Guy Rivers a tale of Georgia |
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| 9. | CHAPTER IX. |
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 | CHAPTER IX. Guy Rivers |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
Skill'd in all mischief, ripe for every wrong.”
It was in the wildest and least trodden recesses
of the rock and forest, that the band of outlaws, of
which Rivers was the great head and leader, had
fixed their place of abode and assemblage. A
natural cavity, formed by the juxtaposition of
two huge rocks, overhung by a third, with some
few artificial additions, formed for them a cavern,
in which—so admirably was it overgrown by the
surrounding forest, and so finely situated among
hills and abrupt ridges yielding few inducements
for travel—they found the most perfect security.
It is true such a shelter could not long have
availed them as such, were the adjacent country in
the possession of a civilized people; but the near
neighbourhood of the Cherokees, by keeping back
civilization, was perhaps, quite as much as the position
they had chosen, its protection from the
scrutiny of many, who had already, prompted by
their excesses, endeavoured, but partially, on
more than one occasion, to find them out. The
place was distant from the village of Chestatee
about ten miles, or perhaps more. No highway—no
its neighbourhood, and it had been the policy of the
outlaws to avoid the use of any vehicle, the traces
of which might be followed. There was, beside,
but little necessity for their employment. The
place of counsel and deliberation was not necessarily
their place of abode, and the several members of
the band found it more profitable by far to reside,
or keep stations, in the adjacent hamlets and stands
(for by this latter name in those regions, the nightly
stopping-places of wayfarers are commonly designated)—where,
in most cases, they put on the
appearance, and in many respects bore the reputation,
of staid and sober working men. This
arrangement was perhaps the very best for the predatory
life they led, as it afforded opportunities
for information which otherwise must have been
lost to them. In this way they heard of this or that
traveller—his destination—the objects he had in
view, and the wealth he carried about with him.
In one of these situations the knowledge of old Snell's
journey, and the amount of wealth in his possession,
had been acquired, and in the person of the worthy
stable-boy who brought corn to the old fellow's
horses the night before, and whom he rewarded
with a thrip (the smallest silver coin known in the
southern currency—the five cent issue excepted)
we might, without spectacles, recognise the active
fugleman of the outlaws, who sawed half through
his axle, cleaned his wheels of all their grease, and
then attempted to rob him the very night after.
Nor, though thus situated, was it a matter of difficulty
to call them together upon an emergency.
One or more of the most trustworthy among them
had only to make a tour over the road, and through
the hamlets in which they were scattered within
the circuit of ten or twenty miles, and as they kept
they were soon apprized, and off at the first
signal. A whisper in the ear of the hostler who
brought out your horse, or the drover who put
up the cattle, was enough; and the absence of a
colt from pasture, or the missing of a stray young
heifer from the flock, furnished a sufficient reason
to the proprietor for the occasional absence of Tom,
Dick, or Harry: who, in the meanwhile, was,
most probably crying `stand' to a true man, or cutting
a trunk from a sulky, or, in mere wantonness,
shooting down the traveller who had perhaps given
him a long chase, yet yielded nothing by way of
compensation for the labour.
Dillon, or, to speak more properly and to the
card, Lieutenant Dillon, arrived at the place of assemblage
just as the day was breaking. He was
a leader of considerable influence among the outlaws,
and, next to Rivers, was most popular. Indeed,
in certain respects, he was far more popular;
for, though perhaps not so adroit in his profession,
nor so well fitted for its command, he was possessed
of many of those qualities which are apt
to be taking with “the fierce democratie!” He was
a prince of hail fellows—was thoroughly versed
in low jest and scurvy anecdote—could play at
push-pins, and drink at every point in the game;
and, strange to say, though always drinking, was
never drunk. Nor, though thus accomplished, and
thus prone to these accomplishments, did he ever
neglect or forget those duties which he assumed to
perform, or which were assigned him. No indulgence
led him away from his post—and, on the reverse,
no post compelled or constrained him into
gravity. He was a careless, reckless blade, indifferent
alike, it would seem, to sun or storm, rain or
shine—and making of life a circle, that would not
He arrived at the cave, as we have said, just as
the day was breaking. A shrill whistle along the
ridges of wood and rock, as he passed them, denoted
the various stations of the sentinels, as studiously
strewn along the paths by which their place of
refuge might be assailed, as if they were already beleaguered
by a superior and assailing army. Without
pausing to listen to the various speeches and
inquiries which assailed his ears upon his arrival,
he advanced to the cavern, and was told that the
captain had been for some time anxiously awaiting
his arrival—that he had morosely kept the inner
recess of the cave, and since his return, which had
not been until late in the night, had been seen but
two or three times, and then but for a moment,
when he had come forth to make inquiries for himself.
Leaving his men differently disposed, Dillon
at once penetrated into the small apartment in
which his leader was lodged, assured of the propriety
of the intrusion—which had otherwise subjected
him, most probably, to some severe reprimand—from
what had just been told him. The recess,
which was separated from the outer hall
by a curtain of thick coarse stuff, falling to the
floor from a beam, the apertures for the reception
of which had been chiselled in the rock, was dimly
illuminated by a single lamp, hanging from a chain,
which was in turn fastened to a pole that stretched
directly across the apartment. A small table in
the centre of the room, covered with a piece of
cotton cloth, a few chairs, a broken mirror, and on
a shelf that stood trimly in the corner, a few glasses
and decanters, completed the furniture of the apartment.
On the table at which the outlaw sat, lay
his pistols—a huge and seemingly unwieldy, but
or two other weapons of similar description, contemplated
only for hand-to-hand purposes, lay along
with them; and the better to complete the picture,
now already something outré, a decanter of
brandy and tumblers were contiguous. Rivers
did not observe the slide of the curtain to the
apartment, nor the entrance of Dillon. He was
deeply absorbed in contemplation; his head rested
heavily upon his two palms, while his eyes were
deeply fixed upon the now opened miniature which
he had torn from the neck of Lucy Munro, and
which rested before him. He sighed not—he
spoke not, but ever and anon, as if perfectly unconscious
all the while of what he did, he drank
from the tumbler of the compounded draught that
stood before him, hurriedly and desperately, as if
to keep the strong emotion from choking him.
There was in his look a bitter agony of expression,
indicating a vexed spirit, now more strongly than
ever at work in a way which had, indeed, been one
of the primest sources of his miserable life. It
was a spirit ill at rest with itself—vexed at its own
feebleness of execution—its incapacitude to attain
and acquire the realization of its own wild and
vague conceptions. His was the ambition of one
who discovers at every step that nothing can be
known, yet will not give up the unprofitable pursuit,
because, even while making the discovery, he
still hopes vainly that he may yet, in his own person,
give the maxim the lie. For ever soaring to
the sun, he was for ever realizing the fine Grecian
fable of Icarus, and the sea of disappointment into
which he perpetually fell, with its tumultuous tides
and ever chafing billows, bearing him on from
whirlpool to whirlpool, for ever battling and for ever
lost. He was unconscious, as we have said, of
words of bitterness, in soliloquy, fell at brief periods
from his lips.—
“It is after all the best—” he mused.—“Despair
is the true parent of philosophy, since it begets indifference—yet
do I not despair. Why should I
hope? What prospect is there now, that these
eyes, that lip, these many graces, and the imperial
pride of that expression, which looks out like a
high soul from the heaven that men talk and dream
of—what delusion is there now to bid me hope they
ever can be more to me than they are now. I care
not for the world's ways—nor feel I now the pang
of its scorn and its outlawry; yet I would it were
not so, that I might, upon a field as fair as that of
the most successful, assert my claim, and woo and
win her—not with those childish notes of commonplace—that
sickly cant of sentimental stuff which
I despise, and which I know she despises no less
than I. Yet, when this field was mine, as I now
desire it, what more did it avail me. Where was
the strong sense—the lofty reason that should then
have conquered with an unobstructed force, sweeping
all before it, as the flame that rushes through
the long grass of the prairies. Gone—prostrate—
dumb. The fierce passion was upward, and my
heart was then more an outlaw than I myself am
now. Yet there is one hope—one chance—one
path, if not to her affections, at least to her. It
shall be done, and then, most beautiful enchantress
—witch, wizard, stern, and to me heartless, as
thou hast ever been—thou shalt not always triumph.—I
would that I could sleep on this—I would
that I could sleep. There is but one time of happiness—but
one time when the thorn has no sting—
when the scorn bites not—when the sneer chafes
not—when the pride and the spirit shrink not—
a storm and a conflagration among the senses—
and that is—forgetfulness. I would that I could
sleep—” and as he spoke, his head sunk upon the
table with a heavy sound, as if unconsciousness
had really come with the articulated wish. He
started quickly, however, as now for the first time
the presence of Dillon became obvious, and hurriedly
thrusting the portrait into his vest, he turned
quickly to the intruder, and sternly demanded the
occasion of his interruption. The lieutenant was
prepared, and at once replied to the interrogatory
with the easy, blunt air of one who not only felt
that he might be confided in, but who was then in
the strict performance of his duties.
“I came at your own call, captain. I have just
returned from the river, and skirting down in
that quarter, and was kept something later than I
looked for; hearing, on my arrival, that you had
been inquiring for me, I did not hesitate to present
myself at once, not knowing but the business might
be pressing.”
“It is pressing,” responded the outlaw, seemingly
well satisfied with the tacit apology. “It is pressing,
Dillon, and you will have little time for rest
before starting again. I myself have been riding
all night, and shall be off in an hour again. But
what have you to report? What's in the wind now?”
“I hear but little, sir. There is some talk about
a detachment of the Georgia Guard, something
like a hundred men, to be sent out expressly for
our benefit; but I look upon this as a mistake.
Their eye is rather upon the miners, and the Indian
gold lands and those who dig it, and not upon those
who merely take it after it is gathered. I have
heard, too, of something like a brush betwixt Fullam's
troop and the miners at Tracy's diggings,
worst of it.”
“On that point I am already advised. That is
well for us, since it will turn the eye of the authorities
in a quarter in which we have little to do.
I had some hand in that scrape myself, and set the
dogs on with this object, and it is partly on this
matter that I would confer with you, since there
are some few of our men in the village who had
large hands in it, who must not be hazarded, and
must yet stay there.”
“If the brush was serious, captain, that will be
a matter of some difficulty; for of late, there has
been so much of our business done, that government,
I believe, has some thought of taking it up,
and in order to do so without competition, will
think of putting us down. Uncle Sam and the
states, too, are quarrelling in the business, and, as I
hear, there is like to be warm work between them.
The Georgians are quite hot on the subject, and
go where I will, they talk of nothing else than hanging
the President, the Indians, and all the judges.
They are brushing up their rifles, and they speak
out plain.”
“The more sport for us—but this is all idle. It
will all end in talk, and, whether it does or not,
we, at least, have nothing to do with it. But,
there is drink—fill—and let us look to business
before either of us sleep.”
The lieutenant did as suggested by Rivers, who,
rising from his seat, continued for some time to pace
the apartment evidently in deep meditation. He
suddenly paused, at length, and resuming his seat,
inquired of Dillon as to the manner in which he
had been employed through the last few days. A
narration not necessary to repeat followed from
the officer, in which the numerous petty details of
Plots and counterplots were rife in his story, and
more than once the outlaw interrupted his officer
in the hope of abridging the petty particulars of
some of their attenuated proportions—an aim not
always successful, since among the numerous virtues
of Lieutenant Dillon, that of precision and
niceness in his statement of particulars must not
be omitted. To this narration, however, though
called for by himself, the superior yielded but little
attention, until he proceeded to describe the adventure
of the night, resulting so unsuccessfully,
with the emigrating farmer. When he described
the persons of the two strangers, so unexpectedly
lending their aid in defence of the traveller, a new
interest was awakened in the features and manner
of his auditor, who here suddenly and with some
energy of expression interrupted him, to make
inquiries into particulars with regard to their
dress and appearance, which not a little surprised
Dillon, who had frequently experienced the aversion
of his superior to all seemingly unnecessary
minutiæ. Having been satisfied on these points,
the outlaw rose, and pacing the apartment with
slow steps, seemed to meditate some design which
the narrative had suggested. Suddenly pausing,
at length, as if all the necessary lights had shone
in upon his deliberations at once, he turned to
Dillon, who stood in silent waiting, and thus proceeded
to detail the duties at present provided for
him.
“I have it,” said he, half-musingly, to his lieutenant.
“I have it, Dillon—it must be so. How
far, say you, is it from the place where the man—
what's his name—encamped last night?”
“Nine or ten miles, perhaps, or more.”
“And you know his route for to-day?”
“There is now but one which he can take, pursuing
the route which he does.”
“And upon that he will not go more than fifteen
or twenty miles in the day. But not so with him
—not so with him. He will scarcely be content
to move at that pace, and there will be no hope in
that way to overtake him.”
Rivers spoke in soliloquy, and Dillon, though
accustomed to many of the mental irregularities
of his superior, exhibited something like surprise
as he looked upon the lowering brows and unwonted
indecision of the outlaw.
“Of whom does the captain speak?” was his
inquiry.
“Of whom?—of him—of him!” was the rather
abrupt response of the superior, who seemed to
regard the ignorance of his lieutenant as to the
object in view with almost as much wonder as
that worthy entertained at the moment for the
hallucinations of his captain.
“Of whom should I speak—of whom should I
think but the one—the thing accursed, fatal and
singular, who—” and he stopped short, while his
mind, now comprehending the true relationship
between himself and the person beside him, which,
in his moody self-examination, he had momentarily
forgotten, proceeded to his designs with all of his
wonted coherence.
“I wander, Dillon, and am half-asleep. The
fact is, I am almost worn out with this unslumbering
motion. I have not been five hours out of the
saddle in the last twenty-four, and it requires something
more of rest, if I desire to do well what I
have on hand—what, indeed, we both have on
hand.”
There was something apologetic in the manner,
if not in the language, of the speaker; and his words
incoherence of his address, in the physical fatigue
which he had undergone—in this way to divert
suspicion from those mental causes of excitement,
of which, in the present situation, he felt some what
ashamed. Pouring out a glass of liquor, and quaffing
it without pause, he motioned to the lieutenant
to do the same—a suggestion not possible for that
person to misunderstand,—and then proceeded to
narrate such portions of the late occurrences in
and about the village as it was necessary that he
should know. He carefully suppressed his own
agency in any of these events, for, with the policy
of the ancient, he had learned, at an early period
in his life, to treat his friend as if he might one day
become his enemy; and, so far as such a resolution
might consistently be maintained while engaged
in such an occupation as his, he rigidly observed it.
“The business, Dillon, which I want you to
execute, and to which you will give all your own
attention, is difficult and troublesome, and requires
ingenuity. You are to know, then, that Mark Forrester
was killed last night, as is supposed, in a
fray with a youth named Colleton, like himself a
Carolinian. If such is not the opinion yet, I am
determined such shall be the opinion; and have
made arrangements by which the object will be
attained. Of course the murderer should be taken,
and I have reasons to desire that this object too
should be attained. It is on this business, then, that
you are to go. You must be the officer to take
him.”
“But where is he?—if within reach, you know
there is no difficulty.”
“Hear me—there is difficulty, though he is
in reach. He is one of the men whom you found
with the old farmer you would otherwise have
will fight like a wild beast, and stick to his ground
like a rattlesnake; and, supported by the old fellow
whom you found him with, he will be able to resist
almost any force which you could muster on the
emergency. The only fear I have, is, that being
well-mounted, he will not keep with the company,
but as they must needs travel slowly, he will go on
and leave them.”
“Should it not rather be a source of satisfaction
than otherwise—will it not put him more completely
at our disposal?”
“No—for having so much the start of you, and
a good animal, he will soon leave all pursuit behind
him. There is a plan which I have been thinking
of, and which will be the very thing, if at once
acted upon. You know the sheriff, Maxson, lives
on the same road,—you must take two of the men
with you, pick fresh and good horses, set off to
Maxson's at once with a letter which I shall give
you, and he will make you special deputies for the
occasion of this young man's arrest. I have arranged
it so that the suspicion shall take the shape
of a legal warranty, sufficient to authorize his arrest
and detention. The proof of his offence will
be matter of after consideration.”
“But will Maxson do this—may he not refuse?
You know he has been once before threatened with
being brought up for his leaning towards some of
us, in that affair of the Indian chief, Enakamon.”
“He cannot—he dare not refuse!” said the outlaw,
rising impatiently. “He holds his place and
his life at my disposal, and he knows it. He will
not venture to refuse me!”
“He has been very scrupulous of late in all his
dealings with us, you know, and has rather kept out
of our way. Besides that, he has been thorough-going
at several camp-meetings lately, and, when
time he should be looked after by all parties.”
“You are right, Dillon, you are right. I should
not trust it to paper either. I will go myself.
But you shall along with me, and on the way I will
put you in a train for bringing out certain prisoners
whom it is necessary that we should secure before
the sitting of the court, and until it is over. They
might be foolish enough to convict themselves and
us of being more honest than their neighbours, and
it is but humane to keep them from the commission
of so sad an impropriety. Give orders for
the best two of your troop, and have horses saddled
for all four of us. We must be on the road, on the
spot.”
Dillon did as directed, and returned to the conference,
which was conducted, on the part of his
superior, with a degree of excitation and warmth,
mingled with a sharp asperity of manner, something
unwonted for him in the discussion and arranging
of any mere matter of business.
“Maxson will not refuse us; if he does, I will
hang him by my saddle straps. The scoundrel owes
his election to our votes, and shall he refuse us
what we ask. He knows his fate too well to hesitate
as to what he shall do.—And then, Dillon, when
you have his commission for the arrest of this boy,
spare not the spur: secure him at all hazards of
horseflesh or personal inconvenience. He will not
resist the laws, or any thing having their semblance;
nor, indeed, has he any reason—”
“No reason, sir—why, did you not say he had
killed Forrester?” inquired his companion.
“Your memory is sharp, master lieutenant—I
did say, and I say so still. But he affects to think
not, and I should not be at all surprised if he not
only denies it to you, but in reality disbelieves it
learned in time to believe the lies of their own invention.
Why not men doubt the truth of their
own doings. There are such men, and he may be
one of them. He may deny stoutly and solemnly
the charge, but let him not deceive you or baffle
your pursuit. We shall prove it upon him, and he
shall hang, Dillon—ay, he shall hang, hang, hang—
though it be under her very eyes!”
It was in this way, that, in the progress of the
dialogue which took place between the chief and
his subordinate, the rambling malignity would break
through the cooler counsels of the villain, and dark
glimpses of the mystery of the transaction would
burst upon the senses of the latter. Rivers had
the faculty, however, seemingly intuitive, of never
exhibiting too much of himself; and when hurried
on by a passion seemingly too fierce and furious
for restraint, he would suddenly curb himself in,
while a sharp and scornful smile would curl his
lips, as if he felt a consciousness, not only of his
own powers of command, but of his impenetrability
to all examination and analysis.
The horses being now ready, the outlaw, buckling
on his pistols, and hiding his dirk in his bosom,
threw a huge dark cloak over his shoulders, which
fully enveloped and concealed his person; and, in
company with his lieutenant, and two stout men of
his band, all admirably and freshly mounted, they
proceeded to the abode of the sheriff, who, connected,
though secretly, with Rivers and Munro,
was indebted to them and the votes which in that
region they could throw into the boxes, for his success
in his elevation to the office which he held,
and was, as might reasonably have been expected,
a mere creature in their hands, and under their
management. Maxson, of late days, however,
duly with increasing years, that he might become
at last so involved in the meshes of those
crimes of his colleagues, from which, while he was
compelled to share the risk, he was denied in great
part the profit, had grown scrupulous—had avoided
as much as possible their connexion; and the better
to strengthen himself in the increasing favour
of public opinion, had taken advantage of all those
externals of morality and virtue which, unhappily,
too frequently conceal qualities at deadly hostility
with them. He had, in the popular phrase of the
country “got religion;” and, like the worthy reformers
of the Cromwell era, every thing which he
did, and every thing which he said, had Scripture
for its authority, or he had none of it. Psalm-singing
commenced and ended the day in his house, and
graces before meat and graces before sleep, prayers
and ablutions, thanks givings and fastings, had so
much thinned the animal necessities of his household,
that a domestic war was the consequence, and
the sheriff and the sheriff's lady held separate sway,
having equally divided the dwelling between them,
and ruling each their respective sovereignties with
a most jealous watchfulness. All rights, not expressly
delegated in the distribution of powers
originally, were insisted on even to blood; and the
arbitration of the sword, or rather the poker, once
appealed to, most emphatically by the sovereign of
the gentler sex, had cut off the euphonious utterance
of one of the choicest paraphrases of Sternhold
and Hopkins in the middle; and by splitting
the scull of the reformed and reforming sheriff, had
nearly rendered a new election necessary to the
repose and well-being of the county in which
they lived. But the worthy convert recovered,
to the sore discomfiture of his spouse, and to the
breach in his head was healed, but that which separated
his family remained the same—
in so much as was absolutely essential to the keeping
up of appearances to the public eye—a matter
necessary to maintaining her lord in the possession
of his dignity—which, as it conferred honour
and profit, through him, upon her too, it was of
necessity a part of her policy to continue.
There had been a brush--a small gust had
passed over that fair region of domestic harmony,
on the very morning upon which the outlaw and
his party rode up the untrimmed and half-over-grown
avenue, which led to the house of the writ-server.
There had been an amiable discussion
between the two, as to which of them, with propriety,
belonged the duty of putting on the breeches
of their son Tommy, preparatory to his making
his appearance at the breakfast-table. Some extraneous
influence had that morning prompted the
sheriff to resist the performance of a task which
had now for some time been imposed upon him,
and for which, therefore, there was the sanction of
prescription and usage. It was an unlucky moment
for the assertion of his manhood; for, a series
of circumstances operating just about that time unfavourably
upon the mind of his wife, she was in
the worst possible humour upon which to try experiments.
She heard the refusal of her liege to do
the required duty, therefore, with an astonishment,
not unmingled with a degree of pleasure, as it
gave a full excuse for the venting forth upon him of
those splenetic humours, which, for some time, had
little sheriff, from long attendance on courts and
camps, had acquired something more, perhaps, of
the desire and disposition, than the capacity, to
make long speeches and longer sermons, in the
performance of both of which labours, however, he
was admirably fortified by the technicals of the
law, and the Bible phraseology. The quarrel had
been waged for some time, and poor Tommy, the
bone of contention, sitting all the while between
the contending parties in a state of utter nudity,
kept up a fine running accompaniment to the full
tones of the wranglers, by crying bitterly for his
breeches. For the first time for a long period of
years, the lady found her powers of tongue fail in the
proposed effect upon the understanding of her loving
and legal lord; and knowing but of one other way
to assail it, her hand at length grappling with the
stool, from which she tumbled the breechless babe
without scruple, seized upon an argument to which
her adversary could oppose neither text nor technical;
when, fortunately for him, the loud rapping
of their early visiters at the outer door of the
dwelling interposed between her wrath and its object,
and spared the life of the devout sheriff for
other occurrences. Bundling the naked child out
of sight, the mother rushed into an inner apartment,
shaking the stool in the pale countenance of
her lord as she retreated, in a manner and with a
significance which said, as plainly as words could
say, that this temporary delay would only sharpen
her appetite for vengeance, and exaggerate its terrors
when the hour did arrive. It was with a hesitating
step and wo-begone countenance, therefore,
that the officer proceeded to his parlour, where
a no less troublesome, but less awkward, trial
awaited him.
| CHAPTER IX. Guy Rivers | |