HOW DADDY BOB DEPARTED.
LET us again beg the indulgence of the reader, while we go back to
the night when Marston was found dead in his cell, and when that old
negro, whose eventful history we shall here close, sat by his
bed-side, unconscious that the spirit of master had winged its way
to another world. Bob, faithful unto death, remained his lone
watcher. Disguising his ownership, he has toiled from day to day
that the fruits thereof might relieve master's necessities; and he
had shared them with the flowing goodness of a simple heart. In a
malarious cell, how happy was he to make his bed on the cold plank
beside his master's cot, where he might watch over his declining
spirit. Kindness was his by nature,--no cruel law could rob his heart
of its treasure: he would follow master to the grave, and lavish it
upon the soil that covered him.
Having accompanied Franconia to the Rosebrook Villa, he will return
to the prison and join Harry, alone watching over the dead. The city
clock strikes the hour of eleven as he leaves the outer gate, and
turns into the broad road leading to the city. The scene before him
is vamped in still darkness; a murky light now and then sheds its
glimmers across the broad road; and as he hurries onward,
contemplating the sad spectacle presented in the prison, happy
incidents of old plantation life mingle their associations with his
thoughts. He muses to himself, and then, as if bewildered, commences
humming his favourite tune-"There's a place for old mas'r yet, when
all 'um dead and gone!" His soul is free from suspicion: he fears
not the savage guardsman's coming; the pure kindliness of his heart
is his shield. How often has he scanned this same scene,--paced this
same road on his master's errands! How death has changed the
circumstances of this his nightly errand! Far away to the east, on
his left, the broad landscape seems black and ominous; before him,
the sleeping city spreads its panorama, broken and sombre, beneath
heavy clouds; the fretted towers on the massive prison frown dimly
through the mist to the right, from which a low marshy expanse
dwindles into the dark horizon. And ever and anon the forked
lightning courses its way through the heavens, now tinging the
sombre scene with mellow light, then closing it in deeper darkness.
Onward the old man wends his way. If he be shut out from the prison,
he will find shelter at Jane's cabin near by, from whence he may
reach the cell early next morning. Presently the dull tramp of
horses breaks upon his ear,--the sound sharpening as they advance.
Through the dimming haze he sees two mounted guardsmen advancing:
the murmuring sound of their conversation floats onward through the
air,--their side arms rattle ominously. Now their white cross belts
are disclosed; their stalwart figures loom out. Nearer and nearer
they approach: as the old man, trembling with fear, remembers he is
without a pass, a gruff voice cries out, "Stop there!"
"A prowling nigger!" rejoins another, in a voice scarcely less
hoarse. The old man halts in the light of a lamp, as the right-hand
guard rides up, and demands his pass.
"Whose nigger are you?" again demands the first voice. "Your pass,
or come with us!"
The old man has no pass; he will go to his master, dead in the
county prison!
Guardsmen will hear neither falsehoods nor pleading. He doesn't know
"whose nigger he is! he is a runaway without home or master," says
the left-hand guardsman, as he draws his baton from beneath his
coat, and with savage grimace makes a threatening gesture. Again he
poises it over the old man's head, as he, with hand uplifted,
supplicates mercy. "Nobody's nigger, and without a pass!" he
grumbles out, still motioning his baton.
"He says his master is in gaol; that's enough! Stop, now, no more
such nonsense!" rejoins the other, as the old man is about to
explain. "Not another word." He is good prey, made and provided by
the sovereign law of the state. Placing him between their horses,
they conduct him in silence forward to the guard-house. He is a
harmless captive, in a world where democracy with babbling tongue
boasts of equal justice. "A prowler!" exclaims one of the guards-
men, as, dismounting in front of the massive building, with frowning
facade of stone, they disappear, leading the old man within its
great doors, as the glaring gas-light reflects upon his withered
features.
"Found prowling on the neck, sir!" says the right-hand guardsman,
addressing himself to the captain, a portly-looking man in a
military suit, who, with affected importance, casts a look of
suspicion at the old man. "Have seen you before, I think?" he
enquires.
"Reckon so, mas'r; but neber in dis place," replies Bob, in
half-subdued accents.
You are nobody's nigger, give a false account of yourself, and have
no home, I hear," interrupts the captain, at the same time ordering
a clerkly-looking individual who sits at a desk near an iron railing
enclosing a tribune, to make the entry in his book.
"Your name?" demands the clerk.
"Bob!"
"Without owner, or home?"
"My master's cell was my home."
"That won't do, my man!" interrupts the portly-looking captain. "Mr.
Clerk" (directing himself to that functionary) "you must enter
him-nobody's nigger, without home or master." And as such he is
entered upon that high record of a sovereign state-the guard-house
calendar. If this record were carried before the just tribunal of
heaven, how foul of crime, injustice, and wrong, would its pages be
found! The faithful old man has laboured under an assumed ownership.
His badge, procured for him through the intercession of Franconia,
shows him as the property of Mr. Henry Frazer. That gentleman is
many hundred miles away: the old man, ignorant of the barbarous
intricacy of the law, feels it to his sorrow. The production of the
badge, and the statement, though asserting that Miss Franconia is
his friend, show a discrepancy. His statement has no truth for
guardsmen; his poor frame is yet worth something, but his oath has
no value in law: hence he must march into a cold cell, and there
remain till morning.
Before that high functionary, the mayor-whose judgments the Russian
Czar might blush to acknowledge or affirm,--he is arraigned at ten
o'clock on the following morning. He has plenty of accusers,--no one
to plead the justice of his case. A plain story he would tell, did
the law and his honour grant the boon. The fatal badge shows him the
property of Mr. Henry Frazer: Mr. Henry Frazer is nowhere to be
found, and the statement that master was in prison tends to increase
the suspicions against him. Against this increasing force of proof,
the old man begs his honour will send to the prison, where master
will be found,--dead! In his love of clemency that functionary yields
to the request. There looks something harmless about the old negro,
something that warms his honour's legal coldness. An officer is
despatched, and soon returns with a description that corresponds
with the old man's. "He waited on Marston, made Marston's cell his
home; but, your honour-and I have the assurance of the gaoler-he was
not Marston's nigger; all that man's niggers were sold for the
benefit of his creditors." So says the official, returning to his
august master with cringing servility. His honour, in the fulness of
his wisdom, and with every regard for legal straightforwardness (his
honour searched into the profoundest depths of the "nigger statutes"
while learning the tailoring trade, which he now pursues with great
success), is now doubly satisfied that the negro before him is a
vagabond-perhaps, and he is more than half inclined to believe he
is, the very marauder who has been committing so many depredations
about the city. With a profound admonition, wisdom glowing from his
very countenance the while, he orders him twenty-nine paddles on his
bare posteriors,--is sorry the law does not give him power to extend
the number. And with compliments for the lucky fellows who have thus
timely relieved the public of such a dangerous outlaw, his honour
orders him to be taken away to that prison-house where even-handed
democracy has erected a place for torturing the souls of men who
love liberty.
He will get the stripes-large, democratic stripes,--generously laid
on. How much more he will get remains for a proud state, in its
sovereign littleness, to provide. His honour, feeling his duties
toward the state discharged, and his precautionary measures for the
protection of the people fully exemplified in this awful judgment,
orders one of the officers to summon Mr. Ford Fosdick, a
distinguished gentleman of the state's own, who, he is quite sure,
will not neglect her more important interests. Bob has no interests
in this world, nor doth he murmur that he hath not eaten bread for
fourteen hours. Kindliness yet lingers in his withered face as he
goes forth, yields submission to a state's lnjustice, and bares his
back before he eats.
"Return him after administering the dressing," says his honour,
directing his remarks to the official about to lead his victim away.
That functionary, half turning, replies with a polite bow.
The reader, we feel assured, will excuse a description of this
unsavoury dressing, beautifully administered on behalf of a
republican state that makes it a means of crushing out the love of
liberty. Bob has received his dressing and returned; but he has no
tears to shed for democrats who thus degrade him.
Mr. Ford Fosdick, a gentleman of the learned profession, very
straight of person, and most bland of manners, is what may be called
escheator in ordinary to the state. Keeping a sharp eye on her
interests, he has anticipated the commands of his august master,
presents his polite person very unexpectedly in his honour's
court-room. Fosdick, in addition to an excellent reputation for
being the very best gentleman "nigger grabber" the state ever had,
is well thought of in fashionable circles, having fought two duels
of the most desperate character. He is of middle stature, with a
face finely oval, and to which are added features of much softness,
altogether giving him more the appearance of a well-ordained divine,
than the medium of those high functions by which the state's
"grab-all" of homeless negroes distinguishes himself. If the state
tolerated an ignominy, Ford Fosdick--between whom there exists a
mutual partnership--found in it an apology for the part he played;
for--let no man blush when we tell it--the sum total for which
friendless, homeless, and ownerless negroes sold for in the market
was equally divided between them. Generous as was this
copartnership, there were few well-disposed persons independent
enough to sanction it; while here and there an outspoken voice said
it was paying a premium for edging Fosdick's already sharp appetite
for apprehending the wretched, who--God save the state's
honour!--having no means of protecting themselves, would be sold for
the sovereign interests of his own pocket, instead of the peace of
the dear people, of which the state was ever jealous. Mr. Fosdick is
present,--thanks his honour the mayor: he thinks he has seen the
negro before; that he is a prowler not a doubt can exist. Quite
indifferent as to his own interests, he says the city is literally
beset with such vermin: in his own mind, however, he has not a doubt
but that something handsome will be realised from the sale of the
old fellow. There is now a most fearful case in the city,--a negro
belonging to Mr. Grabguy has become mad with disobedience: they have
chained him to the floor, but he sets everything at defiance,
threatens the lives of all who come near him,--says he will die or be
free. Against this there is little hope for old Bob; his crooked
story will not suit the high considerations of these amiable
worthies of state: he must be siezed and dragged to the workhouse,
there to await the result. It is a profitable morning's work for Mr.
Ford Fosdick, who makes a large note in his ledger, and will soon
carry out a very acceptable item on behalf of his dear self. So,
while Bob eats his corn-grits in a cell, and his heart beats high
with purity, Mr. Ford Fosdick revels in luxury he thinks not
ill-gotten.
Due notice, in accordance with the statutes, is given to all persons
whomsoever may claim a piece of property answering the description
of Daddy Bob, as herein set forth. Weeks pass, but no one comes to
claim Bob. In the eyes of an ignoble law he is a cast out, homeless
upon the world; and as such must be sold. He is put up at the
man-shambles, and, by order of Mr. Ford Fosdick, sold to Mr. Cordes
Kemp for the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars, one half of which
sum is the state's own, the other Mr. Ford Fosdick's. Mr. Cordes
Kemp had seen Bob working about the wharf, and learned that the old
man was of more value than his outward appearance indicated,
inasmuch as he was a good carpenter; which we have not before
informed the reader. But Bob had never been accustomed to a cruel
master: such Cordes Kemp was to the fullest extent of the term. A
few months passed, and Bob became heartily sick of his new master,
who gave him little to eat, and had nearly ended his life with
labour and the lash. Finding he could no longer stand such
treatment, he fled to the swamp; and for two years did he make his
home among the morasses and hillocks, now making his bed by the
trunk of a fallen tree, then seeking shelter in a temporary camp
built with the axe he carried away with him. At times he was forced
to make food of roots, nuts, and such wild fruit as the woods
afforded; and as the ravens found food, so the outcast man did not
suffer while an all-wise Providence watched over him. And then he
found a kind friend in old Jerushe-Aunt Jerushe, as she was commonly
called, who lived on a plantation a few miles from his hiding-place,
and met him at night, and shared her coarse meal with him. Jerushe's
heart was full of kindness; she would have given him more, but for
the want thereof. Full two years did even-handed democracy drive the
old man homeless to seek a shelter among the poisonous reptiles of
the morass. Mr. Cordes Kemp must regain his property, and to that
generous end he puts forth the following extremely southern
proclamation, which may be found in all respectable morning
journals, on posters hung at the "Rough and Ready," at "Your House,"
and at "Our House":--
"SEVENTY-FIVE (75) DOLLARS REWARD is offered for the delivery of my
old negro carpenter man named BOB, in gaol in Charleston, within a
month from this date. The said BOB is a complete carpenter, about
sixty-five years of age, has a fine, full, good-natured face,
knock-kneed, bald-headed, and ran away about two years ago: he is
thought to be harboured in Charleston or James' Island. He was
bought of Mr. Ford Fosdick, on behalf of the state. June 28,--
CORDES KEMP."
Mr. Cordes Kemp, sorely grieved at the loss of so venerable and
valuable a piece of property,--and which he bought of the state, for
the rights of which he is a great champion,--will give the above sum
in hard cash to the clever fellow who will secure it within a
prison, so he may get it. If this cannot be done, he will declare
him an outlaw, offer a premium for the old man's head, and, with the
bleeding trophy, demand the premium paid by the state. However,
seventy-five dollars is no mean offer for so old a negro, and as the
said negro cannot be a fast runner, the difficulty of catching him
will not be very great, while the sport will be much more exciting.
Romescos and Dan Bengal keep a sharp look-out for all such little
chances of making money; and as their dogs are considered the very
best and savagest in the country, they feel certain they will be
able to deliver the article over to Mr. Kemp in a very few days.
A few days after the appearance of Mr. Cordes Kemp's proclamation,
these two worthies may be seen riding along the Camden Road, a sandy
level, with little to indicate its tortuous course save a beaten and
irregular path through a forest of stately pines. Their
reddish-coloured home-spun clothes, set loosely, and their large,
felt hats, slouching over their bearded faces, give their figures a
brigand-like appearance which excites apprehension. They are heavily
armed with rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives; and as their horses
move along at a quick walk, the riders may be heard keeping up an
animated discussion on matters of state policy. The state and its
policy is a matter of deep interest to slave-dealer and
slave-hunter; none discuss them with more pertinacity. And as every
great measure is supposed to have some bearing, directly or
indirectly, on the right of one class to enslave the other, a
never-ceasing political jar is kept up by these worthies, and too
often finds its way into the public acts of men who should be far
removed above their selfishness.
The horse on which Romescos rides, a sprightly dark-bay, seeming to
have an instinctive knowledge of his master's pursuit, pricks his
ears erect, and keeps his head turning from one side to the other,
as if watching the approach of some object in the forest. A few
paces ahead are seven fierce hounds, now scenting about the ground,
then scampering through the trees, and again, quickly obeying the
call, return to the horses. Not a bark is heard, not a growl escapes
them! Nothing could be under more explicit subjection-not even those
northern dogs who pollute their own free soil by making it a forest,
where the souls of men are humbled, and where, willing allies of the
sport, they desecrate that holy sentence, "Our Pilgrim Fathers!"
Presently the lean figure of a man is seen advancing from a thicket
in the distance. Rifle in hand he advances a few paces, leans
against the trunk of a pine tree, relieves his shoulders of a
well-filled haversack, and supports his arms on the stock of his
weapon, the muzzle of which he sets in the ground. He will wait the
horsemen's coming. With lightning quickness the hounds start
suddenly, prick up their ears, make a bound forward. "Hold there!"
exclaims Romescos, at the same time directing Bengal's attention to
the figure far away to the right. His horse shies, an imprecation
quickly follows; the dogs as suddenly obey the word, and crouch back
to await another signal.
"Nothing, I reckon!" returns Bengal, coolly, as the figure in the
distance is seen with smoking fusee lighting a cigar.
Romescos thinks he is a gentleman returning from hunting in the big
swamp, to the north. He has a kind of presentiment, nevertheless,
that some lucky prize will turn up before sunset.
"Well, strangers, what luck to day?" enquires the hunter, as they
run up their horses. At the same time he gracefully raises a
delicate hand, relieves his mouth of the cigar, twists a well-
trimmed mustache, and lifts his hunting-cap from off his head,
disclosing a finely-chiselled face.
"Not a shy!" replies Romescos, taking a cigar from his side pocket,
and motioning his hand: the hunter politely extends his habanna,
with which he communicates a light to his own. It is well nigh
noon-day, and at the hunter's invitation do they dismount, seat
themselves at the foot of the tree, and regale with bread, cheese,
and brandy, he draws from his haversack.
"Thought ye'd got game in that," remarks Bengal, measuredly. Ho has
scoured the woods, but found little game of the kind he hunts. "Our
game is of a different species: you, I take it, hunt niggers, I'm in
search of birds."
"Would have no objection to a stray deer or two!" is the reply, as
he passes his horn and flask to Romescos, who helps himself to a
dose of the liquid, which, he says, smacking his lips, is not bad to
take.
"Especially when yer on a hunting excursion!" rejoins Bengal.
"Now," says the gentleman hunter, quietly resuming his cigar, "as
you do not hunt my game, nor I yours, I think I can give you a scent
that may prove profitable."
"Where away?" interrupts Bengal. Romescos respects the stranger-he
has dignity concealed beneath his hunting garb, which the quick eye
recognised as it flashed upon him. He gives Bengal a significant
wink, the meaning of which he instinctively understands-"Don't be
rude,--he belongs to one of the first families!"
The stranger lays his left hand on Romescos' arm, and with the fore
finger of his right hand pointing to the south-west, says, "My
plantation is nine miles in that direction. I left it this morning,
early. In crossing an inlet of the Pedee, I discovered white smoke,
far ahead, curling upward through the trees, and expanding itself in
the clear blue atmosphere. Feeling sure it indicated the haunt of
runaways, I approached it stealthily, and had almost unconsciously
come upon a negro, who, suddenly springing from his hiding-place,
ran to the water's edge, plunged in, and swam to a little island a
few yards in the stream. It did not become me to pursue him, so I
passed on heedlessly, lest he might have companions, who would set
upon me, and make me an easy prey to their revengeful feelings." As
each word fell from the stranger's lips, Romescos and his companion
became irresistibly excited.
Again repeating the directions, which the stranger did with great
precision, they drank a parting social glass: the mounted huntsmen
thanked the pedestrian for his valuable information, gave him a warm
shake of the hand, and, as he arranged his haversack, rode off at
full gallop in the direction indicated. The dogs, cunning brutes,
trained to the state's brutality, mutely kept in advance. "In luck
yet!" exclaims Bengal, as they rode onward, in high glee,
anticipating the valuable game about to fall into their hands.
"Ho! dogs-and back!" shrieked Romescos, at the top of his shrill
voice, his sandy hair hanging in tufts over his little reddened
face, now glowing with excitement. Instantly the dogs started off
through the thicket, and after making a circle of about a mile,
returned with heads up, and eyes fiercely flashing. Trailing in a
semicircle ahead they seemed eager for another command.
"Better keep them back," mutters Bengal; and as Romescos gives the
word,--"Come back!" they form a trail behind.
Now white fleecy clouds begin to obscure the sun; then it disappears
in a murky haze, and is no longer their guide. After two hours'
riding they find a wrong turn has led them far away from their
course, and to avoid retracing their steps they make a short cut
through the thicket. In another hour they have reached the bank of
the stream they sought. Dogs, horses, and men, together drink of its
limpid waters, and proceed onward. They have yet several miles of
travel before reaching the spot designated by the strange hunter;
and seeking their way along the bank is a slow and tedious process.
The prize-that human outcast, who has no home where democracy
rules,--is the all-absorbing object of their pursuit; money is the
god of their hellish purpose.
It is near night-fall, when they, somewhat wearied of the day's
ride, halt on a little slope that extends into the river, and from
which a long view of its course above opens out. It seems a quiet,
inviting spot, and so sequestered that Bengal suggests it be made a
resting-place for the night.
"Not a whisper," says Romescos, who, having dismounted, is nervously
watching some object in the distance. It is a pretty spot, clothed
in softest verdure. How suddenly the quick eye of Romescos
discovered the white smoke curling above the green foliage! "See!
see!" he whispers again, motioning his hand behind, as Bengal
stretches his neck, and looks eagerly in the same direction. "Close
dogs-close!" he demands, and the dogs crouch back, and coil their
sleek bodies at the horses' feet. There, little more than a mile
ahead, the treacherous smoke curls lazily upward, spreading a white
haze in the blue atmosphere. Daddy Bob has a rude camp there. A few
branches serve for a covering, the bare moss is his bed; the fires
of his heart would warm it, were nothing more at hand! Near by is
the island on which he seeks refuge when the enemy approaches; and
from this lone spot-his home for more than two years-has he sent
forth many a fervent prayer, beseeching Almighty God to be his
shield and his deliverer. It was but yesterday he saw Jerushe, who
shared with him her corn-cakes, which, when she does not meet him at
his accustomed spot, she places at the foot of a marked tree. Bob
had added a few chips to his night fire, (his defence against
tormenting mosquitoes), and made his moss bed. Having tamed an owl
and a squirrel, they now make his rude camp their home, and share
his crumbs. The squirrel nestles above his head, as the owl, moping
about the camp entrance, suddenly hoots a warning and flutters its
way into the thicket. Starting to his feet with surprise-the
squirrel chirping at the sudden commotion-the tramp of horses breaks
fearfully upon the old man's ear; bewildered he bounds from the
camp. Two water oaks stand a few feet from its entrance, and through
them he descries his pursuers bearing down upon him at full speed,
the dogs making the very forest echo with their savage yelps. They
are close upon him; the island is his only refuge! Suddenly he leaps
to the bank, plunges into the stream, and with death-like struggles
gains the opposite shore, where he climbs a cedar, as the dogs,
eager with savage pursuit, follow in his wake, and are well nigh
seizing his extremities ere they cleared their vicious spring. The
two horsemen vault to the spot from whence the old man plunged into
the water; and while the dogs make hideous ravings beneath the tree,
they sit upon their horses, consulting, as the old man, from the
tree top, looks piteously over the scene. Life has few charms for
him; death would not be unwelcome.
The tedious journey, and disappointment at seeing the old man's
resolution, has excited Romescos' ire. "He's an old rack-not worth
much, but he doesn't seem like Kemp's old saw-horse," Romescos
remarks to Bengal, as his hawk eye scans the old man perched among
the cedar branches. They are not more than forty yards apart, and
within speaking distance. Bengal, less excited, thinks it better to
secure the old "coon" without letting the dogs taste of him.
"They'll only hold him with a firm grip, when he dismounts, and swim
him safe back," grumblingly returns Romescos. "Now! old
nig"-Romescos shouts at the top of his voice, directing himself to
the old man-"just trot back here-come along!"
The old man shakes his head, and raises his hands, as if pleading
for mercy.
"You won't, eh?" returns the angry man, raising his rifle in an
attitude of preparation. Bengal reminds Romescos that his horse is
not accustomed to firing from the saddle.
"I will larn him, then," is the reply.
"Mas'r," says Bob, putting out his hand and uncovering his bald
head, "I can harm no white man. Let me live where 'um is, and die
where 'um is."
"None o' that ar kind o' nigger talk;--just put it back here, or
ye'll get a plug or two out o' this long Bill." (He points to his
rifle.) "Ye'll come down out of that-by heavens you will!"
"Wing him; don't shoot the fool!" suggests Bengal, as the old man,
pleading with his pursuers, winds his body half round the tree.
Tick! tick! went the cock of Romescos' rifle; he levelled it to his
eye,--a sharp whistling report rung through the air, and the body of
the old man, shot through the heart, lumbered to the earth, as a
deadly shriek sounds high above the echoes over the distant
landscape-"M'as'r in heaven take 'um and have mercy on 'um!" gurgles
on the air: his body writhes convulsively-the devouring dogs spring
savagely upon the ration-all is over with the old slave!
Instantly with the report of the rifle, Romescos' horse darts,
vaults toward the oaks, halts suddenly, and, ere he has time to
grasp the reins, throws him headlong against one of their trunks. An
oath escapes his lips as from the saddle he lifted; not a word more
did he lisp, but sank on the ground a corpse. His boon companion,
forgetting the dogs in their banquet of flesh, quickly dismounts,
seizes the body in his arms, the head hanging carelessly from the
shoulders: a few quivering shrugs, and all is over. "Neck broken,
and dead!" ejaculates the affrighted companion, resting the dead
hunter's back against his left knee, and with his right hand across
the breast, moving the head to and fro as if to make sure life has
left.
"Poor Anthony,--it's a bad end; but the state should bury him with
honours; he ware the best 'un at this kind o' business the state
ever had," mutters Bengal, glancing revengefully toward the island,
where his democratic dogs are busy in the work of destruction. Then
he stretches the lifeless body on the ground, crosses those hands
full of blood and treachery, draws a handkerchief from his pocket,
spreads it over the ghastly face fast discolouring, as the riderless
horse, as if by instinct, bounds back to the spot and suddenly halts
over his dead master, where he frets the ground with his hoof, and,
with nostrils extended, scents along the body. Having done this, as
if in sorrow, he will rest on the ground beside him; slowly he
lumbers his body down, his head and neck circled toward that of the
lifeless ruffian on the ground.
The disconsolate hunter here leaves his useless companion, swims the
stream, recalls the gory-mouthed dogs, looks with satisfaction on
the body of the torn slave. "You're settled for," says Bengal, as
with his right foot he kicks together the distended and torn limbs.
"Not all loss, yet!" he adds, a glow of satisfaction infusing his
face. With the ghastly head for proof, he will apply for, and
perhaps obtain, the state's reward for the despatch of outlaws; and
with the gory trophy he returns across the limpid stream to his
hapless companion, who, having watched over during the night, he
will convey into the city to-morrow morning. Over his body the very
humorous Mr. Brien Moon will hold one of those ceremonies called
inquests, for which, fourteen dollars and forty cents being paid
into his own pocket, he will order the valueless flesh under the
sod, handsomely treating with cigars and drinks those who honour him
with their presence.
In the old man's camp, a hatchet, a few bits of corn-bread, (old
Jerushe's gift), and two fresh caught fish, are found; they
constituted his earthly store. But he was happy, for his heart's
impulses beat high above the conflict of a State's wrongs. That
spirit so pure has winged its way to another and better world,
where, with that of the monster who wronged nature while making
cruelty his pastime, it will appear before a just God, who sits in
glory and judgeth justly.