 | CHAPTER VIII. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Never was mesmeric fascination more complete. The raftsman
seemed to have full confidence in his powers of compulsion,
for he retained his grasp upon the wrist of the profligate, but a
single moment after they had gone from the company.
“Come! Follow!” said the conductor, when a few moments
more had elapsed, finding the other beginning to falter.
“Where must I go? Who wants me?” demanded the criminal,
with a feeble show of resolution.
“Where must you go—who wants you; oh! man of little
faith—does the soldier ask of the officer such a question—does
the sinner of his judge? of what use to ask, Wilson Hurst, when
the duty must be done—when there is no excuse and no appeal.
Come!”
“Wilson Hurst! Who is it calls me by that name? I will
go no farther.”
The raftsman who had turned to proceed, again paused, and
stooping, fixed his keen eyes upon those of the speaker so closely
that their mutual eyebrows must have met. The night was star-lighted,
and the glances from the eyes of Barnacle Sam flashed
upon the gaze of his subject, with a red energy like that of
Mars. “Come!” he said, even while he looked. “Come, miserable
man, the judgment is given, the day of favour is past, and
lo! the night cometh—the night is here.”
“Oh, now I know you, now I know you—Barnacle Sam!” exclaimed
Hurst, falling upon his knees. “Have mercy upon me
—have mercy upon me!”
“It is a good prayer,” said the other, “a good prayer—the
only prayer for a sinner, but do not address it to me. To the
Judge, man, to the Almighty Judge himself! Pray, pray! I will
give you time. Pour out your heart like water. Let it run upon
the thirsty ground. The contrite heart is blessed though it be
In the misery of the sinner is the mercy of the Judge.”
“And will you spare me? Will you let me go if I pray?”
demanded the prostrate and wretched criminal with eagerness.
“How can I? I, too, am a sinner. I am not the judge. I
am but the officer commanded to do the will of God. He has
spoken this command in mine ears by day and by night. He has
commanded me at all hours. I have sought for thee, Wilson
Hurst, for seven weary years along the Edisto, and the Congaree
and Santee, the Ashley, and other rivers. It has pleased God to
weary me with toil in this search, that I might the better understand
how hard it is for the sinner to serve him as he should be
served! `For l thy God am a jealous God!' He knew how
little I could be trusted, and he forced me upon a longer search
and upon greater toils. I have wearied and I have prayed; I have
toiled and I have travelled; and it is now, at last, that I have seen
the expected sign, in a dream, even in a vision of the night. Oh,
Father Almighty, I rejoice, I bless thee, that thou hast seen fit to
bring my labours to a close—that I have at length found this
favour in thy sight. Weary have been my watches, long have
I prayed. I glad me that I have not watched and prayed vainly,
and that the hour of my deliverance is at hand. Wilson Hurst,
be speedy with thy prayers. It is not commanded that I shall
cut thee off suddenly and without a sign. Humble thyself with
speed, make thyself acceptable before the Redeemer of souls, for
thy hour is at hand.”
“What mean you?” gasped the other
“Judgment! Death!” And, as he spoke, the raftsman looked
steadfastly to the tree overhead, and extended his arm as if to
grasp the branches. The thought which was in his mind was
immediately comprehended by the instinct of the guilty man. He
immediately turned to fly. The glimmering light from the fires
of the encampment could still be seen fitfully flaring through
the forest.
“Whither would you go?” demanded the raftsman, laying his
hand upon the shoulder of the victim. “Do you hope to fly from
the wrath of God, Wilson Hurst? Foolish man, waste not the
moments which are precious. Busy thyself in prayer. Thou
thee, now, on this very expedition, after, as I have told thee, after
a weary toil in search of thee for a space of seven years. Thou
hast had all that time for repentance while I have been tasked
vainly to seek thee even for the same period of time. But late,
as I went out from the city, there met me one near Dorchester,
who bade me set forth in pursuit of the wagon-train for the north,
but I heeded not his words, and that night, in a vision, I was yet
farther commanded. In my weak mind and erring faith, methought
I was to search among these wagons for a traitor to the
good cause of the colony. Little did I think to meet with thee,
Wilson Hurst. But when I heard thy own lips openly denounce
thy sins; when I heard thee boastful of thy cruel deed to her
who was the sweetest child that ever Satan robbed from God's
blessed vineyard—then did I see the purpose for which I was sent
—then did I understand that my search was at an end, and that
the final judgment was gone forth against thee. Prepare thyself,
Wilson Hurst, for thy hour is at hand.”
“I will not. You are mad! I will fight, I will halloo to our
people,” said the criminal, with more energetic accents and a
greater show of determination. The other replied with a coolness
which was equally singular and startling.
“I have sometimes thought that I was mad; but now, that the
Lord hath so unexpectedly delivered thee into my hands, I know
that I am not. Thou may'st fight, and thou may'st halloo, but I
cannot think that these will help thee against the positive commandment
of the Lord. Even the strength of a horse avails not
against him for the safety of those whom he hath condemned.
Prepare thee, then, Wilson Hurst, for thy hour is almost up.”
He laid his hand upon the shoulder of the criminal as he spoke.
The latter, meanwhile, had drawn a large knife from his pocket,
and though Barnacle Sam had distinguished the movement and
suspected the object, he made no effort to defeat it.
“Thou art armed,” said he, releasing, as he spoke, his hold
upon the shoulder of Hurst. “Now, shalt thou see how certainly
the Lord hath delivered thee into my hands, for I will not strive
against thee until thou hast striven. Use thy weapon upon me.
Lo! I stand unmoved before thee! Strike boldly and see what
and I am sent this hour to execute God's vengeance against
thee.”
The wretch took the speaker at his word, struck with tolerable
boldness and force, twice, thrice upon the breast of the raftsman,
who stood utterly unmoved, and suffering no wound, no hurt of
any sort. The baffled criminal dropped his weapon, and screamed
in feeble and husky accents for help. In his tremour and timidity,
he had, after drawing the knife from his pocket, utterly
forgotten to unclasp the blade. He had struck with the blunted
handle of the weapon, and the result which was due to so simple
and natural a cause, appeared to his cowardly soul and excited
imagination as miraculous. It was not less so to the mind of Barnacle
Sam.
“Did I not tell thee! Look here, Wilson Hurst, look on this,
and see how slight a thing in the hand of Providence may yield
defence against the deadly weapon. This is the handkerchief by
which poor Margaret Cole perished. It has been in my bosom
from the hour I took her body from the tree. It has guarded my
life against thy steel, though I kept it not for this. God has commanded
me to use it in carrying out his judgment upon thee.”
He slipt it over the neck of the criminal as he spoke these
words. The other, feebly struggling, sunk upon his knees. His
nerves had utterly failed him. The coward heart, still more enfeebled
by the coward conscience, served completely to paralyze the
common instinct of self-defence. He had no strength, no manhood.
His muscles had no tension, and even the voice of supplication
died away, in sounds of a faint and husky terror in his
throat—a half-stifled moan, a gurgling breath—and—
| CHAPTER VIII. The wigwam and the cabin | |