University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

The violence of the storm was over, but the
ferment in the elements was not yet allayed. The
clouds had broken, and ever and anon, through
their ragged gaps, the eye might trace fields of
blue sky, studded with stars, which were as suddenly
swept out of sight, as gusts came roaring
from the tops of distant hills, discharging brief
but furious showers.

On such occasions, it was not easy to pick a way
along the road, which was washed into gullies and
scattered over with the riven branches of trees,
besides being, in the hollow places, converted into
pools; so that it might have been considered difficult
to proceed, even by the light of day.

It was fortunate, perhaps, for Affidavy, that he
was in no condition to be daunted, either by difficulties
or dangers, of which, indeed, it is most probable
he remained profoundly unconscious, from
the beginning of his ride to the end. He se forth
on his dark journey, trolling at the top of his voice
some snatches of the jolly chorus, in which he had
borne no mean part, and plying his heels about the
ribs of his horse in such a way as to drum out a
kind of barrel-head accompaniment, as agreeable
to himself as it was perhaps advantageous to the
animal;—for this, instead of being Schlachtenschlager's
best horse, as he had said, was a drowsy,
lazy, pacific, and somewhat worthless beast, which
the Squire's man, supposing that any one might serve

the lawyer's turn on such an occasion, had considerately
substituted for the better one which his
master really designed to provide. On this animal,
then, Affidavy departed, bidding defiance to
storm and peril, and singing as he went. Sometimes,
however, he launched into harangues, as if
declaiming before a court and jury, especially
when, as was sometimes the case, the beast he
bestrode took advantage of his abstraction, to
pause before some gully or pool of water, and
even, now and then, to stand stock-still in the middle
of the road, where there was no obstruction
whatever. Nay, he once or twice, relying upon
the indifference of his rider, took the liberty of
turning his head, and jogging backwards; and how
the manœuvre was detected and counteracted by
one in Affidavy's happy condition, we are wholly
unable to say. But counteracted it was, and by
midnight,—that is to say, after a ride of three
hours, the attorney found that his steed had borne
him the full distance of two and a half miles from
his master's house; at which rate of travel, it was
quite evident, he might expect to reach the village,
perhaps three or four miles further, some time before
noon of the following day. At midnight,
however, the horse was brought to a stand by an
unforeseen difficulty. It was in a hollow place or
glen, thickly wooded, that was crossed by the road
at right angles; at the bottom of it flowed a watercourse,
small and shallow on all ordinary occasions,
but which the violent rains, assisted by certain
accidental obstructions, had now swelled into
a broad and formidable pool. The trunks and
branches of trees, swept down by the earlier wash
of the flood, and lodged among rocks and the
standing stems of other trees on the lower side of
the road, had made a sort of dam, through which
the waters could not escape so rapidly as they
collected; and, in consequence, they had swelled
so high, as to be already heard falling over it like
a cataract.

When Affidavy arrived at the brink of this
flood, his steed came to a sudden halt, of which
the rider took no notice for a considerable time,
his mind being wrapped up in the remembrance of
the joyous potations from which nothing on earth,
save the prospect of a good case, could have drawn
him, and his ears still tingling with the uproar of
the Rheinweinlied. This he trolled over with great
fervour, and in the midst of it, plying his heels as
usual, the horse, after one or two snorts by way of
remonstrance, took heart of grace, and crept into
the water.

“Botheration,” cried the attorney, as he felt the
cold element sweeping over his legs, “will it never
have done raining? H—h—hip, Durgan.—Gentlemen
of the jury, I appeal, not to your hearts, for
I disdain taking advantage of,—of your weakness,
—nor to your heads, for—for—who the devil ever
supposed a juryman had one?—Botheration, it
rains cats and dogs all round, and my legs are
growing marvellous cold. That old Schlachtenschlager!
he, he! a great old ass, and his Nierensteiner
nothing but sour old crab-cider.—A gold
watch worth forty pounds,—a purse of guineas—
bills of exchange—long credits.—Dispute the jurisdiction
of the court—Hillo! what's all that
smashing in the court? I insist upon order—Who
says I am out of order? Drunk! I despise the
thing! Hillo, Schlachtenschlager! what's the matter?
Never mind the rain—strike up: let it blow
its worst,—strike up, old boy.

Botheration!”—

In the midst of the attorney's song, and just
when he had reached the middle of the pool, there
happened a catastrophe, which might have frightened
any other man out of his propriety. This
was nothing less than the sudden giving way of the
dam of logs, the disruption of which was followed
by the escape of the whole accumulated body of
waters, and that with a fury that nothing could
resist. In an instant the attorney was swept from
his horse, soused head over ears in the flood, and
would have been drowned had he not been luckily
dashed into the crotch of a low and twisted buttonwood,
and there left astride a horizontal
bough, by the retreating waters. The whole thing
was effected in a trice, indeed with such magical
celerity, that he failed to notice the main point of
the casualty, which was the loss of his horse; and
supposing himself still at ease in the saddle, he
plied his heels with their accustomed vigour
against the regardless trunk, wondering somewhat
at the immobility of his charger, and the rush of
the current at his feet.

“Botheration,” he cried; “hip, Durgan, get up;
dzick! That's a fine fellow! Will it never
be done raining?

Hip, horsey, hip!” And thus he went on, now
spurring the timber flanks of his charger, and now
trolling forth the drunken chorus, in the midst of
the stream, where he would perhaps have remained
until morning, or until sleep had caused him to
relax his hold, had not his extraordinary outcries
reached the ears of a traveller, who rode to his
assistance, the water being already reduced to its
ordinary level, and finding him incapable of helping

himself, pulled him from his seat, and dragged
him to the other side of the stream.

“Botheration, what's the matter?” cried the attorney,
who seemed to recover his senses a little,
upon finding himself on his feet; “where's Durgan?
Sure, o' my life, I did'nt come here on foot!
Odds bodikins! where's Schlachtenschlager?—
Hillo, there! botheration, you sir! what are you
doing with my horse?”

“Your horse!” exclaimed the traveller. “Are
you drunk yet?”

“Drunk! I defy the insinuation,” cried Affidavy,
“and demand protection of the court.—Down, you
rogue, or I'll indict you for horse-thieving. A
pretty prank to play upon an honest man, riding
for life and death! Botheration, Sir Sauce-box,
whoever you are, give me my horse, or I shall
lose the best case was ever entrusted to a lawyer—
a gold watch worth forty pounds—bills of exchange
—letters of credit—and a purse of guineas!”

“Now were you not drunk,” said the traveller,
“and more of a beast than the animal that bore
you, I could tell you of a case much more to your
interest to be engaged in.”

“Hah! a case? what sort of a case? Odds bodikins,
I'm your man!”

“You are drunken Tef Affidavy?”

“Drunken! That's actionable. Tef! Tef Affidavy!
Theophilus Affidavy, Esq.—Esquire, do you hear?”

“Ay, it is all one. Theophilus Affidavy, sober,
might be the man for my money, with twenty guineas
to begin upon; but Theophilus Affidavy, drunk”—

“Twenty guineas!” cried the lawyer: “God
bless all our souls! twenty guineas for a retaining
fee! Why then I'll be Theophilus Affidavy, sober,
or Tef Affidavy, drunk, or any thing else that can
be wished of man or angel. Out with your money,
and state the case.”

“Ay,—when you are sober.”

“Sober! Twenty guineas would fetch me to,
if I had been swimming in Schlachtenschlager's
whiskey-barrel for two weeks on a stretch. Botheration,
I'll take another dip in the slough there,
and come out as clean as a peeled orange. But
are you sure that a'n't my horse?”

“Quite; and if your beast belongs to the Squire,
you may make your mind easy that he is now safe
in his master's stables. I saw a saddled horse on
the road, galloping as if a wild-cat was on the
back of him.”

“Good!” cried the attorney at law; “if I had
drowned him, there would have been the devil to
pay with old Schlachtenschlager. Hold fast, till I
duck the devil out of me.” And without waiting
to say another word, he ran into the brook, where
he began to splash about him with great spirit, the
stranger, all the time, sitting by and observing him
in silence.

There is, in all cases of drunkenness, a certain
degree of voluntary intoxication, as it may be
called, in which the mind yields itself a prisoner,
before it is entirely overcome by the strength of
the enemy. This is evinced by the rapidity with
which many good souls, in jovial company, work
themselves into frenzy; but still more by the facility
with which they shake it off, when there is
any special call for sobriety. In half the instances,
even where the conduct is most extravagant, the
individual retains a consciousness, more or less
perfect, of his absurd acts, is aware that they proceed
from a madness partly simulated, and sensible
of some power in himself of controlling them,
though not easily disposed to the labour of exercising
it. We will not pretend to say that Mr.
Affidavy, while he sat bestraddling the sycamore,
was altogether conscious of his situation; but it is

quite certain, he retained so much power of curing
his folly, even in that extremity, that a less counter
stimulus than the offer of a twenty-guinea fee would
have sufficed to bring him to his senses. He frisked
about in the water for a few minutes, dipped
his head under two or three times, and came out,
not entirely sober indeed, but, as he said himself,
`as fit for business as he ever was.'

“If you doubt, stranger, whoever you are,” he
said, “I'll sing you a song, or—No, hang it, we've
had enough of that,—I'll make you a speech to
court and jury extempore, and right to the point.
But come now, jingle your money, and let's begin:
or, if it's all one to you, we'll jog back to Schlachtenschlager's
and borrow a dry shirt, and so give
counsel like a gentleman.”

To this proposal the traveller demurred, and
requesting the lawyer to follow him, rode up to
the brow of the hill, where he dismounted, and
suffered his horse to range at will through the
bushes, he himself taking a seat on a stone, and
inviting Affidavy to do the same.

“A botheration strange fancy this, of yours,
certainly,” said the lawyer: “are we to sit here,
like two stray ducks, and be soaked for nothing?”

“Look over your head,” said the stranger:
“there is not a cloud left in the heaven. No, not
one,” he muttered as if to himself; “and come
weal or wo, come death or come life, the sun will
shine to-morrow as bright as ever.”

“Tush, you're right; the storm has given us the
go-by,” said the lawyer. “But concerning the
case, and that twenty-guinea fee—What's your
name?”

“Guineas,” said the other, rattling a purse apparently
well filled with his namesakes, upon the
stone.

“Excellent!” said the lawyer; “but that won't

do for a jury. Come, sir, your cognomination,
compellation, and so forth? your proprium vocamen,
style and title,—Tom, Dick, or Harry, as the
case may be? and then for the case! Quisnam
homo est? unde et quo? No man is drunk who
can quote Latin, for it is cursed hard stuff to remember.
In the king's lingo, who are you? and
what's the case in question?”

“Who I am, we will pass,” said the traveller,
“that having nothing to do with the case. As for
the case itself, I am told, it is one of murder.”

“The devil it is!” cried Affidavy. “Why here's
hanging work thickening in the county! But what
are the circumstances? Who's killed? and who
is the killer?”

“The first was a young man, named Henry
Falconer,—the second another young man, called
Hyland Gilbert”—

“Hah! why, that's my case, that I've been labouring
after all night! and I assure you—But
God bless our two souls!” he added suddenly,
springing to his feet as if in alarm, “who are you
sir? An honest man, sir? I hope, an honest man,
sir, and no bloody-minded Hawk, sir! for if you
are, sir, I give you warning, sir, if you make an
attack upon me, sir, that I carry pistols, sir, and,
sir”—

“Peace, fool,” said the other, with a stern voice.
“Sit down, and fear nothing. If you had twenty
pistols, what care I for them?—I,” he added, with
a laugh both jocose and bitter, “that am armed
with twenty—guineas?”

“Right, sir; but if you are a tory, sir—I don't
mean to insult you, sir,—but as to aiding and abetting
a gentleman of the tory party, sir: why, sir, I
am a man of principle, sir, and I must have time
to reflect.”

“Go to the brook and wallow again: you shall

have five minutes to reflect, or rather to sober, for
you are not yet in your senses. Why, fool, do you
think I will hurt you? or hark! is there a tory
bullet in the clink of an English guinea? Come,
sit down, and listen. You have nothing to do with
tories, save to take their money.—There is one
lying in prison in yonder village below, who needs
the help of a lawyer. Yourself then, Affidavy, or
another.”

“Oh, if there be no treason in the matter,” said
the attorney, “why then—that is, if you will
take that cursed tomahawk away, for I dare say
you've got one about you, Mr.—that is to say,
captain—Zounds, Mr. Oran Gilbert! I know you
very well; and I hope you won't murder me, or
do me any mischief, if it were even for old times'
sake; for we were very good friends in old times.”

“Ay,” said the refugee; “and for that reason,
I have offered you twenty guineas, and employment
on a business that may bring you as many—
perhaps five times as many more, which any one
else will be as happy to accept.”

“Botheration, there is no occasion,” said Affidavy,
creeping timorously back. “I see what it
is; I'm not afraid of you, but you have a cursed
bad name. I don't agree with you in principles,
that is, in politics; but it sha'nt be said, I refused
my professional services to an old friend in distress”—

“With twenty guineas in his hand,” said the
tory.

“Ay; and with as many, or five times as many
at the back of them”—

“In case of success.”

“Oh, yes, certainly. I understand the case now:
your brother, captain”—

“We will drop all titles,—brother, captain, and

every one else,” said the tory. “The young man,
Hyland Gilbert, is a prisoner.”

“Ay; and”—

“Was he hurt?”

“A bruise or so.”

“And he shot Henry Falconer?”

“As dead as a herring: I sat on the body myself.”

“And he will be tried for that, as for a murder?”

“Ay, faith, and hanged too, unless'—

“Unless what?”

“Unless we can prove him innocent, or establish
a legal irresponsibility.”

“Or snatch him out of his den, some such bright
midnight as this?”

“Tush,” said the lawyer, waxing in courage,
“I have nothing to do with that. But cheer up.
There's a way of managing these cases, and I
have thought of it already. But concerning that
bill of exchange and letter of credit? They say,
the younker has money enough—a rich estate in
the Islands?”

“Fear not for your reward,” said Oran Gilbert.
“Do what's expected of you, and you shall have
gold enough to content you.”

“Here then is the state of the case,” said Affidavy:
“if the young man be tried in this county,
were it but for killing a farmer's dog, he will die.
The name—saving your presence—the name of
Gilbert will be hanging matter with any jury. But
I'll be short—he bears the king's commission,
does he not? the commission of a lieutenant among
the royal refugees?”

“And what then?” said Oran.

“Why then, he must dispute the jurisdiction of
the civil tribunal, and claim to be considered a
prisoner of war. The attack upon the Folly is
somewhat of a civil offence, to be sure; but he

was taken, as we may say, in battle; and, in battle,
he killed the man for whose murder he will be
certainly arraigned, if proceedings are not quashed
in the beginning. As a commissioned officer
of the crown, however”—

“And what if he be not a commissioned officer,”
said the refugee, with a low voice.

“Why then,” replied Affidavy, “I have to say,
gentlemen of the jury—Pshaw! that is,—hemp
seed and a white shirt—you understand me? But
with the commission—we will produce that, and
then”—

“You shall have it,” said the refugee; but added,—“It
will do no good. A court civil or a court
martial,—how should a Gilbert look for mercy
from either? What turn would the king's commission
serve me, if a prisoner? Look you, Affidavy,
there are better ways of ending the matter. An
hundred guineas are clinking in the bag these
came from: it is but the opening of a jail-door to
earn it.”

“Ay! are you there, Truepenny?—Sir, I'm a
lawyer and a gentleman; and as to aiding and
abetting in any jail-breaking—zounds, sir! for
what do you take me?”

“For a wiser man than you would have your
neighbours believe,—for a man too wise to boggle
long at a choice betwixt a hundred guineas held
in comfort at home, and empty pockets, with
hands and heels tied together, in a cave of the
mountains.”

“God bless our two souls,” said Affidavy, “what
do you mean?”

“To have your help, or take good care no one
else has it,” said Oran, laughing. Then, laying his
hand upon the lawyer's arm, he added, with the
same untimely accompaniment to accents full of
sternness, “Look ye, Affidavy, you have heard

too much for your own comfort, unless you are
ready to hear all. You are a friend, or—a prisoner.”

At these words, the lawyer was filled with dismay,
and indeed struck dumb. The terror that
beset him, when he first conceived with whom he
was confronted on the dark and lonely hill, recurred
with double violence; he thought of nothing
less than being tomahawked and scalped on the
spot, and would have taken to his heels without
further ceremony, had his strength availed him to
shake off the grasp of his companion.

“Fear naught,” said Oran, detaining him on his
seat, and speaking decisively: “We were old
friends once, as you say, Affidavy: I remember,
you robbed Elsie Bell's strawberry-patch, when
you were a boy, and I thumped you for it. So,
fear nothing.—Why, man, am I a snake, or a
beast, that I should hurt such a creature as you?
Know me better.”

“Well, I will,” said the attorney, still trembling.
“But, botheration, sir, this is a strange way of stating
a case to a lawyer! As to opening jail-doors,
Mr. Oran Gilbert, why I won't oppose: if you
were to bribe Bob Lingo, the jailer, why, I say,
I'm mum. But what more can you expect?
Botheration, sir, I'm no turnkey! I'll be mum, sir;
but as to joining you in any such prank, God bless
our two souls, why that would ruin me! And why
should you think of such a thing? 'Tis needless,
sir,—as needless as dangerous. The king's commission
is our pillar of safety: with that in his
hand, the prisoner can demand, ay, and force his
claim to be admitted, to be treated as a prisoner of
war; and then, sir, if the matter comes to a court-martial”—

“When it comes to that,” said Oran, “what is

to save him from being tried and condemned as a
spy?”

“What?” said the lawyer; “why a very simple
thing. We will hire some one to swear he did
not receive the commission until after his flight
from Hawk-Hollow: and as for the change of
name, intentions, and all that, why we shall have
time to coin any lies that may serve our purpose.
As to treason, we escape all arraignment there,
his domicile being clearly within a foreign jurisdiction.”

“In a word,” said Oran Gilbert, “and to end
your scheme at once, he is not a commissioned
officer. Fool that he was,” continued the brother,
bitterly, “he refused, and to the last, the warrant
that would have been his best friend.”

“Whew!” said Affidavy, “this alters the case
with a vengeance. Refused the commission?”

“Ay; and it is now in my own hands.”

“Oho, is it? Why then, all's one. We'll clap it
into his hands,—fill up the blanks, if it needs, produce
it in court, and who is the wiser?”

“You can, at least, try him with it,” said the
refugee; “but I know what it will end in. You
will see him refuse it, even in prison.”

“Why then,” said Affidavy,—“Hum, ha—we
won't be particular. Jail-doors will open sometimes;
and in case of an hundred guineas down
on the nail—(a dangerous business, captain!)—
and something more in prospect—(you understand,
captain?)—Reputation, captain, reputation!
'T may bring me by the heels, captain.—Another
hundred therefore, (say, to be paid at New York;
for I don't care if I turn tory along with you, provided
I am not set to fighting:) an hundred on the
nail, and another at York city, and I don't care if
I close with you. And then, we must have fifty
or so for Bob Lingo; (no managing such an affair

without money.) A deused dull county this, and
business all worn out. So, captain, an hundred on
the nail, and”—

“It is enough,” said the refugee; “you talk
now like a man of sense; and here are the twenty
for earnest. Let us proceed; I have more to tell
you.”

Then rising, and whistling to his horse, which
obeyed the summons, and followed him with great
docility, he led the way with Affidavy along the
road, exchanging counsels with this precious limb
of the law, on the subject that had drawn him so
near to the head quarters of his foes.