University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

The emissary had awaited the end of their long
conference with exemplary patience.

“I could have told you all in fewer words,” he
said bluntly to John Hurdis, the moment they came
in sight.—“The story is soon told by one who is
accustomed to it. I am compelled to talk it over to
so many, that I go through it now almost as a matter
of memory, with a certain set of words which I
seldom have occasion to change. I trust that my
brother, here, has done no discredit to my skill, by
halving it in repeating.”

“I fear not,” replied Hurdis.—“He has certainly
told enough to startle one less confidently assured
in his own innocence, than myself. He has unfolded
a strange history in my ears. Can it be true?”

“As Gospel!”

“And you really have the large number of persons
leagued together which he mentions?”

“Full fifteen hundred.”

“And for such purposes?”

“Ay!”

“And what is your object here? What do you
seek from us?”

“To increase the number. We seek friends.”

“Wherefore! Why should you increase your number,
when such an increase must only diminish your
resources?”

“I don't know that such will be its effect, and it
increases our power. We gain in strength, when we
gain in number.”

“But why desire an increase of strength, when
even now you have enough for all your purposes?”

“Indeed! but who shall know—who declare—our
purposes? I, even I, know nothing of them all. I
may suspect—I may conjecture—but I know them
not. They are kept from us, till the proper moment.”

“Indeed—who should then—if you do not? Who
keeps them from you?”

“The Grand Council. They determine for us,
and we execute.”

“Who are they?”

“That must be a secret from you, yet. You shall

know it, and all our secrets, when you shall have
taken your several degrees in our Brotherhood.”

“I will take none!” said Hurdis, with more emphasis
than resolution.

“You do not say it!” was the cool reply of the
emissary. “You dare not.”

“How! not dare?”

“It's as much as your life is worth.”

“You speak boldly.”

“Because I am confident of strength, my brother,”
replied the emissary. “You will speak boldly
too—more boldly than now—when you become
one of us. You will feel your own strength, when
you know ours. When you feel as I do, that there
are friends forever nigh, and watchful of your safety;
making your enemies theirs; guarding your footsteps;
fighting your battles; making a common cause
of your interests, and standing elbow to elbow with
you, in all your dangers. Wherefore should I be
bold enough to seek you here—two of you, both
strong men—both, most probably armed.—I, alone,
having strength of person, not greater, perhaps, than
either of you, and, possibly, not so well armed—but
that I feel myself thus mighty in my connections? I
know they have taken my footsteps—they know
where I am at all seasons, as I know where to find
others of our Brotherhood, and if I could not call
them at a given moment, to save me from a sudden

blow, I am at least certain that they know where,
and when to avenge me. But, for this, brothers,
both, I should not have ventured my nose into your
very den, as I may call it, telling you of your tricks
upon travellers, and spurring you into our ranks.”

The audacious development of the emissary absolutely
confounded the two criminals, before whom
he stood. They looked at one another, vacantly,
without answer, and the emissary smiled to see in
the ghastly star light, their not less ghastly countenances.
He put his hand upon the arm of Hurdis
who stood next to him.

“I see you are troubled, brother; but what reason
have you to fear? The worst is over. Your secret is
known to friends—to those only who can and will
serve you.”

“Friends! Friends! God help me, what sort of
friends!” was the bitter speech of Hurdis, as he listened
to this humiliating sort of consolation. With
increasing bitterness he continued.—“And what do
our friends want of me? what shall I do for them—
what give them? Their friendship must be paid for,
I suppose. You want money?”

“We do—but none of yours.”

“And why not mine as well as others. Is it not
quite as good?”

“Quite, but not enough of it, perhaps. But we
never take from our friends—from those whom we

are resolved to have in our brotherhood. You might
give us money upon compulsion, but it would be
scarce worth our while, to extort that, when your
co-operation is necessary to our other purposes, and
must result in getting us a great deal more.”

“I must know how—I must know your other
purposes, before I consent to unite with you. I will
not league with those who are common robbers.”

“Common robbers, brother,” cried the emissary
with a contemptuous sneer, “are not, perhaps,
such noble people as common murderers,
but, I take it, they are quite as virtuous. But we are
not common robbers, my brother; far from it. You
do great injustice to the Mystic Brotherhood.
Know from me that we are simply seekers of justice;
and we only differ from all others having the
same object, in the means which we take to bring it
about. We are those who redress the wrongs and
injuries of fortune, who protect the poor from the
oppressor, who subdue the insolent, and humble the
presumptuous and vain. Perhaps, we are, in truth,
the most moral community under the sun; since our
policy keeps us from harming the poor, and if we
wrong any body, it is only those who do. We take
life but seldom, and then only with the countenance
of our social laws, and by the will of the majority,
except in individual cases, when the fundamental law
of self-protection makes the exception to other laws

which are specified. Does your court house in
Marengo do better than that—more wisely, more
justly? I know to the contrary, my brother, and so
do you.”

“But we are content with our laws,” said Hurdis.

“Ah, indeed! are you willing to be tried by them.
Shall I go to the attorney, and tell him what I know
—shall I point to your agent beside you, and say he
shot down a tall fellow without any notice, and
would have robbed him of his money, if he could,
and all on your account.”

“You could not say that!” said Hurdis in trembling
haste—“his robbery was not our object.”

“His death was.”

“Ay—but he was an enemy—a hateful, malignant
enemy—one who trampled on his elder and
his brother—”

“Was he your brother?” exclaimed the emissary
starting back at the words, and looking upon the
criminal in undisguised astonishment.

The silence of Hurdis answered the question
sufficiently.

“Your own brother—the child of the same mother!
Well! It must have been a cruel wrong that
he did to you.”

“It was!” stammered out Hurdis in reply.

“It must have been,” said the other—“It must
have been. I would take a great deal from a brother,

if I had one, before I'd shoot him, and then, I
tell you, if 'twas necessary to be done, my own hands
should do it. I wouldn't send another man on the
business. But, I've nothing to do with that. All
that I've got to say is, that you're just the sort of
man we want. You must be one of us. Swear to
stand by us, help us and counsel with us, and in all
respects obey the Grand Council, and be faithful.”

“Any thing but that. Tell me, my good fellow,
is there no alternative. Will not money answer?
You shall have it.”

“Money!—why, what can you give that we
might not take. What are you worth that you talk
so freely of money. We can take your life and
money too. You only live by our indulgence. And
why do we indulge you?—not because of any affection
that we bear you, nor because of any admiration
which we entertain of your abilities and valour, but
simply because we lack assistants, here and there,
throughout the whole southwest, in order to facilitate
the progress of certain great events, which we
have in preparation. But for this, we should compound
with you, and take a portion of your wealth,
in lieu of your life, which you have forfeited. This
is what we do daily. Whenever we detect a criminal—a
friend, as it were, ready made to our hands—
we do not expose, but guard his secret; and when
he becomes one of us, his secret becomes ours, which

it is, then, no less our policy, than principle to
preserve. No, no, my brother—we want you, not
your money. Do you keep your money, but we
will keep you.”

“Great God!” muttered the miserable wretch in
self rebuke, “into what a pit have I fallen. Better
die—better perish at once, than submit to such a
bondage as this.”

“As you please, my friend—but to one or the
other you must submit. You have heard my terms,
you must decide quickly. I have not much time to
waste—I have other members to secure for the confederacy,
and must leave you in a day or so.”

“What am I to do—what is it you require?”

“Your oath—your solemn oath to do what I shall
enjoin upon you, now, and what ever else may at
times be enjoined upon you by the Grand Council.”

“What may that be? What sort of duties do they
enjoin?”

“I cannot answer you that. Our duties are various,
and are accommodated to the several capacities
and conditions of our members. You, for example,
are a man of substance and family. From you, the
tasks exacted would seldom be of an arduous character.
You will, perhaps, be required to furnish
monthly reports of the conduct, wealth, principles,
and pursuits of your neighbours, particularly the most
wealthy, active, and intelligent. It is the most important

branch of our study, to know all those who
are able to serve, or to annoy us. You must also
communicate to us, the names of all who intend emigrating
from your parts—find out, and let us know
their destination—the route they take—the amount
of money they have with them, their arms, and resolution.
I will give you an address which will enable
you to communicate these things!”

The enumeration of these degrading offices, filled
the measure of John Hurdis's humiliation. A sense
of the most shameful servitude vexed his soul, and
he absolutely moaned aloud, as in the extremity of
his despair, he demanded—

“May there be more than this?”

“Hardly. You will, perhaps, be required to meet
the brotherhood before long, in order to learn what
farther duties they may impose.”

“Meet them!—where—where do they meet?”

“Every where—but where is not to be said at
this time. You will be warned in season by one of
our messengers, and, possibly, by myself, who will
show you the sign, and whom you must follow. Let
me show you the sign now, and administer the oath.”

The victim submitted, as Pickett had already
done, and the bonds of iniquity were sealed, and
signed between them. John Hurdis began to feel
that there was no slavery so accursed—no tyranny
so unscrupulous—no fate so awful, as that of guilt.

He almost began to steel himself with the conviction
that it would be an easier matter for him to give himsel
up at once to the executioner of the laws. With
a feeling almost akin to despair, he beheld the cool
emissary take out his pocket book, and in the uncertain
light of the night record their names—nay, actually
tax both himself and Pickett for the right orthography
in doing so—with all the exemplary and
courtly nicety of one “learned in the law.”