 | The wigwam and the cabin |  |
THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN.
1. CHAPTER I.
“They talk,” said the stranger somewhat abruptly, “They
talk of the crimes of wealthy people, and in high life. No doubt
there are very great and many wrong doers among the rich.
People in possession of much wealth, and seeing how greatly it is
worshipped, will very naturally presume upon and abuse its powers;—but
it is not among the rich only, and in the great city,
that these things happen. The same snake, or one very much like
it, winds his way into the wigwam and the cabin—and the poor
silly country girl is as frequently the victim, as the dashing lady
of the city and city fashions. For that matter she is the more
easily liable to imposition, as are all persons who occupy insulated
positions, and see little of the great struggles of busy life.
The planter and the farmer who dwell in the remote interior
find the face of the visitor too interesting, to scrutinize it very
closely. A pleasant deportment, a specious outside, a gentle and
attractive manner, will win their way in our forest world, without
rendering necessary those formal assurances, that rigid introduction,
and those guaranties of well known persons, which the citizen
requires before you partake of his bread and salt. With us,
on the contrary, we confide readily; and the cunning stranger,
whom other communities have expelled with loathing, rendered
cautious and conciliatory by previous defeat, adopts the subtlety
of the snake, and winds his way as artfully as that reptile, when
he comes among us. We have too many sad stories of this sort.
Yours is one of them. This poor girl, Ellen Ramsay, was
abused thus, as I have shown you, by this scoundrel, Stanton.
But finish your narrative. She had a short time of it, and a sad
one, I do not doubt, with a creature so heartless and so vile.”
“But a poor eleven months; and the change was too rapid,”
said young Atkins, “not to let us see that she was any thing but
happy. To-day, the gayest of all God's creatures, as much like
a merry bird in spring-time, singing over its young;—to-morrow
as gloomy and miserable as if there was neither song nor sunshine
in God's whole earth.”
“Poor thing!” exclaimed Walter.
“It was the shortest life,” said the other, “to begin so well, that
I ever saw, and the story which you have heard is pretty much
the truth.”
“But the funeral?” said Walter.
“Ah! that was not exactly as you heard it,” was the reply of
Atkins. “I was at the funeral of Ellen Ramsay, as indeed was
very nearly all the village, and I could refer you to twenty who
will tell you the matter just as it occurred. In the first place, it
is not true that any body expected Robert Anderson to be present.
He sent no message of any kind to Stanton. It was very well
known that he was sick—actually in bed, and had been so for
more than a week before the death of Ellen. People almost
thought they might go off together. There was a sort of sympathy
between them, though I don't think, from the hour of her unlucky
marriage, that the eyes of the two ever met, till they met
in the world of spirits—unless it were, indeed, in their dreams.
But they seemed to pine away, both of them, about the same time,
and though he stood it longest, he did not outlast her much.
When she died, as I tell you, he was very feeble and in bed.
Nobody ever expected him to leave it alive, and least of all that
he should leave it then, to stand among the people at her grave.
The circumstances of her marriage with Stanton, were too notorious,
and too much calculated to embitter his feelings and his
peace, to make it likely that he would be present at such a scene.
She had cast him off, slightingly, to give a preference to the more
showy stranger, and she had spoken to him in a manner not soon
to be forgiven by a man of sensibility. But he did forgive—that
I know—and his love for Ellen was unimpaired to the last. She
did not doubt this, when she married Stanton, though she expressed
herself so. That was only to find some excuses to him, if not to
her own conscience, for her conduct. I'm sure she bitterly repented
in a hurry, and be sorry for it the next minute.”
“But the funeral?” said Walter.
“Ah! true—the funeral. Well, as I was telling you, when
the coffin was brought round to the burial place—you know the
spot, among a thick grove of stunted oaks, and the undergrowth
is always kept down by old Ramsay—who should come out from
behind one of the largest old trees, but Robert Anderson. He
was pale as a ghost, and his limbs trembled and tottered as he
walked, but he came forward as resolutely as if he felt no pain
or weakness. Stanton started when he saw him. He never expected
his presence, I assure you. Every eye saw his agitation
as Robert came forward; and I tell you, there was not a person
present who did not see, as well as myself, that the husband of
the poor girl looked much paler at that moment than her sick
lover. Robert did not seem to see Stanton, or to mind him as he
came forward; indeed, he did not seem to see any body. His
eyes were fixed only on the coffin, which was carried by me,
Ralph Mason, Dick Rawlins, and I think Hiram Barker. He
did not shed a tear, which we all wondered at, for all of us expected
to see him crying like any child, because we knew how
soft-hearted he always was, and how fond he had been of Ellen.
At first, we thought his not crying was because of his anger at
being so ill-treated, which was natural enough; but what he said
afterwards soon did away with that notion. He came close to my
side, and put his hand on the lid of the coffin near the name, and
though he said not a single word to us, we seemed to understand
that he meant we should stop till he read it. We did stop, and
he then read the plate aloud, something in this manner—`Ellen'
—and then he stopped a little as he came to the word `Stanton'—
and you could see a deep red flush grow out upon his cheek and
forehead, and then he grew pale as death—and held upon the
coffin as if to keep himself from falling—then he seemed to muster
up strength, and he read on, in very deliberate and full accents,
as if he had thrown all his resolution into the effort—`Ellen
Stanton!' These words he repeated twice, and then he passed
on to the rest—`Wife of George Stanton, born April 7, 1817.
Died,'—Here he stopped again, poor fellow! as if to catch his
He could only say—`Died. Died!' and there he stopped like a
man choking. By this time, Stanton came up close to him and
looked at us, as if to say `Why don't you go forward—why do
you suffer him to stop you'—but he said nothing. Robert did not
seem to mind or to notice him, but, with another effort, recovering
his strength and voice, he read on to the end—`Died March 27,
1836—AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS AND NINETEEN
DAYS.' Old John Ramsay by this time came up, and stood between
him and Stanton. He looked up from the coffin, first at
one and then at the other—and said quietly—without any appearance
of anger or passion:”—
“This, Mr. Ramsay, is your daughter, Ellen—she was to have
been my wife—she was engaged to me by her own promise, and
you gave your consent to our marriage. Is not this true, Mr.
Ramsay?”
“True,” said the old man very mildly, but with a deep sigh
that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul;—“but you know,
Robert,—”
Then it was that Robert seemed to lose himself for a moment.
His eye brightened with indignation and his speech came quick.
“I know that she is here!” he exclaimed—“here, in her coffin,
dead to you, your daughter—dead to me, my wife—your Ellen!
my Ellen!—My Ellen—my poor Ellen!” And then he sobbed
bitterly upon the coffin. I believe that most of the persons present
—and all had crowded round us—sobbed too. But I could not
see them, for my own heart was overflowing. The interruption
did not continue long. Robert was the first to recover himself.
He had always a right idea of what was proper; and no doubt,
just then, he felt, that, according to the world's way of thinking,
he was doing wrong in stopping the dead in its last progress to the
place of rest. He raised up his head from the coffin plate, and
said to us, speaking very slowly, for his breath seemed only to
come in sobs, and then after great efforts—
“Do not think, my friends, when I speak of the pledges Ellen
Ramsay made to me, that I am come here to utter any reproaches
of the dead, or to breathe a single syllable of complaint against the
blessed creature, who was always a sweet angel, now looking up
hear, any harm of a woman that I have always looked upon as
the purest and truest-hearted creature under the sun. No!
in telling you of this pledge, I come here only to acquit her of
any wrong, or evil thought, or action, when she ceased to think it
binding upon her. It is to say to you at her grave, for you all
knew that we were to be married, that, as I never gave her any
reason for believing me to be false, or more unworthy of her heart
than when she promised it to me, so, also, I believe that nothing
but some such persuasion could have made her deprive me of it.
While I acquit her, therefore, of having done me any intentional
injustice, I tell you, in the presence of her heavenly spirit, which
knows the truth of what I declare, that she has been abused by
some false slanderer, to do me wrong, and herself wrong, and
to—”
By this time Stanton put in, and stopped whatever more Robert
had to say. He had been getting more and more angry as
Robert went on, and when he came to that solemn part about the
slanderer, and lifted his hands to heaven and looked upward with
the tears just beginning to come into his eyes, as if he did really
see the spirit of Ellen at the moment above him, then Stanton got
quite furious. Those words clinched him in the sore part of his
soul; and he made round the coffin towards where Robert stood,
and doubled his fists, and spoke hoarsely, as if he was about to
choke.
“And who do you mean slandered you to her?” he cried to
Robert, “who! who!”
His face was as black as night, and his features, usually so
soft and pleasing to the eyes of the young women, now looked
rather like those of a devil than of a mortal man. We thought he
would have torn the poor young man to pieces, but Robert did not
seem at all daunted. I suppose if we had not been there, and
had not interfered so quickly, there would have been violence;
and violence upon a frail, dying creature like Robert, would have
been the most shocking cruelty. But Maxcy jumped in between
them, and John Ramsay, Ellen's youngest brother, stepped forward
also, and we all cried “shame,” and this drove Stanton back,
but he still looked furious and threatening, and seemed to wish
seemed to mind him less than the poor fellow who had most reason
to fear. Robert had a bold and fearless spirit, and there was a
time, before he grew sickly and religious, when he would have
grappled with him for death and life before the altar itself. But
he was now subdued. He did not seem to mind his enemy, or
indeed, any thing, but the coffin on which he hung. He did not,
I really think, hear Stanton speaking at all, though, for a few
moments, the fellow bullied pretty loud, and not a syllable that he
said escaped any body else. His soul seemed to be in the coffin.
His eyes seemed to try to pierce the heavy lid of pine, and the
dark crape, and the shroud; and one would think, from the eager
and satisfied gaze, that he had succeeded in doing so. No doubt
his mind deluded him, and he thought so—for you could hear him
whispering—“Ellen! dear Ellen!” Then he gave way to us,
and reading the plate, he said—“But eighteen—but eighteen.
But—it is all well now! all well!” He suffered us then to go
forward, and followed close, and made no objection, and said no
more words. While we let the coffin down, he stood so nigh, that
the earth shelved with him, and he would have gone in with it,
for he made no resistance, if we had not caught him in our arms
and dragged him from the brink. But we could not soon get him
from the spot. When all was done, he did not seem to mind that
the rest were going, but stood looking down as earnestly as if he
could still read the writing through six feet of earth. Stanton,
too, did not seem willing to go, but we very well knew it was for
no love he had for the poor girl that he wished to remain; and
Maxcy whispered to me that he would bring him off before he
left the ground, for fear he might do some harm to Robert, who
was no fighter, and was too feeble to stand one so strong. This
he did, and after he was gone I tried to get Robert away also. It
was some time before I did so, and then it seemed he went with
me only to get rid of my presence, for he was back at the grave
as soon as night set in, and there he might be found every evening
at the same hour, just about sunset, for several months afterwards—for
he lingered strangely—until they brought him to sleep
besied her. Though sick, and pining away fast, the poor fellow
never let an evening go by, whatever weather it might be, without
after the funeral, old Mrs. Anderson called me into her cottage as
I was riding by, and said she would show me something. She
took me up into her son's room, a little chamber in the loft, and
what should it be but a head-board, that the dying lad had sawed
out with his own hands, from a thick plank, and had smoothed,
and planed, and painted, all in secret, so that he could print on it
an inscription for the poor girl's grave; and you would be surprised
to see how neatly he had worked it all. The poor old woman
cried bitterly all the time, but you could still see how proud
she was of her son. She showed me his books—he had more than
a hundred—and she sighed from the bottom of her heart when she
told me it was the books that has made him sickly.
“But he will read,” she said, “say all I can; though he knows
it's a-doing him no good. `Ah, mother,' he says, when I tell
him about it, `though it may shorten my life to read, it will
shorten my happiness not to read, and I have too little happiness
now left me to be willing to lose any of it.' And when he speaks
so,” said the old woman, “I can't blame him, for I know it's all
true. But I blame myself, Mr. Atkins, for you see it was all of
my doing that he got so many books, and is so fond of them. I
loved to see him learning, and made him read to me so constantly
of an evening, and it did my heart so much good to think that
one day my Robert might be a great lawyer, or a parson, for I
could see how much smarter he was than all the other boys of
the village—and so I never looked at his pale cheeks, and had no
guess how poorly he was getting, till, all of a sudden, he was
laid up, on my hands, and pining away every hour, as you now
see him. Things looked better for a while when he got fond of
Ellen Ramsay, and she of him. But that Stanton, ever since he
came among us, Robert has gone backward, and I shan't wonder
if it's not very long before he wants his own tombstone!”
Poor old woman! I saw in a corner, half hidden behind an
old trunk in the youth's chamber, what it was evident she had
not seen, a head board, the very fellow to that which he had been
making for Ellen!—but I said nothing to her at the time. When
they were found after his death—for he said nothing of them
while he lived—they were both neatly finished, with a simple but
It was this—
Robert Anderson.”
“You tell me of a remarkable young man,” said Walter—
“and he was but twenty when he died?”
“No more!”
“We will go and look upon his grave.”
“You will see the head board there, but that for Ellen was
never put up—Stanton would not allow it.”
“Ah! but we shall mend that. I will pluck that scoundrel's
comb. Is the head-board preserved?”
“It is: his mother keeps it in his chamber, standing up beside
his little book-case; but see, yonder is Stanton now. He is on
his way to Ramsay's house. They do not live together. He
boards at a little farm-yard about a mile from the village. They
say that there has been a quarrel between him and his brother-in-law,
young John Ramsay, something about his sister's property.
There are eleven negroes which were owned by young
John and herself, in their own right, from the grand-mother's gift,
which they have suffered the old man to work until now. Stanton
wants a division, and young John tried to persuade him not
to touch them till his death, which must happen before long, he
sharing as before from the crop. But Stanton persists, and the
young fellow did not stop to tell him that he thought him a cruelly
base fellow. This is the report. It is very certain that they are
separate now, and there is a difference between them.”
“Very likely on the score of the negroes. But we will save
them to the old man, and drive him from a spot which he had
made wretched.”
“Can you do this? Are your proofs sufficient?”
“Ample.”
“You are yourself a lawyer?”
“Yes! But I shall have the assistance, if necessary, of Col.
Dawson, whom probably you know.”
“A first rate gentleman, and one of our best lawyers.”
“I bring letters to him—have already seen him on the subject,
Would I had been with you a year ago. Could I have traced
him, this poor girl had not been his victim. I should at least
have driven the snake from this one cabin.”
“Yes, if you had come a year ago, poor Ellen would have
been saved. But nothing could have saved the poor young man.
The rot was in the heart of the tree.”
“Yet!” said the other, putting his hand upon the arm of Atkins
—“though the tree perished, it might have been kept green to
the last. Some hurts might have been spared it. The man
who died in hope, might not have found it necessary to declare, at
the last moment, that he had utterly lived in wo. Yes—a little
year ago, we might have done much for both parties.”
“You will do great good by your coming now. The poor old
man loves his negroes as he does his children. They say he
looks upon the giving up the eleven to be sold, like a breaking up
of the establishment. His son says it will hurry him to the grave.
This was what he said to Stanton, which led to the quarrel.
Stanton sneered at the young man, and he, being pretty passionate,
blazed out at him in a way that pretty soon silenced the fellow.”
“This class of reptiles are all, more or less, cowards. We must
not burn daylight, as, if they consent to a division, the scoundrel
may make off with his share. Let us go forward,” continued
the speaker, with a show of feeling for which Atkins could not
well account—“I long to tread upon the viper—to bruise his
head, and above all to tear the fangs from his jaws. You
will, if Stanton be there, draw the old man aside and introduce
me to him, with some quiet hint of what I may be able
to do.”
“You say you have the papers with you?”
“Ay, ay,—here,”—striking his bosom—“I have here that
which shall confound him! Fear not! I do not deceive you. At
least I cannot deceive myself. I too have wrongs that need
avenging—I and mine! I and mine! Remember, I am Mr.
Jones from Tennessee—I must surprise and confound the fellow,
and would see how the land lies before I declare myself.”
2. CHAPTER II.
Young John Ramsay was in the front piazza as they entered
the little farm-yard. He was alone, and pacing the floor in evident
agitation. His brow was dark and discontented, and he met
the salutations of his visitors with the manner of a person who
is ill pleased with any witnesses of his disquiet. But he was
civil, and when Atkins asked after his father, he led the way into
the house, and there they discovered the old man and George
Stanton in close and earnest conversation. Several papers were
before them, and Stanton held the pen in his hand. The tears
stood in old Ramsay's eyes. His thin white hairs, which fell,
glossy and long, upon his shoulders, gave a benign and patriarchal
expression to a face that was otherwise marked with the
characters of benevolence and sensibility. He rose at the appearance
of the visitors. Stanton did not, but looked up with
the air of one vexed at interruption in the most interesting moment.
Young Ramsay, to whom the stranger had been introduced
by Atkins, introduced him in turn to his father, but to his father
only. He gave no look to the spot where Stanton was seated.
Atkins took the old man into another room, leaving the three remaining
in the apartment. Stanton appeared to busy himself
over his papers. Young Ramsay requested the stranger to be
seated, and drew a chair for himself beside him. There was no
conversation. The youth looked down upon the floor, in abstract
contemplation, while the stranger, unobserved by either, employed
himself in a most intense watch of the guilty man. The latter
looked up and met this survey seemingly with indifference. He
too was thinking of matters which led him somewhat from the
present company. He resumed his study of the papers before
him, and scarcely noticed the return of old Ramsay to the room.
His appearance was the signal to the son to go out, and resume
his solitary promenade in the piazza. The old man promptly
approached the stranger, whose hand he took with a cordial pressure
There was a bright hopefulness in his old eyes, which, had it
been seen by Stanton, might have surprised him, particularly as,
just before, they had been overflowing with tears and clouded
with despondency. He was, however, still too busy in his calculations,
and possibly, in his own hopes, to note any peculiar
change in the aspect or manner of his father-in-law. But when
some minutes had passed, consumed by the old man and the
stranger, in the most common-place conversation—when he heard
the former institute long inquiries into the condition of crops in
Tennessee—the value of grain, the modes of cultivation, the
price of lands and negroes;—the impatient son-in-law began to
show his restiveness. He took up and threw down his papers,
turned from them to the company, from the company to the papers
again, renewed his calculations, again dismissed them, and
still without prompting the visitor to bring to a close a visit seemingly
totally deficient in object and interest, but which, to his
great annoyance, all parties besides himself seemed desirous to
prolong. At length, as with a desperate determination, he turned
to the old man and said—
“Sir—Mr. Ramsay, you are aware of my desire to bring this
business to a close at once.”
The words reached the ears of young Ramsay, who now appeared
at the door.
“Father, pray let it be as this person desires. Give him all
which the law will allow—give him more, if need be, and let
him depart. Make any arrangement about the negroes that you
please, without considering me—only let him leave us in our
homes at peace!”
“I am sorry to disturb the peace of any home,” said Stanton,
“but am yet to know that to claim my rights is doing so. I ask
nothing but what is fair and proper. My wife, if I understand
it, had an equal right with Mr. John Ramsay, the younger, to
certain negroes, eleven in number, namely, Zekiel, Abram, Ben,
Bess, Maria, Susannah, Bob, Harry, Milly, Bainbridge and Nell,
with their increase. This increase makes the number seventeen.
But you have never denied the facts, and I repeat to you the
into two equal parts, thus:”—
Here he read from the strips of paper before him, enumerating
the negroes in two lots—this done, he proceeded:
“I am willing that your son should have the first choice of
these lots. I will take the other. I am prepared to listen to
any other arrangement for a division, rather than be subject
to any delay by a reference to the law. I have no wish to
compel the sale of the property, as that might distress you.”
“Distress!” exclaimed the young man—“spare your sympathy
if you please. I consent to your first arrangement. Nay,
sir, you shall choose, first, of the lots as divided by yourself. My
simple wish now, sir, is to leave you wholly without complaint.”
“But, my son”—began the old man.
“Pray, my father, let it be as I have said. We shall never
have an end of it otherwise. The division is a tolerably equal
one, and if there be any loss it is mine.”
The old man folded his hands upon his lap and looked to the
stranger. He, meanwhile, maintained a keen and eager watch
upon the features of Stanton. It could be seen that his lip quivered
and there was in his eye an expression of exultation and
scorn which, perhaps, none perceived but young Atkins. Stanton,
meanwhile, was again busy with his papers.
“It is admitted also,” the latter continued, “that I have a right
to one half of a tract of uncleared land, lying on the Tombeckbe,
containing six hundred and thirty acres, more or less; to one
half of a small dwelling house in Linden, and to certain household
stuff, crockery, plate and kitchen ware. Upon these I am
prepared to place a low estimate, so that the family may still retain
them, and the value may be given me in negro property. I
value the land, which I am told is quite as good as any in the country,
at $5 an acre—the house and lot at $500—and the plate,
crockery, kitchen ware, etc., at $250 more. I make the total of
my share, at these estimates, to be $2075—we will say $2000—
and I am willing to take in payment of this amount, the four fellows,
Zekiel, Bob, Henry and Ben—named in one lot, or the two
fellows, Abram and Bainbridge, and the two women, Milly and
Maria, with their three children, named in the other parcel.”
“You are extremely accommodating,” said young Ramsay bitterly,
“but I prefer that we should sell the land on the Tombeckbe,
the lot in Linden, and the crockery, plate and kitchen stuff—unless
you prefer that these last should be divided. This arrangement will
occasion you some delay in getting your money, but it will save
me much less loss than I should suffer by your estimates. Permit
me to say that of the negroes in the lot which you may leave me,
you shall not have a hair, and I would to God it were in my
power to keep the rest, by any sacrifice, from your possession.”
“No doubt you do, sir—but your wishes are not the law. I
demand nothing from you but what is justice, and justice I will
have. My rights are clear and ample. You do not, I trust, propose
to go to law to keep me out of my wife's property.”
“To law!” exclaimed the young man with indignation. He
then strode fiercely across the floor and confronted Stanton, who
had now risen. The strife in his soul was showing itself in
storm upon his countenance, when the stranger from Tennessee
rose, and placed himself between them.
“Stay, my friend—let me speak a moment. I have a question
to ask of Mr. Stanton.”
“You, sir”—said Stanton—“by what right do you interfere?”
“By the right which every honest man possesses to see that
there is no wrong done to his neighbour, if he can prevent it.
You are making a demand upon Mr. Ramsay, for certain property
which you claim in right of your wife. Now, sir, let me
ask which of your wives it is, on whose account you claim.”
The person thus addressed recoiled as if he had been struck
by an adder. A deep flush passed over his face, succeeded by an
ashen paleness. He tried to speak, stammered, and sunk paralyzed
back into his chair.
“What, sir, can you say nothing? Your rights by your wives
ought to be numerous. You should have some in every State in
the Union.”
“You are a liar and a slanderer,” exclaimed the criminal,
rising from his seat, and, with a desperate effort, confronting his
accuser—Shaking his fist at him, he cried—“You shall prove
what you say! You shall prove what you say!”
The other coldly replied, while a smile of scorn passed over
his lips—“I am here for that very purpose.”
“You!—and who are you?” demanded the accused, once
again stammering and showing trepidation.
“A man! one who has his hand upon your throat, and will stifle
you in the very first struggle that you propose to make. Sit down,
sir—sit down all—this business is opened before us, and we will
go to it as to a matter of business. You, sir”—to Stanton, “will
please school your moods and temper, lest it be worse for you.
It is only by behaving with proper modesty under a proper sense
of your position and danger, that you can hope to escape from the
sharpest clutches of the law.”
“You shall not bully me—I am not the man to submit—”
“You are;” said the other, sternly interrupting him—“I tell
you, William Ragin, alias Richard Weston, alias Thomas Stukely,
alias Edward Stanton—you are the man to submit to all that
I shall say to you, to all that I shall exact from you, in virtue of
what I know of you, and in virtue of what you are.”
The sweat poured in thick streams from the brow of the criminal.
The other proceeded.
“I am not a bully. It is not by swagger that I hope to put you
down, or to punish you. On the contrary, I come here prepared
to prove all that I assert, satisfactorily before a court of justice.
It is for you to determine whether, by your insolence and madness,
you will incur the danger of a trial, or whether you will
submit quietly to what we ask, and leave the country. I take
for granted that you are no fool, though, in a moral point of view,
your career would show you to be an enormous one, since vice
like yours is almost conclusive against all human policy, and
might reasonably be set down by a liberal judgment, as in some
degree a wretched insanity. If I prove to you that I can prove to
others what I now assert, will you be ready, without more ado, to
yield your claims here, and every where, and fly the country?”
“You can prove nothing: you know nothing. I defy you.”
“Beware! I am no trifler, and, by the God of heaven, I tell you,
that, were I to trust my own feelings, you should swing upon the
gallows, or be shut in from life, by a worse death, in the penitentiary,
all your days. I can bring you to either, if I will it, but
prompt me to the gentler course I have indicated. It is enough
for me that you have been connected by the most solemn ties with
Maria Lacy. Her wishes and her memory are sacred in my
sight, and these move me to spare the villain whom my own personal
wrongs would prompt me to drag to the gallows. You see
how the matter stands! Speak!”
“You then—you are—”
“Henry Lamar, of Georgia, the cousin, and once the betrothed
of Maria Lacy.”
There was a slight tremour in the speaker's voice, as he made
this answer;—but his soul was very firm. He continued: “I
complain not of your wrong to me. It is enough that I am prepared
to avenge it, and I frankly tell you, I am half indifferent
whether you accede to my proposition or not. Your audacity here
has aroused a feeling in me, which leaves it scarcely within my
power to offer you the chances of escape. I renew the offer, while
I am yet firm to do it. Leave the country—leave all the bounds,
all the territories of the United States—and keep aloof from them;
for, as surely as I have power to pursue, and hear of your presence
in any of them, so surely shall I hunt you out with shot and
halter, as I would the reptile that lurks beside the pathway, or
the savage beast that harbours in the thicket.”
The speaker paused, resumed his seat, and, by a strong effort
of will, maintained a calm silence, looking sternly upon the criminal.
Violent passions were contending in the breast of the latter.
His fears were evidently aroused, but his cupidity was active. It
was clear that he apprehended the danger—it was equally clear
that he was loth to forego his grasp upon the property of his last
victim. He was bewildered, and, more in his confusion than because
of any thought or courage—he once more desperately denied
the charges made against him.
“You are a bold man,” said he to the stranger, affecting coolness—“considering
you deal in slander. You may impose upon
these, but it is only because they would believe any thing against
me now. But you have no proofs. I defy you to produce any
thing to substantiate one of your charges.”
“Fool!” said the other coolly, “I have but to call in the slaves
the world the marks upon your body, to which your wife swore
in open court in New York State, on the trial of Reuben Moore,
confounded in identity with yourself as William Ragin. Here is
the report of the trial. Moore was only saved, so close was the
general resemblance between you, as the scar of the scythe was
not apparent upon his leg—to which all parties swore as certainly
on yours. Are you willing that we should now examine your
left leg and foot?”
“My foot is as free from scar as yours; but I will not suffer
myself to be examined.”
“Did it need, we should not ask you. But it does not need.
We have the affidavit of Samuel Fisher, to show that he detected
the scar of the scythe upon your leg, while bathing with you at
Crookstone's mill pond, that he asked you how you got such a
dreadful cut, and that you were confused, but said that it was a
scythe cut. This he alleged of you under your present name of
Stanton. Here, sir, is a copy of the affidavit. Here also is the
testimony of James Greene, of Liberty county, Geo., who knew
you there as the husband of Maria Lacy. He slept with you one
night at Berry's house on the way to the county court house.
You played poker with a party of five consisting of the said Greene,
of Jennings, Folker and Stillman—their signatures are all here.
You got drunk, quarrelled with Folker and Stillman, whom you
accused of cheating you, were beaten by them severely, and so
bruised that it was necessary you should be put to bed, and bathed
with spirits. When stripped for this purpose, while you lay
unconscious, the scythe cut on your leg, and a large scar from a
burn upon your right arm, to both of which your wife, Elizabeth
Ragin, swore in New York, with great particularity—as appears
in that reported case—were discovered, and attracted the attention
of all present.”
“Man or devil!” exclaimed the criminal in desparation,—“By
what means have you contrived to gather these damnable proofs!”
“You admit them then?”
“I admit nothing. I defy them, and you, and the devil. Let
me go. I will hear nothing more—see nothing farther. As for
you, John Ramsay, let me ask, am I to have any of my wife's
John Ramsay, the younger, was about to reply, when the
stranger silenced him.
“Stay! You leave not this spot, unless with my consent, or
in the hands of the sheriff. He is here in readiness. Are you
willing that I should call him in? I am serious! There must
be no trifling. Here are proofs of your identity with William
Ragin, who married Elizabeth Simpson, of Minden, Connecticut;
—with Richard Weston, who married Sarah Gooch, of Raleigh,
N. C.;—with Thomas Stukely, who married with Maria Lacy,
of Liberty county, Geo.;—with Edward Stanton, now before us,
who married with Ellen Ramsay, of Montgomery county, Alabama.
Of these wretched wives whom you have wronged and
dishonoured, two of them are still living. I do not stipulate for
your return to either. They are sufficiently fortunate to be rid
of you forever. But this I insist upon, that you leave the country.
As for taking the property of this wife or that, you must
consider yourself particularly fortunate that you escape the halter.
You can take nothing. Your fate lies in these papers.”
In an instant the desperate hands of the criminal had clutched
the documents where the other laid them down. He clutched
them, and sprang towards the door, but a single blow from the
powerful fist of young John Ramsay brought him to the floor. The
stranger quietly repossessed himself of the papers.”
“You are insane, William Ragin,” he remarked coolly—
“these are all copies of the originals, and even were they originals,
their loss would be of little value while all the witnesses are
living. They are brought for your information—to show you on
what a perilous point you stand—and have been used only to base
the warrant upon which has been already issued for your arrest.
That warrant is even now in this village in the hands of the sheriff
of the county. I have but to say that you are the man whom
he must arrest under it, and he does his duty. You are at my
mercy. I see that you feel that. Rise and sign this paper and
take your departure. If, after forty-eight hours, you are found
east of the Tombeckbe, you forfeit all the chances which it affords
you of escape. Rise, sir, and sign. I have no more words for you.”
The criminal did as he was commanded—passively, as one in
a stupor. The stranger then waved him to the door, and he took
his departure without any more being spoken on either side.
When he was gone—
“These papers,” said Lamar, to old John Ramsay, “are yours.
I leave them for your protection from this scoundrel. The proofs
are all conclusive, and, with his re-appearance, you have but to
seek the sheriff and renew the warrant.”
The old man clasped the hands of the stranger and bedewed
them with tears.
“You will stay with us while you are here. We owe you too
much to suffer it otherwise. We have no other way of thanking
you.”
“I have another day's business here,” said Lamar, “and will
cheerfully partake your hospitality for that time. For the present
I must leave you. I have an engagement with Mr. Atkins.”
The engagement with Atkins, led the stranger to the grave of
poor Ellen Ramsay and to that of Robert Anderson. They next
visited the cottage of the widow Anderson, and obtained her consent
to the use of the head board which the devoted youth had
framed and inscribed, while himself dying, for the grave of his
beloved. The next day was employed, with the consent of old
Ramsay, in putting it up—an occasion which brought the villagers
together as numerously as the burial of the poor girl had
done. The events of the day had taken wind—the complete exposure
of the wretch who had brought ruin and misery into the
little settlement, was known to all, and deep were the imprecations
of all upon his crime, and warm the congratulations at a
development, which saved the venerable father from being spoiled
and left in poverty in his declining years. But there is yet a
finish to our story—another event, perhaps necessary to its finish,
which, as it was the offspring of another day, we must reserve
for another chapter.
3. CHAPTER III.
That night, while the little family at Ramsay's were sitting
over their evening meal, Abram, one of the plantation negroes,
appeared at the door of the apartment, and abruptly addressed
young Ramsay after the following fashion:
“Look ya, Mass Jack, I want for see you out ya a minute.”
Abram was the driver of the plantation—a sort of superintendant
of details. He was a faithful negro, such as is to be
found on every long established plantation at the South—shrewd,
cool, sensible—perhaps forty years of age—honest, attentive to
his business, and, from habit, assuming the interest which he
managed to be entirely his own. His position gave him consequence,
which he felt and asserted, but never abused. A trick
of speaking very much what was uppermost in his mind, was the
fruit of a just consciousness of duties well performed, leaving him
in no fear of any proper authority. Young Ramsay rose instantly
and obeyed the summons. With some little mystery in his manner,
Abram conducted the youth from the piazza into the yard,
and thence into the shadow of one of the gigantic shade trees by
which the house was literally embowered. Here, looking around
him with the air of one anxious neither to be seen nor overheard,
he thrust a paper into the hands of John Ramsay with this inquiry—
“Dis ya money, Mass Jack,—good money?”
“I will tell you when I look at it by the candle. Why?—
where did you get it?”
“You look at 'em first—I tell you all 'bout 'em arterward.”
John did as was required, returned and reported the bank note—
for it was such, and for twenty dollars—to be utterly worthless—
that, in short, of a broken bank.
“I bin tink so,” said the negro.
“Where did you get it, Abram?”
“Who you speck gib me, Mass Jack?”
“I don't know!”
“Who but Mass Ned Stanton.”
“Ha!—why—when did he give you this money?”
“To-day—when you bin all busy wid de tomb stone of young
Missis. He come by de old creek field, call me out, say I must
come to em in de wood, and den he say to me dat he sorry for
see me ya working for Mossa. Him will help me git off work—I
shall be free man, if I will only go wid him, and bring off many
of the brack people as I kin. He promise me heap of tings, git
me 'nuff tobacco for las' a mont', gib me knife—see dis ya—and
dis money which you say no good money. I bin speck 'em for
bad when he tell me its twenty dollars. Twenty dollars is heap
money, I say to myself. Wha' for he gib me twenty dollars now.
Wha' for he consider my freedom, jes' now, and he nebber bin
tink 'pon 'em before. Someting's wrong, I say to myself, and
Mossa for know—but I neber let on to 'em I 'spec 'em. I say
`da's all right. I will come, Mass Ned. I will see you in de
bush to-night.' Den he shake my hand—say he always bin lub
me—will take me to country whay brack man is gentleman and
hab white wife, and is lawyer, and schoolmosser, and preacher,
and hab white man for dribe he carriage. I yerry em berry
well, but I never le' him see I laugh. But I hab my tongue ya
(thrust to one side of his jaws) and the white ob my eye grow
large as I look 'pon 'em. I know 'em of ole. I bin speck 'em
when he first come ya courting poor Miss Nelly. I no like 'em
den—I no like 'em now. But I mak' blieb I lub 'em too much.
Das for you now to fix 'em. He's for see me to-night by ole
Robin tree in de swamp. Wha' mus do—wha' mus say—how
you gwine fix 'em?”
“You have done right, 'Bram. Before I say any thing, I will
consult my father, and a stranger who is with us.”
“I yerry bout 'em. He's a man, I ya. Flora bin tell me
how he fix Ned Stanton.”
“Well, I'll consult him and my father. Do you remain here
in the meantime. Do not let yourself be seen. Stanton is a villain,
but we have found him out. Stanton is not his real name,
but Ragin.”
“Ragin, eh? Well, we must Ragin 'em. I'll wait 'pon you
somet'ing ef I aint by de tree when he come.”
John Ramsay re-entered the house, and, in few words, repeated
the substance of the negro's story.
“The scoundrel's bent on being hung,” was the exclamation
of Lamar, with something like a look of exultation. “Let
'Bram encourage him, and give him a meeting for to-morrow
night, promising to bring all the negroes that he can. We shall
be at the meeting. 'Bram shall carry us, though we go as his
comrades, not as his superiors.”
The scheme of Lamar was soon laid. Young Ramsay and
himself were to smut their faces, and, in negro habiliments, were
to impose upon the villain. Lamar promised that the sheriff
should take his hand at the game.
“Our mercy is thrown away upon such a thrice-dyed scoundrel.
His destiny forces the task of vengeance upon us. Go to
Abram, and give him his cue.”
4. CHAPTER IV.
There is a fatality about the wicked that, sooner or later, whatever
may be their precautions and their adroitnesses, invariably
brings about their confusion and defeat. The criminal in the
present instance, was one who had enjoyed a long swing of good
fortune—using these words only to mean that he had been able
to gratify his wishes, of whatever sort, without yet having been
made to pay the usual penalties. This very success is most
commonly the source of final disaster. The fortunate man is apt
to presume upon his good fortune—to hold himself, like Sylla, a
sort of favourite with the capricious goddess, until he loses himself
irrevocably in the blind presumption which his confidence
provokes. Edward Stanton, for so we shall continue to call
him, had been too often in straits like the present, and had too
often emerged from them with profit, to fancy that he had much
at hazard in the new game that he had determined to pursue.
He had been temporarily daunted by the complete exposure of his
career which had been made by Lamar, and felt, from all he
saw and all he heard, that the chances were entirely up with
him where he then stood. But he had not long gone from sight of
his enemy, before his mind began once more to recover, and to unravel
new schemes and contrivances for the satisfaction of his selfish
passions. He was a person soon to cast aside his apprehensions,
and to rise with new energies after defeat. It is a very
great misfortune that this admirable quality of character should
be equally shared, upon occasion, by the rogue and the ruffian,
with the honest man and the noble citizen. Stanton was resolved
to make the most of the forty-eight hours which were allowed
him. He took for granted that, having attained his object, Lamar
would be satisfied;—he may have discovered, indeed, that the
latter would return in another day to Georgia. We have seen,
from the revelations of Abram, what direction his scheming mind
was disposed to pursue. His plans were laid in a few minutes,
village generally, were raising the simple head board over the
grave of his injured wife, the miserable wretch, totally insensible
to all honourable or human feeling, was urging the ignorant
negro to a desertion of the ancient homestead, in the vain
hope of attaining that freedom with which, when acquired, he
knew not well what to do. Of course, this was all a pretext of
the swindler, by which to get the property within his grasp. He
had but to cross the Tombeckbe with his unsuspecting companions,
and they would have been sold, by public outcry, at the
first popular gathering. His plans laid, his artifices all complete,
he waited with anxiety the meeting with the negro. He had already
taken his leave of the family with which he lodged, had
mounted his horse, and turned his head towards the west, using
particular care that his departure should be seen by several. He
little fancied that his return to the neighbourhood by another
route, and after night had set in, had also been perceived. But
the vigilance of Lamar had arranged for this. Young Atkins
had volunteered to observe the movements of Stanton, and, born
a hunter, and familiar with all the woods for twenty miles round,
he was able to report on the return of the fugitive, within half
an hour of the moment when it took place. Concealing his
horse in a neighbourng bay, ready for use in the first emergency,
Stanton proceeded, at the appointed time, to the place of rendezvous.
Meanwhile, the preparations of Lamar were also in progress.
The sheriff had been brought, after night-fall, to the house of old
Ramsay. The coarse garments of the negro had been provided
for himself and his deputy—for Lamar and the younger Ramsay.
Young Atkins also insisted on going as a volunteer, and old Ramsay
could with difficulty be persuaded to forbear accompanying
the party. The blood of the veteran blazed up as fiercely as it
had done twenty years before, when he heard the call for volunteers,
from the lips of Andrew Jackson, to avenge the butcheries
of Indian warfare. The good sense of Lamar succeeded in
persuading him to leave the affair to younger men. Abram was
of the party, and, with his assistance, a greasy preparation was
procured, in which soot and oil were the chief ingredients, by
the dark and glossy outside of the African. Prime stout
fellows were they—able field hands—such as would delight the
unsuspecting eye of the kidnapper as soon as he beheld them.
They were all armed with pistols—all but Abram, who carried
however the knife—a formidable couteau de chasse, which had
been one of the bribes of Stanton, presented to him with the
bank note and tobacco, at their first interview. Abram undertook
the conduct of the party. They were led forth secretly, in
profoundest silence, by a circuitous path, to the swamp thicket, in
the neighbourhood of which the meeting was to take place. It
is needless to describe the route. Suffice it that they were there
in season, snugly quartered, and waiting with due impatience for
the signal. It was heard at last;—a shrill whistle, thrice repeated,
followed by the barking of a hound. To this Abram answered,
going forth as he did so, and leaving the party in the
close covert to which he had conducted them. The night was a
bright star-light. The gleams, however, came but imperfectly
through the thick foliage; and our conspirators could distinguish
each other only by the sound of their voices. Their faces shone
as glossily as the leaves, when suddenly touched by the far light
of the stars. Gradually, they heard approaching footsteps. It
was then that Lamar said, seizing the hand of young Ramsay,—
“No haste, now,—no rashness,—we must let the fellow hobble
himself fairly.”
Deep silence followed, broken only by the voice of the negro
and his companion.
“You have brought them?” said Stanton.
“Da's ya!” replied the black.
“How many?”
“Some tree or four, 'side myself.”
“Could you bring no more?” asked the eager kidnapper.
“Hab no chance—you no gib me time 'nuff. Ef you leff 'em
tell Saturday night now, and Sunday, I get 'em all.”
“No!—no! that's impossible. I dare not. These must do.
Where are they?”
“In de bush! jes' ya! But look ya, Mass Ned, you sure you
gwine do wha' you promise?”
“On my honour, 'Bram.”
“You will take you Bible oat', Mass Ned?”
“I swear it.”
“Dis ya nigger I bring you is no common nigger, I tell you.
Mossa hab heaby loss for lose 'em. Wha' you 'spose he gwine
say,—wha' he tink, when he get up to-morrow mornin', and can't
find 'Bram and de rest ob 'em. Wha' he gwine do?”
“What can he do? We will have the start of him by twenty-five
miles, and in one day more you will be free, 'Bram,
your own master, and able to put him at defiance. I will see
to that.”
“He will push arter us, Mass Ned,—and dese ya nigger in de
bush—look ya, Mass Ned, dese all prime nigger. Da's one on
'em, a gal ya, most purty nuff for white man wife. You 'member
little Suzy, Mass Ned?”
“Don't I, 'Bram? Little Suzy is a pretty girl—pretty enough
to be the wife of any man. Bring her out, bring them all out,
and let us be off. We understand each other.”
“Suzy is good gal, Mass Ned. I want for see 'em doing prime
when he git he freedom. You will marry 'em yourself, wid
parson?”
“If she wishes it.”
“He will wish 'em for true! But wha' dis I yer 'em say
'bout you habing tree wife a'ready?”
“No more of that, 'Bram.”
“Wha'! he aint true, den?”
“A lie, 'Bram! a black, a bloody lie!”
“What for den you let dat Georgy man run you out ob de
country?”
“Ha! who told you this?”
“I yer dem house sarbant talk ob 'em.”
“They do not understand it. I am not driven. I choose to
go.”
“Well! you know bes', but dat's wha' I yer dem say.”
“No more, 'Bram! Where are the people?”
“Let de dog bark tree time, and dey come. You kin bark
like dog, Mass Ned. Try for 'em.”
The imitation was a good one. Sounds were heard in the
They looked natural enough, and the kidnapper approached
them with some interest.
“These are all men, are they not? Are there no women?
Where's Little Suzy?”
“Ha! Mass Ned,—I speck its true wha' dem people say. You
lub gal too much. I call little Suzy now, him take you 'bout de
neck. Come ya, my people. Mass Ned hab make 'greement
wid me to carry us all to fine country. He swear Bible 'oat to
make we all free, and gib we plenty whiskey and tobacco. I tell
'em you's ready to go. You ready, eh?”
There was a general grunt of assent.
'Bram was disposed to be satirical. His dry chuckle accompanied
every syllable.
“Gib um you hand den on de bargain. Shake hand like
brudderin. Ha! ha! I nebber bin speck to be brudder ob my
young mossa. Shake hands, niggers, on de bargain.”
“You have heard what 'Bram has said, my boys. I promise
the same things to you. You shall go with me to a country where
you shall be free. I will give you plenty of whiskey and tobacco.
Here is my hand. Who is this—Zeke?”
The hand was clutched by Lamar, with a grasp that somewhat
startled the criminal. The voice of the supposed negro in the
next moment, terribly informed him of his danger.
“Villain!” exclaimed the Georgian, “I have you! You are
sworn for the gallows! You shall not escape us now.”
A short struggle followed—the doubtful light, and their rapid
movements, not suffering the other persons around so to distinguish
between them as to know where to take hold. The criminal
put forth all his strength, which was far from inconsiderable.
The combatants were nearly equally matched, but in the struggle
they traversed a fallen tree, over which Lamar stumbled and fell,
partly dragging his enemy with him to the ground. To save himself
only did he relax his hold. Of this Stanton nimbly availed
himself. He recovered his feet, and, before the rest of the party
could interfere, had gained a dozen paces on his way to the thicket.
Once within its shadows, he might, with good heart and good fortune,
have baffled their pursuit. But this was not destined. He
suddenly like a huge ball in the path of the fugitive, and
thus broke the fall which yet precipitated him to the ground.
In the next moment, the negro had caught him by the leg, yelling
at the same time to the rest of the party to come to his succour.
“Ah! dog it is you then to whom I owe all this.”
Such was the speech, muttered through his closed teeth, with
which Stanton declared his recognition of the assailant. His
words were followed by a pistol shot. Abram gave a cry, released
his hold, and leapt to his feet. Stanton had only half risen
when the whole weight of the negro was again upon him.
“You shoot, eh! You shoot!” were the words of the black,
shrieked rather than spoken. The party interfered. The whole
affair had passed in a moment, quick as thought, and in far less
time than has been occupied with the recital.
“Where is he, 'Bram?” demanded Lamar.
“I hab em ya, Mossa—he safe,” responded the other with a groan.
“You are hurt?” said young Ramsay, inquiringly.
“One arm smash wid he pistol, Mass Jack.”
His young master helped the fellow up, while Lamar and the
sheriff, with young Atkins, prepared to secure the criminal.
“What is this! He is lifeless!” said the former, as he touched
the body. “What have you done, 'Bram?”
“I don't know, Mossa. I hab my knife in my han', and when
he shoot me, I so bex and I so scare, I don't know wha' I do wid
em. I gib um he knife, I speck. It's he own knife.”
Sure enough! the weapon was still sticking in the side of the
criminal. The one blow was fatal, and his dying groan, if any
was uttered, was drowned in the furious exclamation with which
the negro accompanied the blow.
“It is a loss to the gallows,” said Lamar, with an expression
of chagrin.
“Better so!” replied young Ramsay.
“It saves me a very dirty job!” muttered the sheriff. We
may add that he took care to pay the usual fees to Abram, who
was otherwise well provided for by the Ramsay family, and still
lives to relate the events of that night of conflict with the Snake
of the Cabin.
| The wigwam and the cabin | |