University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

I was seized by a couple of stout ruffians, who
lifted me, head and feet, as if I had been a mere
sack of straw, and hustled off upon their shoulders
to the edge of the creek where a boat lay, into
which I was tumbled with as little remorse as
was shewn to Fallstaff when they emptied him
out of the wick-basket into the Thames. They
pulled down with me something like a mile, then
landed on a sort of island, which seemed to be
covered with an almost impervious forest. Once
more lifted upon their shoulders, I was borne
through narrow avenues of the wood a distance

of some three hundred yards or more. Our course
seemed to be a winding one. We at length
reached a very strong log-house, consisting of a
single apartment, probably twelve feet square.
The logs were hewn and fitted closely. They
were of the heaviest kind. There was no window,
and but a single, and that a very low door,
into which I was thrust headlong. Here I was
left—the door fastened behind me, in a darkness
that was rather increased than relieved, by an occasional
gleam of sunshine that stole here and
there through chink or crevice—to brood over my
condition, and reconcile myself to the future prospect
with what philosophy I could command.
That prospect was no ways encouraging, and my
philosophy was not of the most composing or
consoling nature. I confess it, boy-like, I fell into
very ridiculous and childish furies, the recollection
of which, to this day, brings the blush into my
face. I raved, and swore, and flung myself about
upon the damp earth until I was tired. A few
hours brought me to my senses. Darkness and
silence are great subduers of passion—great promoters
of reflection. Why will not our legislators
discover this, and substitute imprisonment
for life in place of that code, equally barbarous
and ineffective, which violently tears away the
sacred life principle, from the temple, made after
the image of God, in which he has enshrined it?
In the darkness of the scene—a gloom, thick and
seemingly solid and tangible—which was spread
around me,—and that awful stillness which seemed
to breathe in slumbers of the grave—I began to
recover my half-banished senses. I began to
consider my situation. What was that? What
was I to do? What was my hope? It was now
clear to me that, in spite of the kindness of Bush
Halsey's nature, he was powerless to save me.
He himself lived but upon terms with his outlawed
brother, who, I was now persuaded, was as reckless
in his ferocity as he was unscrupulous in all
moral performances. That Bush Halsey would
try, as he had already tried, to save me, I had no
question, even though he might have entertained
some of the loathsome suspicions which his brother
had tried to thrust into his mind. But I had
marked too well the natural and enforced expression
of defiance which the outlaw had shown
towards himself, not to feel very sure that there
was no hope from his interposition. And, as for
the sweet, suffering Helen! She would pray, I
knew—she would be sleepless in the toil in my
behalf;—but what would it avail? I had already
seen, in her frequent deportment, how much fear
she entertained of her brutal uncle, and though
the might acquire greater courage in approaching
him than usual, having my danger in view, yet, I
could not deceive myself into the notion that much
good would result from any of her entreaties.
Well,—the substance of my reflections led me
only to this. I was in the meshes—in a den of
thieves and murderers, doomed to death, and
hoping nothing either from their mercy, or
their dread of legal vengeance. But there was
one alternative,—one outlet—allotted me of escape—to
wed with Helen Halsey! Well, could
I stickle to avail myself of this alternative?
Nay, was not this my own desire but five
hours before? Would I not have esteemed such
a prize, a treasure beyond all price, but a little
while ago—the sole, great object of my desire?
Strange, indeed, what perverse mortals we are.
My pride revolted at the idea of being forced into
the possession of that which I desired beyond
all other objects. I now persuaded myself that
uncle and father, were both in a scheme to force
me into these nuptials—that it was a cunning device
to restore to society some of her outcasts—
one of those petty, dirty little tricks of a base and
cunning nature, of which I was to be the victim.
I need not say with what loathing I revolted at
this suggestion—how indignant it made me to
think, that they could fancy me so dastardly,
or so blind—and I resolved rather to meet my
fate, than dishonor my father's family, by connecting
myself with such a brood. Let me do
myself justice, however. I never for a moment
suspected Helen of any consciousness of this design.
No—I felt that she was pure and true. I
did not think it. My heart prevented my thoughts
in her case, and, every feeling within me rose in
arms against the slightest suggestion of my reason
to this effect. Her heart had been pressed
against my own—her face, covered with mingling
tears and blushes, had been buried in my bosom,
and that sacred pressure had been enough, not
only to endear her to me forever, but to make me
confident in her truth and loyalty. Ah! that
first press of heart to heart, when both hearts are
young and ardent. What a volume does it
teach! What a life does it embody!—how full
of assurances and inquiries, and promises and
hopes,—sweet regrets,—and pleasures, so acute,
as almost to be akin to pain! That first kiss of
love—that first dear, stolen embrace,—the keenest
joy of life, to which none after bears likeness,
—in comparison with which all other joys are
dwarfed! Still, quivering in my whole soul with
the rapture of this embrace, I could not think of
the dear girl, with whom I shared it, but as a
victim like myself. Yet, so thinking, I would not
stomach the necessity of being forced to wed
her, by the imperious will of a person I despised.
The more I brooded on this threatened necessity,
the more I revolted from it, and resolved against
it. `No!' I exclaimed bitterly, in all the heroics
of boyhood,—`sooner let me perish!'

Having reached this conclusion, I found composure.
I stretched myself at length upon the
ground, which I had now leisure to see was
strewed pretty thickly with dried leaves, and was
surprised by sleep;—and, dreaming of a fierce
and deadly struggle with the outlaw, Bud Halsey,
I was awakened, somewhere about midnight,

by a rough hand laid upon my shoulder,—a rough
voice, which I too well remembered, in my ears—
and, flashing in my eyes, a huge torch, by the
blaze of which I was half stupified and blinded.
The intruder was Bud Halsey. He stuck the
torch in a crevice of the wall, and calmly seating
himself before me, regarded me with a glance of
the keenest inquiry. I need not say that I returned
it with one of scorn and defiance, and we
looked upon one another in this manner, in a
silence which lasted for several minutes. At
length, he said:

“You do not seem to understand your true
condition, young man. Did you suppose that I
was trifling with you when I sent you here?”

“If you were,” I answered, “it is a sort of
trifling which I should be very loth to forgive,
should the moment ever arrive when resentment
would be to any purpose. I cannot suppose you
were trifling.”

“You are a lad of more sense than I had given
you credit for. The rest ought to be easy. You
see your condition. You have heard your fate.
You have had time for reflection. Are you prepared?
Will you choose? Will you hang, or
marry the foolish girl you have dishonored?”

“You dishonor her by your foul breath, and
foul imagination. She is pure as heaven.”

“Pshaw! young man! Do you suppose me
as unread as yourself in the history of human
nature? Do I not know the weakness of woman's

nature, and the recklessness of man's nature,
when occasion serves and opportunity invites?
But this as it may. I give you an alternative.
If you have not wronged Helen Halsey, and you
love her, as you profess, so much the less should
be your reluctance to marry her. If you did not
design to marry her before, as I suppose from
your unwillingness now, there is every reason
for suspecting you as I do, and taking for granted
all the worst that one evil nature can imagine of
another. On this subject we need waste no
words. The simple question is before you. Will
you marry her?”

“Where is her father? I would see and speak
with him.”

“You cannot.”

“Why not? He will not refuse me.”

“But I will! Look you, young man, Bush
Halsey is, in some respects, as great a simpleton
as yourself. If he had a voice in the matter, he
would send you home to your mother, perhaps
fill your pockets with ginger-bread, pat you on
the head, bid you go on your way rejoicing, and
shed a flood of benevolent tears at your departure.
But I am the master here! I am the outlaw! I
do and counsel the robberies, and, if you please,
I command and execute the murders. You know
enough to make the task of confession on my
part a very easy one. You know too much!—
And this is the true reason of your predicament.
You came here of your own free will, knowing

among whom you came, and practising deception
and falsehood to wind yourself in among our
secrets. You are a spy, and our situation is such
as to render us rather unscrupulous with that
sort of persons. But I am willing to please my
brother, and to gratify my niece. They are
pleased with you, and I have not scrupled to say,
and I repeat, notwithstanding your denials, that I
think it necessary that you should marry her. It
is for this reason that I propose to you this alternative,
grant you this time for reflection, and
seek you out at midnight to enlighten you more
fully on the necessity of the thing. Had it not
been for this, I should have had you knocked on
the head without a word of parley; and, sure that
we should have no further trouble at your hands,
should be now comfortably asleep, instead of
sitting here, at midnight, endeavoring to make
you sensible of your danger. There now—you
have the whole, and what is your answer?”

The whole manner of the outlaw was so contemptuous,
his tones so cold and sneering, his
suggestions so unfeeling, and everything about
him so offensive to my feelings, that I forgot my
own danger, and replied promptly:—

“Nothing! I have no answer.”

“Nothing! You have no answer?”

“None for you.”

“Very good! I leave you! You may look
for me at sunrise, when you may probably be
better able to find an answer. Good night.”

Coolly detaching the torch from the wall, he
waved it around so as to take in at a glance the
entire apartment, and without further word, left
the dungeon. The door was carefully fastened
behind him, and the sound of voices without, led
me to the conclusion that he did not omit the precaution
of placing a guard upon the premises. In
a few moments more I was left in darkness, and
to my own reflections. These were not so gloomy.
They were of a stern and angry sort. I had been
irritated, not subdued, and, to confess a truth, I
could not bring myself to believe that the case
was so desperate as the outlaw made it appear.
I could not think that Bush Halsey was so powerless,
or that I should be abandoned to such a
cruel fate. It was all a contrivance to terrify
me into certain measures, and it was only a test
of manliness which was to hold out longest. I
was resolved not to show the white feather, and,
after a while, fell asleep, as if nothing threatened
in the morning.