University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

When Bradshaw left the jail, he resolved to call,
in his way home, at the office of the Squire, Bailley,
who committed Jane Durham, and learn from
him the testimony against her. The more he saw
of her, the more deeply interested he became in
her case, and the stronger became his conviction
that she was “more sinned against than sinning.”
Johnson's conduct satisfied him that there was some
foul play. Nancy had observed Johnson's anxiety
to commit her to jail—the jailer's account farther
proved it; and, connecting this with what Bradshaw,
himself, marked in his conduct, when he met
him and Fritz, and, also, when standing by the body
of the murdered man, he felt convinced that the
watchman had a mysterious agency in the affair of
the night. For his enmity to himself, Bradshaw
could easily account. He had, as we have already
observed, severely commented on Johnson's conduct
in a certain trial, before a crowded court, and in a
manner that one of the watchman's temper could
neither forget nor forgive. And then Glassman—
Glassman always appeared, in his mind's eye, when
he thought of Jane Durham. “I must find Glassman,”
thought he: “no one seems to know what

has become of him; but I'll speak to the magistrate;
and this afternoon I will learn from the girl,
herself, the real facts.” The office of the magistrate
lay directly in Bradshaw's way to his own office.
He entered it, and found him within, seated
at his table, behind a railing, constructed for the
purpose of keeping the curious crowd at a proper
distance from the magisterial person. “Familiarity
begets contempt,” says the proverb, of which Mr.
Bailley had thought, as well as of the safety of his
books and papers, when he ordered the railing to
be made. Around the stove, within the railing,
were several constables, “cussing and discussing”
the police affairs of the day with the representative
of justice. The subject of conversation, when
Bradshaw entered, was the murder, and the arrest
of Jane Durham. Jones, the watchman, whom our
readers remember went for the light, when Johnson
refused, was saying—

“It's a strange kind of a business to me—it's mixed
up so that I can neither make head nor tail out of
it. Johnson swears here this morning, that when
he heard a rumpus in at Dean's he rushed in, and
saw the girl give a knife to one of the fellows, and
tell him to kill the rascal if he wanted her to think
well of him. The fellow took the knife, yet neither
of these chaps that's been arrested does Johnson
swear to as being the man; but he says he would
know the man, if he saw him. Mr. Bradshaw, good
morning, sir;”—and Jones advanced to Bradshaw,
and they stepped aside.

“Jones, how did you come on last night?” inquired
Bradshaw.

“Badly, Squire, badly,—we went up the lane,
to the house you told me of. We couldn't get
lights for some time. We found old Moll there
drunk, and she said she had none; and when we
did get 'em, the wind blew them out; howsomever,
we lit 'em again; but by the time we got 'em in
again, the bird, if he was there, had put. One of
the fellows told me, who is a kind of a half stool pigeon,
that he was much hurt; but that he had been
carried off. We had to give it up: the murder
and the fuss before had made them keen of scent.
But we're going to-night, a whole posse of us, to
see if we can't catch him.”

“I've a great mind to go with you,” said Bradshaw,
reflecting that if he did, he might elicit something
in the case of Jane Durham.

“Squire, you would do us a mighty service, if
you only would,” said Jones.

“What time do you go?”

“Not before eleven o'clock. If they should see
us prying about there while they were stirring,
they'd pass the word, and we shouldn't see hide
nor hair of em.”

“But had you not better go in the day time. If
he is hurt very much, you may find him stowed
away somewhere; or you could, at least, reconnoitre
the premises.”

“Yes, that's true,” said Jones; “but we know
the whole premises; and night's the best time to
find 'em, for they'll be drinking and carousing round,
and be off their guard.”

“Well,” said Bradshaw, “I will go with you.”

“Shall we call round at your office, sir?”

“No, I'll stop in at the watch-house. Jones, what
is the testimony against the girl?”

“Why, Squire, bilious, very bilious. Johnson
swears that he saw her give a knife to some fellow,
—but the fellow's not found.”

“Where's the man?”

“He's round at D—'s Hotel. We took him
there from the watch-house this morning. We found
out who he is—his name is Samson Carpenter.
He is, they say, from the country.”

“He's not dead yet, then?”

“He wasn't this morning, sir, though he has
never spoken a word. He breathes very hard.
He can't stand it long.”

Here a watchman entered, and said Carpenter
had died.

“Where was he hurt?”

“A deep gash on the head, sir?”

“But is he stabbed?”

“I don't know, sir. I just helped to carry him
to the watch-house last night, and then I went after
that Henry Adams, and left him with Johnson
and the rest. The man that was hurt had a friend
with him: he appeared here to-day, and gave in
his testimony, and, I believe, he had some business
he couldn't put off; so he gave security for his appearance,
and left town. The court, you know,
commences next month.”

“Yes. What was his testimony?”

The watchman could not say, and Bradshaw
turned to the magistrate, to inquire. Mr. Bailley
told him little more than he had previously learned.
Johnson swore positively, that he saw Jane Durham

give the dagger to one of the boys, and make
the remark alleged. The friend of Carpenter,
whose name was Lowry, the magistrate informed
Bradshaw, swore, that a girl at Dean's had quarrelled
with Carpenter, and threatened him; but he
could not say whether Jane Durham was the girl
or not. “And Johnson said,” continued the magistrate,
“that old Moll would swear most positively,
she saw the girl, Jane Durham, stab Carpenter.”

“How can that be,” said Bradshaw, “when Johnson
has already sworn that he saw the girl give the
knife to one of the boys, expressing the desire that
he would kill him?”

“Why, Mr. Bradshaw,” said Bailley, “I committed
her finally, to await the sitting of the court;
I cannot properly hear the case, can I?”

Bailley misunderstood Bradshaw's interest in Jane
Durham, as did every one, except those to whom
he had explained the events of the night, and very
naturally.

“These things, you know,” said Bradshaw, in
answer, “are never very formally done; and if any
thing very favourable to the girl should transpire,
you would certainly have no objection to hear and
act upon it.”

A sudden thought struck Bradshaw, and he left
the magistrate's hastily, to put it into execution;
namely, to ask Job not to let Johnson, the watchman,
go to old Moll's cell unaccompanied, for he
could not but think, that his evident malice towards
himself and the girl, would induce him to
prompt old Moll to mischief; which, from what he
had seen of her character, and conduct to the girl,
he believed would be an easy matter.

Bradshaw had scarcely advanced three steps
from the door, when he saw before him, coming
directly to the magistrate's, Johnson, with old Moll.
His first impulse, was to warn Johnson that he was
aware of his conduct; but, upon second thought,
he resolved to meet him as if he had not the least
suspicion of him. Bradshaw stopped until Johnson
reached the spot where he stood: when the watchman
saw Bradshaw, he started, and seemed anxious
to avoid being seen; but he rallied, and said,

“Squire, so you know we caught the girl who
committed the murder last night. I took her to
the jail this morning. Job tells me you got him to
be kind to her. If I had known your feelings, I
might have treated her better; but here's old Moll,
who saw her stab the man.”

“Yes,” said old Moll, “you may cut up rowdy
tricks in my house, and kill people for her, but you
can't save her neck, neither; and if you had killed
me, when you shoved me into the corner, you
couldn't have saved your own, without her false
swearing. But my time's come.”

Johnson frowned, and shook his head at the hag,
as she spoke.

“Yes, my time's come; the day's been when I
was better than her; and the day'll be when she's
worse than old Moll; ha, ha! What I saw I'll
swear to; you'll have to speak hard, to save her,
though you have a glib tongue.”

Bradshaw said nothing, but followed Moll and
Johnson into the Squire's. Old Moll, Bradshaw
soon discovered, was intoxicated: Johnson was irresolute.
Bradshaw's presence seemed to produce
an effect on him which he could not throw off.

The magistrate asked him twice what he wanted,
before he answered, by saying—

“This woman will prove, sir, that the girl
you committed this morning, stabbed the man,
and—”

“Yes,” said old Moll, stepping up to the magistrate,
“I'll swear to it, pint blank—hand me
the book. I saw her stab the man at Dean's.”

The magistrate looked at Bradshaw, inquiringly.

“I have no objection,” said Bradshaw; “you
may as well examine her—though the girl should
be here.”

“Moll, you've been drinking,” said the magistrate.
“Who gave you drink?”

“I gave it to myself,” said Moll.

“That's a lie,” said Jones, the watchman, “for
when I took you to the jail this morning, you had
no money.”

“I gave her something to drink,” said Johnson,
quickly, “as we came along. May be she
had not best be examined. I didn't think 'twould
harm her. Shall I take her back, sir?” said he,
to the magistrate.

“We might as well hear what she has to say,”
said Bradshaw, to the magistrate.

The greasy Bible, that so many profane lips had
kissed, was now presented, perhaps, to the profanest
of all. Supporting herself against the railing,
with one hand, while with the other she
raised the book to her lips, old Moll took the
oath, and, with a toss of the head, faced Bradshaw,
who had seated himself carelessly by the

side of the magistrate, and was, apparently,
making unmeaning figures on a sheet of paper
with a pen.

“Tell what you know about this stabbing,
Moll,” said the magistrate.

“I know this much about it,” said Moll, “that
last night there was a ball at Dean's, and that that
girl,—I don't know what her name is,—Jane
something, I believe, came there, and got cutting
round, and that a strange man, that looked countryfied,
asked her to dance, and she wouldn't; and
a fuss was raised, and she stabbed him.”

“You saw her stab him?” inquired the magistrate.

“O, yes, Mr. Bailley,” said Moll, in a tone
that was affectedly gentle, “I saw it; you may be
sure I saw it, Squire—you know I've sworn to
it.”

“Mr. Bradshaw, will you ask any questions?”
said the magistrate.

“A few, sir,” said Bradshaw, “if I have favour
enough with Mistress Molly to get an answer;”
and, then, in a jesting indifferent tone he put his
questions, while he seemed to be figuring on the
paper. “What time was this, Molly?”

“I can't tell the exact hour. I didn't note the
time: may be eleven, may be twelve. I can't
say—she did it, that's enough.”

“Whom did she go to the ball with?”

“I don't know, and I don't care.”

“Did you see Johnson there?”

“No.—Yes, I believe he was there,” she continued,
after glancing at Johnson.

“Who went to the ball with you?”

“What's that to your business?” she replied.

The magistrate told her she must reply properly;
and she said, “Sall Sanders.”

“Who else?”

“Henry Adams,” she replied, after some hesitation.

“Where is Henry Adams?”

“I don't know;—dead may be. There was
more murders than one, that night, I expect.”

“Is Henry Adams the man whom I saw in the
house with you?”

Moll hesitated a long time, and then said—
“No.”

Bradshaw now asked her a great many indifferent
questions; and then carelessly inquired—
“How came the girl, Jane Durham, at your
house?”

“She went there with Sall, Henry Adams, and
me,” was the reply.

“Henry Adams, then,” remarked Bradshaw, “is
the same man that I saw in your house?”

“Yes; the same man that you killed—and you
ought to be stretched for it.”

“Describe the scene when Jane Durham stabbed
the man at Dean's.”

“I can't describe it: I know nothing about it. I
saw her stab him, and that I swear to.”

Bradshaw here said, that he had but one more
question to ask. “Why did Jane Durham go to
your house?”

Moll hesitated for a long time, and, at last, said,

“After she had stabbed the man, Adams and

Sall persuaded her to go to hide from the watch.”
As Moll could give no security for her appearance
at court, she was remanded to the jail, that she
might be forthcoming at the trial. When Johnson
and Moll left the room, Bradshaw handed the testimony
of Moll, which he had written off, as she
gave it in, and requested the magistrate to read it,
and see if it was not correct. He read it, and said
it was perfectly so. “Then,” said Bradshaw, “be
so kind as to sign it, and I will keep it till the trial.”
He did so. After being reminded by Jones of their
engagement for the night, Bradshaw withdrew.
He went in search of Willoughby; told him of the
whole case, and remarked,

“Willoughby, I know you are fond of adventures.
I don't wish to enter this business to-night,
without some one with me whom I can trust better
than one of these watchmen: I wish you would go
with me.”

“With all my heart,” replied Willoughby: “I
meant to propose it to you, when you first said you
were going.”

“Which of you enacts Sancho Panza?” asked
Cavendish, who was by. “Which of you, I pray?
It must be you, Kentuck; and, Bradshaw, here is
Don Quixotte, and the lady fair—Glassman's frail
lady—is the Dulcinea del Toboso. Well, you'll
get your heads broke, in all human probability.
Your knight-errantry is devoted, if not elevated—
but I forgot the reward! you go halves, I suppose.
You put me in mind of an anecdote I have seen of
George Selwyn, the celebrated wit: he had a great
penchant for the spectacle of an execution, and hearing

that several malefactors were to be beheaded
in Paris, (the guillotine was not yet invented,) he
crossed over, for the purpose of witnessing the
scene. On the appointed day, by the favour of the
police, he took his station beside the fatal instrument.
The executioner, seeing the evident interest
he took in the business, supposed him an
English gentleman of his own craft; he, therefore,
with a profound bow, offered him the bloody axe.
`Thank you, my dear sir,” said Selwyn; “I am
only an amateur.' If you only go in as amateurs,
of course, you cannot expect any part of the reward,
but when the true thief-takers give a jollification
on the strength of it, you will, of course, attend,
as their particular friends.” So speaking,
away went Cavendish.

“The Judge is an odd fish,” said Willoughby.
“To look at his phiz, one would no more expect
humour in him, than in the weeping philosopher;
but he has it, and loves it as a gourmand does his
favourite dish. Yet he has a good deal of sentiment,
and is one of the best-hearted fellows I ever
knew. Don't you think highly of his talents, Bradshaw?”

“Certainly, very. He is fond of the profession;
and that is the secret of success in it. He and I
were schoolmates here, in town: he was always
just such a fellow. He would have all the school
laughing; and, in the midst of the merriment, never
move a muscle—look as if he wondered what they
were laughing at. One day, at a public examination,
he fixed the bell-rope to his dog's collar, as the
animal lay asleep, and quietly came up stairs, and

took his place in his class, looking as if the fate of
Cato and of Rome hung upon his solemnity. You
know the prinkiness of a public examination: the
boys in their best, and the parents and friends looking
on so attentively and anxiously. In the midst
of it, the bell began to ring vehemently—for the
dog, rousing up and finding himself fast, jerked with
a vengeance. `There's fire! fire!' exclaimed Cavendish.
The whole school took up the chorus,
and away he broke, down stairs, the first of all,
and let his dog loose, before any one discovered the
cause—the boys following after. It has always
been a cause of inquiry among the boys, how the bell
was rung. Cavendish, with the gravest face imaginable,
would enter into the discussion, and wonder
if a house could be haunted. I happened to
find it out, but have never mentioned it, just that I
may allude to the circumstance when some of our
old school-mates are by, and watch Cavendish's
face. He don't know, to this day, that I know it.
Don't you say any thing to him about it; and the next
time we are all together, where there are any of our
old school-mates, I'll speak of the fact, and do you
keep your eye on the Judge. The teacher was a
very peculiar man, and a great lover of wit and
humour. He had a habit of throwing his hat, which
he always wore in school, at a boy, when he misbehaved;
and he would make him bring it up, and
punish him. One day, he came in school with a
new hat. The moment Cavendish saw him, he began
to cut a good many pranks: he wanted him to
throw his new hat at him. The teacher saw him,
and was in the act of hurling it, when he caught
himself, and exclaimed—`Cavendish, if my hat was
not too good, I would throw it at you.' Cavendish
looked at him with a face of the most child-like
simplicity, and said—`Throw your head, then, sir.'
The old fellow, contrary to what would have been
the conduct of most teachers, shook the Judge by
the hand, and laughed heartily. They never meet
now, but what they have a long chat together.
The Judge, too, sometimes acts very oddly, without
meaning any jest. He prides himself very much
upon being polite in his own house. You know in
what an old-fashioned house he lives; the furniture,
and every thing around and in it, are in keeping.
One day, we had been out riding, and we returned
very much fatigued. He insisted upon my staying
all night with him, and we retired very early. He
conducted me to a large, solemn-looking room, in
which was a very large bed, hung round with
massive dark curtains, and left me. For some time
after I retired, I lay awake, thinking of feudal
times, baronial castles, and so forth. I fell asleep
with such thoughts. I was awakened by a voice
that said, I know not what. Starting up, I beheld
a figure at my bed-side, with a light in its hand.
In the bewilderment of the moment, I really thought
myself in some castle's keep; but I was speedily
aware of where I was, by the Judge's apologetic
tone. `Bradshaw, my dear friend,' said he, `excuse
me: I forgot to ask you if you would have any
thing. Are you warm enough?' Just as he spoke,
the clock struck two. Mark me—he'll come round
to my office this evening, to go, with us, on this
`Quixotic expedition,' as he calls it.

“Ha! ha! Well, he really is an odd fellow. Do

you think he'll go? Bradshaw, suppose we step
in here, and take some oysters, and then walk
round through the lane, where you were last night.
I should like to see the locality.”

Bradshaw assented; and, after taking some oysters,
by way of dinner, they proceeded to that part
of the city. Bradshaw pointed out to Willoughby
the place where the body of Carpenter was found;
and they passed on, and entered the lane. Here and
there might be seen a brick tenement, but the most
of the buildings were miserable shanties. The lane
was narrow and dirty. In many places the houses
were partially under ground, in consequence of the
lane having been graded since they were built. A
few of the frame ones were of two stories; and as
you looked up the lane, the houses on either side
reminded you of two rows of militia on their first
day of training, who find it impossible to stand in
regular file. Here the refuse of the city congregated.
It was the common sewer of her outcasts.

“You may travel through all Kentuck,” said
Willoughby, “and see nothing that reminds you of
this, with, perhaps, the exception of one or two
places in Louisville. Such looking places always
strike me with sadness.”

“Fisher Ames says,” remarked Bradshaw, “that
a large city is the standing army of ambition.”
Throw a community into commotion, and here you
may gather mercenaries for any purpose. If mobs
do not always originate in these haunts, here, at
least, are found the spirits whose similars made
France a demoniac democracy, who are fit for any
purpose of evil—the worst and for nothing of
good.”

“Bradshaw,” said Kentuck, “I don't know how
you feel about it, but I am morally as well as physically
healthier in the country. With my dog and
gun roaming through the woods, I feel no headaches,
and few of the excitements that lead to vice.
In a crowded city, the bustling inhabitants, the
news, and rumour of news, the many scenes that
attract, the various food for passion, the very noise
of the streets, keep one in a perpetual state of
excitement; at least one of my temperament, who
has lived in calmer scenes. And yet, like a love
for the cup, this excitement, which at first may be
disagreeable, becomes, after awhile, a pleasure,
and at last a want.”

They had now passed a considerable way into
the lane.

“Here I met those two fellows I spoke of,” said
Bradshaw, “who scampered off.” As they advanced,
they observed several men at the door of a low grocery,
eyeing them suspiciously. A woman came out
of a house, as if about to cross the street to another:
on seeing Bradshaw, she stared at him a moment
fiercely, and then turned and entered the door she
had just left. Bradshaw thought, though he was
not positive, that she was the woman whom he had
seen on the bed with old Moll. A drunken man
staggered out of the grocery, followed by a woman
of the most wretched appearance, who was heaping
upon him the most profane curses. The young
men at the door of the grocery, after whispering
earnestly together, followed after Bradshaw and
Willoughby, on the other side of the street.

“Bradshaw,” said Kentuck, “those fellows have

some mischief in their heads. It always provokes
me when I see such rascals eyeing and speaking of
one in the way they seem to be. Let's cross over
among them, and ask them some questions regarding
the rumpus last night. We'll see what metal
they're made of.”

“That won't do, Kentuck; we'll soon find that
they have a kind of metal which we hav'n't—cold
steel. I'm not armed the least, are you? Besides,
there is no necessity for an altercation with them,
and there's no honour in it. I shall appear for the
girl, and I don't want to provoke these fellows
against me. They were probably at the ball last
night, and may be witnesses in this case. Don't
you know that the feelings of these wretches are
such that, if they were angry with a lawyer, they
would as lieve as not swear away the life of his
client. No; I must conciliate them, and find out the
facts. Many a lawyer loses his case by assuming
a hostile attitude towards the opposite witnesses.
By the day of trial, I shall know much more of the
real facts of this case—and there is something dark
in the business—by this course, than I could in
any other way. The best place to let the rascals
know I've found them out, and to expose them, too,
is before the jury. In this way, I may protect the
innocent, and hit the evil doers with a vengeance.”

The conversation on the opposite side of the
street was characteristic.

“I wonder who those fellows are?” said one of
them—“they've ruffle shirts. Just look at that
tall fellow—he shows fight this very minute. By
hokey, there's a good deal of strength in him,—he
cares for nobody.”

“That little fellow,” said another, “is Bradshaw,
the lawyer, who pled for Fritz—he's the one who
liked to killed Adams last night about a gal. He's
a buster—any way you can fix him. He fit his
way last night through the lane, with a gal, in
spite of the whole of 'em. He knocked Adams
down just at a word. He ought to be mobbed.”

“Mob who?” said a slim-looking lad, who had
left the grocery and joined them, while this conversation
took place. He could not be more than
seventeen; he had a quick eye, handsome features,
with a kind of sailor dandyism about him; a mole
skin cap was set jauntily on the side of his head.
He was younger than any of those he addressed,
and much smaller. “Mob who?” said he; “not
Mr. Bradshaw. If you do, Fritz takes the other
side.”

The persons here stopped, and the one who
spoke last turned round and said to Fritz,—“Fritz,
I don't believe you're the clear grit, any how.”

“Clear grit, or foul grit,” replied Fritz, “he did
me a service, when there was nobody to help me.
When old Scrags asked me fifty dollars, and I
hadn't a cent, he got me off. He went my bail,
once, till I was tried, and kept me out of jail; and
when my trial came on, he got me off again.
Clear off, and I hav'n't paid him a cent for it.
If there's any plunder any where, say the word,
and I'm with you; but if you cut up any shines
on him, I'll blow the whole gang.”

“You'll turn state's evidence, will you?” said
the fellow, advancing in a threatening manner to
Fritz.”

“Pete,” said Fritz, looking him steadily in the
eye, “hands off! you mus'n't lay the weight of your
little finger on me, man, in anger.”

“Do you dare me?” said Pete, who was a tall
double-fisted fellow, “I could pick you up, tie you in
a double beau-knot, and throw you over my shoulder.”

“If you can,” said Fritz, “I can let day-light
into you as you're doing it.”

“Come boys?” said one of the company, “none
of this. You will raise a fuss presently, and we
had better be looking out for chances. Come, let's
go to the balloon ascension,—it's no use to follow
after them.”

They, accordingly, faced about, and left the lane
by the way that Bradshaw and Willoughby entered
it. Kentuck and Bradshaw walked on to the other
end of the lane; and after standing there a moment,
conversing and looking around them, they determined
to return through the lane to their offices,
that they might understand the place thoroughly—
a spirit of adventure actuating the Kentuckian,
and a fixed determination to save the girl, and find
out the true state of the case, moving Bradshaw.

“I begin to feel an interest in this business, Bradshaw,”
said Willoughby—“these scoundrels are a
caution. I expect that Adams is a leader among
them. Such miserable debauchery and villany
as theirs is a wonder to me. If a man were a robber-chief,
and held the fastnesses of a mountain,
or lived as Schiller described his Robbers, or as a
free, bold spirit might in the far west, there would
be some romance in the life; and the perilous adventure

would be in the free air, where exercise
would give vigorous health, and renewed energies.
But these poor devils here, surrounded by dirt and
smoke, and dogs of baliff's, are like a hunted 'coon
in a fired woods—they have no fair shake for it.
The hollowing, the smoke, the fire, conquers them
before they are seen—uses them up at once. The
warfare of society upon these spirits, is like that of
the savages of the woods against their foes; it hunts
them down without mercy. Confound it!—I feel
that these things are not right. Yet how can
you mend them. Here am I now, coming to-night as
I would go to fox hunt, to see a fellow run down—
earthed.”

“But the fellow deserves it, you must remember,
Kentuck,” said Bradshaw; “and if, by leaving him
undisturbed, we could be satisfied that he would
do no more harm, why, I would rather give him
a blessing than a curse, as I left him. But we
must protect the weak and the defenceless: this is
not only the duty of man, individually, but of society.
To feel for such wretches as this Adams,
is natural in a generous spirit, for he feels for all.
But think of the woman, Kentuck.”

“That's a fact! For that reason, I want the
fellow caught, and I want to see these characters.”

“We don't start before eleven, you know,” said
Bradshaw, “and I am engaged to go to the ball.
You go, don't you.”

“Yes, I'll see you there, and we can both leave
together. Mind, Bradshaw, don't miss me. If you
do, I will be after you.”