University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

My thoughts, in my berth that night, were oppressive
enough. I had involved myself in the
meshes of a formidable conspiracy, and was now liable
to all its dangers. It mattered not to the public
how pure were my real purposes, so long as the
knowledge of them was confined only to myself.
The consciousness of virtue may be a sufficient
strengthener of one's resolve, but I doubt whether
it most usually produces a perfect feeling of mental
quiet. I know all was turmoil in my brain that
night. I tossed and tumbled, and could not sleep.
Thought was busy, as indeed she had need be. I
had now full occasion for the exercise of all my
wits. To entrap the black and bloated spiders in
their own web was now my task—to escape from it
myself, my difficulty. But I had sworn to avenge

William Carrington; and now, with a less selfish feeling,
I registered another oath in heaven.

In my next conversation with the parson, who
gave me, as his name, Clement Foster, though I
doubt not—indeed I afterwards discovered—that he
had twenty other names;—I endeavoured, with all
my art, to find out if he knew any thing of Webber,
and his associates. To do this, without provoking
suspicion, was a task requiring the utmost caution.
To a certain intent I succeeded. I found that Webber
was one of his men, but I also discovered that
he let me know nothing in particular—nothing, the
development of which might materially affect his
future plans, or lead to the discovery of his past projects.
I was evidently regarded as one, who, however
well estimated, was yet to undergo those trials
which always precede the confidence of the wicked.
I was yet required to commit myself, before I could
be recognised in a fellowship of risk and profits with
them. Foster gave me to know, that there was a
test to which I would be subjected—a test depending
on circumstances—not arbitrary—and my full and
entire admission to the fraternity, would depend on
the manner in which I executed my task.

“You will have to take a mail bag, or shoot an
obstinate fellow, who has more money than brains,
through the head. Our tasks are all adapted to the

particular characters of our men. Gentlemen bred,
and of good education and fine feelings, will be required
to do some bold action—our common rogues
and underlings, are made to run a negro from his
master, or pick a pocket at a muster, or pass forged
notes or some small matter of that sort. You, however,
will be subjected to no such mean performances.
I will see to that.”

Here was consolation with a vengeance. I felt
my cheek burn, and my heart bound within me;
but I was on the plank, and the stern necessity
schooled me so, that I was able to conceal all my
emotion. But I soon found that there were other
tests for me; and that my friendly parson was not
yet so satisfied that my virtue was of the desirable
complexion. My brother dandy sought me out one
day before we reached Columbus.

“I see,” said he, confidentially, “that parson talking
with you very frequently, and as you seem to
listen to him very respectfully, I think it only an
act of friendship to put you on your guard against
him. Between us, he's a great rascal, I'm more
than certain. I know him to be a hypocrite, and
while I was last in Orleans, there was a man advertised
for passing forged notes, and the description
given of the rogue, answers to a letter, the appearance
of this fellow.”

I thanked him for his kindness, but told him that

I really thought the parson a very good man; and
could not believe that he would be guilty of such an
act as that ascribed to him.

“You're mistaken,” said he; “you're only too
confiding—and I'll convince you, if you'll only
back me in what I do. Stand by me, and I'll charge
him with it before the captain, and, if so, we'll
have the reward. I'll lay my life his pocket is full
of forged bills at this very moment.”

I answered him with some coolness, and more indifference.

“I'm no informer, sir, and do not agree with you
in your ill opinion of the poor man. At least, I have
seen nothing in his conduct, and witnessed nothing
in his deportment to warrant me in forming any
such suspicions. He may have forged notes or not,
for me—I'll not trouble him.”

The fellow went off no wise discomfited, and I
heard nothing more of his accusation. That night
I related the circumstance to Foster, who smiled
without surprise, and then said to me in reply—

“You see how well our agents work for us. Haller
(that was the dandy's name,) is one of our men.
He knew from me of what we had spoken, and proposed
to try you. It is no small pleasure to find you
so faithful to your engagements.”

In this way, and by the practice of the most unrelaxing
cunning, I fully persuaded Foster of my integrity—if

I may use that word in such relation.
Hour after hour gave me new revelations touching
the grand fraternity—the “Mystic Brotherhood”—
into the bosom of which I was now to be received;
and of the doings and the capacities of which Foster
spoke at large and with all the zest of the truest paternity.
After repeated conferences had seemed to
assure him of my fidelity, he proceeded to reveal a
matter which, in the end, proved of more importance
to my pursuit than all the rest of his revelations.

“We have quarterly and occasional meetings of
our choice spirits, who are few in number, and one
of these meetings is at hand. We meet in the neighbourhood
of the Sipsy Swamp, on the road from Columbus
to Tuscaloosa, where we have a famous
hiding place, which has heard—and kept too—many
a pretty secret. We have a conference to which
twenty or more will be admitted, who will report
their proceedings in Western Alabama. There will
be several new members like yourself, who are yet
in their noviciate; but none, I am persuaded, who
will go through their trial half so well as yourself.”

“What! the stopping the mail, or shooting the
traveller!”

“Yes—'tis that I mean. You will do your duty,
I doubt not. There is another business which we
have on hand, which is of some importance to our
interests:—it is hinted that one of our leading confederates—a

fine young fellow who committed an
error, and joined us in consequence, a year ago, is
about to play the traitor; or, at least, fly the track.”

“Ah, indeed! And how do you punish such an
offence.”

How! But by death!—our very existence as a society,
and safety, as men, depend upon the severity
which we visit upon the head of the traitor. He
must die—that is, if the offence be proved against
him.”

“What! you give him a trial then?”

“Yes;—but not by jury—no such folly for us.
We put on the track of the offender, some two or
three of our most trusty confederates, who take note
of all his actions, and are empowered with authority
to put the law in force without farther reference to
us. I will try and get you upon this commission,
as your first trial before we invest you with our orders.
Haller will most probably be your associate in
this business. He brings the report of the suspected
treason, and it is our custom to employ in a business
those persons who have the clue already in their
hands. Haller has some prejudice against Eberly,—
there have been words between them, and Eberly,
who is a fellow of high spirit, got the better of him,
and treats him with some contempt.”

“Will there not be some danger of Haller's abusing
the trust you give him then, and making its

powers subservient to his feelings of personal hostility.”

“Possibly—but Haller knows our penalty for that
offence, and will scarcely venture to incur it. Besides,
I fear there is some ground for his charges—
I have heard some matters about Eberly myself
which were suspicious.”

“Eberly!” said I, “where did I hear that name
before? I have surely heard it somewhere.”

“Not unlikely—I know several Eberlys in Georgia
and Alabama—it's not a very uncommon name,
though still not a common one.”

The consciousness of the next instant, made my
cheek burn. I remembered hearing the name of
Eberly uttered by one of the banditti, while I lay
bound in the hovel of Matthew Webber; and then it
appeared to me in language which was disparaging.
Things were beginning to fit themselves strangely
together before my eyes, and when the parson left
me to retire to his birth, I was soon lost in a wilderness
of musing. We soon reached and landed at
Columbus—a wild looking and scattered settlement,
at that time, of some thirty families, within a mile
of the Tombeckbe. We proceeded boldly to the
tavern—our parson leading the way; and never was
prayer more earnest and seemingly unaffected than
that which he put up at the supper table that night.
He paid amply for his bacon and greens, by his eloqeunce.

He tendered no other form of pay, nor indeed,
did any seem to be desired. The next morning,
it was arranged between us that we should all meet
at a spot a little above the ford at Coal Fire Creek—a
distance of some thirty miles from Columbus, and
on the direct route to Tuscaloosa. But here a difficulty
lay in my way which had been a source of annoyance
to me for the three days past. I had no
horse, and had declared to Foster my almost absolute
want of money. To proceed on my mission, it
was necessary to procure one, and if possible, a good
one; and how to do this while Foster stayed, was a
disquieting consideration. But he was too intent
upon securing his new associate, and not less intent
upon his old business, to suffer this to remain a difficulty
long.

“You must buy a horse in Columbus, Williams,
(that was the name I had set out with from Mobile)
you cannot get on without one. As you have no
money, I must help you, and you can repay me after
you have struck your first successful blow. Here
are a couple of hundred dollars—bills of the Bank of
Mobile—counterfeit, it is true, but good here as the
Bank itself. There's an old fellow here—old General
Cocke that has several nags—you can possibly
get one from him that will do you good service, and
not cost you so much, neither. Go to him at once
and get your creature—you'll find me to-morrow

noon at the creek just as I tell you. Set up a psalm
tune, if you can, even as you reach the creek, and
you'll hear some psalmody in return that will do
your heart good.”

He left me, followed by Haller, and I took a short
mode for getting rid of the counterfeit bills he gave
me. I destroyed them in my fire that night, and
taking the necessary sum from my own treasury, I
proceeded to procure my horse, which I found no
difficulty in doing, and at a moderate price; though
General Cocke had none to sell. I bought from another
person whom I did not know.

Being so far ready, I took a careful examination
of my pistols, procured me an extra knife of large
size in Columbus, and commending myself to Providence
with a prayer mentally uttered, as earnest
as any which I ever made either before or since, I
set off for the place of meeting which I reached
about sunset. Though nothing of a Psalm-singer, I
yet endeavoured to avail myself of the suggestion of
Foster, and accordingly set up a monotonous stave,
after the whining fashion of the Methodists of that
region—and was answered with a full burst of the
same sort of melody, of unsurpassable volume, proving
the lungs of the faithful whom I sought, to be
of the most undiseased complexion. I was immediately
joined by Foster and three other persons, among
whom, I felt a spontaneous movement of pleasure in

my bosom, as I recognised the features of Matthew
Webber. But it was the pleasure of the hunter,
who, having his rifle lifted, discovers the wolf at the
entrance of the den. It relieved me from many apprehensions
to find that Webber, though looking at
me with some attention, did so without seeming to
recognise me. This was an earnest of success in my
pursuit, which cheered me not a little in my onward
progress.

We entered their hiding place together, where, in
a leafy cover that might have been used by innumerable
tribes of bears and foxes before, we found our
supper and a tolerable lodgment for the night.
There we slept though not till some hours had been
spent in conversation touching a thousand plans of
villany, which astounded me to hear, but to which I
was compelled not only to give heed, but satisfaction.
But little of their dialogue interested me in
my pursuit;—to some parts of it, however, I lent an
ear of excited attention. Webber spoke of Eberly;
and though I could not understand much of the matter
he referred to, yet there was an instinct in my mind
that made me nervous while the discussion continued,
and melancholy long after it was over. To
me was the task to be assigned of pursuing this
young man, of spying into his conduct, and reporting
and punishing his return to the paths of virtue.
Not to do this work faithfully to those who sent me

was to incur his risk; and this was a position into
which, with my eyes open, I had gone of my own
head. It was no small addition to my annoyance,
that, in prosecuting the search into Eberly's conduct,
I was ministering to the mean malice of Haller, and
the open hate of Matthew Webber. But there was
no room for hesitation now. I was to go forward or
fall. My hope, as well as purpose, was for the best;
my resolution to do nothing wrong. My task was
to steer wide of injury to others, and of risk to myself.
No easy task with so many villains around
me. A sentence or two of the dialogue which so
interested me, may be well enough repeated here.
It will be supposed that what was said, must have
had the effect of lifting the destined youth in my
consideration—it certainly placed him in a more
favourable light than could well be claimed for one
found in such a connection.

“He is become too melancholy for any business
at all,” said Webber, “and least of all for such a
business as ours. Set him to watch for a traveller,
and he plays with the leaves, twists the vines round
his finger, writes in the sand, and sighs all the while
as if his heart were breaking.”

“Why, he has suffered himself really to fall in love
with the girl!” exclaimed Foster. “What an ass!”

“So he is—and that is perhaps his chief offence,

since a man who is an ass can never be a good knave
—certainly never a successful one,” was the reply
of Webber.

“True enough, Matthew,” said Foster, “but this
is the poor fellow's misfortune. In this condition
he can do nothing for himself any more than for us.
Will he marry the girl?”

“If he can.”

“And can he not?”

“Yes—I think he may—he might if he could keep
his secret. But it is my fear that he cannot keep his
secret. His heart has got the better of his head—
his conscience of his necessities; and these gloomy
fits which he has now so constantly, not only makes
him neglectful of our interests and his duties, but
will, I am dubious, precipitate him into some folly
which will be the undoing of all of us. You know
the laws, Clement Foster; don't you think he could
get clear of justice, by telling all he knows about us.”

“Pshaw! what does he know, and who would believe
him, unless he gave us up to justice—unless he
brought the hounds to our cover; and even that
would do little unless he could point out and prove
particular acts. What does he know of me—or you;
—we could prove him a liar by a cloud of witnesses
whom he never saw, who would go into court, and
swear every thing.”

“True enough; but that we should get clear does
not do away with his offence, should he endeavor
to involve us.”

“By no means—but wherefore should he seek to
do so. What could be his object. His own exposure
follows, or indeed, precedes ours; and for a man
to prove himself a knave, merely to show that his
neighbour is just as bad, is thrice sodden folly.”

“Well—such is always your conscientious fool.”

“But Eberly is a fool of love, Mat, and not of
conscience.”

“And fools of love, Foster, are very apt to be
fools of conscience.”

“By no means—they are the greatest knaves in
the wide world, and worse hypocrites than a pork-eating
parson. They lie or do any thing to get the
woman; for passion was never yet a moralist.”

“Well—I don't know, but Eberly has done nothing
for some time past. He has let several matters
slip through his fingers. There was an affair
only two weeks ago, that nearly swamped us all
from his not coming according to promise.”

“What affair? Something I have not heard of.”

“Yes—there were two larks that were hitched at
my house, or rather that we tried to hitch; one of
them got out of the noose, and thumped Breton over
his mazzard so that the bridge of his nose is broken

down for ever. He got off as far as the `Day
Blind,' and there was tumbled by a stranger—a fellow
that we sent after, and made sure of. I told you
something already of the matter.”

Here was something to confound me. Webber
evidently alluded to the affair of William and myself;
yet he spoke of my friend being killed by a
stranger. I was confused and bewildered by the
new position of events, but was quite too awkwardly
placed to venture any questions on so dangerous
a topic. They proceeded in their dialogue:

“All this comes of his passion for the girl; when
they are once married, you'll see that he'll recover.”

“If I thought so, by God, it would please me the
best of all things. It would do my heart good to
sing it in the ears of her insolent father, that his
daughter was the wife of a public robber—a thief of
the highway.”

“So, so, Mat!—don't, I pray you, disparage our
profession. Tenderly, tenderly—no nicknaming—
and have done with your malice. Malice is a base,
bad quality, and I heartily despise your fellows who
treasure up inveterate prejudices. They are always a
yellow souled, snakish set, that poison themselves
with the secretions of their own venom. Now, for
my part, I have no hates, no prejudices—if I have

any thing to thank Heaven for, it is possessions of a
better sort than this. My chickens lay better eggs,
and hatch no vipers.”

A pretty sentiment enough for a rogue and hypocrite.
But of what strange contradictions are we
compounded. The dialogue was soon brought to a
close.

“It is understood, then,” said Foster, that “Haller
and Williams (meaning me,) are to watch his
motions, and see that he keeps in traces. Are these
two enough, or shall we put a third with them?”

“Quite enough to follow and to punish, though it
is well that we should all note his movements, and
watch him when we can. Does Mr. Williams know
the extent of his power?” demanded Webber turning
to me.

“Ay,” was the reply of Foster—“he knows that
he has power to adjudge, and execute even to death;
but I would beg him to recollect that he must award
with great caution against a confederate. An unjust
punishment incurs similar judgment; and we are
prompt to avenge an injury done to one of our comrades.
I would not have him too precipitate with
Eberly—he is a fellow of good qualities—he is bold
as a lion—generous to the last sixpence—”

“And a little too conscientious, you should add,”
was the interruption of Webber—“a little too conscientious.

We were a few thousand dollars the
richer, but for that.”

“Ah, you mistake, Matthew—he was busy making
love and had holiday. Let him but become a
husband, and you'll see then how constant he will
be—in his absence from home.” Here the conversation
ended for the night.