 | CHAPTER XXIII.
HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE.
Meanwhile, what had been the condition of mind of
the ladies in the dwelling? They had heard the greater
part of the bloody struggle going on below—the shots
—the shouts, the groans and shrieks, and all the infernal
clamours of that strife of moral feelings and physical
passions, in which man, alone, of all the animals, is permitted
to indulge. The rending of bolt and bar had
also been audible, and they readily conjectured all the
rest. They finally knew that the barriers were forced,
and when the first rush of the strife was over, and the
silence of death prevailed for the first time below, then
did they feel assured that death himself was there, surrounded
by all his melancholy trophies. How terrible
was then that silence! For the first time during the
whole period of their suspense, did Flora Middleton
yield herself up to prayer. Before, she could not kneel.
While the storm raged below, her soul seemed to be in
it,—she could not divert it to that calmer, holier contemplation
which invests the purpose with purity, and
lifts the eye of the worshipping spirit to the serene
courts of Heaven. Her father's spirit was then her
own, and she felt all its stimulating strength. She felt
when at one moment the clamour seemed to be approaching,
her eye kindled with keener fire, as it looked
round the dim attic in which they had sought refuge, as
if in search of some weapon which might defend it.
“It's all over!” at length she exclaimed, when the
silence had continued the space of half an hour. “They
have left the house, mother.”
“Do not trust to go out yet, my child,” was the answer
of the grandmother. “I fear some trick, some
danger;—for why should they leave us undisturbed, so
long.”
“Hark! mother—there is a noise below.”
“Yes,—I think so! I hear it!”
“A footstep,—I should know that footstep!—a voice!
It is,—it must be the voice of Clarence Conway.”
The keen sense of the interested heart had not deceived
the maiden. Clarence Conway was, indeed,
within the dwelling. With limbs that trembled, and a
heart that shuddered as he advanced, the young commander
trod the avenues of the dwelling which bore
such bloody proofs, at every footstep, of the fearful
conflict which we have faintly endeavoured to describe.
The victims were all unknown to him, and
their uniforms, those equally of the British and the banditti,
did not awaken in him any sympathy in their
behalf. On the contrary, it would seem that enemies
alone had fallen, and the inference was natural enough
that they had fallen by the hands of those who were
friends to the country. But how should the patriots
have assailed the enemy in the dwelling which, hitherto,
among all the Americans, had been considered sacred.
Even though it had been made their place of retreat and
refuge, such, he would have preferred it to remain,
sooner than its peaceful and pure sanctuary should have
been dishonoured by such unholy tokens. But the
more serious concern which troubled him, arose from
his apprehensions for Flora and her grandmother. He
hurried through the several chambers, calling on their
names. Well might his voice thicken with a husky
horror, as he heard the responses only of the deserted
when he was most miserable, and when, in his further
search in the upper chambers, he dreaded lest he should
happen on their mangled remains, his ear recognised, or
he fancied, an answer in those tones which were then
doubly dear to his senses.
“Flora, dear Flora!” he cried aloud, but with a rapidity
of utterance which almost made his syllables incoherent,
lest he should somehow lose the repetition of
the sweet assurance which he had so faintly heard before.
The door of the attic was thrown open in the
next instant, and the voice of the maiden summoned
him to her presence.
He clasped her in his arms with a fervour which could
not be put aside; which no mere looks of reserve could
discourage or repulse; nay, under circumstances of relief
which wrought in her mind a momentary forgetfulness
of his supposed perfidy.
“Thank God, you are safe!” was his fervent ejaculation;
“but tell me, dear Flora, what means the horrible
carnage which has taken place below?”
“Oh, Clarence—your brother! Is he not there—is
he not among the slain?”
“No! he is not among them—what of him? I see
none among the slain but British and sworn enemies.”
“Then they have made him prisoner—the Black
Riders—they made the assault upon the house because
he was in it; their avowed purpose being to execute
death upon him as a rebel.”
A sad smile passed over the lips of Clarence, as he
heard these words, and his head was shaken with a
mournful doubt.
“He has nothing to fear from them, Flora!” he replied,
“but where are they? How long is it since this
dreadful affair took place.”
“Scarce and hour. The horrible strife I seem to hear
now. To my senses it is scarcely ended.”
“Enough! I must believe you then. I must fall
upon these bloodhounds if I can. Farewell, dear Flora,
—farewell, for a little while.”
“But your brother—remember, Colonel Conway, that
he is your brother!”
“Colonel Conway!” exclaimed the young soldier, with
a surprise that was greatly increased as he beheld the
looks of the speaker, now suddenly cold and frozen.
“There is something wrong, Flora, I perceive; and
it all comes from that same brother, whose relationship
you are so anxious to have me remember. Would to
God that he had remembered it. But I will save him if
I can. You may be right—he may be in danger. Those
bloody wretches would not make much difference between
friend and foe, in their love of strife and plunder.
But meet me not with such looks when I return.”
“Fly, if you would save him. I tremble, Colonel
Conway, lest you should be too late!”
“Colonel Conway, again! Flora Middleton, you have
again listened to the voice of the slanderer. There must
be an explanation of this, dear Flora.”
“There shall be, but fly now, if you would be of service,—if
you would lessen the difficulties of that explanation.”
“Be it so! I leave you, Flora, but will leave a few
trusty men to rid your dwelling of these bloody tokens.
Meanwhile, spare yourself the sight; keep your present
place of retreat, till you hear my voice. Farewell.”
“Farewell!”—the word was uttered by Flora with
emphatic fervour. From her heart she wished him, of
all others, to fare well! She looked with a longing,
lingering gaze after his noble form, so erect, so commanding,
so distinguished in all its movements, by the
governing strength of a high and fearless soul within.
“Can such a presence conceal such baseness!” she
murmured, as she returned to the attic. “Can it be,
dear mother?” was the apparently unmeaning expression
which fell involuntarily from her lips, as she buried
her face in bitter anguish, in the bosom of the maternal
lady.
Clarence Conway immediately set his troop in motion.
He detached his more trusty scouts in advance. At
the moment of leaving the house, he had no sort of intelligence
which could designate the position of the
Not an individual was to be seen around the
dwelling. The slaves of the plantation, at the first approach
of the conflict, took flight to the swamp-thickets;
and in these they would remain until long after the
strom had overblown. Conway moved forward therefore
with the greatest caution. He might be entering
an ambuscade, and certainly had reason to apprehend
one, in consequence of the sudden flight of the banditti
from the mansion-house before they had sacked it. The
idea that Edward Conway had any thing really to fear
from those whom he too well knew to be his confederates,
was something of an absurdity, which he found
little difficulty in dismissing from his mind. He rejoiced,
at the first moment of receiving the intelligence, that his
brother lived—that he had survived the fiercer conflict
which had taken place between them. But, an instant
after, and he almost regretted that such was the case.
It was his duty to pursue him as a public enemy, and one
of a cast so atrocious that he well knew, if taken, his
life would probably be required by the hands of the summary
avenger. The stern justice which in those days
required blood for blood, had long since selected the
fierce chief of the Black Riders as a conspicuous victim
for the gallows; and Clarence Conway, as a means to
avoid this cruel possibility, issued the sanguinary orders
to his troop to show no quarter. The tenderest form
of justice called for their extermination in the shortest
possible manner. This resolve was made and the command
given, after he had been advised by the scouts
that the enemy were collected in force upon an open
ground on the river bluff, a short mile and a half above.
The scouts reported that a good deal of confusion appeared
among them, but they could not approach sufficiently
nigh to ascertain its particular occasion; having
returned, in obedience to orders, as soon as they had
traced out the enemy's place of retreat. They also conveyed
to Conway the farther intelligence that they
might have gone much nearer with impunity,—that the
foe, so far from forming an ambush, had not, in fact,
taken the usual precautions against attack,—had not
little difficulty.
Upon hearing this, Clarence Conway gave orders for
a division of his force into three equal parties; one of
which was despatched to make a circuit, and gain a
point above them upon the river, a second was ordered
to traverse the river banks from below, while he, himself,
leading on the third division, was to burst suddenly
upon them from the forest—the nearest point from
which the attack could be made. These orders had
scarcely been given, before the sound of a rifle was
heard, in the direction of the spot where the outlaws
were assembled, and this was followed by a confused
clamour, as of many voices. This hurried the movement.
What was the meaning of that shot? Did it
indicate alarm among the enemy? Were they apprised
of his approach? Clarence Conway, in all his conjectures,
made no sort of approach to the real nature of
that one rifle-shot, and yet it was of some importance
to him and to his feelings. It rendered a portion of his
task less irksome, and far less difficult. Silently, he led
the way for his division—not a bugle sounded—scarce
a word was spoken, and the parties separated on their
several courses, with no more noise than was unavoidable,
from the regular and heavy tread of their horses'
feet. It was fortunate for them, perhaps, that the banditti
which they sought were only too busy in their own
purposes to be heedful of their foes until it was too late.
But let us not anticipate.
The Black Riders had borne their victim, with slow
steps, upon his litter, to the spot which had been chosen
for his last involuntary act of expiation. Their advance
was preceded by that of our old friend, the watchful
scout, John Bannister. Anxious, to the last degree,
for the safety of the ladies of the barony, he had tracked
the steps of the outlaws to the assault upon the dwelling,—following
as closely upon their heels as could be
justified by a prudential regard to his own safety. He
had beheld so much of the conflict as could be comprehended
by one who was compelled to maintain his watch
from a distant covert in the woods. The cause of the
him; and this, too, added not a little to the anxiety
which filled his mind. This anxiety grew to agony
when he discovered that the defences of the dwelling
were broken down, and the house in the possession of
the banditti. The fate of Flora Middleton was in their
hands, and he was impotent to serve or save her. His
anguish was truly indescribable, as it was nearly insupportable.
But he was suddenly aroused from its indulgence,
when he beheld the crowd, as, leaving the house,
it advanced through the grounds to that very spot in the
woods in which he had made his hiding place. It became
necessary to decamp; and as he sped back to the place
where he had left his canoe in the custody of the landlord
and Jacob Clarkson, he was somewhat surprised to find
that they continued to follow in his footsteps. Somewhat
wondering at this, and at their brief delay in the dwelling
which they had entered after so obstinate a conflict,
he ordered Muggs to put himself, Clarkson and the
canoe, into close cover, while he, himself, advancing
somewhat upon the higher grounds before them, could,
from a place of concealment, observe the movements of
the enemy, and prescribe the farther conduct of his own
attendants.
He had not long to wait. The Black Riders brought
their prisoner to the very spot where the body of Mary
Clarkson lay buried. The fainting form of the outlaw
chief was leaned against the head-board which the devoted
Bannister had raised to her memory; and, as the
anguish following the transfer of his body to the ground
from the door on which it had been borne, caused Morton
to open his eyes, and restored him to consciousness,
the letters “M. C.” met his first glance, but their import
remained unconjectured. He had not much time allowed
him for conjectures of any kind. His implacable
foe, Stockton, stood before him with looks of hate and
triumph which the prostrate man found it difficult to endure,
but utterly impossible to avoid.
“It is all over with you, Ned Morton,” said the other.
mercy?”
A smile of scorn passed over the lips of the outlaw.
“My life is not in your hands;” he replied, “and, if
it were, it should be thrice forfeit before I should acknowledge
your power and ask your mercy. I bid you defiance
to the last; I look upon you without fear, though
with unsuppressed loathing, as I quit the world, and, in
this way, do I baffle all your malice.”
As he spoke these words, he drew the little stiletto
suddenly from his bosom, and plunged it desperately,
and with an effort of all his strength, full at his own
heart. But the blow was baffled. The hand of Darcy,
who had placed himself behind Morton without his
knowledge, was extended at the moment, and grasped
the arm which impelled the weapon.
“Not so fast!” cried Stockton, as he wrested the
weapon from his hand, and flung it from him, “there's
no cheating the halter. It's a destiny!”
The baffled outlaw writhed himself about, and looking
round upon Darcy, with a bitter smile, exclaimed—
“May your last friend fail you, as mine has done, at
the last moment!”
A faintness then came over him, his eyes closed, and
he sank back exhausted upon the little hillock which
covered Mary Clarkson. Little did he at that moment
conjecture on whose bosom his body temporarily found
repose.
“Up with him at once;” cried Stockton, “or he will
cheat the gallows at last.”
An active brigand then ran up the trunk of a huge
water oak that stood nighest to the spot. The rope
was flung to him and fastened; and two of the banditti,
stooping down raised the fainting outlaw upon their
shoulders, while the noose was to be adjusted. As his
form was elevated above the level of the rest, the crowd
shouted with ferocious exultation; and brought back to
the eyes of their destined victim, a portion of their
former fire. He recovered a momentary strength. He
looked round upon them with scorn. He felt his situation,
and all the shame, and all the agony,—but his
were utterly unblenching.
“He'll die game!” muttered John Bannister, who, at
length, as he recognized the features of Edward Conway,
began to conjecture the truth, and to comprehend
the circumstances, which were lately so inscrutable.
“He'll die game; he's got some of the good blood of
the Conways in him, after all. But it's a mortal pity
he should die so, for the family's sake. It's a good
name, and he's the blood-kin of Clarence.”
The scout lifted his rifle, as he thus soliloquized.
The evident desire to interpose, and save the victim
from one fate by the substitution of another, was strong
and anxious in his mind.
“But, no!”—he said, after he had drawn his sight
upon the pale brow of the outlaw.—“If it's to be done
at all, Jake Clarkson's the man to do it. He's got a
sort of right to Ned Conway's life. Jake! Jake!”
He called up the desolate old man, who, on the lower
ground by the river had not seen these proceedings.
“Jake!” he said—“is your rifle loaded?”
“Yes!”
“Then look, man!—there's your enemy—there's
Ned Conway—it's him that they're a-lifting up among
them there. I 'spose they want to do him some parti'lar
kind of honour, but it's jest over poor Mary's
grave!”
The words were electric! The old man grasped
and raised his weapon. He saw not the purpose of
the crowd, nor did he pause to ask what was the
sort of honour which they were disposed to confer
upon the outlaw. He saw him!—his face only! That
he knew, and that was enough. A moment elapsed—
but one!—and the report of the rifle rang sharply along
the river banks. In the same moment the men who
were lifting Edward Morton to the tree, dropped the
body to the ground. The work of death was already
done! Their efforts were no longer necessary, as their
design was unavailing. The bullet had penetrated the
forehead of the outlaw, and his blood streamed from
the orifice upon the still fresh mould which covered the
quarter whence the shot had come, but the boat of John
Bannister, with his associates, were already at some
distance from the shore.
| CHAPTER XXIII.
HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree | |