, that
cloudy apprehensiveness of soul which takes the form of presentiment,
and makes us look out for danger even when the skies are
without a cloud, and the breeze is laden, equally and only, with
balm and music. His moodiness found no sympathy among his
companions. Joel Sparkman was in the best of humours, and his
mother was so cheery and happy, that when the thoughtful boy
went off into the woods to watch, he could hear her at every moment
breaking out into little catches of a country ditty, which the
gloomy events of the late war had not yet obliterated from her
memory.
“It's very strange!” soliloquized the youth, as he wandered
along the edges of the dense bay or swamp-bottom, which we
have passingly referred to,—“it's very strange what troubles me
so! I feel almost frightened, and yet I know I'm not to be frightened
easily, and I don't see anything in the woods to frighten me.
It's strange the major didn't come along this road! Maybe he
took another higher up that leads by a different settlement. I
wish I had asked the man at the house if there's such another
have gone?”
The unphilosophical mind of James Grayling did not, in his
farther meditations, carry him much beyond this starting point;
and with its continual recurrence in soliloquy, he proceeded to
traverse the margin of the bay, until he came to its junction with,
and termination at, the high-road. The youth turned into this,
and, involuntarily departing from it a moment after, soon found
himself on the opposite side of the bay thicket. He wandered on
and on, as he himself described it, without any power to restrain
himself. He knew not how far he went; but, instead of maintaining
his watch for two hours only, he was gone more than four;
and, at length, a sense of weariness which overpowered him all
of a sudden, caused him to seat himself at the foot of a tree, and
snatch a few moments of rest. He denied that he slept in this
time. He insisted to the last moment of his life that sleep never
visited his eyelids that night,—that he was conscious of fatigue
and exhaustion, but not drowsiness,—and that this fatigue was so
numbing as to be painful, and effectually kept him from any sleep.
While he sat thus beneath the tree, with a body weak and nerveless,
but a mind excited, he knew not how or why, to the most
acute degree of expectation and attention, he heard his name
called by the well-known voice of his friend, Major Spencer.
The voice called him three times,—“James Grayling!—James!
—James Grayling!” before he could muster strength enough to
answer. It was not courage he wanted,—of that he was positive,
for he felt sure, as he said, that something had gone wrong, and
he was never more ready to fight in his life than at that moment,
could he have commanded the physical capacity; but his throat
seemed dry to suffocation,—his lips effectually sealed up as if
with wax, and when he did answer, the sounds seemed as fine
and soft as the whisper of some child just born.
“Oh! major, is it you?”
Such, he thinks, were the very words he made use of in reply;
and the answer that he received was instantaneous, though the
voice came from some little distance in the bay, and his own
voice he did not hear. He only knows what he meant to say.
The answer was to this effect.
“It is, James!—It is your own friend, Lionel Spencer, that
speaks to you; do not be alarmed when you see me! I have
been shockingly murdered!”
James asserts that he tried to tell him that he would not be
frightened, but his own voice was still a whisper, which he himself
could scarcely hear. A moment after he had spoken, he
heard something like a sudden breeze that rustled through the
bay bushes at his feet, and his eyes were closed without his effort,
and indeed in spite of himself. When he opened them, he saw
Major Spencer standing at the edge of the bay, about twenty
steps from him. Though he stood in the shade of a thicket, and
there was no light in the heavens save that of the stars, he was
yet enabled to distinguish perfectly, and with great ease, every
lineament of his friend's face.
He looked very pale, and his garments were covered with
blood; and James said that he strove very much to rise from the
place where he sat and approach him;—“for, in truth,” said the
lad, “so far from feeling any fear, I felt nothing but fury in my
heart; but I could not move a limb. My feet were fastened to
the ground; my hands to my sides; and I could only bend forward
and gasp. I felt as if I should have died with vexation
that I could not rise; but a power which I could not resist, made
me motionless, and almost speechless. I could only say, `Murdered!'—and
that one word I believe I must have repeated a
dozen times.
“ `Yes, murdered!—murdered by the Scotchman who slept
with us at your fire the night before last. James, I look to you
to have the murderer brought to justice! James!—do you hear
me, James?'
“These,” said James, “I think were the very words, or near
about the very words, that I heard; and I tried to ask the major
to tell me how it was, and how I could do what he required; but
I didn't hear myself speak, though it would appear that he did,
for almost immediately after I had tried to speak what I wished
to say, he answered me just as if I had said it. He told me that
the Scotchman had waylaid, killed, and hidden him in that very
bay; that his murderer had gone to Charleston; and that if I
made haste to town, I would find him in the Falmouth packet,
He farther said that everything depended on my making
haste,—that I must reach town by to-morrow night if I wanted to
be in season, and go right on board the vessel and charge the
criminal with the deed. `Do not be afraid,' said he, when he
had finished; `be afraid of nothing, James, for God will help and
strengthen you to the end.' When I heard all I burst into a flood
of tears, and then I felt strong. I felt that I could talk, or fight,
or do almost anything; and I jumped up to my feet, and was just
about to run down to where the major stood, but, with the first
step which I made forward, he was gone. I stopped and looked
all around me, but I could see nothing; and the bay was just as
black as midnight. But I went down to it, and tried to press in
where I thought the major had been standing; but I couldn't get
far, the brush and bay bushes were so close and thick. I was
now bold and strong enough, and I called out, loud enough to be
heard half a mile. I didn't exactly know what I called for, or
what I wanted to learn, or I have forgotten. But I heard nothing
more. Then I remembered the camp, and began to fear that
something might have happened to mother and uncle, for I now
felt, what I had not thought of before, that I had gone too far
round the bay to be of much assistance, or, indeed, to be in time for
any, had they been suddenly attacked. Besides, I could not think
how long I had been gone; but it now seemed very late. The
stars were shining their brightest, and the thin white clouds of
morning were beginning to rise and run towards the west. Well,
I bethought me of my course,—for I was a little bewildered and
doubtful where I was; but, after a little thinking, I took the back
track, and soon got a glimpse of the camp-fire, which was nearly
burnt down; and by this I reckoned I was gone considerably
longer than my two hours. When I got back into the camp, I
looked under the wagon, and found uncle in a sweet sleep, and
though my heart was full almost to bursting with what I had
heard, and the cruel sight I had seen, yet I wouldn't waken him;
and I beat about and mended the fire, and watched, and waited,
until near daylight, when mother called to me out of the
wagon, and asked who it was. This wakened my uncle, and
then I up and told all that had happened, for if it had been to
mother said it was very strange, Uncle Sparkman considered that
I had been only dreaming; but he couldn't persuade me of it;
and when I told him I intended to be off at daylight, just as the
major had told me to do, and ride my best all the way to Charleston,
he laughed, and said I was a fool. But I felt that I was no
fool, and I was solemn certain that I hadn't been dreaming; and
though both mother and he tried their hardest to make me put off
going, yet I made up my mind to it, and they had to give up.
For, wouldn't I have been a pretty sort of a friend to the major,
if, after what he told me, I could have stayed behind, and gone on
only at a wagon-pace to look after the murderer! I dont think
if I had done so that I should ever have been able to look a white
man in the face again. Soon as the peep of day, I was on horse-back.
Mother was mighty sad, and begged me not to go, but
Uncle Sparkman was mighty sulky, and kept calling me fool
upon fool, until I was almost angry enough to forget that we were
of blood kin. But all his talking did not stop me, and I reckon I
was five miles on my way before he had his team in traces for a
start. I rode as briskly as I could get on without hurting my
nag. I had a smart ride of more than forty miles before me, and
the road was very heavy. But it was a good two hours from
sunset when I got into town, and the first question I asked of
the people I met was, to show me where the ships were kept.
When I got to the wharf they showed me the Falmouth packet,
where she lay in the stream, ready to sail as soon as the wind
should favour.”
4. CHAPTER IV.
James Grayling, with the same eager impatience which he has
been suffered to describe in his own language, had already hired
a boat to go on board the British packet, when he remembered
that he had neglected all those means, legal and otherwise, by
which alone his purpose might be properly effected. He did not
know much about legal process, but he had common sense enough,
the moment that he began to reflect on the subject, to know that
some such process was necessary. This conviction produced another
difficulty; he knew not in which quarter to turn for counsel
and assistance; but here the boatman who saw his bewilderment,
and knew by his dialect and dress that he was a back-countryman,
came to his relief, and from him he got directions where
to find the merchants with whom his uncle, Sparkman, had done
business in former years. To them he went, and without circumlocution,
told the whole story of his ghostly visitation. Even as
a dream, which these gentlemen at once conjectured it to be, the
story of James Grayling was equally clear and curious; and his
intense warmth and the entire absorption, which the subject had
effected, of his mind and soul, was such that they judged it not
improper, at least to carry out the search of the vessel which he
contemplated. It would certainly, they thought, be a curious coincidence—believing
James to be a veracious youth—if the Scotchman
should be found on board. But another test of his narrative
was proposed by one of the firm. It so happened that the business
agents of Major Spencer, who was well known in Charleston,
kept their office but a few rods distant from their own; and to
them all parties at once proceeded. But here the story of James
was encountered by a circumstance that made somewhat against
it. These gentlemen produced a letter from Major Spencer, intimating
the utter impossibility of his coming to town for the space
of a month, and expressing his regret that he should be unable to
avail himself of the opportunity of the foreign vessel, of whose arrival
themselves advised him. They read the letter aloud to James
and their brother merchants, and with difficulty suppressed their
smiles at the gravity with which the former related and insisted
upon the particulars of his vision.
“He has changed his mind,” returned the impetuous youth;
“he was on his way down, I tell you,—a hundred miles on his
way,—when he camped with us. I know him well, I tell you,
and talked with him myself half the night.”
“At least,” remarked the gentlemen who had gone with James,
“it can do no harm to look into the business. We can procure a
warrant for searching the vessel after this man, Macnab; and
should he be found on board the packet, it will be a sufficient circumstance
to justify the magistrates in detaining him, until we
can ascertain where Major Spencer really is.”
The measure was accordingly adopted, and it was nearly sunset
before the warrant was procured, and the proper officer in
readiness. The impatience of a spirit so eager and so devoted as
James Grayling, under these delays, may be imagined; and
when in the boat, and on his way to the packet where the criminal
was to be sought, his blood became so excited that it was with
much ado he could be kept in his seat. His quick, eager action
continually disturbed the trim of the boat, and one of his mercantile
friends, who had accompanied him, with that interest in the
affair which curiosity alone inspired, was under constant apprehension
lest he would plunge overboard in his impatient desire to
shorten the space which lay between. The same impatience enabled
the youth, though never on shipboard before, to grasp the
rope which had been flung at their approach, and to mount her
sides with catlike agility. Without waiting to declare himself or
his purpose, he ran from one side of the deck to the other, greedily
staring, to the surprise of officers, passengers, and seamen, in the
faces of all of them, and surveying them with an almost offensive
scrutiny. He turned away from the search with disappointment.
There was no face like that of the suspected man among them.
By this time, his friend, the merchant, with the sheriff's officer,
had entered the vessel, and were in conference with the captain.
Grayling drew nigh in time to hear the latter affirm that there
among his passengers or crew.
“He is—he must be!” exclaimed the impetuous youth. “The
major never lied in his life, and couldn't lie after he was dead.
Macnab is here—he is a Scotchman—”
The captain interrupted him—
“We have, young gentleman, several Scotchmen on board, and
one of them is named Macleod—”
“Let me see him—which is he?” demanded the youth.
By this time, the passengers and a goodly portion of the crew
were collected about the little party. The captain turned his
eyes upon the group, and asked,
“Where is Mr. Macleod?”
“He is gone below—he's sick!” replied one of the passengers.
“That's he! That must be the man!” exclaimed the youth.
“I'll lay my life that's no other than Macnab. He's only taken
a false name.”
It was now remembered by one of the passengers, and remarked,
that Macleod had expressed himself as unwell, but a few moments
before, and had gone below even while the boat was rapidly approaching
the vessel. At this statement, the captain led the way
into the cabin, closely followed by James Grayling and the rest.
“Mr. Macleod,” he said with a voice somewhat elevated, as
he approached the berth of that person, “you are wanted on deck
for a few moments.”
“I am really too unwell, captain,” replied a feeble voice from
behind the curtain of the berth.
“It will be necessary,” was the reply of the captain. “There
is a warrant from the authorities of the town, to look after a fugitive
from justice.”
Macleod had already begun a second speech declaring his feebleness,
when the fearless youth, Grayling, bounded before the
captain and tore away, with a single grasp of his hand, the curtain
which concealed the suspected man from their sight.
“It is he!” was the instant exclamation of the youth, as he beheld
him. “It is he—Macnab, the Scotchman—the man that
murdered Major Spencer!”
Macnab,—for it was he,—was deadly pale. He trembled like
and his lips were perfectly livid. Still, he found strength
to speak, and to deny the accusation. He knew nothing of the
youth before him—nothing of Major Spencer—his name was
Macleod, and he had never called himself by any other. He denied,
but with great incoherence, everything which was urged
against him.
“You must get up, Mr. Macleod,” said the captain; “the circumstances
are very much against you. You must go with the
officer!”
“Will you give me up to my enemies?” demanded the culprit.
“You are a countryman—a Briton. I have fought for the king,
our master, against these rebels, and for this they seek my life.
Do not deliver me into their bloody hands!”
“Liar!” exclaimed James Grayling—“Didn't you tell us at
our own camp-fire that you were with us? that you were at
Gates's defeat, and Ninety-Six?”
“But I didn't tell you,” said the Scotchman, with a grin,
“which side I was on!”
“Ha! remember that!” said the sheriff's officer. “He denied,
just a moment ago, that he knew this young man at all; now, he
confesses that he did see and camp with him.”
The Scotchman was aghast at the strong point which, in his
inadvertence, he had made against himself; and his efforts to excuse
himself, stammering and contradictory, served only to involve
him more deeply in the meshes of his difficulty. Still he
continued his urgent appeals to the captain of the vessel, and his
fellow-passengers, as citizens of the same country, subjects to the
same monarch, to protect him from those who equally hated and
would destroy them all. In order to move their national prejudices
in his behalf, he boasted of the immense injury which he had
done, as a tory, to the rebel cause; and still insisted that the
murder was only a pretext of the youth before him, by which to
gain possession of his person, and wreak upon him the revenge
which his own fierce performances during the war had naturally
enough provoked. One or two of the passengers, indeed, joined
with him in entreating the captain to set the accusers adrift and
make sail at once; but the stout Englishman who was in command,
better aware of the dangers which would follow any such rash
proceeding. Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island, had been already
refitted and prepared for an enemy; and he was lying, at
that moment, under the formidable range of grinning teeth, which
would have opened upon him, at the first movement, from the jaws
of Castle Pinckney.
“No, gentlemen,” said he, “you mistake your man. God
forbid that I should give shelter to a murderer, though he were
from my own parish.”
“But I am no murderer,” said the Scotchman.
“You look cursedly like one, however,” was the reply of the
captain. “Sheriff, take your prisoner.”
The base creature threw himself at the feet of the Englishman,
and clung, with piteous entreaties, to his knees. The latter shook
him off, and turned away in disgust.
“Steward,” he cried, “bring up this man's luggage.”
He was obeyed. The luggage was brought up from the cabin
and delivered to the sheriff's officer, by whom it was examined in
the presence of all, and an inventory made of its contents. It
consisted of a small new trunk, which, it afterwards appeared, he
had bought in Charleston, soon after his arrival. This contained
a few changes of raiment, twenty-six guineas in money, a gold
watch, not in repair, and the two pistols which he had shown while
at Joel Sparkman's camp fire; but, with this difference, that the
stock of one was broken off short just above the grasp, and the
butt was entirely gone. It was not found among his chattels. A
careful examination of the articles in his trunk did not result in
anything calculated to strengthen the charge of his criminality;
but there was not a single person present who did not feel as morally
certain of his guilt as if the jury had already declared the
fact. That night he slept—if he slept at all—in the common jail
of the city.
5. CHAPTER V.
His accuser, the warm-hearted and resolute James Grayling,
did not sleep. The excitement, arising from mingling and contradictory
emotions,—sorrow for his brave young commander's
fate, and the natural exultation of a generous spirit at the consciousness
of having performed, with signal success, an arduous
and painful task combined to drive all pleasant slumbers from his
eyes; and with the dawn he was again up and stirring, with his
mind still full of the awful business in which he had been engaged.
We do not care to pursue his course in the ordinary walks
of the city, nor account for his employments during the few days
which ensued, until, in consequence of a legal examination into
the circumstances which anticipated the regular work of the sessions,
the extreme excitement of the young accuser had been renewed.
Macnab or Macleod,—and it is possible that both names
were fictitious,—as soon as he recovered from his first terrors,
sought the aid of an attorney—one of those acute, small, chopping
lawyers, to be found in almost every community, who are
willing to serve with equal zeal the sinner and the saint, provided
that they can pay with equal liberality. The prisoner was
brought before the court under habeas corpus, and several grounds
submitted by his counsel with the view to obtaining his discharge.
It became necessary to ascertain, among the first duties of the
state, whether Major Spencer, the alleged victim, was really
dead. Until it could be established that a man should be imprisoned,
tried, and punished for a crime, it was first necessary
to show that a crime had been committed, and the attorney made
himself exceedingly merry with the ghost story of young Grayling.
In those days, however, the ancient Superstition was not
so feeble as she has subsequently become. The venerable judge
was one of those good men who had a decent respect for the faith
and opinions of his ancestors; and though he certainly would not
have consented to the hanging of Macleod under the sort of testimony
to justify his present detention. In the meantime,
efforts were to be made, to ascertain the whereabouts of Major Spencer;
though, were he even missing,—so the counsel for Macleod
contended,—his death could be by no means assumed in consequence.
To this the judge shook his head doubtfully. “ 'Fore
God!” said he, “I would not have you to be too sure of that.”
He was an Irishman, and proceeded after the fashion of his country.
The reader will therefore bear with his bull. “A man may
properly be hung for murdering another, though the murdered
man be not dead; ay, before God, even though he be actually
unhurt and uninjured, while the murderer is swinging by the
neck for the bloody deed!”
The judge,—who it must be understood was a real existence,
and who had no small reputation in his day in the south,—proceeded
to establish the correctness of his opinions by authorities
and argument, with all of which, doubtlessly, the bar were exceedingly
delighted; but, to provide them in this place would
only be to interfere with our own progress. James Grayling,
however, was not satisfied to wait the slow processes which were
suggested for coming at the truth. Even the wisdom of the judge
was lost upon him, possibly, for the simple reason that he did not
comprehend it. But the ridicule of the culprit's lawyer stung
him to the quick, and he muttered to himself, more than once,
a determination “to lick the life out of that impudent chap's
leather.” But this was not his only resolve. There was one
which he proceeded to put into instant execution, and that was to
seek the body of his murdered friend in the spot where he fancied
it might be found—namely, the dark and dismal bay where the
spectre had made its appearance to his eyes.
The suggestion was approved—though he did not need this to
prompt his resolution—by his mother and uncle, Sparkman. The
latter determined to be his companion, and he was farther accompanied
by the sheriff's officer who had arrested the suspected felon.
Before daylight, on the morning after the examination before
the judge had taken place, and when Macleod had been remanded
to prison, James Grayling started on his journey. His fiery
zeal received additional force at every added moment of delay, and
neighbourhood of the spot through which his search was to be
made. When his companions and himself drew nigh, they were
all at a loss in which direction first to proceed. The bay was
one of those massed forests, whose wall of thorns, vines, and close
tenacious shrubs, seemed to defy invasion. To the eye of the
townsman it was so forbidding that he pronounced it absolutely
impenetrable. But James was not to be baffled. He led them
round it, taking the very course which he had pursued the night
when the revelation was made him; he showed them the very
tree at whose foot he had sunk when the supernatural torpor—as
he himself esteemed it—began to fall upon him; he then pointed
out the spot, some twenty steps distant, at which the spectre made
his appearance. To this spot they then proceeded in a body, and
essayed an entrance, but were so discouraged by the difficulties
at the outset that all, James not excepted, concluded that neither
the murderer nor his victim could possibly have found entrance
there.
But, lo! a marvel! Such it seemed, at the first blush, to all the
party. While they stood confounded and indecisive, undetermined
in which way to move, a sudden flight of wings was heard, even
from the centre of the bay, at a little distance above the spot
where they had striven for entrance. They looked up, and beheld
about fifty buzzards—those notorious domestic vultures of
the south—ascending from the interior of the bay, and perching
along upon the branches of the loftier trees by which it was overhung.
Even were the character of these birds less known, the
particular business in which they had just then been engaged, was
betrayed by huge gobbets of flesh which some of them had borne
aloft in their flight, and still continued to rend with beak and bill,
as they tottered upon the branches where they stood. A piercing
scream issued from the lips of James Grayling as he beheld this
sight, and strove to scare the offensive birds from their repast.
“The poor major! the poor major!” was the involuntary and
agonized exclamation of the youth. “Did I ever think he
would come to this!”
The search, thus guided and encouraged, was pressed with renewed
diligence and spirit; and, at length, an opening was found
but recently gone. The branches were broken from the small
shrub trees, and the undergrowth trodden into the earth. They
followed this path, and, as is the case commonly with waste tracts
of this description, the density of the growth diminished sensibly
at every step they took, till they reached a little pond, which,
though circumscribed in area, and full of cypresses, yet proved to
be singularly deep. Indeed, it was an alligator-hole, where, in all
probability, a numerous tribe of these reptiles had their dwelling.
Here, on the edge of the pond, they discovered the object which
had drawn the keen-sighted vultures to their feast, in the body of
a horse, which James Grayling at once identified as that of Major
Spencer. The carcass of the animal was already very much torn
and lacerated. The eyes were plucked out, and the animal completely
disembowelled. Yet, on examination, it was not difficult
to discover the manner of his death. This had been effected by
fire-arms. Two bullets had passed through his skull, just above
the eyes, either of which must have been fatal. The murderer
had led the horse to the spot, and committed the cruel deed where
his body was found. The search was now continued for that of
the owner, but for some time it proved ineffectual. At length, the
keen eyes of James Grayling detected, amidst a heap of moss and
green sedge that rested beside an overthrown tree, whose branches
jutted into the pond, a whitish, but discoloured object, that did
not seem native to the place. Bestriding the fallen tree, he was
enabled to reach this object, which, with a burst of grief, he announced
to the distant party was the hand and arm of his unfortunate
friend, the wristband of the shirt being the conspicuous
object which had first caught his eye. Grasping this, he drew
the corse, which had been thrust beneath the branches of the tree,
to the surface; and, with the assistance of his uncle, it was finally
brought to the dry land. Here it underwent a careful examination.
The head was very much disfigured; the skull was
fractured in several places by repeated blows of some hard instrument,
inflicted chiefly from behind. A closer inspection revealed
a bullet-hole in the abdomen, the first wound, in all probability,
which the unfortunate gentleman received, and by which he was,
perhaps, tumbled from his horse. The blows on the head would
appeared to have been singularly deliberate,—was resolved
upon making “assurance doubly sure.” But, as if the watchful
Providence had meant that nothing should be left doubtful
which might tend to the complete conviction of the criminal, the
constable stumbled upon the butt of the broken pistol which had
been found in Macleod's trunk. This he picked up on the edge
of the pond in which the corse had been discovered, and while
James Grayling and his uncle, Sparkman, were engaged in drawing
it from the water. The place where the fragment was discovered
at once denoted the pistol as the instrument by which the
final blows were inflicted. “'Fore God,” said the judge to the
criminal, as these proofs were submitted on the trial, “you may
be a very innocent man after all, as, by my faith, I do think there
have been many murderers before you; but you ought, nevertheless,
to be hung as an example to all other persons who suffer
such strong proofs of guilt to follow their innocent misdoings.
Gentlemen of the jury, if this person, Macleod or Macnab, didn't
murder Major Spencer, either you or I did; and you must now
decide which of us it is! I say, gentlemen of the jury, either
you, or I, or the prisoner at the bar, murdered this man; and if
you have any doubts which of us it was, it is but justice and mercy
that you should give the prisoner the benefit of your doubts; and
so find your verdict. But, before God, should you find him not
guilty, Mr. Attorney there can scarcely do anything wiser than
to put us all upon trial for the deed.”
The jury, it may be scarcely necessary to add, perhaps under
certain becoming fears of an alternative such as his honour had
suggested, brought in a verdict of “Guilty,” without leaving the
panel; and Macnab, alias Macleod, was hung at White Point,
Charleston, somewhere about the year 178—.
“And here,” said my grandmother, devoutly, “you behold a
proof of God's watchfulness to see that murder should not be hidden,
and that the murderer should not escape. You see that he
sent the spirit of the murdered man—since, by no other mode
could the truth have been revealed—to declare the crime, and to
discover the criminal. But for that ghost, Macnab would have
got off to Scotland, and probably have been living to this very
As the old lady finished the ghost story, which, by the way,
she had been tempted to relate for the fiftieth time in order to
combat my father's ridicule of such superstitions, the latter took
up the thread of the narrative.
“Now, my son,” said he, “as you have heard all that your
grandmother has to say on this subject, I will proceed to show
you what you have to believe, and what not. It is true that
Macnab murdered Spencer in the manner related; that James
Grayling made the dicovery and prosecuted the pursuit; found
the body and brought the felon to justice; that Macnab suffered
death, and confessed the crime; alleging that he was moved to
do so, as well because of the money that he suspected Spencer to
have in his possession, as because of the hate which he felt for a
man who had been particularly bold and active in cutting up a
party of Scotch loyalists to which he belonged, on the borders of
North Carolina. But the appearance of the spectre was nothing
more than the work of a quick imagination, added to a shrewd
and correct judgment. James Grayling saw no ghost, in fact,
but such as was in his own mind; and, though the instance was
one of a most remarkable character, one of singular combination,
and well depending circumstances, still, I think it is to be accounted
for by natural and very simple laws.”
The old lady was indignant.
“And how could he see the ghost just on the edge of the same
bay where the murder had been conmitted, and where the body
of the murdered man even then was lying?”
My father did not directly answer the demand, but proceeded
thus:—
“James Grayling, as we know, mother, was a very ardent,
impetuous, sagacious man. He had the sanguine, the race-horse
temperament. He was generous, always prompt and ready, and
one who never went backward. What he did, he did quickly,
boldly, and thoroughly! He never shrank from trouble of any
kind: nay, he rejoiced in the constant encounter with difficulty
and trial; and his was the temper which commands and enthrals
mankind. He felt deeply and intensely whatever occupied his
else than their past communion and the great distance by which
they were to be separated. The dull travelling wagon-gait at
which he himself was compelled to go, was a source of annoyance
to him; and he became sullen, all the day, after the departure
of his friend. When, on the evening of the next day, he
came to the house where it was natural to expect that Major
Spencer would have slept the night before, and he learned the fact
that no one stopped there but the Scotchman, Macnab, we see
that he was struck with the circumstance. He mutters it over
to himself, “Strange, where the major could have gone!” His
mind then naturally reverts to the character of the Scotchman;
to the opinions and suspicions which had been already expressed
of him by his uncle, and felt by himself. They had all, previously,
come to the full conviction that Macnab was, and had always
been, a tory, in spite of his protestations. His mind next, and
very naturally, reverted to the insecurity of the highways; the
general dangers of travelling at that period; the frequency of
crime, and the number of desperate men who were everywhere
to be met with. The very employment in which he was then
engaged, in scouting the woods for the protection of the camp,
was calculated to bring such reflections to his mind. If these
precautions were considered necessary for the safety of persons
so poor, so wanting in those possessions which might prompt cupidity
to crime, how much more necessary were precautions in
the case of a wealthy gentleman like Major Spencer! He then
remembered the conversation with the major at the camp-fire,
when they fancied that the Scotchman was sleeping. How natural
to think then, that he was all the while awake; and, if
awake, he must have heard him speak of the wealth of his companion.
True, the major, with more prudence than himself, denied
that he had any money about him, more than would bear his
expenses to the city; but such an assurance was natural enough
to the lips of a traveller who knew the dangers of the country.
That the man, Macnab, was not a person to be trusted, was the
equal impression of Joel Sparkman and his nephew from the first.
The probabilities were strong that he would rob and perhaps
murder, if he might hope to do so with impunity; and as the
stillness of the night, its gloomy depths and mournful shadows,
naturally gave rise to such reflections as would be equally active
in the mind of a youth, and of one somewhat familiar with
the arts and usages of strife. He would see that the spot
was just the one in which a practised partisan would delight to
set an ambush for an unwary foe. There ran the public road,
with a little sweep, around two-thirds of the extent of its dense
and impenetrable thickets. The ambush could lie concealed,
and at ten steps command the bosom of its victim. Here, then,
you perceive that the mind of James Grayling, stimulated by an
active and sagacious judgment, had by gradual and reasonable
stages come to these conclusions: that Major Spencer was an object
to tempt a robber; that the country was full of robbers;
that Macnab was one of them; that this was the very spot in
which a deed of blood could be most easily committed, and
most easily concealed; and, one important fact, that gave strength
and coherence to the whole, that Major Spencer had not reached
a well-known point of destination, while Macnab had.
“With these thoughts, thus closely linked together, the youth
forgets the limits of his watch and his circuit. This fact, alone,
proves how active his imagination had become. It leads him forward,
brooding more and more on the subject, until, in the very
exhaustion of his body, he sinks down beneath a tree. He sinks
down and falls asleep; and in his sleep, what before was plausible
conjecture, becomes fact, and the creative properties of his
imagination give form and vitality to all his fancies. These forms
are bold, broad, and deeply coloured, in due proportion with the
degree of force which they receive from probability. Here, he
sees the image of his friend; but, you will remark—and this
should almost conclusively satisfy any mind that all that he sees
is the work of his imagination,—that, though Spencer tells him
that he is murdered, and by Macnab, he does not tell him how,
in what manner, or with what weapons. Though he sees him
pale and ghostlike, he does not see, nor can he say, where his
wounds are! He sees his pale features distinctly, and his garments
are bloody. Now, had he seen the spectre in the true appearances
of death, as he was subsequently found, he would not
to his own account, almost out of all shape of humanity,
and covered with mud; while his clothes would have streamed
with mud and water, rather than with blood.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the old lady, my grandmother, “it's hard
to make you believe anything that you don't see; you are like
Saint Thomas in the Scriptures; but how do you propose to account
for his knowing that the Scotchman was on board the Falmouth
packet? Answer to that!”
“That is not a more difficult matter than any of the rest.
You forget that in the dialogue which took place between James
and Major Spencer at the camp, the latter told him that he was
about to take passage for Europe in the Falmouth packet, which
then lay in Charleston harbour, and was about to sail. Macnab
heard all that...'
“True enough, and likely enough,” returned the old lady;
“but, though you show that it was Major Spencer's intention to
go to Europe in the Falmouth packet, that will not show that it
was also the intention of the murderer.”
“Yet what more probable, and how natural for James Grayling
to imagine such a thing! In the first place he knew that
Macnab was a Briton; he felt convinced that he was a tory; and
the inference was immediate, that such a person would scarcely
have remained long in a country where such characters laboured
under so much odium, disfranchisement, and constant danger
from popular tumults. The fact that Macnab was compelled to
disguise his true sentiments, and affect those of the people against
whom he fought so vindictively, shows what was his sense of the
danger which he incurred. Now, it is not unlikely that Macnab
was quite as well aware that the Falmouth packet was in Charleston,
and about to sail, as Major Spencer. No doubt he was pursuing
the same journey, with the same object, and had he not
murdered Spencer, they would, very likely, have been fellow-passengers
together to Europe. But, whether he knew the fact
before or not, he probably heard it stated by Spencer while he
seemed to be sleeping; and, even supposing that he did not then
know, it was enough that he found this to be the fact on reaching
the city. It was an after-thought to fly to Europe with his ill-gotten
to the criminal, would be a probable conjecture in the mind of
him by whom he was suspected. The whole story is one of strong
probabilities which happened to be verified; and, if proving anything,
proves only that which we know—that James Grayling was
a man of remarkably sagacious judgment, and quick, daring imagination.
This quality of imagination, by the way, when possessed
very strongly in connexion with shrewd common sense
and well-balanced general faculties, makes that particular kind
of intellect which, because of its promptness and powers of creation
and combination, we call genius. It is genius only which
can make ghosts, and James Grayling was a genius. He never,
my son, saw any other ghosts than those of his own making!”
I heard my father with great patience to the end, though he
seemed very tedious. He had taken a great deal of pains to destroy
one of my greatest sources of pleasure. I need not add
that I continued to believe in the ghost, and, with my grandmother,
to reject the philosophy. It was more easy to believe the one
than to comprehend the other.
| The wigwam and the cabin | |