 | CHAPTER XVII. Richard Hurdis, or, The avenger of blood : a tale of Alabama |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
In the first blush of my necessity,
The danger yet at distance.
Captive.
It was, perhaps, an earnest of success in the pursuit
which I had undertaken, that I did not underrate,
to myself, its many difficulties. I felt that I
would have to contend with experienced cunning
and probably superior strength—that nothing but
the utmost adroitness and self-control could possibly
enable me to effect my purposes. My first
object was to alter my personal appearance, so as
to defeat all chance of recognition by any of the
villains with whom I had previously come in collision.
This was a work calling for much careful
consideration. To go down to Mobile, change my
clothes, and adopt such fashions as would more completely
disguise me, were my immediate designs; and
I pushed my way to this, my first post, with all speed
and without any interruption. My first care in Mobile
was to sell my horse which I did for one hundred
and eighty dollars. I had now nearly five hundred
the rest in United States Bank, Alabama, and Louisiana
notes, all of which were equally current. I
soon procured a couple of entire suits, as utterly different
from any thing I had previously worn as possible.
Then, having a proper regard to the usual
decoration of the professed gamblers of our country,
I entered a jeweller's establishment, and bought
sundry bunches of seals, a tawdry watch, a huge
chain of doubtful, but sold as virgin, gold; and some
breastpins and shirt buttons of saucer size. To
those who had personally known me before, I was
well assured that no disguise would have been more
perfect than that afforded by these trinkets—but
when, in addition to these and the other changes in
my habit of which I have spoken, I state that my
beard was suffered to grow goatlike, after the most
approved models of dandyism, under the chin, in
curling masses, and my whiskers, in rival magnificence,
were permitted to overrun my cheeks—I
trust that I shall be believed when I aver that after
a few weeks space, I scarcely knew myself. I had
usually been rather fastidious in keeping a smooth
cheek and chin, and I doubt very much, whether my
own father ever beheld a two days' beard upon me
from the day that I found myself man enough to shave
at all, to the present. The more I contemplated my
own appearance, the more sanguine I became of success;
in order to give beard and whiskers a fair opportunity
to overrun a territory which before had never
shown its stubble. When this time was elapsed,
my visage was quite Siberian; a thick cap of otter
skin, which I now procured, fully completed my
northern disguises, and, exchanging my pistols at a
hardware establishment, for others not so good, but
for which I had to give some considerable boot, I
felt myself fairly ready for my perilous adventure.
It called for some resolution to go forward when
the time came for my departure, and when I thought
of the dangers before me; but when, in the next instant,
I thought of the murder of my friend, and of
the sad fate of his betrothed, my resolution of vengeance
was renewed. I felt that I had an oath in
Heaven—sworn—registered;—and I repeated it on
earth.
Let me now return for an instant to the condition
of my worthy brother, and relate some passages, in
their proper place in this narrative, which, however,
did not come to my knowledge for some time after.
The reader will remember my meeting with the
stranger at the entrance of the avenue leading to my
father's house, who asked for John Hurdis, and to
whom I introduced him. It will also be remembered
that I remarked the surprise, nay almost consternation,
which his appearance and address seemed
a reason for all this, though I dreamed not of it then.
John Hurdis had good cause for the terrors, which,
at that time, I found rather ludicrous, and was almost
disposed to laugh at. They went together
into the woods, and, as I left the plantation for Mobile
an hour after, I saw no more of either of them
on that occasion. The business of the stranger may
best be told in John Hurdis's own words. That
very afternoon he went to the cottage of Pickett,
whom he summoned forth, as was his custom, by a
signal agreed upon between them. When together,
in a voice of great agitation, John began the dialogue
as follows:
“I am ruined, Pickett—ruined, undone forever.
Who do you think has come to me—presented
himself at the very house, and demanded to see me?”
Pickett looked up, but exhibited no sort of surprise
at this speech, as he replied by a simple inquiry.
“Who?”
“A messenger from this d—d confederacy. A
fellow with his cursed signs—and a summons to
meet the members at some place to which he is to
give me directions at a future time. I am required
to be in readiness to go, heaven knows where, and to
meet with, heaven knows who—to do, heaven knows
what.”
Pickett answered coolly enough—and with an air
of resignation to his fate, which confounded Hurdis.
“He has been to me too, and given me the same
notice.”
“Ha! and what did you tell him—what answer
—what answer?”
“That I would come—that I was always ready.
I suppose you told him so, likewise?”
“Ay—you may well suppose it—what else, in
the name of all the fiends, could I tell him. I have
no help—I must submit—I am at their mercy—
thanks to your bungling, Ben Pickett—you have
drawn us both into a bog which is closing upon us
like a gulf. I told him as you told him, though it
was in the gall of bitterness that I felt myself forced
to say so much, that I would obey the summons
and be ready when the time came to meet the
`Mystic Confederacy.'—Hell's curses upon their
confederates and mystery—that I was at their disposal
as I was at their mercy—to go as they bid me,
and do as they commanded—I was their servant—
their slave—their ox, their ass, their any thing.—
Death! death! that I should move my tongue to
such admission, and feel my feet bound in obedience
with my tongue.”
“It's mighty hard, `Squire, but it's no use getting
into a passion about it. We're in, and, like the horse
out of it.”
“It's mighty hard, and no use getting in a passion,”
said Hurdis ironically, and with bitterness
repeating the words of his companion. “Well, I
know not, Ben Pickett, what situation would authorise
a man in becoming angry and passionate if
this does not. You seem to take it coolly, however.
You're more of a philosopher, I see, than I can
ever hope to make myself.”
“Well, 'Squire, it's my notion,” said the other,
“that what's not to be helped by grumbling, will
hurt the grumbler. I've found it so, always; and now
that I think of it, 'Squire, there's less reason for you
to grumble and complain than any body I know;
and, as it's just as well to speak the truth first as last,
I may say now once for all, that it was you that bungled,
not me, or we shouldn't have got into this bog;
or we might have got out of it.”
“Indeed! I bungle, and how I pray you, Mr.
Pickett? Wasn't it you that was caught in your
own ambush?”
“Yes—but who sent me? I was doing your business,
'Squire, as well as I could; and if you didn't
like my ability, why did you trust it? Why didn't
you go yourself. I didn't want to kill Richard Hurdis—I
wasn't his brother.”
“And then to mistake your man too—that was
another specimen of your bungling.”
“Look you, 'Squire, the less you say about that
matter, the better for both of us. The bungling is
but a small part of that business that I'm sorry for.
I'm sorry for the whole of it, and if sorrow could
put back the life in Bill Carrington's heart, and be
security for Dick Hurdis's hereafter, they'd both
live for ever for me. But if I was such a bungler
at first, 'Squire, there's one thing I may tell you,
and tell you plainly. I was never afraid to pull
trigger, when every thing depended on it. The cure
for all my bungling was in your own hands. When
the man first talked with us in these same woods,
under them willows, what did I say to you? Didn't
I offer to close with him, if you'd only agree to use
your pistol? And wasn't you afraid?”
“I was not afraid—it was prudence only that
made me put it off,” said Hurdis hastily.
“And what made you put it off when you way-laid
him in Ten Mile Branch? No, 'Squire, as you
confessed yourself, it was because you were afraid
to shoot, though every thing hung on that one fire.
Had you tumbled that fellow, we had'nt seen this;
and if it had been convenient for me to have done it,
as God's my judge, I'd much rather have put the
bullet through a dozen fellows like that, than through
troubles me, 'Squire; and more than once
since he's been covered, I've seen him walk over
my path, leaving a cold chill all along the track behind
him.”
“Pshaw, Ben, at your ghosts again.”
“No, 'Squire, they're at me. But let's talk no
more about it. What can't be undone, may as well
be let alone. We must work out our troubles as
we can; and the worst trouble to our thoughts is,
that we have worked ourselves into them. We
have nobody but ourselves to blame.”
The manner of Pickett had become somewhat
dogged and inflexible, and it warned Hurdis, who
was prompt in observing the changes of temper in
his neighbour, to be more considerate in his remarks,
and more conciliating in his tone of utterance.
“Well, but Ben, what is to be done? What are
we to do about this summons? How shall we get
over it—how avoid it?”
“Avoid it! I don't think to avoid it, 'Squire.”
“What! you intend to go when they call you?”
“Certainly—what can I do? Don't you intend
to go? Did you not promise obedience?”
“Yes, but I never thought of going. My hope
was, that something might turn up between this and
then, that would interpose for my safety. Indeed
how best to get rid of the emissary.”
“That's the smallest matter of all,” said Pickett.
“Now it is,” replied Hurdis; “but it was not
then, for I dreaded lest some one should ask his business.
Besides, he was brought up to me by Richard,
and his keen eyes seem always to look through
me when he speaks. As you say, to get rid of him
is in truth, a small business, to getting rid of his
gang. How can that be done is the question? I
had hope when I came to you—”
The other interrupted him hastily.
“Don't come to me for hope, 'Squire; I should
bungle, perhaps, in what I advise you to do, or in
what I do for you myself. Let us each paddle our
canoes apart. I'm a poor man that can't hope to manage
well the business of a rich one; and as I've
done so badly for you before, it won't be wise in
you to employ me again. Indeed, for that matter, I
won't be employed by you again. It's hard enough
to do evil for another, and much harder, to get no
thanks for it.”
“Pshaw, Ben, you're in your sulks now—think
better of it, my friend. Don't mind a harsh word—a
hasty word—uttered when I was angry, and without
meaning.”
“I don't mind that, 'Squire—I wish it was as
the blood, 'Squire—the blood that is on my hands—
blood that I didn't mean to spill, 'Squire—'tis that
makes me angry and sulky—so that I don't care what
comes up. It's all one to me what happens now.”
“But this fellow, Ben. You say you have resolved
to comply with the summons, and to go
when they call for you?”
“Yes?”
“And what am I to do?”
“The same, I suppose. I'm ready to go now; and
I give you the last counsel, 'Squire, which I think
I ever will give you, and that is to make the best of
a bad situation—do with a good grace, what you
can't help doing, and it will go the better with you.
They can't have any good reason to expose a man of
family to shame, and they will keep your secrets so
long as you obey their laws.”
“But suppose they command me to commit crime
—to rob, to murder?”
“Well then you must ask yourself which you'd
prefer—to obey or to swing. It's an easy question.”
“On all sides—the pit—the fire—the doom!” was
the pitiable and despairing exclamation of Hurdis,
as he clasped his forehead with his hands, and closed
his eyes against the terrors which his imagination
brought before them. Suddenly recurring, he asked,
“But why, Ben, do you say this is the last counsel
suffer a hasty and foolish word, for which I have already
uttered my regrets, to operate in your mind
against me—”
“No, 'Squire Hurdis—I don't mind the words
of contempt that you rich men utter for the poor—
if I did, I should be miserable enough myself, and
make many others more so. That's gone out of my
mind, and, as I tell you, I forget it all when I think
of those worse matters which I can't so well forget.”
“Why then say you will counsel me no more?”
“Because I'm about to leave Marengo forever.”
“Ha! remove! where—when?”
“In three days, 'Squire, I'll be off, bag and baggage,
for the `Nation.' My wife's ripe for it—she's
been at me a long time to be off from a place where
nobody knows any good of me. And I have heard
a good deal about the `Nation.' ”
“And what will you do there for a livelihood.”
“Well, just what I can—try at least, to live a little
more honestly than I did here—or more respectably,
which is not often the same thing.”
“But do you expect when there, to evade this
`confederacy?' ” Hurdis eagerly demanded.
“No—I have no such hope.”
“How then can you hope to live more honestly?”
“More respectably, I may.”
“They will summon you to do their crimes.”
“I will do them.”
“What! shed more blood at a time when you are
troubled for what's already done.”
“Yes—I will obey where I cannot escape;
but I will do no crime of that sort again on my
own account—nothing which I am not forced to
do. But if they say strike, I will do so as readily
as if it was the best action which they commanded.
I will cut the throat of my best friend at their
bidding, for you see, 'Squire, I have been so long
knocked about in the world—now to one side, now
to another, like a clumsy log going down stream—
that I'm now quite indifferent, I may say, to all the
chances of the current; and I'll just go wherever it
may drive me. This `confederacy' can't make me
worse than I have been—than I am—and it increases
my security and strength. It gives me more
certain means and greater power; and if I am to be
forced, I will make what use I can of the power that
forces me.”
“But, Ben, such a resolution will make you a
willing and active member of this clan.”
“Surely!” said the other indifferently.
“All your old interests and friendships, Ben,
would be forsaken, rooted up—”
“Ay, 'Squire, and my old friends just as liable
of the confederacy required me to use them.
You yourself, 'Squire—though we have worked together
for a long time—even you I would not spare,
if they required me to shed your blood; and you
will see from this, that there is no hope for you unless
you comply with the summons, and heartily
give yourself up to the interests of the whole fraternity.”
Hurdis was stricken dumb by this frank avowal
of his associate. He had no more to say, and with
a better understanding of each other than either had
ever possessed before, there was now a wall between
them, over which neither at the present moment
seemed willing to look. In three days more Pickett
with all his family, was on his way towards the
“nation,” where, it may be added in this place, he
had already made arrangements with the emissary
for a more active co-operation with the members of
the “Mystic Confederacy.” His destiny which
forced him into the bosom of this clan, seemed thoroughly
to yield to his desire. The buffeting of the
world, of which he had spoken, had only made him
the more indifferent to the loveliness of virtue—
more reckless of the risk, and less averse to the
natural repulsiveness, of vice.
| CHAPTER XVII. Richard Hurdis, or, The avenger of blood : a tale of Alabama | |