In that bare upper room they had shared, the judge, crushed and broken,
watched beside the bed on which the dead man lay; unconscious of the
flight of time he sat with his head bowed in his hands, having scarcely
altered his position since he begged those who carried Mahaffy up the
narrow stairs to leave him alone with his friend.
He was living over the past. He recalled his first meeting with Mahaffy
in the stuffy cabin of the small river packet from which they had later
gone ashore at Pleasantville; he thanked God that it had been given
him to see beneath Solomon's forbidding exterior and into that starved
heart! He reviewed each phase of the almost insensible growth of their
intimacy; he remembered Mahaffy's fine true loyalty at the time of his
arrest--he thought of Damon and Pythias--Mahaffy had reached the heights
of a sublime devotion; he could only feel enobled that he had inspired
it.
At last the dusk of twilight invaded the room. He lighted the candles
on the chimneypiece, then he resumed his seat and his former attitude.
Suddenly he became aware of a small hand that was resting on his arm and
glanced up; Hannibal had stolen quietly into the room. The boy pointed
to the still figure on the bed.
“Judge, what makes Mr. Mahaffy lie so quiet--is he dead?” he asked in a
whisper.
“Yes, dear lad,” began the judge in a shaking voice as he drew Hannibal
toward him, “your friend and mine is dead--we have lost him.” He lifted
the boy into his lap, and Hannibal pressed a tear-stained face against
the judge's shoulder. “How did you get here?” the judge questioned
gently.
“Uncle Bob fetched me,” said Hannibal. “He's down-stairs, but he didn't
tell me Mr. Mahaffy was dead-”
“We have sustained a great loss, Hannibal, and we must never forget the
moral grandeur of the man. Some day, when you are older, and I can bring
myself to speak of it, I will tell you of his last moments.” The judge's
voice broke, a thick sob rose chokingly in his throat. “Poor Solomon! A
man of such tender feeling that he hid it from the world, for his was a
rare nature which only revealed itself to the chosen few he honored with
his love.” The judge lapsed into a momentary brooding silence, in which
his great arms drew the boy closer against his heart. “Dear lad, since I
left you at Belle Plain a very astonishing knowledge has come to me.
It was the Hand of Providence--I see it now--that first brought us
together. You must not call me judge any more; I am your grandfather
your mother was my daughter.”
Hannibal instantly sat erect and looked up at the judge, his blue eyes
wide with amazement at this extraordinary statement.
“It is a very strange story, Hannibal, and its links are not all in my
hands, but I am sure because of what I already know. I, who thought that
not a drop of my blood flowed in any veins but my own, live again in
you. Do you understand what I am telling you? Your are my own dear
little grandson--” and the judge looked down with no uncertain love and
pride into the small face upturned to his.
“I am glad if you are my grandfather, judge,” said Hannibal very
gravely. “I always liked you.”
“Thank you, dear lad,” responded the judge with equal gravity, and then
as Hannibal nestled back in his grandfather's arms a single big tear
dropped from the end of that gentleman's prominent nose.
“There will be many and great changes in store for us,” continued the
judge. “But as we met adversity with dignity, I am sure we shall be able
to endure prosperity with equanimity, only unworthy natures are affected
by what is at best superficial and accidental. I mean that the blight of
poverty is about to be lifted from our lives.”
“Do you mean we ain't going to be pore any longer, grandfather?” asked
Hannibal.
The judge regarded him with infinite tenderness of expression; he was
profoundly moved.
“Would you mind saying that again, dear lad?”
“Do you mean we ain't going to be pore any longer, grandfather?”
repeated Hannibal.
“I shall enjoy an adequate competency which I am about to recover. It
will be sufficient for the indulgence of those simple and intellectual
tastes I propose to cultivate for the future.” In spite of himself the
judge sighed. This was hardly in line with his ideals, but the right to
choose was no longer his. “You will be very rich, Hannibal. The Quintard
lands--your grandmother was a Quintard--will be yours; they run up into
the hundred of thousand of acres here about; this land will all be yours
as soon as I can establish your identity.”
“Will Uncle Bob be rich too?” inquired Hannibal.
“Certainly. How can he be poor when we possess wealth?” answered the
judge.
“You reckon he will always live with us, don't you, grandfather?”
“I would not have it otherwise. I admire Mr. Yancy--he is simple and
direct, and fit for any company under heaven except that of fools. His
treatment of you has placed me under everlasting obligations; he shall
share what we have. My one bitter, unavailing regret is that Solomon
Mahaffy will not be here to partake of our altered fortunes.” And the
judge sighed deeply.
“Uncle Bob told me Mr. Mahaffy got hurt in a duel, grandfather?” said
Hannibal.
“He was as inexperienced as a child in the use of firearms, and he had
to deal with scoundrels who had neither mercy nor generous feeling--but
his courage was magnificent.”
Presently Hannibal was deep in his account of those adventures he had
shared with Miss Betty.
“And Miss Malroy--where is she now?” asked the judge, in the first pause
of the boy's narrative.
“She's at Mr. Bowen's house. Mr. Carrington and Mr. Cavendish are
here too. Mrs. Cavendish stayed down yonder at the Bates' plantation.
Grandfather, it were Captain Murrell who had me stole--do you reckon he
was going to take me back to Mr. Bladen?”
“I will see Miss Malroy in the morning. We must combine--our interests
are identical. There should be hemp in this for more than one scoundrel!
I can see now how criminal my disinclination to push myself to the front
has been!” said the judge, with conviction. “Never again will I shrink
from what I know to be a public duty.”
A little later they went down-stairs, where the judge had Yancy make up
a bed for himself and Hannibal on the floor. He would watch alone beside
Mahaffy, he was certain this would have been the dead man's wish; then
he said good night and mounted heavily to the floor above to resume his
vigil and his musings.
Just at daybreak Yancy was roused by the pressure of a hand on his
shoulder, and opening his eyes saw that the judge was bending over him.
“Dress!” he said briefly. “There's every prospect of trouble--get your
rifle and come with me!”
Yancy noted that this prospect of trouble seemed to afford the judge
a pleasurable sensation; indeed, he had quite lost his former air of
somber and suppressed melancholy.
“I let you sleep, thinking you needed the rest,” the judge went on.
“But ever since midnight we've been on the verge of riot and possible
bloodshed. They've arrested John Murrell--it's claimed he's planned a
servile rebellion! A man named Hues, who had wormed his way into his
confidence, made the arrest. He carried Murrell into Memphis, but the
local magistrate, intimidated, most likely, declined to have anything to
do with holding him. In spite of this, Hues managed to get his prisoner
lodged in jail, but along about nightfall the situation began to look
serious. Folks were swarming into town armed to the teeth, and Hues
fetched Murrell across country to Raleigh--”
“Yes?” said Yancy.
“Well, the sheriff has refused to take Murrell into custody. Hues has
him down at the court-house, but whether or not he is going to be able
to hold him is another matter!”
Yancy and Hannibal had dressed by this time, and the judge led the way
from the house. The Scratch Hiller looked about him. Across the street
a group of men, the greater number of whom were armed, stood in front
of Pegloe's tavern. Glancing in the direction of the court-house, he
observed that the square before it held other groups. But what impressed
him more was the ominous silence that was everywhere. At his elbow the
judge was breathing deep.
“We are face to face with a very deplorable condition, Mr. Yancy. Court
was to sit here to-day, but judge Morrow and the public prosecutor have
left town, and as you see, Murrell's friends have gathered for a rescue.
There's a sprinkling of the better element--but only a sprinkling. I saw
judge Morrow this morning at four o'clock--I told him I would obligate
myself to present for his consideration evidence of a striking and
sensational character, evidence which would show conclusively that
Murrell should be held to await the action of the next grand jury--this
was after a conference with Hues--I guaranteed his safety. Sir, the man
refused to listen to me! He showed himself utterly devoid of any feeling
of public duty.” The bitter sense of failure and futility was leaving
the judge. The situation made its demands on that basic faith in his own
powers which remained imbedded in his character.
They had entered the court-house square. 'On the steps of the building
Betts was arguing loudly with Hues, who stood in the doorway, rifle in
hand.
“Maybe you don't know this is county property?” the sheriff was saying.
“And that you have taken unlawful possession of it for an unlawful
purpose? I am going to open them doors-a passel of strangers can't keep
folks out of a building their own money has bought and paid for!” While
he was speaking, the judge had pushed his way through the crowd to the
foot of the steps.
“That was very nicely said, Mr. Betts,” observed the judge. He smiled
widely and sweetly. The sheriff gave him a hostile glare. “Do you know
that Morrow has left town?” the judge went on.
“I ain't got nothing to do with judge Morrow. It's my duty to see that
this building is ready for him when he's a mind to open court in it.”
“You are willing to assume the responsibility of throwing open these
doors?” inquired the judge affably.
“I shorely am,” said Betts. “Why, some of these folks are our leading
people!”
The judge turned to the crowd, and spoke in a tone of excessive
civility. “Just a word, gentlemen!--the sheriff is right; it is your
court-house and you should not be kept out of it. No doubt there are
some of you whose presence in this building will sooner or later be
urgently desired. We are going to let all who wish to enter, but I beg
you to remember that there will be five men inside whose prejudices
are all in favor of law and order.” He pushed past Hues and entered the
court-house, followed by Yancy and Hannibal. “We'll let 'em in where I
can talk to 'em,” he said almost gaily. “Besides, they'll come in anyhow
when they get ready, so there's no sense in exciting them.”
In the court-house, Murrell, bound hand and foot, was seated between
Carrington and the Earl of Lambeth in the little railed-off space below
the judge's bench. Fear and suffering had blanched his unshaven cheeks
and given a wild light to his deeply sunken eyes. At sight of Yancy a
smothered exclamation broke from his lips, he had supposed this man dead
these many months!
Hues had abandoned his post and the crowd, suddenly grown clamorous,
stormed the narrow entrance. One of the doors, borne from its hinges,
went down with a crash. The judge, a fierce light flashing from his
eyes, turned to Yancy.
“No matter what happens, this fellow Murrell is not to escape--if he
calls on his friends to rescue him he is to be shot!”
The hall was filling with swearing, struggling men, the floor shook
beneath their heavy tread; then they burst into the court-room and
saluted Murrell with a great shout. But Murrell, bound, in rags, and
silent, his lips frozen in a wolfish grin, was a depressing sight, and
the boldest felt something of his unrestrained lawlessness go from him.
Less noisy now, the crowd spread itself out among the benches or swarmed
up into the tiny gallery at the back of the building. Man after man had
hurried forward, intent on passing beyond the railing, but each lead
encountered the judge, formidable and forbidding, and had turned
aside. Gradually the many pairs of eyes roving over the little group
surrounding the outlaw focussed themselves on Slocum Price. It was in
unconscious recognition of that moral force which was his, a tribute to
the grim dignity of his unshaken courage; what he would do seemed worth
considering.
He was charmed to hear his name pass in a whisper from lip to lip. Well,
it was time they knew him! He squared his ponderous shoulders and made a
gesture commanding silence. Battered, shabby and debauched, he was
like some old war horse who sniffs the odor of battle that the wind
incontinently brings to his nostrils.
“Don't let him speak!” cried a voice, and a tumult succeeded.
Cool and indomitable the judge waited for it to subside. He saw that the
color was stealing back into Murrell's face. The outlaw was feeling that
he was a leader not overthrown, these were his friends and followers,
his safety was their safety too. In a lull in the storm of sound the
judge attempted to make himself heard, but his words were lost in the
angry roar that descended on him.
“Don't let him speak! Kill him! Kill him!”
A score of men sprang to their feet and from all sides came the click
of rifle and pistol hammers as they were drawn to the full cock. The
judge's fate seemed to rest on a breath. He swung about on his heel and
gave a curt nod to Yancy and Cavendish, who, falling back a step, tossed
their guns to their shoulders and covered Murrell. A sudden hush grew up
out of the tumult; the cries, angry and jeering, dwindled to a murmur,
and a dead pall of silence rested on the crowded room.
The very taste of triumph was in the judge's mouth. Then came a
commotion at the back of the building, a whispered ripple of comment,
and Colonel Fentress elbowed his way through the crowd. At sight of his
enemy the judge's face went from white to red, while his eyes blazed;
but for the moment the force of his emotions left him speechless. Here
and there, as he advanced, Fentress recognized a friend and bowed coolly
to the right and left.
“What does this ridiculous mockery mean?” he demanded harshly. “Mr.
Sheriff, as a member of the bar, I protest! Why don't you clear the
building?” He did not wait for Betts to answer him, but continued.
“Where is this man Hues?”
“Yonder, Colonel, by the captain,” said Betts.
“I have a warrant for his arrest. You will take him into custody.”
“Wait!” cried the judge. “I represent Mr. Hues. I desire to see that
warrant!”
But Fentress ignored him. He addressed the crowded benches.
“Gentlemen, it is a serious matter forcibly to seize a man without
authority from the courts and expose him to the danger of mob
violence--Mr. Hues will learn this before we have done with him.”
Instantly there was a noisy demonstration that swelled into a burst
of applause, which quickly spent itself. The struggle seemed to have
narrowed to an individual, contest for supremacy between Fentress and
the judge. On the edge of the railed off space they confronted each
other: the colonel, a tall, well-cared-for presence; the judge shabby
and unkempt. For a moment their eyes met, while the judge's face purpled
and paled, and purpled again. The silence deepened. Fentress' thin lips
opened, twitched, but no sound came from them; then his glance wavered
and fell. He turned away.
“Mr. Sheriff!” he called sharply.
“All right, Colonel!”
“Take your man into custody,” ordered Fentress. As he spoke he handed
the warrant to Betts, who looked at it, grinned, and stepped toward
Hues. He would have pushed the judge aside had not that gentleman,
bowing civilly, made way for him.
“In my profound respect for the law and properly constituted authority I
yield to no man, not even to Colonel Fentress,” he said, with a gracious
gesture. “I would not place the slightest obstacle in the way of its
sanctioned manifestation. Colonel Fentress comes here with that high
sanction.” He bowed again ceremoniously to the colonel. “I repeat, I
respect his dependence upon the law!” He whirled suddenly.
“Cavendish--Yancy--Carrington--I call upon you to arrest John Murrell! I
do this by virtue of the authority vested in me as a judge of the United
States Federal Court. His crime--a mere trifle, my friends--passing
counterfeit money! Colonel Fentress will inform you that this is a
violation of the law which falls within my jurisdiction,” and he beamed
blandly on Fentress.
“It's a lie!” cried the colonel.
“You'll answer for that later!” said the judge, with abrupt austerity of
tone.
“For all we know you may be some fugitive from justice! Why, your name
isn't Price!”
“Are you sure of that?” asked the judge quickly.
“You're an impostor! Your name is Turberville!”
“Permit me to relieve your apprehensions. It is Turberville who has
received the appointment. Would you like to examine my credentials?--I
have them by me--no? I am obliged for your introduction. It could not
have come at a more timely moment!” The judge seemed to dismiss Fentress
contemptuously. Once more he faced the packed benches. “Put down your
weapons!” he commanded. “This man Murrell will not be released. At the
first effort at rescue he will be shot where he sits--we have sworn
it--his plotting is at an end.” He stalked nearer the benches. “Not one
chance in a thousand remains to him. Either he dies here or he lives to
betaken before every judge in the state, if necessary, until we find one
with courage to try him! Make no mistake--it will best conserve the ends
of justice to allow the state court's jurisdiction in this case; and I
pledge myself to furnish evidence which will start him well on his road
to the gallows!” The judge, a tremendous presence, stalked still nearer
the benches. Outfacing the crowd, a sense of the splendor of the part
he was being called upon to play flowed through him like some elixir;
he felt that he was transcending himself, that his inspiration was drawn
from the hidden springs of the spirit, and that he could neither falter
nor go astray. “You don't know what you are meddling with! This man
has plotted to lay the South in ruins--he has been arming the
negroes--it--it is incredible that you should all know this--to such I
say, go home and thank God for your escape! For the others”--his shaggy
brows met in a menacing frown--“if they force our hand we will toss them
John Murrell's dead carcass--that's our answer to their challenge!”
He strode out among the gun muzzles which wavered where they still
covered him. He was thinking of Mahaffy--Mahaffy, who had said he was
still a man to be reckoned with. For the comfort of his own soul he was
proving it.
“Do you know what a servile insurrection means?--you men who have wives
and daughters, have you thought of their fate? Of the monstrous savagery
to which they would be exposed? Do you believe he could limit and
control it? Look at him! Why, he has never had a consideration outside
of his own safety, and yet he expects you to risk your necks to save
his! He would have left the state before the first blow was struck--his
business was all down river--but we are going to keep him here to answer
for his crimes! The law, as implacable as it is impartial, has put its
mark on him--the shadow in which he sits is the shadow of the gallows!”
The judge paused, but the only sound in that expectant silence was the
heavy breathing of men. He drew his unwieldy form erect, while his voice
rumbled on, aggressive and threatening in its every intonation.
“You are here to defend something that no longer exists. Your
organization is wrecked, your signals and passwords are known, your
secrets have become public property--I can even produce a list of your
members; there are none of you who do not stand in imminent peril--yet
understand, I have no wish to strike at those who have been misled or
coerced into joining Murrell's band!” The judge's sodden old face glowed
now with the magnanimity of his sentiments. “But I have no feeling
of mercy for your leaders, none for Murrell himself. Put down your
guns!--you can only kill us after we have killed Murrell--but you can't
kill the law! If the arch conspirator dies in this room and hour, on
whose head will the punishment fall?” He swung round his ponderous arm
in a sweeping gesture and shook a fat but expressive forefinger in the
faces of those nearest him. “On yours--and yours--and yours!”
Across the space that separated them the judge grinned his triumph at
his enemy. He had known when Fentress entered the room that a word or
a sign from him would precipitate a riot, but he knew now that neither
this word nor this sign would be given. Then quite suddenly he strode
down the aisle, and foot by foot Fentress yielded ground before his
advance. A murderous light flashed from the judge's bloodshot eyes and
his right hand was stealing toward the frayed tails of his coat.
“Look out--he's getting ready to shoot!” cried a frightened voice.
Instantly by doors and windows the crowd, seized with inexplicable
panic, emptied itself into the courthouse yard. Fentress was caught
up in the rush and borne from the room and from the building. When he
reached the graveled space below the steps he turned. The judge was in
the doorway, the center of a struggling group; Mr. Bowen, the minister,
Mr. Saul and Mr. Wesley were vainly seeking to pinion his arm.
“Draw--damn you!” he roared at Fentress, as he wrenched himself free,
and the crowd swayed to right and left as Fentress was seen to reach for
his pistol.
Mr. Saul made a last frantic effort to restrain his friend; he seized
the judge's arm just as the latter's finger pressed the trigger, and
an instant later Fentress staggered back with the judge's bullet in his
shoulder.