 | CHAPTER II. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
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.
| CHAPTER II. The wigwam and the cabin | |