University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

The next morning, before it was yet dawn, Foster
aroused me where I was sleeping beneath my green
wood tree.

“We must be stirring, Williams; I have tidings
from some of our friends in Tuscaloosa, who appoint
to meet me to-morrow noon, at the Sipsy. We
have a snug place in the River Swamp, more secure
and comfortable even than this; and we shall no
doubt meet many of our friends. There, too, you
must keep a bright look out, for you will there see
Eberly, and your watch must begin from the moment
you encounter him.”

I arose with no very comfortable feelings at this
assurance. I was to begin the labors of the spy.
Well! my hand was in for it, and it was no time to
look back. I must on, with what feeling it mattered
little to those around me; and, having gone so far,

perhaps but little to myself. I strove, as well as I
might, to shake off my sombre feelings—certainly
to conceal their expression. Foster did not seem
to heed my taciturnity. If he did, he did not suffer
me to see that he remarked it; but playfully and
even wittily remarking upon the sluggish movements
of our companions, Webber included, to whom
early rising seemed an annoyance, he led the way,
and we were all soon mounted and on our journey.
It was near noon when we reached our place of destination,
and such a place! Imagine for yourself, a
thousand sluices over a low boggy ground running
into one, which, in time, overflowing its channels
sluices all the country around it, and you have some
faint idea of the borders of the Sipsy River. Nothing
could we see but a turbid yellow water, that
ran in among the roots of the trees, spread itself all
around for miles, forming a hundred little currents
some of which were quite as rapid as a mill race.
The road was lost in the inundation; and but that
our men were well acquainted with the region, we
should have been drowned—our horses at least—in
the numerous bays and bogs which lay every where
before us. Even among our party a guide was necessary—and
one who understood the route better
than the rest was singled out to lead the way. For
a time we seemed utterly lost in the accumulating
pits and ponds, crossing currents and quagmires in
which our path was soon involved, and I could easily
conjecture the anxiety of our company from the
general silence which they kept. But our guide
was equal to the task, and we soon found ourselves
upon a high dry island, within a few yards of the
opposite shore, which, when we reached, Foster
throwing himself with an air of satisfaction from
his horse, proclaimed it our present resting place.
Here we were joined by a man whom I had not
seen before, who had been awaiting us, and who
brought letters to Foster. Some of these, from Mobile,
New Orleans, Montgomery and Tuscaloosa, he
was pleased to show me; and their contents contributed
not a little to confound me, as they developed
the large extent of the singular confederacy, of
which I was held a member. Some of the plans
contained in these letters were of no less startling
character. One, which was dwelt on with some
earnestness by two of the writers was a simultaneous
robbery of all the banks.

“A good proposition enough,” was the quiet remark
of Foster, passing his finger over the paragraphs—“had
they in money but one tenth part of
the amount which they have in paper. But to
empty vaults which have no specie, is little to my
taste. I should soon put a stop to specie payments,
without rendering necessary an act of congress

Here now, is something infinitely more profitable,
but far more dangerous. We shall consider this.”

He pointed out to me another suggestion of the
writer which seemed to have been debated upon
before—the atrociousness of which curdled my blood
to read. I could scarcely propose the question.

“But you will hardly act upon this—it is too
—”

I was about to say horrible—it was well I did not.
Foster fortunately finished the sentence for me in a
different manner.

“Too dangerous you would say! It would be to a
blunderer. But we should be off the moment it was
over. Having made use of the torch, we should only
stay long enough to take what was valuable from
the house, and not wait until it had tumbled upon
us. But this matter is not yet ready. We have
business, scarcely less profitable, to be seen to, and
three days more may give us a noble haul. See to
this. Here I am advised by a sure friend at Washington,
that a large amount of Government money
is on its way for the Choctaws—it will not be my
fault if they get it. That is worth some pains-taking—
but—”

He paused and folded up his papers. The tramp
of steeds was heard plashing through the mire and
approaching the island. Webber was next heard in

conversation with the new comers whose voices now
reached us distinctly. Foster addressed me as he
heard them in suppressed tones and with a graver
manner.

“That's Eberly's voice,” he said—“you must
look to him, Williams. From this moment do not
lose him from your sight till you can report on his
conduct decisively. Here is Haller coming towards
us. He has heard of Eberly's approach and
like yourself will be on the watch. Let me say to
you that Haller will report of you as narrowly as
he does of Eberly. He does not know you yet,
and has no such confidence in you as I have. I
know that you will fear nothing that he can report;
and yet, that my judgment may not suffer in the
estimation of our people, I should be better pleased
if you could outwatch your comrade.”

I made out to say—“Trust me—you have no
need of apprehension. I will do my best at least.”

“Enough,” said he—“he comes. Poor fellow,
he looks sick—unhappy!”

This was said in an under tone, as if in soliloquy,
and the next moment, the person spoke of, emerging
from the shade of a bush which stood between himself
and me, came full in my sight. What was my
astonishment and misery to behold in him, the
young man Clifton, introduced to me by Colonel
Grafton, and, as I feared, the accepted lover of his

daughter. I was rooted to the spot with surprise
and horror, and could scarcely recover myself in
time to meet his approach. A desperate resolve
enabled me to do this, and when he drew nigh, I
was introduced to him as “one of us” by Foster.
Clifton, or as I shall continue to call him Eberly,
scarcely gave me a look. His eyes never once met
either Foster's or my own. He was pale and looked
care-worn. With a haggard smile, he listened to
the kind yet hypocritical compliments of Foster,
but uttered nothing in reply. Other persons now
began momently to arrive, and by night our number
was increased to twenty-five or thirty. I underwent
the fraternal hug, with all the old villains, and
some five noviciates like myself; and, in a varied
discussion of such topics as burglary, horse and negro
stealing, forging, mail-robbing and various other similarly
innocent employments, we contrived to pass
over the hours without discord or monotony until the
coming on of night put our proprietors in mind of supper.
I need not dwell upon any of the plans and purposes
of crime, in particular, which underwent discussion
on that occasion, since none of them will
affect very materially my own narrative. It is
enough for me to affirm that among these members
of the Mystic Brotherhood, crime of all sorts and
complexions, seemed reduced to a perfect system,
and the hands which ministered seemed to
move rather like those of automata than of thinking
and resolving men. At supper I sat opposite to
Eberly—my eye was fixed upon him all the while,
and my recognition of him, as the lover of the poor
Julia, fully reconciled me to the task I had undertaken
of convicting him of treason to his associates.
His treason to beauty—to innocence—to hospitality,
and confiding friendship—made my otherwise
odious duty a grateful one; and I felt a malignant
sort of pleasure, as I watched my victim, to think
that his punishment lay in my own hands. And
yet, while I looked upon him, I felt, at moments,
my heart sink and sicken within me. I somehow
began to doubt how far he could be guilty—how far
he could be guilty with these—how far guilty to
her? He ate nothing, and and looked very pale and
wretched. His spirit seemed any where but with
his associates—and though his eye acknowledged
every address, and his tongue replied to every demand,
yet it was evident enough that there was a
lack of mental consciousness—an abstractedness of
mood and thought, which left it doubtful when he
spoke whether he was altogether assured of the
words he uttered or of those he heard. After supper
our chief rogues renewed the discussion of sundry
of their plans, and for a while the curiosity
which I felt at the strangeness of some of their propositions,
and the stories of their several achievements,
half reconciled me to listen to their heinousness.
But there was quite too much of it in the
end—a still-beginning, never-ending repetition of
the same business, only varied by the acting persons,
place and time; and, following the lead of Webber
and one or two others, I went aside to the fire which
Haller had kindled up, and under a tent of bark, I
housed myself for the night. I did not hope for
sleep, for my mind was full of troublesome thoughts,
yet I was surprised by the feather-footed visitant,
and slept soundly for a space of two hours. I was
awakened by some one shaking me by the shoulder,
and, starting to my feet, found my comrade Haller
standing beside me.

“Get up,” he said, “it's time to look after Eberly.
He has gone out into the bushes, having left Webber
whom he slept with. He thought Mat was
asleep, and stole off. We must get on his trail and
see what he's after.”

I obeyed and we went together with great caution
to the rude tent in which Webber slept. He gave us
some directions, and following them we soon found
our man. He had gone to the place where Foster slept
alone—a bushy dell of the woods scooped out sufficiently
to enable one, by crawling through a narrow
mouth to secure an easy, though perhaps confined
couch within. The greater apertures made by torn
branches or fallen leaves were supplied by saplings

hewn from neighbouring places, and twisted in with
the native growth of the spot; and with the aid of
some rushes, a blanket, and a good warm watchcoat,
Foster had a tenement which art could scarcely
have made warmer, though in social respects, it certainly
might have undergone considerable improvement.

We reached a spot within hearing distance of this,
in sufficient time to note the first approaches of
Eberly to its inmate. Foster came forth at his summons,
and as my eye turned upon the course which
they took together, Haller touched my arm. When I
turned, I beheld Webber also standing beside us,
who, taking Haller with him, proceeded cautiously to
an opposite point, where it seems they expected the
two to go, Webber giving me instructions to
follow them cautiously from where I stood; by
which division of our force, he seemed resolute that
one of us should succeed in our espionage. The
several fires of the party were nearly extinguished.
But there was still light enough to enable me to
discern the outlines of their persons as they moved
from me. I crept and crawled upon my mission of
baseness, with all pains-taking circumspectness, but
every moment increased the space between me and
the men I pursued, until I had nearly lost sight of
them altogether, when, on a sudden, they turned
about and came again towards me. It is probable

that they may have been disturbed by the too eager
progress of the two spies on the other side, who
thus drove them back upon me. Whatever may
have been the cause of their return, I had barely
time to shrink back into the shade of a large tree as
they approached it; and the spot being sufficiently
dense and dark prompted them to make it the scene
of their conference. Foster was the first to speak.
Stopping short as he reached a cluster of saplings,
only a few paces removed from the place where I
stood in shadow, he said,

“Here now, Eberly, we are safe. Every thing
is still here, and there is no more danger of interruption.
Unfold yourself now. What secret have
you—why do you bring me forth at an hour when
I assure you a quiet snooze would be more agreeable
to me than the finest plot which you could fancy
for robbing the largest portmanteau in Alabama?”

“Do not jest with me, Foster—I cannot jest; it
is a matter of life and death to me which makes me
disturb you, else I should not do it. My life hangs
upon your hands—more than life; I cannot sleep
myself; forgive me that I have taken you from
yours.”

Never were the tones of a man more piteously
imploring than those of the speaker. I could well
believe him when he said he could not sleep.

“Your life and death!” said Foster; “why, what

mean you man! Don't stop to apologise for breaking
my sleep, when such is the danger. Speak—
speak out, and let us know from what quarter the
storm is coming. Who is the enemy you fear?”

“You!” was the emphatic reply. “You are my
enemy!”

“Me!”

“You, your fellows, and mine—myself! These
are my enemies, Foster. It is from these that my
apprehensions come—it is these that I fear; my life
is in their hands. More than life—much, much
more.”

“Ha! What is all this.”

“You wonder. Hear me, Foster. I will tell you
the truth—nothing but the truth. I must leave the
fraternity. I am not fitted for its membership. I
cannot do the work it requires at my hands. I dare
not—my soul sickens at its duties; and I cannot perform
them. I lack the will—the nerve.”

“You know not what you say, Eberly,” was the
grave reply of Foster. “You surely do not forget
the penalties which follow such an avowal as this.”

“No! would I could forget them! Have I not
said that my life and death are in your hands!”

“Wherefore have you awakened me then?” was
the cold and inauspicious reply. “I could tell you
no more than you already know.”

“Yes—you can save me. I come to you for pity.

I implore you to save me, which you can. A word
from you will do it.”

“Can I—should I speak that word? It would ruin
me—it would ruin us all!”

“No! It would not. You could lose nothing by
letting me go free—nothing; for I can do nothing
for you. I cannot commit crime—I can neither lie
nor rob, nor slay; I cannot obey you; and, sooner or
later, you must execute your judgment upon me
for neglect or perversion of my pledges.”

“This is certainly a very sudden attack of virtue,
Mr. Eberly. You can neither lie, nor steal, nor
slay. You have become too pure for these duties;
but I remember the time, and that too, no very distant
time, when you were guilty of one or more of
these dreadful sins from which your soul now
shrinks.”

“Ay—and I remember it too, Foster. I did not
need that you should remind me; would I could
forget it—hence came my bondage. You discovered
my unhappy secret, and forged my shackles.
It is to you that I come to break them.”

“You deny not that you were guilty of the robbery
of old Harbers then?”

“I deny it not; and yet I know not, Foster, if it
was an offence of which I have so much reason to
be ashamed. Thank God, I took not his money for
myself; the wants of a dying mother, the presence

of a cruel necessity, was my extenuation, if not excuse,
for that hapless act—an act which has been
the heavy millstone around my neck in each
succeeding moment of my life. Bitterly have I
repented—”

“You cannot repent. You shall not repent!” was
the sudden speech of Foster. “You have not the
right to repent—you are sworn to us against it, and
cannot repent without our permission.”

“It is for that permission, Foster, that I come to
implore you now. I know that you are superior to
the cold and cruel people whom you lead You will
—you must feel for my situation. I am of no use
to you. I cannot rob the traveller, nor forge a note,
nor inveigle a negro from his master—still less can I
stab or shoot the unoffending man who opposes
my unlawful attempts upon his property. I am, indeed,
only an incumbrance upon you—”

“You have our secrets.”

“I will keep them—I swear to you, Foster, by
all that is sacred that I will keep them.”

“You cannot, to be honest—to go back to the
paths of virtue. You must reveal our secrets; and
not to do so is a half virtue which looks monstrously
like hypocrisy. It is a compromise with vice to say
the least of it, which puts the blush upon your late
returning innocence. No Eberly, we must keep

our secrets ourselves by keeping bound those who
know them. Say that you are unable to serve us by
any of the acts you mention—you are not less able
to serve us in other respects, equally sinful yet not
so obnoxious to public censure or punishment. As
a strong man it might be my lot to depend on your
friendly sympathy to save me from a halter.”

“I would do it, Foster, believe me.”

“We must make you do it. We must keep our
reins upon you. But of what avail would be a permission
to you which could not annihilate the
proofs which we have against you? Whether we
suffered you to go free, and held you to be no longer
one of us, or not; the offence which we could prove
against you, would still make you liable to the law.
Our mere permission to depart would be nothing—”

“Yes—every thing. It would free me from a
bondage that now crushes me to the earth and defeats
all my meditated action in other respects.
For the wrong I have done to Harbers, I would make
atonement—”

“Repay him the money from the robberies of
others,” replied Foster with a sneer.

“No, Foster,” said the young man patiently,
“not a cent would I bear from your treasury. I
would go forth as unincumbered with your booty as
I hope to be unincumbered with the sin and shame
of the connection.”

“You use tender words in speaking of your comrades
and their occupations, Eberly.”

“Without meaning to offend, Foster. But hear
me out. I should not merely repay Harbers, but I
would confess to him the crime of which I had been
guilty.”

“Ha! and the subsequent sinful connections which
you have formed with us; and our precious doings
together. This is your precious plan, is it?”

“Not so! Though resolved to declare my own
crimes and errors, I am not bound to betray the confidence
of others.”

“This is your resolution now—how long will it
remain so; and what will be our security when the
chance happens, which may happen, when, at one full
swoop, you may take us all like a flock of partridges
and deliver us up as an atonement for your own
youthful sins, to the hands, so called, of Justice.
Eberly, Eberly, you are speaking like a child; do
you think we can hearken to a prayer such as that
you make. Why every white-livered boy of our
band, who happened to fancy a pair of blue eyes and
a dimity petticoat, would be seized with a fit of virtue
towards us in precise degree with his hot lust
after the wench he fancied—”

“Stay, Foster, I see that you are aware of my intimacy
with Miss Grafton.”

“Surely. You have never taken a step that I am

not acquainted with. And now let me ask—did you
feel our bondage so oppressive till you became acquainted
with this girl?”

“I did not—my knowledge of her first impressed
upon me, with a more just sense of their value, the
value of these rewards which follow virtuous practice.”

“Pshaw, man, how is the getting of this girl a
reward of virtue. Can't you get her now, while
you are a trusted member of the Confederacy? To
the point, man, and speak out the truth, have you
not spoken to her, and has she not consented to be
yours?”

“She has.”

“What more! Marry her—we do not hinder
you. We object not to the new bonds which you
propose to put on yourself, though grumbling so
much at ours. Be sure, we shall none of us forbid
the banns. Marry her, and settle down in quiet;
our laws will give you no trouble; your duties shall
be accommodated to the new change in your condition,
and, as a justice of the peace, a juror, member
of the assembly or of congress, you can be as eminently
useful to us as—nay, more useful than—a
striker along the woods, or a passer of counterfeit
notes. These are small matters which any bull-head
amongst us can perform; you have talents which can
better serve us in higher stations.”

The youth shook his head as he replied sadly—

“If I did not love Julia Grafton, or if I loved her
less, it might be easy to be satisfied with what you
say. But I neither can nor will fetter myself or
her in a bondage such as you mention. In truth,
Foster, I can serve you no more—I can serve the
Confederacy no more—I make this declaration to
you, though I die for it. On your mercy I throw
myself—on your kindness often professed, and tried
on more occasions than one. Be my friend, Foster—
on my knees I pray you to save me in this respect—
save me—let me go free—I will leave the country—
I will go into a distant state, where you can be in no
danger from any thing that I can do and say. You
can have no reason to refuse me, since you can have
no interest in keeping me to pledges which yield
you no interest, and only bring me suffering. Feeling
as I do now, and situated as I am, I can do nothing
for you. Command me to strike here or there,
and I cannot obey you. From this day forth I must
withhold my service, though you do not cancel my
bonds.”

Foster seemed touched while the young man
spoke, but this, perhaps, was only a part of his cool
and ready hypocrisy. He interrupted Eberly when
he had said the last sentence.

“Your refusal to serve us would, you know, be
the signal for your death.”

“I know it—and if you send forth the decree, I
must meet my doom, and I trust will meet it like a
man. But I would escape this doom; and to you,
and you only, I refer, to extricate me from it—to
effect my object, and get my release from the secret
council. There is but one man whose refusal I
fear, and with him you would have some difficulty,
I doubt not; but even that I know you could overcome.
Webber hates Grafton, the father of Julia, and
hates me, because I love her honourably. It was he
who brought her to my notice, and prompted me to
the scheme by which I became an intimate in the
family; a scheme projected for a dishonourable and
foul purpose, which has resulted so far, in one of
which I have no reason to be ashamed. I would
spare her the shame, Foster, of having consented to
share the name and affections of one, who may be
outlawed the very moment that he confers upon her
his name.”

I have said enough to exhibit the nature of this
conference, which was continued twice as long. In
its progress, the youth exhibited a degree of remorse
and sorrow on the score of his own offences, and an
honourable and delicate consideration in reference to
Julia Grafton, which turned all my feelings of hostility
into feelings of pity. Nor was this sentiment
confined to my own bosom. I conscientiously believe
that Foster sympathised with his grief, and

inly determined, so far as the power in him lay, to
help him to the desired remedy. The conference
was ended by the latter saying to him, as he led the
way back to his place of rest—

“I must think on this matter, Eberly. I will do
what I can for you, but I can promise nothing. I
deny not that I have influence, but my influence
depends, as you well know, upon such an exercise
of it as will best accord with the views and wishes
of those whom I control. I am sorry for you.”

The youth stood a moment when the other had
gone. Then throwing his arms up to Heaven, as he
turned away, he exclaimed—

“At the worst, I can but perish. But she! she
at least, shall suffer nothing, either from my weakness
or my love. She, at least, shall never be wedded
to my accursed secret. Sooner than that, let
the bullet or the knife do its work. Thank God,
amidst all my infirmities, I have no dastard fear of
death;—and yet—I would live. Sweet glimpses of
joy in life, such as I have never known till now,
make it a thing of value. Oh! that I had sooner
beheld them—I had not then been so profligate of
honour—so ready to yield to the base suggestions of
this wretched clan.”