 | CHAPTER XI.
THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD.
Clarkson, with the instinct of the scout, sought shelter
in the woods from all pursuit, whether supernatural or
human. He fled with the speed of the hunted deer,
and had soon left far behind him the fainting form of
his shadowy pursuer. But of this he knew nothing.
He looked not once after him, upon leaving the house.
Buried in the woods, he was still pressing his way forward,
when a voice which, at another time, would have
been familiar and friendly in his ears, addressed him
and summoned him to stop. But, under the prevailing
apprehension of his heart, he fancied it the same voice
of terror which had risen from the grave to rebuke him,
and this conviction increased the earnestness of his
flight. A footstep as fleet as his own now joined in the
pursuit. He heard the quick tread behind, and finally
beside him, and desperate in the feeling that he was
overtaken, he turned wildly to confront his pursuer.
A hand of flesh and blood was laid upon his shoulder
at the same moment, and the voice of our old friend
John Bannister reassured him, and reconciled him to
delay.
“By Jings!” exclaimed the woodman, “if I didn't
know you to have the real grit in you, Jake Clarkson,
I would think you was getting to be rather timorsome
in your old age. What's the matter, man?—what's
flung you so?”
“Ah, John! Is that you?”—and the frightened man
grappled the hand of the new-comer with fingers that
heart.
“I reckon it is. I suppose you thought by this time,
that Lord Rawdon and the Black Riders had made a
breakfast upon me, keeping a chip of me, here and
there, to stay their marching stomachs upon. But, you
see, there's more ways than one of slipping a halter,
when the horse can borrow a friend's finger to help his
teeth. The acorn ain't planted yet that's to make my
swinging tree. I'm here, old man, and out of their
clutches, I'm thinking, without losing any of my own
hide, and bringing with me a very good sample of
theirs. As keen a nag, Jake Clarkson, as ever was
taken from the Philistines lies in that 'ere bog—a fifty
guinea nag.—I've spoiled the Egyptians in my captivity.
Come and look at the critter.”
“Ah, John, I'm so glad to see you. Stand by me,—
and look!”
“Stand by you, and look! Why, what's to look
upon?—what's to hurt you? What's scared you? The
woods was never more quiet. I've been all round the
barony, and their guard is half drunk and half asleep
in an old log cabin between the stables and the negro
houses. They can do no hurt, I tell you.”
“Not them, John—you don't think I mind them?
But, hear you! I've seen her!” His voice sunk to a
hoarse whisper, and he looked behind him, over the
path he came, with undiminished terrors.
“Her? Who? Who's her?”
“Mary! Poor Mary! The child I killed!—The poor
child!”
“Ha!—She still lives then!”
“No! no!—her ghost. Her spirit! It walks! Oh!
John Bannister,—'twas a dreadful, dreadful sight. I
went to kill Ned Conway. He's lying there, wounded
in the house. I've been watching here in the woods,
ever since the British went. I went several times into
the house but couldn't get a chance at him till to-night.
To-night, I got to his room. It was so dark I couldn't
see how he lay in the bed; and when I was feeling for
Mary—poor Mary—whiter than the driven snow, all in
a sudden blaze of light. Oh! how dreadful white she
looked! How awful bright her eyes shone at me. I
couldn't stand it; I couldn't look; and when she spoke
to me, I felt all over choking. Jist then, it suddenly
turned dark, and I run, and when I looked back she
was coming after me. She didn't seem to run or walk;
she seemed to come with the air; and to fly between
the trees—”
“What! you didn't see her after you left the house,
did you?”
“Yes! oh yes? She flew after me into the woods.”
The woodman struck his head with his palm, as,
readily conceiving the true grounds for Clarkson's terrors,
he thought of the wounded and dying girl in a
paroxysm of delirium, flying into the rugged forest at
midnight.
“Stay here, stay awhile, Jake, while I go!” said he.
“Don't go—don't leave me!” implored the old man.
“It's I that killed her, John, by my cruelty. I driv' her
away from the house, and she went mad and drowned
herself in the Congaree; and she haunts me for it.
She's here near us now, watching for you to go. Don't
go, John; don't leave me now. If you do, I'll run to the
river. I'll drown myself after her.”
Bannister found some difficulty in soothing the superstitious
terrors of the old man, but he at length succeeded
in doing so in sufficient degree to persuade him to remain
where he was, in waiting, till he went forward
towards the mansion.
“I'll whistle to you the old whistle,” said the woodman,
“as I'm coming back. But don't you be scared
at any thing you see. I'm sure there's no ghost that
ain't a nateral one. I've never known the story of a
ghost yet that it didn't turn out to be a curtain in the
wind, a white sheet hung out to dry, or mout be—sich
things will scare some people—a large moss-beard
hanging down upon a green oak's branches. If a man's
to be scared by a ghost, Jake Clarkson, I give him up
woods. There's not an owl in an old tree that ain't
his master,—there's not a piece of rotten wood shining
in the bottom, that ain't a devil ready to run off with
him. The squirrel that jumps in the bush, and the lizard
that runs upon the dry leaves, is a little sort of `a
coming-to-catch-me,' for such a person; and, God help
him, if a pine-burr should drop on his head when he ain't
thinking. If his heart don't jump out of his mouth,
quicker than ever a green frog jumped out of a black
snake's hollow, then I'm no man to know any thing
about scouting. No, no! Jake Clarkson, t'wont do for
you that's been counted a strong man, who didn't fear
the devil nor the tories, to be taking fright at a something
that's more like a dream than any thing serious.
It's nothing but what's nateral that's scared you, I'm
thinking, and jist you keep quiet till I go back and see.
They can't scare me with their blue lights and burning
eyes. My mother was a woman, with the soul of a
man, that had the real grit in her. I was only scared
once in my life, and then she licked the scare out of me,
so complete that that one licking's lasted me agin any
scare that ever happened since.”
“But my child—my poor child—the child that I
killed, John Bannister;” said the father in reproachful
accents.
“Well, there's something in that, Jake Clarkson, I'm
willing to admit. When a man's done a wrong thing,
if any thing's right to scare him, it's that. But though
you was cross, and too cross, as I told you, to poor
Mary, yet it's not reasonable to think you killed her;
and I'll lay my life on it, if you saw Mary Clarkson to-night,
you saw the real Mary, and no make b'lieve—no
ghost! But I'll go and see, and if there's any truth to
be got at, trust me to pick it up somewhere along the
track. Keep you quiet here, and mind to answer my
whistle.”
The woodman hurried away, without wailing to answer
the inquiries of the unhappy father, whom the
words of the former had led to new ideas. The suggestion,
might be yet alive, was intended by the scout to prepare
the mind of the former for a probable meeting between
himself and his child. He left him consequently
in a singular state of impatient agitation, which was far
more exhausting to the physical man, than would have
been the encounter of a dozen foes in battle; and, with
a feebleness which looked like one of the forms of paralysis,
and had its effects for a time, the old man sank
upon the ground at the foot of a tree, and groaned with
the very pain of imbecility.
Bannister, meanwhile, took his way back in the direction
of the mansion, and as nearly as possible along the
route upon which he supposed his companion to have
run. His judgment proved correct in this, as in most
particulars. He had barely emerged from the thicker
woods, and got upon the edge of the immediate enclosure
which circumscribed the area of the household,
when his eye was caught by a white heap which lay
within thirty yards of the woods. He approached it,
and found it to be the object of his search. The poor
girl was stretched upon the ground immovable. The
small degree of strength with which the momentary
paroxysm had inspired her, had passed away, and she
lay supine;—her eyes opened and watching the woods
to which her father had fled—and her hands stretched
outwards in the same direction. Death was upon her,
but the weight of his hand was not heavy, and his
sting did not seem to be felt. A slight moaning sound
escaped her lips, but it was rather the utterance of the
parting breath than of any sensation of pain which she
experienced. John Bannister knelt down beside her.
The stout man once more found himself a boy.
“This then,” was the thought which filled his brain—
“this then, is the sweet little girl whom I once loved so
much!”
She knew him. A faint smile covered her features,
and almost the last effort of her strength, enabled her
to point to the woods, and to exclaim—
“My father! my father!—There! Bear me to him,
John.”
The hand fell suddenly, the voice was silent, the lips
were closed. A shiver shook the limbs of the strong
man.
“Mary! Mary!” he called huskily.
Her eyes unclosed. She was not dead. There was
still life, and there might be time to place her in the
arms of her father before it was utterly gone. A noise
in the direction of the mansion, and the appearance of
lights in the avenue, determined the prompt woodman.
He wound his arms tenderly about her, raised her to
his bosom, laid her head on his shoulder, and as if she
had been a mere infant in his grasp, darted forward into
the cover of the woods. The alarm had evidently been
given at the mansion, he heard the voices of the household,
and the sudden clamours of the half sober and half
sleeping soldiery. But he defied pursuit and search,
as, bounding off, in a well known route, he soon placed
his burden at the foot of her father.
“Here, Clarkson, here is your daughter. Here is
poor Mary. She was not drowned. She lives, Jake
Clarkson, but she has not long to live. She's going
fast. Be quick—look at her, and talk softly!”
Clarkson bounded to his feet, gazed with convulsive
tremors upon the pale, silent form before him, then, with
the shriek of a most miserable joy, he clasped her in his
arms. Her eyes opened upon him. He held her from
him that he might the better meet their gaze. She
smiled, threw herself forward upon his breast, and was
buried within his embrace. In a wild incoherent speech,
of mixed tenderness and reproach, he poured forth the
emotions of his heart—the pangs of years—the pleasures
of the moment—the chidings of his own cruelty,
and her misdeeds. But she answered nothing—she
heard nothing. Neither praise nor blame could touch
or penetrate the dull, cold ear of death. She was, at
length, at rest.
“Speak to me, dear Mary. Only tell me that you
forgiven you.”
“She will never speak again, Jacob. It's all over.
She's got rid of the pain, and the trouble, and the vexation
of this life; and I reckon she'll have no more in
the next; for God knows, jist as well as I, that she's
had a great deal more than her share.”
“You don't say she's dead?” said Clarkson huskily.
“Well, except for the pain of it, she's been dead a
long time, Jacob. But she don't hear you, I reckon,
and she don't feel your arms, though you hold her so
close to you. Give her to me, Jacob, that I may carry
her deeper into the bay. The lights from the house are
coming close, and they may find us here.”
“Let 'em come!—who cares? They won't want her
now she's dead?”
“No; but they may want us, Jacob.”
“Let them want, and let them seek! We're ready!
We'll fight, I reckon!” and his fingers were clutched
together convulsively as if the weapon were still within
their grasp.
“Yes, we'll fight,” said Bannister, “but not here, and
not till we put her out of the way. 'Twon't be right to
fight any body where she is—not in her presence, as I
may say.”
“True, true,” replied the other faintly, “but I'll
carry her, John.”
Bannister did not object, but led the way to the
thicket, while the father followed with his burden.
There, the woodman drew forth his matchbox and
struck a light, and the two sat down to survey the pale
spiritual features of one who had certainly held a deep
place in the affections of both. It was a curious survey.
Their place of retreat was one of those dense sombre
masses of the forest, where, even in midday, the whole-some
daylight never thoroughly came. The demi-obscure
alone—
“The little glooming light most like a shade,”
place was dark as Erebus. The broad circumferences
of oaks, the lofty stretch of ever-moaning pines, gathered
close and solemnly around as if in secret council;
while vines and leaves, massed together in the intervals
above, effectually roofed in the spot with a dread cathedral
vastness and magnificence. The spot had been
freely used before by the outlyers, and more than one
comfortable bed of dried leaves might be discovered
under the oaks. On one of these the body of the girl
was laid. A few paces distant from her feet, in a depression
of the earth, John Bannister had gathered his
splinters and kindled a little fire, just sufficient to enable
them to behold one another, and perhaps make them
more than ever feel the deep and gloomy density of the
place. The adjuncts of the scene were all calculated
to make them feel its sadness. No fitter spot could have
been chosen for gloomy thoughts. None, which could
more completely harmonize with the pallid presence of
the dead. The head of the girl rested in the lap of the
father. John Bannister sat behind the old man. A
sense of delicacy made him reserved. He did not wish
to obtrude at such a moment. Years had elapsed since
the father had been persuaded that his child had been lost
to him, irrevocably, by death; and this conviction was
embittered by the further belief that his own violence
had driven her to a desperate end. In that conviction,
deep, and keen, and bitter, were the pangs of his soul;
—pangs which he could only blunt by the endeavour,
hitherto futile, of finding, and inflicting vengeance upon,
her betrayer. Dark had been his soul, darker its desires
and designs. At length he finds her alive, whom
he had fancied he had destroyed. He finds her living,
only to see her die. His thoughts may be conjectured,
not traced, nor described, as he watched the pale countenance,
still beautiful, which lay before him in the immovable
ice of death. He watched her long in silence.
Not a word was spoken by himself, and John Bannister
felt too sincerely, on his own account, for idle and unnecessary
remark. But the stifled nature at length
the accumulating emotions. Deep groans burst from
his lips, and a sudden flood of relieving tears gushed
from his eyes. Bannister felt easier as he perceived the
change.
“All's for the best,” said he with a plain homespun
effort at consolation. “It's best that she's gone, Jake
Clarkson; and you see God spared her jest long enough
to bring you together that you might exchange pardon.
You was a little rough and she was a little rash, and
God, he knows, you've both had mighty bad roughing
for it ever since. Poor thing, she's gone to Heaven,
that's clear enough to me. I'm not dub'ous about it.
She's been a sinner like the best, but if she ha'n't sorry
for it from the bottom of her heart, then sinner never
was sorry. Poor Mary, if she hadn't looked a little too
high, she wouldn't ha' fallen so low. She'd ha' been an
honest man's wife; but what's the use to talk of that
now. It only makes one's eyes water the more.”
“It's good, John. It sort o' softens a man!”
“Not too much. But, of a truth, Jake, I once was
jist on the point of axing you and Mary! I was; for I
did love her, as I ha'n't seen woman to love from that
day to this;—and but for that—”
“That bloody villain! That thief—that murderer!
Ha! Ha!—But I will have him yet, John Bannister!
I was a fool to be frightened away, jist when I had my
hand at his throat, and nothing to stop me. There he
lay, still and ready. Ho! John, jist there! I think I
see him now! Stretched out, his eyes shut, his breast
open, and nobody looking on—”
“Stop, Jacob Clarkson, God was a-looking on all the
time—and Mary Clarkson was a-looking on, and what
sent her there jest at that moment? What but God!
And what did he send her there for, but to stop you
from doing a wrong thing. Look you, Jake Clarkson,
you know I don't often stop when fighting's going on.
I'm as quick to kill as the quickest dragoon in all
Tarleton's squad. That is, I'm quick to kill when it's
the time for killing. But there's a time for all things,
him too, so cut up already, that it's a chance if he ain't
got enough to bury him. I'm a-thinking, Jacob Clarkson,
that God has jest given you a good warning, that
you must do your killing in fair fight, and not by stealing
to a man's bedside when he's sleeping, and he
pretty well chopped up already; I reckon you'll be the
man to kill Ned Conway yet, if what he's got don't
finish him; and if it does, you're only to thank God for
taking an ugly business off your hands. When I look
upon Mary, there, it puts me out of the idea of killing
altogether. I'm sure I wish peace was everywhere.
Lord save us from a time like this, when a poor child
like that, runs into the way of hard blows and bloody
weapons. It makes my heart sort o' wither up within
me only to think of it.”
But Clarkson was not much impressed by the grave
opinions of his companion. He had always respected
the straightforward character and manly judgment of
the woodman; and there was something very plausible
to the superstitious mind, in the case presented at the
outset of the woodman's speech.
“Sure enough! sure enough!” said the old man;—
“How could she come, jest at the moment I was going
to kill him, if God didn't mean that I shouldn't do it
jest then. But if he gets well again, John Bannister—”
“Kill him then—I'm cl'ar for that! I'll kill him myself
then, if nobody comes before me with a better
right. You're got a sort of claim to the preference.”
We need not pursue the conference. One question
which went to the very heart of John Bannister, and
which he evaded, was uttered by the father, as in passing
his hands through the unbound portions of her hair,
he felt them clammy with her blood. The revelation of
her physical injuries was new to him.
“Oh, God, John Bannister! she bleeds! Her head
is hurt. Here! jest here! I didn't mind the bandage
before. She didn't die a nateral death. The cruel
villain has killed her. He's got tired of her and killed
her.”
“Oh, no! no! Jacob!” exclaimed the other, with an
agitation of voice and manner which betrayed his secret
pangs. “No, I reckon not! He's not able to hurt
any body. I reckon—I'm sure—she got hurt by accident.
I'll answer for it, the man that struck Mary
Clarkson, would have sooner cut his right hand off
than ha' done such a thing. 'Twas accident, I'm sure
'twas accident!”—and with these words the poor fellow
went aside among the trees and wept like a child
as he thought over the cruel haste of his own fierce spirit
and too heavy hand.
“God forgive me, for not speaking out the truth,
which is a sort of lie-telling after all. But how could I
tell Jake Clarkson that 'twas the hand of John Bannister
that shed the blood of his child? It's woful enough to
feel it.”
To bury the dead from his sight became the last duty
of the father. John Bannister was for carrying the
body to the family vault of the Middleton's and laying
it there by dawn of day. But to this Clarkson instantly
dissented.
“No;” said he, “the Middletons are great people,
and the Clarksons are poor and mean. We never
mixed in life, and there's no reason we should mix in
death.”
“But you don't know Miss Flora, Jacob Clarkson.”
“I don't want to know.”
“She's so good. She'd be glad, I'm sure, if we was
to put her there. She's been tending poor Mary as if
she was her own sister.”
“I thank her. I believe she's good as you say, John.
But, somebody might come after her, and shut me out
of the vault when they please. They wouldn't like me
to go there to see Mary when I wish, and wouldn't let
'em put me beside her. No! no! we'll put her in the
ground beside the river. I know a place for her already,
and there's room for me. She was born by the Congaree,
and she'll sleep sweetly beside it. If you live
after me, John, put me there with her. It's a little
smooth hill that always looks fresh with grass, as if
there in the night-time. Go, John, and try and find a
shovel in the fields somewhere. We've got no coffin,
but we'll wrap the child up in pine bark and moss, and
she won't feel it any colder. Go, and let me sit down
with her by ourselves. It's a long time, you know,
since I talked with her, and then I talked cross and
harsh. I'll say nothing to vex her now. Go, get the
shovel, if you can, and when you come back, we'll take
her, and I'll show you where to dig. By that time we'll
have day to help us.”
Bannister departed without a word, and left the
father with his dead. We will not intrude upon his
sorrows; but, when the whole history of the humble
pair is considered, no sight could be more mournful
than to behold the two—there, in that lonely and darksome
maze of forest,—at midnight,—the flickering fire-light
cast upon the pallid features, almost transparent,
of the fair, dead girl, while the father looked on, and
talked, and wept, as if his tears could be seen, and his
excuses and self-reproaches heard, by the poor child
that had loved so warmly, and had been so hardly dealt
with by all whom she had ever loved. Conway had
ruined her peace and happiness; her father had driven
her from her home; and he, who had never wilfully
meant, or said, her wrong, had inflicted the fatal blow
which had deprived her of life—perhaps, the stroke of
mercy and relief to a crushed and wounded spirit such
as hers! Truly, there was the hand of fate in this.
The fate that will surely follow the sad lapses of the
wilful heart! Hers was rather weak than wilful; but
weakness is more commonly the cause of vice than
wilfulness; and firmness is one of those moral lessons
without which there is little virtue.
| CHAPTER XI.
THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree | |