 | CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH. The story of Kennett |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH.
The winter crept on, February was drawing to a close,
and still Gilbert Potter had not ascertained whence the
money was to be drawn which would relieve him from
embarrassment. The few applications he had made were
failures; some of the persons really had no money to invest,
and others were too cautious to trust a man who, as
everybody knew, had been unfortunate. In five weeks
more the sum must be made up, or the mortgage would
be foreclosed.
Both Mary Potter and her son, in this emergency,
seemed to have adopted, by accident or sympathy, the
same policy towards each other, — to cheer and encourage,
in every possible way. Gilbert carefully concealed his
humiliation, on returning home from an unsuccessful appeal
for a loan, and his mother veiled her renewed sinking
of the heart, as she heard of his failure, under a cheerful
hope of final success, which she did not feel. Both had,
in fact, one great consolation to fall back upon, — she that
he had been mercifully saved to her, he that he was beloved
by a noble woman.
All the grain that could be spared and sold placed but
little more than a hundred dollars in Gilbert's hands, and
he began seriously to consider whether he should not be
obliged to sell his wagon and team. He had been offered
a hundred and fifty dollars, (a very large sum, in those
days,) for Roger, but he would as soon have sold his own
right arm. Not even to save the farm would he have
in increasing his seventy-five dollars to a hundred, and
forcing the loan upon his friend; so one third of the
amount was secure, and there was still hope for the rest.
It is not precisely true that there had been no offer of
assistance. There was one, which Gilbert half-suspected
had been instigated by Betsy Lavender. On a Saturday
afternoon, as he visited Kennett Square to have Roger's
fore-feet shod, he encountered Alfred Barton at the blacksmith's
shop, on the same errand.
“The man I wanted to see!” cried the latter, as Gilbert
dismounted. “Ferris was in Chester last week, and he
saw Chaffey, the constable, you know, that helped catch
Sandy; and Chaffey told him he was sure, from something
Sandy let fall, that Deb. Smith had betrayed him out of
revenge, because he robbed you. I want to know how it
all hangs together.”
Gilbert suddenly recalled Deb. Smith's words, on the
day after his escape from the inundation, and a suspicion
of the truth entered his mind for the first time.
“It must have been so!” he exclaimed. “She has
been a better friend to me than many people of better
name.”
Barton noticed the bitterness of the remark, and possibly
drew his own inference from it. He looked annoyed
for a moment, but presently beckoned Gilbert to one side,
and said, —
“I don't know whether you 've given up your foolish
suspicions about me and Sandy; but the trial comes off
next week, and you 'll have to be there as a witness, of
course, and can satisfy yourself, if you please, that my explanation
was nothing but the truth. I 've not felt so
jolly in twenty years, as when I heard that the fellow was
really in the jug!”
“I told you I believed your words,” Gilbert answered,
“and that settles the matter. Perhaps I shall find out
the back-porch of the Unicorn, and if so, I am bound to
let you know it.”
“See here, Gilbert!” Barton resumed. “Folks say you
must borrow the money you lost, or the mortgage on your
farm will be foreclosed. Is that so? and how much money
might it be, altogether, if you don't mind telling?”
“Not so much, if those who have it to lend, had a little
faith in me, — some four or five hundred dollars.”
“That ought to be got, without trouble,” said Barton.
“If I had it by me, I 'd lend it to you in a minute; but
you know I borrowed from Ferris myself, and all o' my
own is so tied up that I could n't move it without the old
man getting on my track. I 'll tell you what I 'll do,
though; I 'll indorse your note for a year, if it can be
kept a matter between ourselves and the lender. On account
of the old man, you understand.”
The offer was evidently made in good faith, and Gilbert
hesitated, reluctant to accept it, and yet unwilling to reject
it in a manner that might seem unfriendly.
“Barton,” he said at last, “I 've never yet failed to
meet a money obligation. All my debts, except this last,
have been paid on the day I promised, and it seems a
little hard that my own name, alone, should n't be good
for as much as I need. Old Fairthorn would give me his
indorsement, but I won't ask for it; and I mean no offence
when I say that I 'd rather get along without yours, if I
can. It 's kind in you to make the offer, and to show that
I 'm not ungrateful, I 'll beg you to look round among your
rich friends and help me to find the loan.”
“You 're a mighty independent fellow, Gilbert, but I
can't say as I blame you for it. Yes, I 'll look round in
a few days, and maybe I 'll stumble on the right man by
the time I see you again.”
When Gilbert returned home, he communicated this
slight prospect of relief to his mother. “Perhaps I am
mother, to be beholden to no man, if I could help it; and
I should feel more uneasy under an obligation to Barton
than to most other men. You know I must go to Chester
in a few days, and must wait till I 'm called to testify.
There will then be time to look around, and perhaps Mr.
Trainer may help me yet.”
“You 're right, boy!” Mary Potter cried, with flashing
eyes. “Keep your pride; it 's not of the mean kind!
Don't ask for or take any man's indorsement!”
Two days before the time when Gilbert was summoned
to Chester, Deb. Smith made her appearance at the farm.
She entered the barn early one morning, with a bundle in
her hand, and dispatched Sam, whom she found in the
stables, to summon his master. She looked old, weather-beaten,
and haggard, and her defiant show of strength was
gone.
In betraying Sandy Flash into the hands of justice, she
had acted from a fierce impulse, without reflecting upon
the inevitable consequences of the step. Perhaps she did
not suspect that she was also betraying herself, and more
than confirming all the worst rumors in regard to her character.
In the universal execration which followed the
knowledge of her lawless connection with Sandy Flash,
and her presumed complicity in his crimes, the merit of
her service to the county was lost. The popular mind,
knowing nothing of her temptations, struggles, and sufferings,
was harsh, cold, and cruel, and she felt the weight of
its verdict as never before. A few persons of her own
ignorant class, who admired her strength and courage in
their coarse way, advised her to hide until the first fury of
the storm should be blown over. Thus she exaggerated
the danger, and even felt uncertain of her reception by the
very man for whose sake she had done the deed and accepted
the curse.
Gilbert, however, when he saw her worn, anxious face,
appeal which she knew not how to speak, felt a pang of
compassionate sympathy.
“Deborah!” he said, “you don't look well; come into
the house and warm yourself!”
“No!” she cried, “I won't darken your door till you 've
heerd what I 've got to say. Go 'way, Sam; I want to
speak to Mr. Gilbert, alone.”
Gilbert made a sign, and Sam sprang down the ladder,
to the stables under the threshing-floor.
“Mayhap you 've heerd already,” she said. “A blotch
on a body's name spreads fast and far. Mine was black
enough before, God knows, but they 've blackened it
more.”
“If all I hear is true,” Gilbert exclaimed, “you 've
blackened it for my sake, Deborah. I 'm afraid you
thought I blamed you, in some way, for not preventing my
loss; but I 'm sure you did what you could to save me
from it!”
“Ay, lad, that I did! But the devil seemed to ha' got
into him. Awful words passed between us, and then —
the devil got into me, and — you know what follered. He
would n't believe the money was your'n, or I don't think
he 'd ha' took it; he was n't a bad man at heart, Sandy
was n't, only stubborn at the wrong times, and brung it
onto himself by that. But you know what folks says about
me?”
“I don't care what they say, Deborah!” Gilbert cried.
“I know that you are a true and faithful friend to me, and
I 've not had so many such in my life that I 'm likely to
forget what you 've tried to do!”
Her hard, melancholy face became at once eager and
tender. She stepped forward, put her hand on Gilbert's
arm, and said, in a hoarse, earnest, excited whisper, —
“Then maybe you 'll take it? I was almost afeard to
ax you, — I thought you might push me away, like the rest
of the curse! You won't mind how it was got, will you?
I had to git it in that way, because no other was left to
me!”
“What do you mean, Deborah?”
“The money, Mr. Gilbert! They allowed me half,
though the constables was for thirds, but the Judge said
I 'd arned the full half, — God knows, ten thousand times
would n't pay me! — and I 've got it here, tied up safe.
It 's your'n, you know, and maybe there a'n't quite enough,
but as fur as it goes; and I 'll work out the amount o' the
rest, from time to time, if you 'll let me come onto your
place!”
Gilbert was powerfully and yet painfully moved. He
forgot his detestation of the relation in which Deb. Smith
had stood to the highwayman, in his gratitude for her devotion
to himself. He felt an invincible repugnance towards
accepting her share of the reward, even as a loan; it was
“blood-money,” and to touch it in any way was to be
stained with its color; yet how should he put aside her
kindness without inflicting pain upon her rude nature,
made sensitive at last by abuse, persecution, and remorse?
His face spoke in advance of his lips, and she read its
language with wonderful quickness.
“Ah!” she cried, “I mistrusted how it 'd be; you don't
want to say it right out, but I 'll say it for you! You think
the money 'd bring you no luck, — maybe a downright
curse,—and how can I say it won't? Ha'n't it cursed me?
Sandy said it would, even as your'n follered him. What 's
it good for, then? It burns my hands, and them that 's
clean, won't touch it. There, you damned devil's-bait, —
my arm 's sore, and my heart 's sore, wi' the weight o' you!”
With these words she flung the cloth, with its bunch of
hard silver coins, upon the threshing-floor. It clashed like
the sound of chains. Gilbert saw that she was sorely hurt.
Tears of disappointment, which she vainly strove to hold
facing him, said, —
“Now, what am I to do?”
“Stay here for the present, Deborah,” he answered.
“Eh? A'n't I summonsed? The job I undertook is n't
done yet; the wust part 's to come! Maybe they 'll let me
off from puttin' the rope round his neck, but I a'n't sure o'
that!”
“Then come to me afterwards,” he said, gently, striving
to allay her fierce, self-accusing mood. “Remember that
you always have a home and a shelter with me, whenever
you need them. And I 'll take your money,” he added,
picking it up from the floor, — “take it in trust for you,
until the time shall come when you will be willing to use it.
Now go in to my mother.”
The woman was softened and consoled by his words.
But she still hesitated.
“Maybe she won't — she wont” —
“She will!” Gilbert exclaimed. “But if you doubt,
wait here until I come back.”
Mary Potter earnestly approved of his decision, to take
charge of the money, without making use of it. A strong,
semi-superstitious influence had so entwined itself with her
fate, that she even shrank from help, unless it came in an
obviously pure and honorable form. She measured the
fulness of her coming justification by the strict integrity
of the means whereby she sought to deserve it. Deb.
Smith, in her new light, was no welcome guest, and with
all her coarse male strength, she was still woman enough
to guess the fact; but Mary Potter resolved to think only
that her son had been served and befriended. Keeping
that service steadily before her eyes, she was able to take
the outcast's hand, to give her shelter and food, and, better
still, to soothe her with that sweet, unobtrusive consolation
which only a woman can bestow, — which steals by avenues
of benevolent cunning into a nature that would repel a
direct expression of sympathy.
The next morning, however, Deb. Smith left the house,
saying to Gilbert, — “You won't see me ag'in, without it
may be in Court, till after all 's over; and then I may have
to ask you to hide me for awhile. Don't mind what I 've
said; I 've no larnin', and can't always make out the rights
o' things, — and sometimes it seems there 's two Sandys, a
good 'un and a bad 'un, and meanin' to punish one, I 've
ruined 'em both!”
When Gilbert reached Chester, the trial was just about
to commence. The little old town on the Delaware was
crowded with curious strangers, not only from all parts of
the county, but even from Philadelphia and the opposite
New-Jersey shore. Every one who had been summoned
to testify was beset by an inquisitive circle, and none more
so than himself. The Court-house was packed to suffocation;
and the Sheriff, heavily armed, could with difficulty
force a way through the mass. When the clanking of the
prisoner's irons was heard, all the pushing, struggling,
murmuring sounds ceased until the redoubtable highwayman
stood in the dock.
He looked around the Court-room with his usual defiant
air, and no one observed any change of expression, as his
eyes passed rapidly over Deb. Smith's face, or Gilbert Potter's.
His hard red complexion was already beginning to
fade in confinement, and his thick hair, formerly close-cropped
for the convenience of disguises, had grown out in
not ungraceful locks. He was decidedly a handsome man,
and his bearing seemed to show that he was conscious of
the fact.
The trial commenced. To the astonishment of all, and,
as it was afterwards reported, against the advice of his
counsel, the prisoner plead guilty to some of the specifications
of the indictment, while he denied others. The Collectors
whom he had plundered were then called to the
witness-stand, but the public seemed to manifest less interest
in the loss of its own money, than in the few cases
for the latter.
Deb. Smith had so long borne the curious gaze of hundreds
of eyes, whenever she lifted her head, that when her
turn came, she was able to rise and walk forward without
betraying any emotion. Only when she was confronted
with Sandy Flash, and he met her with a wonderfully
strange, serious smile, did she shudder for a moment and
hastily turn away. She gave her testimony in a hard, firm
voice, making her statements as brief as possible, and volunteering
nothing beyond what was demanded.
On being dismissed from the stand, she appeared to hesitate.
Her eyes wandered over the faces of the lawyers,
the judges, and the jurymen, as if with a dumb appeal, but
she did not speak. Then she turned towards the prisoner,
and some words passed between them, which, in the general
movement of curiosity, were only heard by the two or
three persons who stood nearest.
“Sandy!” she was reported to have said, “I could n't
help myself; take the curse off o' me!”
“Deb., it 's too late,” he answered. “It 's begun to work,
and it 'll work itself out!”
Gilbert noticed the feeling of hostility with which Deb.
Smith was regarded by the spectators, — a feeling that
threatened to manifest itself in some violent way, when the
restraints of the place should be removed. He therefore
took advantage of the great interest with which his own
testimony was heard, to present her character in the light
which her services to him shed upon it. This was a new
phase of the story, and produced a general movement of
surprise. Sandy Flash, it was noticed, sitting with his fettered
hands upon the rail before him, leaned forward and
listened intently, while an unusual flush deepened upon his
cheeks.
The statements, though not strictly in evidence, were
permitted by the Court, and they produced the effect which
when Deb. Smith, ignorant of rule, suddenly rose and cried
out, —
“It 's true as Gospel, every word of it! Sandy, do you
hear?”
She was removed by the constable, but the people, as
they made way, uttered no word of threat or insult. On
the contrary, many eyes rested on her hard, violent,
wretched face with an expression of very genuine compassion.
The trial took its course, and terminated with the result
which everybody — even the prisoner himself — knew to
be inevitable. He was pronounced guilty, and duly sentenced
to be hanged by the neck until he was dead.
Gilbert employed the time which he could spare from
his attendance at the Court, in endeavoring to make a new
loan, but with no positive success. The most he accomplished
was an agreement, on the part of his creditor, that
the foreclosure might be delayed two or three weeks,
provided there was a good prospect of the money being
obtained. In ordinary times he would have had no difficulty;
but, as Mr. Trainer had written, the speculation in
western lands had seized upon capitalists, and the amount
of money for permanent investment was already greatly
diminished.
He was preparing to return home, when Chaffey, the
constable, came to him with a message from Sandy Flash.
The latter begged for an interview, and both Judge and
Sheriff were anxious that Gilbert should comply with his
wishes, in the hope that a full and complete confession
might be obtained. It was evident that the highwayman
had accomplices, but he steadfastly refused to name them,
even with the prospect of having his sentence commuted
to imprisonment for life.
Gilbert did not hesitate a moment. There were doubts
of his own to be solved, — questions to be asked, which
to the gloomy, high-walled jail-building, and was
promptly admitted by the Sheriff into the low, dark, heavily
barred cell, wherein the prisoner sat upon a wooden stool,
the links of his leg-fetters passed through a ring in the
floor.
Sandy Flash lifted his face to the light, and grinned, but
not with his old, mocking expression. He stretched out
his hand which Gilbert took, — hard and cold as the rattling
chain at his wrist. Then, seating himself with a
clash upon the floor, he pushed the stool towards his visitor,
and said, —
“Set down, Potter. Limited accommodations, you see.
Sheriff, you need n't wait; it 's private business.”
The Sheriff locked the iron door behind him, and they
were alone.
“Potter,” the highwayman began, “you see I 'm trapped
and done for, and all, it seems, on account o' that little
affair o' your'n. You won't think it means much, now,
when I say I was in the wrong there; but I swear I was!
I had no particular spite ag'in Barton, but he 's a swell,
and I like to take such fellows down; and I was dead sure
you were carryin' his money, as you promised to.”
“Tell me one thing,” Gilbert interrupted; “how did
you know I promised to take money for him?”
“I knowed it, that 's enough; I can give you, word for
word, what both o' you said, if you doubt me.”
“Then, as I thought, it was Barton himself!” Gilbert
cried.
Sandy Flash burst into a roaring laugh. “Him! Ah-ha!
you think we go snacks, eh? Do I look like a fool?
Barton 'd give his eye-teeth to put the halter round my
neck with his own hands! No, no, young man; I have
ways and ways o' learnin' things that you nor him 'll never
guess.”
His manner, even more than his words, convinced Gilbert.
“You won't deny that you have friends?” he said.
“Maybe,” Sandy replied, in a short, rough tone. “That 's
nothin' to you,” he continued; “but what I 've got to say is,
whether or no you 're a friend to Deb., she thinks you are.
Do you mean to look after her, once't in a while, or are
you one o' them that forgits a good turn?”
“I have told her,” said Gilbert, “that she shall always
have a home and a shelter in my house. If it 's any satisfaction
to you, here 's my hand on it!”
“I believe you, Potter. Deb. 's done ill by me; she
should n't ha' bullied me when I was sore and tetchy, and
fagged out with your curst huntin' of me up and down!
But I 'll do that much for her and for you. Here; bend
your head down; I 've got to whisper.”
Gilbert leaned his ear to the highwayman's mouth.
“You 'll only tell her, you understand?”
Gilbert assented.
“Say to her these words, — don't forgit a single one of
'em! — Thirty steps from the place she knowed about, behind
the two big chestnut-trees, goin' towards the first
cedar, and a forked sassyfrack growin' right over it. What
she finds, is your'n.”
“Sandy!” Gilbert exclaimed, starting from his listening
posture.
“Hush, I say! You know what I mean her to do, —
give you your money back. I took a curse with it, as you
said. Maybe that 's off o' me, now!”
“It is!” said Gilbert, in a low tone, “and forgiveness —
mine and my mother's — in the place of it. Have you
any” — he hesitated to say the words — “any last messages,
to her or anybody else, or anything you would like
to have done?”
“Thank ye, no! — unless Deb. can find my black hair
and whiskers. Then you may give 'em to Barton, with
my dutiful service.”
He laughed at the idea, until his chains rattled.
Gilbert's mind was haunted with the other and darker
doubt, and he resolved, in this last interview, to secure
himself against its recurrence. In such an hour he could
trust the prisoner's words.
“Sandy,” he asked, “have you any children?”
“Not to my knowledge; and I 'm glad of it.”
“You must know,” Gilbert continued, “what the people
say about my birth. My mother is bound from telling
me who my father was, and I dare not ask her any questions.
Did you ever happen to know her, in your younger
days, or can you remember anything that will help me to
discover his name?”
The highwayman sat silent, meditating, and Gilbert felt
that his heart was beginning to beat painfully fast, as he
waited for the answer.
“Yes,” said Sandy, at last, “I did know Mary Potter
when I was a boy, and she knowed me, under another
name. I may say I liked her, too, in a boy's way, but she
was older by three or four years, and never thought o'
lookin' at me. But I can't remember anything more; if
I was out o' this, I 'd soon find out for you!”
He looked up with an eager, questioning glance, which
Gilbert totally misunderstood.
“What was your other name?” he asked, in a barely
audible voice.
“I dunno as I need tell it,” Sandy answered; “what 'd
be the good? There 's some yet livin', o' the same name,
and they would n't thank me.”
“Sandy!” Gilbert cried desperately, “answer this one
question, — don't go out of the world with a false word in
your mouth! — You are not my father?”
The highwayman looked at him a moment, in blank
amazement. “No, so help me God!” he then said.
Gilbert's face brightened so suddenly and vividly that
Sandy muttered to himself, — “I never thought I was that
bad.”
“I hear the Sheriff at the outside gate,” he whispered
again. “Don't forgit — thirty steps from the place she
knowed about — behind the two big chestnut-trees, goin'
towards the first cedar — and a forked sassyfrack growin'
right over it! Good-bye, and good-luck to the whole o'
your life!”
The two clasped hands with a warmth and earnestness
which surprised the Sheriff. Then Gilbert went out from
his old antagonist.
That night Sandy Flash made an attempt to escape
from the jail, and very nearly succeeded. It appeared,
from some mysterious words which he afterwards let fall,
and which Gilbert alone could have understood, that he
had a superstitious belief that something he had done
would bring him a new turn of fortune. The only result
of the attempt was to hasten his execution. Within ten
days from that time he was transformed from a living
terror into a romantic name.
| CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH. The story of Kennett | |