About half an hour after the planter had taken his departure from the house, Pierre Robideau paid for the mending of his bridle; and having no other errand to detain him in the town, started homewards afoot as he had come.
The road to Jerry Rook’s house still corresponded with that leading to Little Rock, only that the latter, now much travelled, no longer passed through the well-known glade—a better crossing of Caney Creek having caused it to diverge before it entered the natural clearing.
The old trace, however, was that taken by any one going to Rook’s house, and to it Pierre Robideau was making his return from the town.
With the bridle lashed belt-like across his shoulders, he was walking unsuspectingly along, thinking how pleased Lena Rook would be at seeing him so soon back.
On entering the glade a change came over his spirit, indicated by a dark cloud suddenly overspreading his face. It was natural enough at sight of that too well-remembered tree, recalling not only his own agonies, but the foul murder there committed, for he knew that upon that same tree his unfortunate father, whom he could not think otherwise than innocent, had been sacrificed to the madness of a frantic mob.
There still was the branch extended towards him, as if mockingly to remind him of a vengeance still unsatisfied!
An impulse came over him he was unable to resist; and yielding to it, he stopped in his track, and stood gazing upon the tree—a strange lurid light shining in his eyes.
All at once he felt a shock in the left arm, accompanied by a stinging sensation, as if from the bite of an insect; but it was not this, for, almost at the same instant, he heard the “spang” of a rifle, and saw a puff of smoke flirting up over some bushes directly before him.
It was a shot that had been fired; and the blood spirting from his torn coat-sleeve left no doubt of it having been fired at himself.
Nor could there be as to the deadly intention, though the damage done was only a slight abrasion of the arm, scarce deeper than the thickness of the skin.
Pierre Robideau did not stay to reflect on this. The moment he saw the smoke he sprang forward, and ran on until he had reached the spot where the bushes were still enveloped in the low, scattering, sulphurous vapour.
He could see no one there; but this did not surprise him. It was not likely that such an assassin would stay to be discovered; but he must still be near, stealing off among the trees.
Suspending his breath Pierre stood to listen.
For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an unseen murderer’s bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharply through the trees.
It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the compressed scolding of the bird that some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the retreating assassin!
Guided by the chattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit.
He had not gone twenty yards farther when he heard footsteps, and the “swish” of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood. Directed by these sounds he rushed rapidly after.
Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse, standing tied to a tree, and a man in the act of untying him. The man was making all haste, hindered by a heavy rifle carried in his hand. It was the gun that had just been discharged, and Pierre Robideau had recognised the man who had made the attempt to murder him.
Alfred Brandon!
With a shout, such as only one Indian-born could give, he bounded forward, and, before the retreating assassin could climb into his saddle, he seized him by the throat and dashed him against the trunk of a tree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud neigh, and galloped off.
“I thank you,” cried Robideau, “and you alone, Mr Alf Brandon, for giving me this chance! I’ve got you exactly where I wanted you! For six years I’ve been longing for this hour, and now it has come as if I’d planned it myself.”
Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down his gun, drew pistol, and was about to fire; but, before he could get his finger on the trigger, his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree trunk.
Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own pistol pointed at his head, and expected nothing else than the bullet through his brains.
The cry of the coward came from his lips as he writhed under the terrible anticipation.
To his astonishment the shot was not fired!
Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him apparently unarmed!
“No, Mr Alf Brandon!” said he, “shooting is too good for such a dog as you; and a dog’s death you shall have. Come away from here! Come on! I want to see which of us can hang longest by the hand. We tried it six years ago, but the trial wasn’t a fair one. ’Tis your turn now. Come on!”
More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comply. The calm yet determined air of his antagonist told him it was no jest, but that something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and left, and seemed to calculate the chances of escape.
Robideau read his thoughts.
“Don’t attempt it,” said he, throwing back the lapel of his coat, and showing the butt of a pistol. “I have this, and will use it if you make any effort to get off. Come!”
Saying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and, half leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot.
In five minutes after they stood under a tree—the same upon which Pierre Robideau had endured all the horrors of hanging.
“What do you mean to do?” asked Brandon, in a faltering voice.
“I’ve told you. I am curious to see how long you can stand it.”
As he said this, he unloosed the bridle-reins from his body, and, taking out his knife, commenced cutting them free from the bit. It was a double rein, composed of two long pieces of closely-plaited hair taken from the tail of a horse.
Brandon stood pale and trembling. He could not fail to interpret the preparations that were being made. Once more he thought of flight, and once more Pierre Robideau read his thoughts.
“It is no use,” he said sternly; “you are in my power. Attempt to get out of it, or resist, and I dash your brains out against that tree. Now, your wrist in this rope.”
Feeble with fear, Brandon allowed his left hand to be seized, and his wrist drawn into a noose made of one of the bridle-reins. The other end of the cord was passed around his thigh, and then brought back and secured by a firm knot, so as to hold the arm helpless by his side. This done, the other rein, with a running loop, was adjusted round his neck, its loose end thrown over one of the large branches.
“Now,” cried Robideau, “mount upon this log, and take hold, as you made me do. Quick, or I jerk you up by the neck!”
Bewildered, Brandon knew not what to do. Was his enemy in earnest, or was it only a grim jest? He would fain have believed it this; but the fierce, determined look of Robideau forbade him to hope for mercy. He remembered at this moment how little he was deserving of it.
He was left no time to reflect. He felt the noose tightening around his neck, and the cord stretching taut above him.
In another instant he was drawn from the ground and, mechanically throwing up his right arm, he caught hold of the branch. It was the only chance to save him from almost instant strangulation!
“Now,” cried Robideau, who had sprung upon the log and made the rope fast to the upper limb, “now, Mr Alf Brandon, you’re just as you left me six years ago. I hope you’ll enjoy the situation. Good day to you!” And, with a scornful laugh, Pierre Robideau strode away from the spot.
All the agony that can be endured by a man who sees death before him, and sees no chance to escape it, was at that hour endured by Alfred Brandon.
In vain he shouted till he was hoarse, till his cries could have been no longer heard a hundred yards from the tree, soon to become his gallows. There was no response, save the echo of his own voice. No one to hear or to heed it! He had no expectation of being saved by the man who had just left him. That scornful laugh at parting precluded all hope: though in his agonised struggle he begged aloud for mercy, calling upon Pierre Robideau by name.
Pierre Robideau came not to his assistance; and, after a long struggle—protracted to the utmost point of endurance—till the arm, half disjointed, could no longer sustain his body, he let go his hold, and dropped to the ground.
The peals of derisive laughter that rang in his ears as he lay exhausted upon the earth, were not pleasant—the less so that a female voice was heard taking part in it. But even this was endurable after the dread agony through which he had passed; and hurriedly springing to his feet, and releasing his neck from the rope, he sneaked off among the trees, without staying to cast a look at Pierre Robideau or Lena Rook, who, standing by the edge of the glade, had been witness to his unnecessary contortions.
Our tale is told, so far as it might interest the reader. What afterwards happened to the different character who have figured in it, were but events such as may occur in every-day life. There was nothing strange in a young man, with a taint of Indian blood in him, marrying the daughter of a backwoods-settler, and carrying her off to California; nothing strange, either, that the father of the girl should sell off his “improvement,” and make the far-western migration along with them.
And this was the history of Jerry Rook, his daughter, and his daughter’s husband; all three of whom, in less than twelve months after, might have been seen settled in their new home, on the far shore of the Pacific, and surrounded with every comfort required upon earth.
There Pierre Robideau had nothing further to fear from the hostility of early enemies, or the vengeance of jealous rivals; there Lena Rook, no longer exposed to social humiliation, had the opportunity of becoming that for which nature had intended her—an ornament of society; and there, too, her father found time to repent of the past, and prepare himself for that future which awaits alike the weary and the wicked.
Of his crimes, both committed and conceived, Jerry Rook died repentant.
The fate of Alfred Brandon was somewhat similar to that of his father. Drink brought him to a premature grave; though, unlike his father, he died without heir and almost without heritage, having spent the whole of his property in the low dissipation of the tavern and the gaming-table. His executors found scarce sufficient to pay for the hearse that carried him to the grave.
With Bill Buck it was different. His funeral, which occurred shortly after, was at the public expense—his grave being dug near the foot of the gallows on which he had perished for many crimes committed against society, the last and greatest being a cold-blooded murder, with robbery for its motive.
Spencer, Slaughter, Randall, and Grubbs, lived to take part in the late fratricidal war—all four, as might be expected, embracing the cause of secession, and all, it is believed, having perished in the strife, after the perpetration of many of those cruel atrocities in which the state of Arkansas was most conspicuously infamous.
Helena still stands on the banks of the mighty river, and there are many there who remember the tragedy of Dick Tarleton’s death; but few, if any, who have ever heard the tale of “The Helpless Hand.”
A mystery! By heaven, I’ll find it out.
If a man may! - The Maiden.
Speed, Malise, speed! - Lady of the Lake.
One of the most lovely pictures in lowland scenery which I have ever looked upon is that around the mouth of a river which I have called the Clearwater (the English translation of its Indian name), and which flows between two of the southern counties of the western shore of Maryland.
From the northern shore of that stream, in this place wide and beautiful, stretches out a long, flat strip of white sand, which is covered here and there with patches of crab-grass, and of that kind of cactus commonly called the prickly pear. On the western side of this strip of sand is a deep and capacious harbour, much resorted to by bay-craft and sea-going vessels, while waiting for a fair wind up or down the bay. On its eastern side extends a gulf, or indentation of the coast, called by sailors, if I remember rightly, Patuxent Roads, and which expands towards, and mingles with, the broad and beautiful Chesapeake. Along the shores of this gulf are shoals, famous in the country round as resorts of the fish called drums, which circumstance has given the name of Drum Point to the beach extending, as described, between the Clearwater and Maryland’s noble bay.
On the northern side of Drum Point harbour, and near to where the point begins to curve away from the mainland, stood, during the second decade of this century (and, indeed, for many years afterwards), a long, single-storey frame building. This building, though placed upon the sands, was still many yards away from the highest line reached by the water at high tide. Directly behind it the land rose with a rapid swell to a plateau, some thirty or forty feet above the shore of the harbour. This frame structure was what is called in the United States a store, and contained for sale such articles as are most in demand among seamen. It belonged to an individual whom, for many reasons, I will call by a fictitious name, Ashleigh, and who owned an estate of several hundred acres, embracing all the eastern line of the harbour shore, and extending some distance into the country behind it.
At the time of which I write, mysterious and very injurious stories, about the owner of this store, circulated in the neighbouring country on both sides of the Clearwater. It was said that he concealed smuggled goods, and even goods captured by pirates on the high seas, until an opportunity should occur for secretly conveying them to Baltimore for sale; and that he was implicated in some way in the trials for piracy held before one of the United States courts in Baltimore, in the early part of the present century.
At about half-past twelve o’clock, on a night towards the end of May, in the year 1817, three human figures stood upon the hill-side, overlooking Drum Point harbour. The principal form in the group was that of John Alvan Coe, a handsome young man of twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, tall, and well proportioned. When seen in the day-time, his clear blue eyes, Roman nose, and light chestnut hair, indicated a sanguine but gentle character, and one endowed with dauntless courage, controlled by a reflective mind. This young gentleman, the son of a planter in the neighbourhood, once wealthy, but now much reduced in worldly circumstances, was returning from his sport of night-fishing for drums, accompanied by two sturdy negro men, who bore between them, suspended upon a pole, the ends of which rested upon their shoulders, a large basket, heavily laden with the scaly trophies of their recent sport.
Young Coe, while passing on his way to the fishing, about sunset, along the hill-side on which he now stood, had noticed, among the two or three vessels in Drum Point harbour, a beautiful brig of about a hundred and twenty tons burden. She was remarkable among the other vessels for her graceful figure, and the neat and trim appearance of everything on board of her. On his return from the fishing, after leaving his boat hauled up on the beach of a small cove on the east side of Drum Point, his path lay across the low and sandy neck of land connecting the point with the mainland, and then in a gradual ascent along the green hill-side overlooking the harbour. While pursuing this path he had halted, with his companions, in a position from which he could view to the best advantage the fair and romantic scene which lay before him.
The moon, which was at its full, shed a softly brilliant silvery light over land and water. Away towards the west spread the beautiful lake-like expanse of the river—above five miles in length by two miles in width—which is bounded northward and southward respectively by the counties before referred to, eastward by Drum Point, and westward by the long, slender and curving, and still more lovely Point Patience. The waters of this fair expanse, softly stirred by a light breeze, gleamed with myriads of lights and shadows under the moonlight spell. The front of the low bluffs on the Saint Mary’s side of the river, and the broad beach of sand beneath them, glowed softly white in the beautiful light.
It was impossible that one endowed with the temperament of John Alvan Coe could avoid, although constantly accustomed to scenes of natural beauty, allowing his gaze to rest for a moment upon the charming view before him. His attention was soon arrested, however, by something which was occurring in the harbour under the hill on which he stood. The only vessel remaining there was the beautiful brig which he had noticed at sunset. Three boats, apparently heavily laden, had left the brig and were coming towards the shore. Soon afterwards the young man saw a light shining out from one of the back windows of the storehouse on the beach.
There were some peculiarities in the character, or rather mental constitution, of young Coe, with which it is necessary that I should acquaint the reader, before we proceed farther in the narrative, of the remarkable series of occurrences which arose to him out of the incidents of this night. He not only loved danger for its own sake, but was endowed with great fondness for romantic and stirring adventures. He had a great and at times irresistible curiosity to investigate whatever presented the appearance of darkness and mystery. In childhood this peculiarity had mainly exhibited itself in a fondness for unravelling riddles and conundrums; in more advanced youth, by solving, with great patience and industry, the most difficult problems in mathematics. The penetration of the meaning of the movement of the boats from the brig at such an hour irresistibly called to mind, as it did, the mysterious reports of smugglers and pirates in connection with this place, presented an especial fascination to a mind constituted as was his. His resolution was immediately formed to discover, at all hazards, the meaning of what was taking place beneath him.
It should have been mentioned before, perhaps, that the hill-side above the harbour was covered, to a great extent, with a growth of bushes, with a tree here and there. It was under one of the latter, whose dense shadow hid them from the view of those in the boats, that the fishing-party stood, while young Coe was making the observations recorded above. As soon as he formed the resolution already mentioned, the young man addressed the two negro men—
“Boys,” he said, “take up the basket”—they had put it down to rest themselves—“and go on. I shall follow you very soon. But do not wait for me, even though I should not overtake you before you get home.”
The two negroes resumed their load and again started on their path. The young man waited until they had passed out of sight over the hill, and until the boats had landed and the men belonging to them had, after a number of trips between the boats and the storehouse, transferred all the lading to the latter, and themselves remained under its roof. He then cautiously descended the hill, concealing himself as much as possible by interposing, whenever he could do so, the bushes between himself and the shore. In a few minutes he arrived beneath the window of the store-room from which the light that he had before observed was still shining.
Guardedly he looked in. The counter had been entirely removed from its place, revealing a long and narrow opening in the floor, and steps leading downwards. Silks and other costly dry goods, and a number of boxes and other closed packages, were piled on the counter and floor. A lamp, casting a bright light, stood upon the counter, and another light shone from an opening in the floor; and men were seen carrying the merchandise into the cellar to which the steps below the floor led, and returning at short intervals for more. Two or three other men were standing on the floor of the store-room; one or the other of whom seemed, from time to time, to be giving directions to those who were removing the piles of goods to the apartment below.
There was a tall and handsome man on the side of the room opposite to the window at which young Coe was standing, who leaned against the closed door which looked, when opened, upon the river. This man wore a dark dress, and a black hat with a broad slouched brim, which threw a dense shadow over the upper part of his countenance. The long black beard from his unshaven face reached half way from his chin to his waist. This man did not speak, except to make a remark now and then to the two or three men who were not engaged in removing the goods.
Among all the men whom young Coe saw, there was not one whom he recognised as having been seen by him before. If Mr Ashleigh himself was engaged in what was taking place, he must have been in the cellar.
John Alvan Coe had barely time to make the observations recorded above, when the tall and quiet individual, who was leaning against the closed door, beckoned to a man near him, to whom he made some remarks in a low tone. This man immediately spoke to the others who were standing about on the floor of the store room. Instantly all in the room who were not engaged in removing the goods—except the long-bearded man who wore the slouched hat, and who, with a motion not at all hurried, opened for them the door against which he had been leaning—sallied forth upon the sands.
The young man waited for no further development. Supposing very naturally, what was the case, that he had been discovered, and that this party were sent in pursuit of him, he immediately turned away from the window and plunged into the pathway leading up the hill towards Mr Ashleigh’s residence. No action, under the circumstances, could have shown the quick perception and ready decision of his mind to more advantage than his at once taking to this pathway; for, after he was once seen by his pursuers, his concealing himself amongst the few trees and scattered clumps of bushes along the hill-side would have been no safeguard under the almost daylight brightness of the clear moonlight.
Such a course would have given to his pursuers only a limited space of ground to search over at their leisure, with the absolute certainty of discovering his place of concealment and making him prisoner. His taking the plain pathway to the hill-top made his escape depend upon his fleetness of foot, but only for a short distance; the hill once surmounted, a dense forest spread for miles along the route which he had to pursue. He had no uneasiness or doubt in trusting to his speed; for, inured by daily exercise, he had long been considered the boldest leaper and fleetest runner in all the country side.
Hahn. My lord, he has escaped.
Otto. Have thou no fear; he shall be prisoner.
I know the bird, his ways, where he frequents;
And I shall lime a twig, upon the which
I’ll easily entice him to alight. - Oldenheim.
The noise of the footsteps passing out of the door brought from the cellar a tall and slender elderly man, with black eyes, and dark hair thickly interspersed with grey. This individual seemed to be in a state of much excitement.
“What is the matter, Captain Vance?” he asked. “What has happened?”
“Nothing of much importance,” answered the dark man with the black slouched hat, who was again leaning, as when first seen by John Alvan Coe, against the door, which opened upon the sands. “I caught sight of a man looking in upon us just now through the back window.”
“Do you consider that fact as of not much importance?” said the elderly man from the cellar. “If you were in my position, I think that you would entertain a different opinion.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the captain in a careless manner, “he was only ‘A chiel amang us takin’ notes.’ I am very sure that he will never ‘prent ’em.’ I shall take especial pains that he shall never have a chance of doing so.”
“The men who went out just now then,” remarked the elderly man, in an interrogative manner, “were sent to catch him?”
“Yes,” was the laconic reply.
“God grant that they may catch him!” exclaimed the grey-headed man, in an earnest tone.
“If I were you, I would not call upon God in such a case,” said Captain Vance, whose coolness and self-possession afforded a complete contrast to the excitement and alarm conspicuous in the bearing of his elder companion. “You had better turn your face downward than upward when you call for help; for you are more likely to have sympathy, in the present business, from the powers below than from the powers above. If prayer is the longing of the heart rather than the speech of the lips—as I heard the man who was looking in at the window say a year or so ago—you would have more chance for help by praying to the devil, Mr Ashleigh; that is, if his infernal majesty should think that any more assistance to you is needed to buy you.”
“It is evident, captain,” retorted Mr Ashleigh, “that you are now in one of your philosophical moods, as Billy Bowsprit calls them. I cannot see, however, that, even in the view of our relative positions which you are now taking, you have any advantage of me. I have long been familiar with the saying that ‘the receiver is as bad as the thief;’ but I have never heard, if my memory serves me rightly, that the receiver is worse than the thief.”
“Nevertheless, I have the advantage of you,” quietly answered Captain Vance. “I do not pretend to be any better than I am; I do not ‘wear the livery of heaven to serve the devil in.’”
“Not in ‘your vocation, Hal,’” said Mr Ashleigh; “that is, not here, on shipboard; but at home you are, I am sure, just as much a hypocrite as I am.”
“There is some pith in that retort,” replied Captain Vance, in a somewhat yielding tone. “Ah! we are all more or less hypocrites, Mr Ashleigh; as the poet says, ‘we are all shadows to each other.’”
“Besides,” continued Mr Ashleigh, “nobody in this neighbourhood would recognise you in that disguise and by this light; whereas, this building is known to belong to me, and the discovery of the business which is carried on here would, therefore, ruin me.”
“Pardon the lightness of my manner of speaking,” said the young man, in an earnest tone of voice. “My real reason for speaking so was not on account of want of concern in your interests, but because there is, in fact, no danger to you, or to any one of us, in any discovery made by the individual who just now peeped in upon us.”
“I think that you intimated, a few moments ago,” remarked Ashleigh, “that you know the person who was reconnoitring us. Who is he?”
“John Alvan Coe,” was the answer; “son of old Mr Coe, who owns a plantation at the head of Saint John’s Creek, a few miles from this place.”
“Then I am lost,” exclaimed Ashleigh, in increased alarm. “No man in this county—I may say in this State—can surpass him in ferreting out a secret, when once he has obtained a hint of it.”
“I am as familiar with that peculiarity in his character as you are,” remarked Captain Vance. “But I have a plan partly formed in my head, which, I am almost sure, will not only render him harmless, but will also add a very brave and intelligent member to my ship’s company. I have but little hope that those who have gone in pursuit of him will overtake him. He is the fleetest runner that I ever knew; and sailors make but poor comparative headway on land.”
“What is your plan?” asked Ashleigh.
“It is not yet perfectly formed,” answered Vance. “It is still in the crucible of the brain; and I cannot tell what shape it will take until it has come out complete.”
“You had better be in a hurry then,” said the elder speaker. “There is but little time to act; when he has once told what he has witnessed here to another, the information will spread and spread, and there will be no stopping it. And then the consequences—ah! ‘that way madness lies.’”
“Feel no uneasiness,” said Captain Vance, in a tone of perfect confidence. “He shall take his breakfast on board of the Falcon to-morrow morning.”
“It is some relief to me to hear you speak so confidently,” remarked Ashleigh. “Still I cannot help fearing that trouble will grow out of this thing. I wish that my advice in one respect had been followed, and that we had waited for a few days, until the moon will set before daylight, so that we might have had an hour or two of absolute darkness for our work.”
“I have before represented to you,” replied Captain Vance, “that we should have run still greater risk by such a course, perhaps have had the revenue officer down upon me, while I had all these men on board, and such a quantity of goods for which I have no bill of lading. What suspicions would have been aroused by my lingering round here for a week at least, with no excuse on account of stress of weather for the delay!”
“Well,” observed Ashleigh, with an uneasy sigh, “there is some force in what you say; and it is too late now to discuss the matter.”
“Oh!” said Vance, in a light and cheerful manner, “there is no need of sighing, I assure you. This affair of young Coe does not disturb me at all. It only determines me to do at once what I have often thought of undertaking. I have no doubt, as I said before, that it will only result in adding a new and unusually valuable member to our force. He is remarkably intelligent, and as brave as a lion.”
“I hope that your impressions may prove correct,” remarked Ashleigh, in a manner that still expressed uneasiness.
At this moment the door was opened from the outside, giving entrance to a male individual of a somewhat comical appearance. He was rather under five feet in height, and was what is called “square built,” that is, his form and limbs were very stout, or rather, perhaps, thick; and his waist was nearly as wide as his shoulders or his hips. His hair was of a reddish-brown or tawny colour, of exuberant growth, and worn in long, clustering curls which swept his shoulders. His face was deeply tanned by sun and weather; and the scar of a sabre-cut above his left eye caused the eyebrow on that side to be below the line of its fellow. The eyes were of a reddish hazel colour, and their expression showed that their possessor had an appreciation of the humorous, but that there was also “a lurking devil” in his composition. He was dressed in the ordinary sailor costume of that as well as of the present period, of blue cloth roundabout, with many small brass buttons, coarse Osnaburg trowsers, considerably soiled, light pumps, and a tarpaulin hat.
“Well, Billy,” said the captain, “what luck?”
“No luck at all, as far as I am concerned,” was the answer. “A short, broad-beamed lugger like me has no more chance of overhauling a trim, well-rigged craft like that long-legged fellow, who has been taking liberties with our harmless secrets, than a Dutch drogger has to beat upon a wind a Baltimore clipper.”
Baltimore was even then, the reader will recollect, famed for the fleetness of her vessels.
“Where are the other two?” asked Captain Vance.
“I don’t know, indeed, captain,” replied Billy. “When I got to the top of the hill they were all hull down; and I thought that I had better steer for port before I had lost all my bearings. So here I am. I think, by-the-bye, that that long-legged fellow will get the weather-guage of all of them. Do you know his name, captain?”
Billy was a privileged character with his captain, who, in fact, was generally more familiar with his men than is usual with officers in chief command.
“Yes,” answered Captain Vance; “his name is Coe.”
“That’s just the very name for him,” said the sailor. “I have often heard that, in the merchant-houses, ‘Co.’ sometimes stands for more than one man; and I know that this fellow is fully equal to two. Indeed, I think that he’ll prove himself too much for all of us to-night. He runs like a clipper before the wind.”
The door again opened, and two seamen entered, both dressed in costumes similar to that of the last-comer before them. One was evidently a common sailor; the other was a stout, compactly-built man, about five feet six or seven inches in height, of a swarthy complexion, with dark and lowering eyes, and a generally stern and forbidding expression of countenance. His dark hair, somewhat mingled with grey, was, contrary to the usual sailor fashion, cut closely to his head; but he wore all of his grizzled, straight, and uncurling beard long. He seemed to be about forty years of age.
This man interlarded his talk with many oaths of the rudest character. I prefer to omit them in reporting his conversation.
“Well, Mr Afton,” said Captain Vance, in a pleasant tone, addressing this individual, “where is your prisoner?”
“Prisoner?” was the rough answer, “I once was told of a man who was such a fool as to undertake to run a race with the moon; but he had a sight more chance of winning his race than we had of winning ours. We overtook, in the pursuit, two stupid negroes carrying a load of fish. I thought that they had probably seen him, and could, therefore, give us some information with regard to our chase; but though I cut some tough hickory rods, and they were both well thrashed, we could get nothing out of them.”
“That was useless, to say the least of it,” said the captain, with some sternness. “Of course, if they had seen him, they would have told you without having been cruelly beaten.”
Mr Afton indulged himself in a few more oaths, and a heavy frown came upon his face. The captain seemed to take but little notice, however; and there was silence for a few moments. This silence was broken by Mr Afton.
“If I knew who that spying fellow is, and where he lives, captain,” he said, with more respect in his tones and manner, “I would, with your consent, take a few of the men, storm the house, capture him, and bring him aboard.”
“I know the man,” replied Captain Vance, “and also where he is to be found. But there is no need of resorting to the violent means which you recommend—which, by-the-bye, would destroy our trade here, by making it unsafe for us to visit this harbour or its neighbourhood any more. I think that I have a better plan. I know well the character of the man who was watching us, and since you started in pursuit of him, have thought of a plan by which I shall have him peaceably on board of the brig early to-morrow morning, before he shall have an opportunity of communicating with any one. Trust the matter to me; I feel not the least doubt of my success. I will speak to you further on the subject presently.”
From the time that Afton, Billy, and the other sailor had gone in pursuit of young Coe, the process of removing the bales and boxes of goods to the cellar had been unremittingly continued. Soon after Billy Bowsprit’s return, Mr Ashleigh had gone down into the cellar again, to resume the superintendence of the storage of the merchandise. Shortly after the close of the conversation recorded above, between the captain and the first-mate, the merchant reascended to the store-room, and announced that the goods were all safely put away. He was followed by the sailors who had been engaged in carrying down the packages.
“Come, boys,” said the store-keeper, addressing those who had come with him out of the cellar; “let us put the slide and the counter back into their places, and put the store-room again in order. Our night’s work will then be finished. I, for one, shall be glad of it, for I am both tired and sleepy.”
In a few moments afterwards, and while Captain Vance was holding a short, whispered conversation with Mr Afton, his first-mate, the doors and windows of the store-room were made fast. Then the merchant took his way up the hill to his house, and the seafaring people, all but one, returned to the brig.
Teler. ’Tis a brave venture, our good master Jansen,
And needs a man of pluck to carry it.
Jansen. Danger, say you? and mystery to back it!
Say no more, Teler - I’m the man for you. - Old Drama.
Millmont, the residence of Thomas Coe, Esq, on his plantation of the same name, near the head of Saint John’s creek, was a large, two-storey frame building, with single-storey wings. Each of these wings contained one room, with an attic above, and was connected with the main building by a short and narrow passage or entry. In one of these wings was the chamber of John Alvan Coe. It was a large room, with windows sheltered by Venetian blinds, and opening almost to the floor. A large yard, shaded by several old trees, extended from the front of the house and from the gables of the wings; the garden, in the usual fashion when attached to plantation houses of that time, was on the fourth side, or in the rear of the buildings.
John Alvan Coe not only escaped from his pursuers, but arrived home before the two negro men who had accompanied him. He at once entered his room, and in a few moments—having first loaded his pistols and placed them on a table near the head of his bed, and having seen that the window-shutters were all made fast—sprung into bed, and was soon deep in that sound and refreshing sleep which fatigue always assures to healthy youth.
About four o’clock, or at the earliest “peep of day,” the young man was aroused from his slumbers by a light, grating noise, made by running a stick or a finger down along the outside of the Venetian shutters of one of the windows of his room. He immediately started from his sleep.
“Who is there?” he exclaimed.
“Get up, John, and let me in, quickly,” said a voice from the outside of the window. “I have something interesting to tell you.”
“Is that you, Harry Marston?” asked John. “Wait a moment till I get on some of my clothes.”
In a few minutes the early visitor was admitted into the chamber. It was, as John had supposed, Henry Marston, the son of a wealthy planter in the neighbourhood. Being of an adventurous and roving disposition, he had been unwillingly allowed by his parents, some years before, to enter upon a seafaring life. He had risen rapidly in his chosen profession, and was now captain of the Sea-bird, a merchant vessel in which his father owned an interest, and which was engaged in trading between Baltimore and certain ports in the West Indies and along the Spanish main.
Young Marston was tall and handsome. His hair and the slight moustache which shaded his upper lip were of dark brown hue. His dark, hazel eyes were expressive, at the first glance, of both gentleness and resolution; but a second, and more observant look, discovered something more in them—a something that created uneasiness and a want of trust. Every movement of his body seemed instinct with grace. His voice was soft and musical, but it did not at all remind you of the singing of birds or of the tones of other cheerful and innocent creatures. Still, there was a peculiar fascination in his speech and manner, which possessed a great influence over certain natures. The young man was on this occasion dressed in a handsome suit of black broadcloth.
“How are you, Harry?” exclaimed John, as soon as his visitor entered the room. “This is, indeed, a surprise, and a delightful one. When did you get back home?”
“Last night,” was the answer, “or, rather, I should say this morning, since it was fully one o’clock when I got home. Everybody was aroused from sleep by my arrival; and the old folks insisted upon dressing and coming down to see me at once. All the little ones, too, came out of their nests to see the long-absent Harry. Thus, it was nearly three o’clock before I got a chance of retiring to my chamber, by which time the excitement of seeing so many loved ones banished from me all weariness and inclination to sleep. And this brings me to the cause of my so early visit to you.”
“In the delight of seeing you,” said John, “I had forgotten that subject entirely.”
“When I entered my chamber,” continued Henry Marston, “I found upon the floor, directly in front of the door by which I had come in, this singular and enigmatical card, enclosed in an envelope directed to my address—‘Captain Henry Marston, Blue Oldfields’—the name of my father’s place, you know. Remembering your fondness for adventure—we are alike in that respect, in truth—I came over here at once, to ask your assistance in developing the mystery. There is no time for delays, you see, as to-day is the twenty-first.”
The young sailor handed to his friend a card, on which was written, in letters imitating print, these words:
May 21st, 1817, at 5:12 a.m.
At the Spout.
The number is eight.
Be Prompt - Be True.
Forget not the Pass. “A F E.”
“What do you want to do?” asked John, after reading the words on the card. “I can make but little meaning out of this.”
“Why, of course,” replied Marston, “I want you to go with me to this rendezvous. I am determined to find out the mystery. You see, there will be eight there—seven besides myself; at any rate, that is what I understand the card to mean. If anything be wrong, I can scarcely hope to contend successfully against seven men. At an hour so early, few upon whom I could call for help will be about—probably not one at that lonely place. Yet I am determined, at all hazards, to solve the mystery. If you think there is too much risk in the affair, John, I will go by myself.”
“As to that matter,” said John, “you know that I don’t care about the risk, as you call it; so that if you are determined to go I will accompany you. But the affair may be only a joke; and I don’t wish to do anything that will make me the subject of laughter.”
“It may be a joke to try my courage,” observed Marston. “In any view of the case,” he continued, after a pause, “I am determined to make the venture.”
“And I shall accompany you,” said John. “The place designated, I suppose, is the Spout on Saint Leonard’s Creek?”
“Of course it is,” was the answer. “There is no other place in this neighbourhood called the Spout.”
“But my going with you,” said John, reflectively, “may be the very cause of danger to you, since I have received no card of invitation. By the way, what is that piece of paper on the floor behind you near the door. Bless my life!” he continued, picking up the paper; “it is addressed to me, and contains, word for word, a card like the one addressed to you.”
“You will go now, I suppose, unhesitatingly,” said Captain Marston.
“Certainly,” was the reply. “But I had better awaken one of the servants, and leave a message for the family.”
“There is no use in doing that,” said Henry. “I left no message at home. We shall be back, in all probability, by the time they are up. Have you not a pair of pistols? I remember that we each bought, in Baltimore, a pair precisely alike, during my last visit home. We should go well armed, and in that condition, I think, as we are both good shots, and not at all nervous, that we shall be very nearly, if not quite, a match for the other six.”
“My pistols,” answered young Coe, “are here on the table, and ready for use. I loaded them immediately on my return from a drum-fishing excursion last night, on account of an adventure which befell me on my way home. This card may have something to do with that adventure.”
“Ah! What is that adventure to which you refer!” asked Captain Marston, with much expression of interest.
While young Coe was relating to his friend the incidents of the night, he was also engaged in dressing. During the process of dressing, while young Coe’s eyes were turned for a moment or two away from Marston, the latter took up the pistols which had been lying upon the table, and placed them in his pockets, and immediately afterwards put upon the table in their place another pair of pistols which were precisely similar in appearance to the former, and which he had withdrawn from another pair of pockets in his dress.
“What befell you last night,” remarked the captain, when John had concluded his narrative, “can have nothing to do with the present affair, because they could not have recognised you under the circumstances; and, besides, I should not have received a card as well as you, since I had nothing to do with that adventure.”
“True,” replied John. “Yet I may have been recognised; who knows but that one or more persons of this neighbourhood who knows me are engaged in this smuggling business, and were there disguised? Moreover, the card sent to you also may be intended to put me off my guard.”
“If you feel any uneasiness about the matter,” said Captain Marston, “you had better, perhaps, not go. I shall go, however, at all risks.”
“Oh!” exclaimed John, in an easy tone; “my thinking the affair a plot will not prevent me from trying to discover its meaning. If it be a trap to catch me, that trap is well set; for what is more apt to draw one on to adventure than mystery, especially when that mystery is awaited on by apparent peril? I am determined to solve the riddle, let it be attended by what danger it may be.”
“Come, then,” said the captain, “are you ready? If so, let us go at once. Time is pressing.”
The two men then left the house, and proceeded to the stable, where John soon saddled two horses for the ride. Mounting, they rode slowly, for fear of disturbing the sleep of the household, down a land bordered with old cherry-trees, which led from the dwelling at Millmont to the public road at the distance of a few hundred yards; but on gaining this road their horses were urged to a fast gallop.
The daylight was now shining broad and bright, although there was nearly half an hour to sunrise. The sky was softly blue, and clear of clouds, save a few light and fleecy ones, which sailed slowly along, seemingly far away in the depths of ether. “A dewy freshness filled the air,” which was cool and bracing, and made sweet by the fragrant breath of grasses and leaves, and of the humble wild flowers which grew on either side of the road.
The stimulating character of the atmosphere, and the elastic motion of their steeds, stirred the blood of the young men to a more, rapid circulation, and aroused them to a full enjoyment of the adventure in which they were engaged.
“What a strange and inexpressible pleasure there is in danger!” said John. “There seems to me to be no enjoyment in life, unless there be obstacles to overcome, and perils to meet.”
“I agree with you,” said Captain Marston. “But it requires caution as well as courage to win for us in the battle of life. Has it occurred to you that we have not the password to admit us to the rendezvous?”
“No,” replied John. “But what is the use of it? We have received cards of invitation, and we know the place and hour of meeting.”
“So we do,” said Marston; “yet a want of knowledge of this password may give us inconvenience as well as trouble.”
“Probably,” suggested Coe, “the letters ‘A F E’ are the password.”
“But,” objected Captain Marston, “perhaps they are only the initials of it; and in that case, the question arises, what do they stand for? It is well to be armed against all contingencies.”
“True,” consented John. “But I am sure I have no idea what they can mean. Let me think for a minute or two.”
“Don’t you remember,” asked Marston, “the English story, which we read together when we were schoolboys, about a mysterious secret society? Can you recollect the initials of their password?”
“Yes,” was the ready reply; “they are ‘O F A—A F O,’ which, being interpreted, mean ‘One for All, All for One.’ Let me see! ‘A F E.’ All for each. I wonder if that is not the password in this case?”
“Very probable,” assented Marston. “If necessary, let us try it, at all events.”
This proposition was agreed to. As the distance between Millmont and the Spout, over a road which traversed, in rapidly succeeding alternations, fields and forests, hills and plains, was fully nine miles, the two young men were obliged to put their horses to a tolerably high speed to reach the place of their destination in time. But little more conversation passed between them, therefore, until they arrived at the head of the ravine, down which their road led to the shore of Saint Leonard’s Creek.