University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Vernon bore Virginia Maitland, swooning, from
this terrible scene, the actual performance of which
had occupied far less time than our description of it.
It had passed before the maiden's eyes, more like
some dreadful phantasmagoria of the magician, than
an event of actual life. He bore her into the fresh
air, which partly revived her; and, under the direction
and with the assistance of Horsey—who affected
a better knowledge of Cane Castle than he
really had,—succeeded in finding and conveying
her to the little cottage, the mistress of which had
put so fearful a finish to a life of feverish pain and
most unhappy excitement. The last sacrifice was
paid to the lingering sentiment of that love which
still survived jealousy and anger, and which nothing
but death could utterly extinguish. She had obtained
the vengeance which she sought; and the
thirst for which, in the first moment of her misery,
had overborne the more native feeling of her heart.
That done, the original passion resumed some portion
of its activity, but only to make her feel still
more acutely the undesirable and worthless character

of all that remained to life; and the resolution
to end it—taken at a moment when her vengeance
was yet doubtful, seemed more than ever proper to
her abased and erring spirit, when its claims were
all satisfied. Is it sinful to hope that her crime was
softened by her sufferings? There was so much
that was bright and noble in her soul amidst all its
smoke and impurities, that humanity may well be
suffered to presume upon the indulgence of mercy,
in behalf of one, in whose soul, amidst all the cloud,
the smoke, and the impurity, there was so much
that was really noble in sentiment, and bright and
beautiful in thought. Florence Marbois, under other
auspices, had been one of those lovely lights of society,
that guide the hearts which they warm, and
hallow the affections which they inspire and requite.

Pass we to the living, no less lovely, and purer
woman—to the fair Virginia, who, in the arms of
Vernon, was soon restored, not less to the consciousness
of life, than of those dear emotions that
sanctify and sometimes make it heaven! If the
past scene of terror, and strife, and death, through
which she had been hurried, was not forgotten, its
sting at least was taken away by the conviction
that all who were dear to her had gone through it
in safety, and that all danger to herself and others
was past. She could now breathe in unrestraint,
and yield herself for a space to that freedom of
soul which delights in making its acknowledgments
to the beloved one. If ever maiden were justified
in speaking freely her happiness to her lover, it is
she who has just been rescued by his gallantry from
the most evil forms of danger. Virginia in the hour
of her deliverance had no reserve. She hung upon
the bosom of Vernon, happy in the weakness,
which, while it made his valour dear to her, furnished

her with the best apology to cling to his embrace.

A moment was given to these raptures—a brief
moment; and the lover was recalled by one of his
subordinates to a recollection of his farther duties.
The night was fleeting fast, and it was the counsel
of Rawlins, Jamison, and such other of his men as
had a claim to advise in the proceedings, that they
should instantly cross the river, and with their prisoners
retrace their steps towards Zion's Hill. But
Vernon thought otherwise. He knew the difficulty
of travelling by night through unaccustomed swamps
along with a daring set of men, who, though bound,
might yet prove troublesome; and who, indeed,
might readily find succour from passing bands of
their companions. There was yet another reason
which led Vernon to defer the movement of his
party until morning.

“Doubtless,” he said, “there are individuals of this
gang going from and coming into the swamp at all
hours of the night. By preserving the utmost silence
where we are, placing a guard in each of their places
of watch, and answering after their own fashion,
any signals that we may hear from without, we shall
be able to gather into our fold a few more of these
scoundrels. I would not like to do the work by
halves; still less am I willing to risk what has been
gained by any precipitation of movement to-night.
Our task now is easy; we have only to secure thoroughly
the prisoners.”

“That is already done,” said Rawlins, interrupting
him.

“Then our work is easy. It lacks but three
hours to the dawn. We must keep our eyes open
for that space of time and our weapons ready, and
with the first gleam of light we can safely cross
the river with all our captives. To move now

would be to risk their loss, and perhaps our own.
It is no easy matter to keep track in a strange region,
and at night, with prisoners whom we may
have to drive before us, and who might drop us in
the darkness without greatly suffering from our
pistols. Have the horses come? have you heard
the signal from the other bank?”

“They are there. Pollard crossed over to them
by my order a bit ago,” was the reply.

“It is well! Every thing favours us, men. We
have lost no life, but little blood, and have so far
succeeded in all our objects. Let us lose nothing
by rashness. Coolness now and carefulness can
alone secure our conquests. To you, Rawlins, as
you know the swamp best of all of us, I must assign
the task of placing guards over the best positions—
and—hark! do you hear nothing? That surely
was a signal.”

“A beagle, by the powers! Here's fish for our
net!” exclaimed Rawlins, as he started from the
thicket where this conference had taken place.
Jamison was about to follow, as also Horsey, but
Vernon arrested them.

“Rawlins is enough, and you might confuse him.
He is equal to any robber of the gang, and will do
the business more effectually if let alone. Hark!
already he answers. His bay is quite as good as
any of the beagles.”

Vernon's judgment was correct. The sturdy
woodman hurried in the direction of the sound,
which still continued to reach his ears at intervals,
becoming more and more clear and distinct as the
party drew nigh. He stationed himself under cover
at a point where he had surprised one of the robbers,
and responding to the signal as he did so,
coolly awaited the approach of the intruder. As
the latter emerged on horseback from the woods

above, he addressed the counterfeit presentment
with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance.

“Ha! that you Baker, or Chambers, which?”

Rawlins grunted forth a sound which might pass
for an affirmative. He feared to trust his own
voice till he had the robber in his power; and it
was fortunate that the latter had too much himself
to say to regret the taciturnity of his companion.
As he spoke, a chill went through the bones of
Rawlins. A few sentences soon assured him that
it was Gideon Badger who addressed him. That
profligate son of a man whose purism assured him
with a chuckle, that he was not like the miserable
Pharisees around him, having demanded of the
sentinel to lead him to the place where the chief of
the outlaws slept, proceeded to develope his great
discoveries to his companion, in anticipation of that
revelation which he proposed to make to Saxon, and
with which, with all the mean spirit of an inferior's
servility, he calculated to commend himself to new
favour in his sight. Rawlins could only make his
responses in a groan.

“What do you groan for, Baker?” demanded
the other. “There's no danger now that we know
all about it. We've time enough to scud and run
to-night, and to-morrow we can turn upon that bullhead
Rawlins, and dog his heels back to Zion's
Hill. Nay, with a little increase of force we should
be able to lather him at his own weapons and at
any weapons. For my part, I'd rather it should be
so. Nothing would give me half so much pleasure
as to try the chance of a little scuffle with that
fellow. If I didn't—”

“Gideon Badger,” said Rawlins, in his natural
tone of voice, “you have your wish. I am Wat
Rawlins, and we're face to face. Now, show your
manhood—all your manhood, Gideon—for you fight,

let me tell you, for something more than Rachel
Morrison—you fight for life! You fight with a
rope round your neck.”

“Wat Rawlins!” gasped the confounded youth,
as he heard the words and recognised the voice of
one whom in his secret soul he feared—“can it be!”

“Are you ready?” demanded the woodman.
“Be quick, Gideon;—I know I'm not doing right
when I give you this chance for your life; but
I want to save your old father from the shame
of having son of his hung up by the neck. If I
kill you, which will be all the better for you, I'll
keep the secret, and bury you in the swamp with
my own hands, so that nobody shall over know that
we met you here to-night. Come!”

“I will not fight with you,” was the hoarse but
tremulous response of the youth.

“I'm sorry for you, Gideon Badger,” said Rawlins,
with an expression of pity in his accents, not
unmingled with disgust. “I would have saved you
from something worse than death. I'm sorry you're
not as brave as your father. I can do no more.
You must go with me—you're my prisoner.”

He grasped the imbecile around his body as he
spoke, with a grasp that would have defied his utmost
powers. But these the unhappy youth did not
offer to exercise. His heart seemed to have turned
to water with the first conviction of his mind that
Walter Rawlins really stood before him. His
nerves failed him. His muscles shrunk and seemed
to wither. Rawlins carried him into the presence
of Vernon and the rest with as little trouble as if he
had been an infant.

The victors, having secured their new captive,
had no farther interruption in the swamp that night.
With the first glimmering of dawn, Vernon made
his preparations for crossing the river to the place

where the horses of the party had been carried.
This was a task more tedious than difficult. Some
of the men were compelled to swim the river with
a rope which had been previously fastened to the
flat, and which was absolutely necessary in conveying
across the river Virginia Maitland, Mrs. Yarbers—who
had been an active coadjutor of the assailing
party—the prisoners, and the inanimate form
of Florence Marbois, which the gentler heart of
Virginia would not suffer to be buried in the still
and gloomy recesses of that swamp-forest in which
she had dwelt so long. Rawlins ventured to promise
that the cemetery at Zion's Hill should yield
her a more consecrated place of repose. Her
body, stretched out in the bottom of the boat, and
completely enveloped in a cloak, was a subject of
fearful interest to Saxon, who was compelled, from
the smallness of the vessel and the number of its
passengers, to remain unwillingly contiguous to it.
More than once was he seen to shudder as he looked
upon the unmeaning and almost shapeless outline,
through the thick envelope of which, however,
his keen-eyed and conscious spirit, beheld the reproachful
expression of that face, and all those
glances of love, and those features of beauty, which
had once yielded him so much delight, and which
his own capricious and unjust passions had obliterated
and destroyed. His present situation, mostly
to be ascribed to his own injustice to the one who
most loved him, gave emphasis to those rebukes of
conscience which now, for the first time, were
acutely active in the contemplation of her corse. At
this moment a persuasion of sentimental softness
almost seized his mind,—he felt that love would
have still preserved him, had he still been true to
love. Unhappily for him and her, love and conscience
equally spoke too late. A desperate resolution
succeeded in his mind, and he turned his eyes
upon the dark and turbid waters over which he
was passing with an expression of anxious desire.
Could he gain the side of the boat, a single plunge
would baffle his captors, and defeat all the terrors
of a public doom. His hands were bound, but his
feet were free. He gave a single glance to the inanimate
form of Florence, and made a movement
to the opposite side of the flat. Already his foot
touched the low gunwale, when the firm grasp of
the watchful Vernon upon his shoulder, showed him
that his object was discovered. He was led back
into the centre of the boat, and surrounded by those
who noted all his movements, with eyes too jealous
to leave him any present hope of baffling their observation.
Bitter, indeed, was the glance which he
cast upon Vernon, as the latter withdrew his hand
from the shoulder of the felon.

“There was a time, Mr. Vernon, when you were
less willing to approach me with so little scruple;—
that, however, was when I was better able to approach
you. Times change; and he who would
have trembled to hear the lion's growl in the desert,
takes him boldly by the mane when in the menagerie.
Well! courage seems to depend very much
upon the season. A bright or dark day makes a
wonderful difference in the hearts of men. You
are in season now, sir—much more so, I think, than
when I met you at Lucchesa. Your hand is more
ready now.”

“It is my good fortune to improve then, sir,” replied
Vernon, mildly and with a smile. “As for
your notion of my courage, let that be as you choose.
If you can really persuade yourself that it is not of
the proper kind, and the persuasion pleases you,
indulge it. My courage is of a sort that will
remain perfectly unaffected, whatever course your

opinion may take upon it. Another quality of it
will be to take every precaution against the exercise
of yours. In my custody you are safe enough.
I would not forget myself, sir, by using the language
of exultation over a prisoner, however small may
be the forbearance which he merits at my hands.”

“Oh, you are too indulgent!” was the almost
fierce reply of the outlaw—“too indulgent! Would
I could thank you as I could wish—as you deserve.”

A moment after, and Saxon felt the feeble fury of
his manner, and stopped suddenly, while a burning
flush passed over his cheeks. Vernon turned away.
They had now reached the opposite bank.

An hour after this, and the cavalcade encountered
a motley party of ten or a dozen men, headed by
old William Badger himself. He was dressed up
partially in some of the remnants of the ancient uniform
which he wore when he followed Andrew
Jackson down from Tennessee to his Indian battles
in the southwest. The old and ragged cap which
covered his grisly locks; the pistols in his holsters;
the belt about his waist, and the long rifle in his
grasp—were all the same; and here, it may be
added, that, though he wore it not on this occasion,
he yet, before sallying forth that morning, gave
a long and curious examination to the ancient and
motley blue wrapper, known in its day as a hunting-shirt—which
had been too intimately associated in
all the deeds and doings of his prime, to be discarded
altogether even when the period of its usefulness
was past. The ancient leader, however, made a
far less ludicrous appearance than his men, with
whom, in the sudden emergency that called them
forth, motley seemed indeed to be “the only wear.”
At another time, the appearance of this regiment

would have moved Vernon and all his followers to
unrestrained merriment; but there was a strong
feeling in their hearts at this moment which effectually
restrained all lighter moods. The thought
that the venerable old man was marching forward
to behold his own and only son, bound as an outlaw,
and destined to all the penalties of such a life,
filled them all with a sorrow that was not less deep
because it was speechless. The very unconsciousness
of the old man as he drew nigh—the rigid and
pompous erectness of his carriage, and the swelling
dignity of his manner—contributed to increase the
solemnity of their feelings. Who should convey
the truth to the father? It tasked the boldest heart
and the best mind of the troop. Vernon rode forward
as he approached, and giving instructions
with Rawlins to keep his prisoners out of sight as
long as possible, undertook the painful task of revealing
the truth to the venerable elder. The task
was rendered more difficult by the self-esteem of
Badger. Assuming himself to have been ill-treated,
overlooked, slighted, and in fact, thrust aside from
the performance of his proper duties, by beardless
boys, still in the gristle, inspired more by presumption
than patriotism, he scarcely gave Vernon a
civil recognition. But the latter, at such a time,
and to one so much his elder, would have been
ashamed to entertain any boyish resentments; and
he bore patiently with the captiousness of the father,
and by gradual degrees, brought him step by step
to a consciousness of the gulf that was so suddenly
to open before him. When the truth was fully
shown—when the tale was fully told—there was no
more visible emotion in the face of the hearer, beyond
a slight quiver of the lips, than if he had listened
to the most ordinary intelligence. His keen
eyes, from under their gray shaggy brows, narrowly
scanned the countenance of the speaker, and
there, reading nothing but sincerity and distinctness,
dropped quietly upon the ground. His lips opened
but to exclaim:

“Son of mine! son of mine! Oh, God! thou
hast indeed stricken me with thy wrath. Verily,
thou hast terribly rebuked the pride that was shooting
upwards like a rank weed within my heart.”

The exclamation denoted that self-esteem, still
strong, still luxuriant, and still well cultivated in a
favourite field, which was the predominant characteristic
of his mind. That Gideon should be a bad
fellow, was an unfortunate thing for Gideon; but
it was something monstrous exceedingly, that Gideon,
the son of William, should become so. “After
this”—such was the still self-complaisant reflection
of the elder—“who will believe in education?”

The stern habits of the soldier, and the pride of
the patriotic magistrate, came to the succour of the
old man.

“These wretched people must be committed for
trial, Mr. Vernon, and though you have heretofore
found yourself sufficient to do without my help, as a
man, it is probable that you will require my assistance
as a magistrate. Let them be brought before
me, sir, as soon as you please, that I may examine
them for commitment.”

“All, sir?” said Vernon.

“Ay, sir, all! God will sustain me, I trust, as he
hath ever done, so that I shall be able to perform
the trusts which have been confided to me, without
fear or favour. I trust in his mercy, to have no
feeling with one more than another of these unhappy
wretches.”

The reader need not ask to know, how such a
man went through such a trial. William Badger's
proceedings, on the present occasion, would have

gained for him, in Roman ages, a column of enduring
fame.

Our story is nearly ended. That very day Horsey
was made a special deputy, with two others, to
arrest Mr. Justice Nawls; but the bird had flown.
He had received from some secret quarter a warning
of his danger, and had disappeared on a fleet horse
an hour before the appearance of the party sent to
arrest. The return to the magistrate was one which
is said to have assumed the official dignity in some
of the States—G. T. T.—which, rendered into the
vernacular, signifies “Gone to Texas.” There is a
report current at this time on the Big Black, that
Nawls has become a great patriot in Texas, and has
distinguished himself by several military achievements
of no common order. He is not the first citizen
who has lived a scoundrel and died a patriot.
It was fortunate for the amateur that he did not
take Mrs. Horsey with him to Texas, and make her
a patriot too. Perhaps he would have done so, had
time been allowed him. How many good deeds are
defeated through a want of time.

When the roving husband and his lovely wife returned
to Zion's Hill, who should they encounter
there but the venerable sire of the former, limping
as much as ever, quite as rash and boisterous, and
full of storms and cataracts, at the sight of the
fugitive. He had come, in obedience to Vernon's
letters, along with Ben Carter; and was confounded
to meet a living son, where he thought it might be
difficult to find even a dead one. His very joy—such
was the force of habit—took the features, and
indulged in the language of anger and abuse.

“You ungrateful spendthrift—you—”

He was silenced by a very summary proceeding.
He little knew the sort of answer his son had in
store for him.

“Make you acquainted with Mrs. Tom Horsey,
dad;” said he, with a swagger admirably theatrical,
as he strutted full up to the old man, with the shrinking
Mary hanging on his arm.

“Mrs. Tom Horsey!—Why, Tom, it can't be
possible. I expected to find you dead, and here
you're only married. But are you married, Tom?”

“Ay, dad, if the ceremony performed by such a
rascal as Squire Nawls is worth a fig.”

“Well, God bless you, Tom,—you're born to be
an actor after all. And you, my gal,—who are
you—what's your name? And—since you are
Tom's wife, give's a smack. Another! another!
Well, Tom, to a young man, marrying's not so bad
after all. But where's Ben Carter?”

This is a question which we may also ask. In
another apartment, to themselves, Carter and his
unfaithful friend Maitland communed for a lengthened
hour. They came forth reconciled. Maitland
frankly confessed his offences equally against friendship
and good morals; and in making every atonement
which had been left, he found Carter as he had
ever found him, an indulgent benefactor. The relation
in which Vernon stood to Virginia contributed
greatly to this end. They also, to themselves, had their
own explanations to make, and their several adventures
to relate; the day promised fair, amid all the
clouds that overcast the horizon at the beginning,
to terminate in equal calm and brightness. To the
three happy sets, whom we have conducted with
persevering industry through the groves to the temple—from
love to marriage—such, indeed, was its
termination; but there was one storm that passed
through the forest about this time which filled even
their hearts with solemn shudderings, and for a long
season after maintained a heavy weight upon their
memories. Rawlins, who, with a select party, had

the charge of the prisoners, returned at midnight,
alone, to Zion's Hill, and brought with him a terrible
narrative of outrage and bloodshed. The mob
had risen upon his little party, and rescued the prisoners
from his hands. But they did not rescue them
to save. Goaded to madness by the long repeated
crimes of the outlaws, they had resolved not to wait
the tardy proceedings of justice; and in equal defiance
of the entreaties and the efforts of the little
guard, the unhappy criminals were dragged to death
from their custody and protection. Another moment
precipitated their doom. They were drawn up by
the ropes which bound them, to the swinging
branches over head, and hurried into eternity without
a moment's grace—their prayers drowned—
their convulsions mocked in the frantic joy, and the
exulting shouts of the populace. The unlawfulness
of their punishment, suggests the only occasion for
sympathy in their behalf. They died on a spot
which they themselves had deprived of all the securities
of law, and had shadowed with every sort
of crime. They perished by a reckless rage, for
which a partial sanction may be found in the wantonness
and brutality of their own deeds—in their
unscrupulous robberies, their frequent cruelties, and
most unfeeling murders. Saxon died as he had
lived, a brave, fearless man. Perhaps, the compunctious
writhings which troubled him at the death of
Florence Marbois, had made him better prepared
to die. In his death perished the spirit, the energy,
and the capacity of the Border Beagles. He had
made them what they were—resolute, compact,—
one, and indivisible. Scattered at his death, they
lost the faculties which had made them powerful,
and have generally given up the more daring profession,
for others of a like, but less dangerous character.
Some, like Nawls, have gone to Texas,
filled with a sudden desire of becoming patriots—
others have taken to shaving, speculating, and
banking; and a few, it is reported, have formed a
new confederacy which bears the innocent, if not
unmeaning title of “The Hypothecators.” What
is the particular occupation which, under this head,
they intend pursuing, is only conjectural. The more
knowing seem to think that their purpose is nothing
worse than the invention of fancy stocks; the designs
of which they will dispose of to the numberless
associations of Humbug, which cover this
scheming nation as with an eighth plague. The
locusts of the Egyptian never diminished his crops
with half the success with which our locusts, the
progeny of that fruitful Scotchman, John Law,
have devastated the fields of Mississippi. The Border
Beagles were nothing to them as public enemies.