University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The emissary of the Mystic confederacy had
been well chosen for the business upon which he
came. He discriminated at a glance, between the
characters of John Hurdis and his agent. The imbecility
of the one had been the chief occasion of
his vices; the destitution of the other had originated
his. A proper education, alone, with due reference
to their several deficiencies, could have saved them;
and, under strict guidance and just guardianship
they had, doubtlessly, been both good men. They
were not, however; and the task of the emissary was
to make the particular deficiencies of each, the agent
for securing the required degree of influence over
them. To Pickett, when Hurdis left them, he had
that to say, which, though it did not entirely answer
the intended purpose of securing his hearty co-operation,

had, at least, the effect of confounding him.
Though the agent of Hurdis could not be immediately
changed into an enemy, he was effectually prevented
from appearing forever after in the attitude
of an active friend. The words were few, which effected
this object.

“That is a poor creature for whom you risked
your life. If he dared, he would even now have you
risk it again for him. There is no need to risk it for
yourself. He would pay you well to murder me!
The fool! as if I, only, am in possession of his secret—as
if I were utterly unguarded in coming down
into his jaws, or stood in any sort of danger of
their closing upon me. I'll tell you what, brother,
—when you stab or shoot, let it be on your own
account. If you do it for another, let it be for one
who is not too great a coward to do it for himself.
Here's a wretch, would kill his enemy—that's nothing—if
his own arm held the weapon! Has the
feeling which makes him hate—the malignity
which prompts him to revenge, yet lacks the very
quality, which alone can make hate honorable, and
malignity manly. By the seal of the Grand Council,
if 'twere with me, I'd compound with the fellow
for his life—take his money, as much as he could
give—and let him off from the confederacy. I despise
such sneaks, and would trust them with nothing.
And yet—they have their uses. To save

his own throat, he can tell us where others are to be
found, and do the business of a spy, if he lacks the
boldness to take the weapon of the soldier. The
scoundrel, too, to strike his own brother—there's
no trusting such a chap, Pickett, and it's fortunate
for you that another has him on the skirts, as well
as yourself. If ever this business had come out, you
would have suffered all—he'd have made you the
scapegoat, and would have lacked the will, as well
as the courage, to have helped you, by a proper effort,
out of the halter. He is planning something
now—I know it—something against me;—but he
must be a keener hunter of blood than I think him,
to find me napping. By mid-day to-morrow, I'll
put another hound upon his track, so that he shall
take no step without the Council knowing it.”

Thus speaking, the emissary led the way back to
the hovel of Pickett, with a manner of the utmost
unconcern. The latter was too much bewildered by
what he heard—by his own peculiar situation, and
the position in which his former coadjutor was likely
to be placed—to think of any thing calmly, or to
make any answer. He began, with that easy pliability
to vice and its suggestions, which had always
marked his character, to feel that there was no need
for him to struggle against a power that almost
seemed like a fate; and if he had any reflections at
all, they were those of one, who, buffeting much

with the world's troubles, had, at last, learned to
make something of the worst of them. His mind
began to address itself to the advantages which
might result from this new association, and it was
not an emissary so faithful to his trust, as the one
before us, who would suffer these to go unmustered
into notice. Before Pickett slept that night, he had
come to the conclusion that he might as well take
his share in the business of the Mystic confederacy,
which promised so magnificently and paid so well.

But, meanwhile, what of John Hurdis? What
were his thoughts—his dreams, that night? Any
thing but pleasant and promising. The hopes of
Pickett—springing from his poverty and destitution
—were nothing to him. He was rich—a man of
family and substance. Standing fair in the world's
esteem—seeking the regards and the affections of
the virtuous, and the beautiful—what were his reflections
in the position in which he now found himself?
His felony brought home to his doors, and
only withheld from public exposure—at the mercy
of a band of professed felons—and then, only, by
his timely compliance with their laws and exactions
—by his becoming one with them—forced into
their crimes—forced into all their thousand responsibilities.
What a mesh of dangers gathered about
him! What a fecund crime was that which he had
committed! The teeth of his malignity were already

sprouting from the ground, and under his own
feet. Well might he tremble at every step he was
about to take, and bitterly curse the folly, not less
than the wickedness, of the deed which he had commissioned
Pickett to perform. And Pickett, too,
had deserted him—that was a blow not less severe
than the rest. Could he have thrust upon the hands
of his agent the other deed yet to be done, he had
been comparatively easy, not so much because of the
service itself, but because he would not then have
been taught so terribly to feel the awful solitude of
crime. The desertion of the confederate is, perhaps,
the first-felt warning which a just fate despatches
to the vicious.

“Fool! miserable fool that I was!” raved the
miserable Hurdis when he found himself alone.
“Where am I? What have I done? Where do I
stand? The earth opens before me. Would it hide
me! I have labored wildly, and without profit. I
am no nearer to Mary Easterby than ever—nay,
farther off than ever—and the blood of a brother,
shed that I might clear the way to her, is upon
my hands in vain. She rejects me, and I have
gained nothing but misery and danger. I am at the
mercy of the worst—the most desperate of mankind!—With
no ties to bind them in my service and
to secrecy. The very wealth which I believed capable
to do every thing, rejected at my hands.

There is but one hope—but one chance for freedom.
It must be done, and, double misery!—my hand alone
must do it. I must not shrink—I must not falter
now. On the word of this desperado my life hangs.
I must risk life that he should not speak that
word. He must be silenced. Better that I should
do so now, than wait till the sheriff knocks at the
door. It cannot be worse—it may save all.”

His terrors did not deprive him of his cautions,
nor operate to defeat his deliberate thoughts upon
the course which he resolved to take. On the contrary,
it rather contributed to increase his acuteness,
and make his caution more deliberate than ever.
Nature which denied him courage, seemed to have
provided him, in his strait, with a double share of
cunning; and one little incident will sufficiently
serve to show his own providence in making his arrangements.
He had to take his gun from his chamber
after he had carefully loaded both barrels with
buck shot, and, lest he might be met while descending
the stairs, by any of the family or servants, he
lowered it from his window by means of a string—
thus obviating any danger of being seen armed at
an unusual hour of the night. Before the day had
dawned, he had made his way to the place designed
for his concealment; and with the patience, if not
the indifference, of the professed outlaw, he waited
for the approach of one.

He had to wait for some hours, for Pickett's hospitality
towards his new associate, would not suffer
him to depart till after breakfast. The same consideration
was not sufficient, however, to induce the
former to acquaint the emissary with the ambush
which he well knew had been set for him. His regards
had not yet been warmed to such a degree.
His policy may be comprised in few words.

“If,” thought he, “John Hurdis kills him, well
and good—I've nothing to do with it—I can lose nothing
by it, but will most probably escape from a
connection, which is decidedly dangerous. But,
whether I escape from the connection or not, at
least I am safe from any charges of having done this
deed; I am certainly untroubled with the consciousness
of it. Should he not kill him, still well and
good—we stand where we are. I am neither worse
nor better. The confederacy, if it has its dangers,
has its rewards also—and what am I, and what are
my prospects in the world, that I should heed the
former, when the latter are to me, so important a
consideration. Live or die, my brother, (here he
adapted the affectionate language of the emissary,)
Live or die, my brother, it's all one to me.”

And with these thoughts, though unexpressed, he
sent the emissary forward on his path of danger. As
was inevitable, he took the road upward according
to the opinion of Pickett, and, it may be added, his

course was directly over the ground which he had
already travelled. The distance was small, however,
from the house of Pickett, to the spot where
Hurdis awaited him; and the fellow took no long
time in approaching it. Meanwhile, what were the
emotions of the felonious watcher. We may imagine—I
cannot describe them. Life and death depended
upon his resolve—so he thought, at least—
yet was he still irresolute. He had chosen, with
the judgment of one experienced in such matters,
the very spot which, for all others, afforded him the
best opportunity of putting his design in execution.
Approaching or departing from him, his victim
was at his mercy for a full hundred yards on either
hand. The bushes around effectually concealed
him—his aim was unobstructed—the path was not
often travelled—not liable to frequent interruption
—the day was dark—there was not a breath stirring.
Yet the hand of the assassin trembled, and
the tremor at his heart was even greater than that of
his hand. Nature had not designed him for a bold
villain. He might have made a cunning shopkeeper,
and succeeded, perhaps, in doing a far better business,
though not a more moral one, in vending bad
wares, and spurious money, than by crying,
“stand” to a true man. His nerves were not of the
iron order, and painfully, indeed, was he made conscious
of this defect, as he beheld his enemy ap
proach. No opportunity could have been better.
The road by the branch, above which he lay in
waiting, was almost under him; and for a good three
minutes, the movement of the traveller was in a direct
line with his first appearance. Hurdis got his
gun in readiness, and when the victim came within its
reach, he raised it to his shoulder. But it sank again
a moment after. The muzzle veered to and fro, as a
leaf in the wind. He could not bring the sight to rest
upon the traveller. Keen was the anguish which he
felt when he brought it down to the earth; and it
was in desperate resolve that he again lifted it.

“It must be done,” he said to himself—“there is
no hope else. My life or his—shall I hesitate! I
must do it—I cannot miss him now.”

Again the instrument of death was uplifted in his
unwilling hands, and this time he rested it upon
a limb of the tree, which rose directly before his
person.

“I have him now. It is but fifty yards. There
he is beside the poplar! Ha! what is this—where
is he—I cannot see him—a mist is before my eyes.”

A mist had indeed, overspread his sight. His
straining eyes were full of water, and he drew back
from the tube, and looked over it upon the road.
Still, his enemy was there. Why had he not seen
him before? He would have resumed his aim, but
just then, he saw the eyes of the emissary turned upwards

upon the very spot where he stood. Had he
been seen through the bushes? The doubt was a palsying
one, and he shrunk back in terror, and listened
with a beating heart that shook in his very throat,
to hear the steps of the enemy in pursuit of him up
the hill. But he heard nothing and was emboldened
to look again. He had lost one chance. The emissary
had rounded the branch, and was now upon the
other end of the trace and going from him. But his
back was now turned to the assassin, and his base
spirit derived strength from this circumstance. He
felt that he could not have drawn a trigger upon his
foe, while he looked upon his face. He now did
not doubt of his being able to execute the deed.
His arms were rigid—he felt that he was resolved.
There was not the slightest quiver in limb or
pulse; and with the confidence of assured strength,
and a tried courage, he once more lifted the weapon.
Never did man take better aim upon his foe.
The entire back of the slow-moving stranger was
towards him. The distance was small, for, in rounding
the branch, the traveller had approached, rather
than receded from, the point where the murderer
lay in waiting. Cautiously, but firmly, did he cock
the weapon. The slight click upon his own ears,
was startling, and before he could recover from the
start which it had occasioned him, and while he was
about to throw his eyes along the barrel, his marrowless
purpose was again defeated by one of the simplest
incidents in the world. A flock of partridges,
startled by the head of the horse, flew up from the
road side, at the very feet of the traveller. The moment
had passed. The victim was out of reach before
his wretched enemy could recover his resolution.
Desperate and wild, John Hurdis rushed out
of his covert, and half-way down the hill. He would
have cried aloud to the retreating emissary. He
would have defied him to an equal, mortal struggle.
But the soul was wanting, if not the will. The
sound died away in his husky throat. The voice
stuck—the tongue was palsied. The imbecile
dropped his weapon, and sinking down upon the
grass beside it, thrust his fingers into the earth, and
moaned aloud. It is a dreadful misery to feel that
we can confide in no friend—that we can trust no
neighbour; but this sorrow is nothing to that last humiliating
conviction, which tells us that we cannot
trust ourselves. That our muscles will fail us in
the trying moment—that, when we most need
resolution, we shall find none within our hearts.
That our nerves shall be unstrung when their tension
is our safety—that our tongue shall refuse its
office, when its challenge is necessary to warm
our own hearts, and alarm those of our enemies.
Conscious imbecility next to conscious guilt, is the
most crushing of all mental maladies. To look upon
that poor, base, criminal now, as he lies upon the
grass—his fingers stuck into the sod and fixed there
—his jaws wide, and the frothing tongue lolling out
and motionless—big drops upon his forehead—bigger
drops in his red and glassy eyes—his hair
soaked by the sweat of his mental agony, and all his
limbs without life—and we should no longer hate,
but pity—we should almost forget his crime in the
paralysing punishment which followed it. But this
was not the limit of his afflictions, though, to the
noble mind, it must appear the worst. There were
yet other terrors in store for him. He was yet to
learn, even in this narrow life, that “the wages of
sin is death.”