DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION.
It was a raw, overcast evening in the early part of January. Away to the
west there was a brownish glimmer in the dark-gray sky, denoting sunset,
and from that point there came barely sufficient light to disclose the
prominent features of a wild, dreary, uneven landscape.
The foreground was a rugged clearing in the forest, just where the crest
of a high hill began to slope rapidly down to the Brandywine. The dark
meadows, dotted with irregular lakes of ice, and long, dirty drifts
of unmelted snow, but not the stream itself, could be seen. Across the
narrow valley rose a cape, or foreland, of the hills beyond, timbered
nearly to the top, and falling, on either side, into deep lateral
glens,--those warm nooks which the first settlers loved to choose, both
from their snug aspect of shelter, and from the cold, sparkling springs
of water which every one of them held in its lap. Back of the summits of
all the hills stretched a rich, rolling upland, cleared and mapped into
spacious fields, but showing everywhere an edge of dark, wintry woods
against the darkening sky.
In the midst of this clearing stood a rough cabin, or rather half-cabin,
of logs; for the back of it was formed by a ledge of slaty rocks, some
ten or twelve feet in height, which here cropped out of the hill-side.
The raw clay with which the crevices between the logs had been stopped,
had fallen out in many places; the roof of long strips of peeled bark
was shrivelled by wind and sun, and held in its place by stones and
heavy branches of trees, and a square tower of plastered sticks in one
corner very imperfectly suggested a chimney. There was no inclosed patch
of vegetable-ground near, no stable, improvised of corn-shocks, for
the shelter of cow or pig, and the habitation seemed not only to be
untenanted, but to have been forsaken years before.
Yet a thin, cautious thread of smoke stole above the rocks, and just as
the starless dusk began to deepen into night, a step was heard, slowly
climbing upward through the rustling leaves and snapping sticks of the
forest. A woman's figure, wearily scaling the hill under a load which
almost concealed the upper part of her body, for it consisted of a huge
wallet, a rattling collection of articles tied in a blanket, and two
or three bundles slung over her shoulders with a rope. When at last,
panting from the strain, she stood beside the cabin, she shook herself,
and the articles, with the exception of the wallet, tumbled to the
ground. The latter she set down carefully, thrust her arm into one of
the ends and drew forth a heavy jug, which she raised to her mouth. The
wind was rising, but its voice among the trees was dull and muffled; now
and then a flake of snow dropped out of the gloom, as if some cowardly,
insulting creature of the air were spitting at the world under cover of
the night.
“It's likely to be a good night,” the woman muttered, “and he'll be on
the way by this time. I must put things to rights.”
She entered the cabin by a narrow door in the southern end. Her first
care was to rekindle the smouldering fire from a store of boughs and dry
brushwood piled in one corner. When a little flame leaped up from the
ashes, it revealed an interior bare and dismal enough, yet very cheery
in contrast with the threatening weather outside. The walls were naked
logs and rock, the floor of irregular flat stones, and no furniture
remained except some part of a cupboard or dresser, near the chimney.
Two or three short saw-cuts of logs formed as many seats, and the only
sign of a bed was a mass of dry leaves, upon which a blanket had been
thrown, in a hollow under the overhanging base of the rock.
Untying the blanket, the woman drew forth three or four rude cooking
utensils, some dried beef and smoked sausages, and two huge round loaves
of bread, and arranged them upon the one or two remaining shelves of the
dresser. Then she seated herself in front of the fire, staring into the
crackling blaze, which she mechanically fed from time to time, muttering
brokenly to herself in the manner of one accustomed to be much alone.
“It was a mean thing, after what I'd said,--my word used to be wuth
somethin', but times seems to ha' changed. If they have, why shouldn't I
change with 'em, as well's anybody else? Well, why need it matter? I've
got a bad name.... No, that'll never do! Stick to what you're about, or
you'll be wuthlesser, even, than they says you are!”
She shook her hard fist, and took another pull at the jug.
“It's well I laid in a good lot o' _that_,” she said. “No better company
for a lonesome night, and it'll stop his cussin', I reckon, anyhow. Eh?
What's that?”
From the wood came a short, quick yelp, as from some stray dog. She
rose, slipped out the door, and peered into the darkness, which was full
of gathering snow. After listening a moment, she gave a low whistle. It
was not answered, but a stealthy step presently approached, and a form,
dividing itself from the gloom, stood at her side.
“All right, Deb?”
“Right as I can make it. I've got meat and drink, and I come straight
from the Turk's Head, and Jim says the Sheriff's gone back to Chester,
and there's been nobody out these three days. Come in and take bite and
sup, and then tell me everything.”
They entered the cabin. The door was carefully barred, and then
Sandy Flash, throwing off a heavy overcoat, such as the drovers were
accustomed to wear, sat down by the fire. His face was redder than its
wont, from cold and exposure, and all its keen, fierce lines were sharp
and hard. As he warmed his feet and hands at the blaze, and watched Deb.
Smith while she set the meat upon the coals, and cut the bread with a
heavy hunting-knife, the wary, defiant look of a hunted animal gradually
relaxed, and he said,--
“Faith, Deb., this is better than hidin' in the frost. I believe I'd
ha' froze last night, if I hadn't got down beside an ox for a couple o'
hours. It's a dog's life they've led me, and I've had just about enough
of it.”
“Then why not give it up, Sandy, for good and all? I'll go out with you
to the Backwoods, after--after things is settled.”
“And let 'em brag they frightened me away!” he exclaimed, with an oath.
“Not by a long shot, Deb. I owe 'em a score for this last chase--I'll
make the rich men o' Chester County shake in their shoes, and the
officers o' the law, and the Volunteers, damme! before I've done with
'em. When I go away for good, I'll leave somethin' behind me for them to
remember me by!”
“Well, never mind; eat a bit--the meat's ready, and see here, Sandy! I
carried this all the way.”
He seized the jug and took a long draught. “You're a good 'un, Deb.,” he
said. “A man isn't half a man when his belly's cold and empty.”
He fell to, and ate long and ravenously. Warmed at last, both by fire
and fare, and still more by his frequent potations, he commenced the
story of his disguises and escapes, laughing at times with boisterous
self-admiration, swearing brutally and bitterly at others, over the
relentless energy with which he had been pursued. Deb. Smith listened
with eager interest, slapping him upon the back with a force of
approval which would have felled an ordinary man, but which Sandy Flash
cheerfully accepted as a caress.
“You see,” he said at the close, “after I sneaked between Potter's troop
and the Sheriff's, and got down into the lower corner o' the county, I
managed to jump aboard a grain-sloop bound for Newport, but they were
froze in at the mouth o' Christeen; so I went ashore, dodged around
Wilmington, (where I'm rather too well known,) and come up Whitely Creek
as a drover from Mar'land. But from Grove up to here, I've had to look
out mighty sharp, takin' nigh onto two days for what I could go straight
through in half a day.”
“Well, I guess you're safe here, Sandy,” she said; “they'll never think
o' lookin' for you twice't in the same place. Why didn't you send word
for me before? You've kep' me a mortal long time a-waitin', and down on
the Woodrow farm would ha' done as well as here.”
“It's a little too near that Potter. He'd smell me out as quick as if I
was a skunk to windward of him. Besides, it's time I was pitchin' on a
few new holes; we must talk it over together, Deb.”
He lifted the jug again to his mouth. Deb. Smith, although she had kept
nearly even pace with him, was not so sensible to the potency of the
liquor, and was watching for the proper degree of mellowness, in order
to broach the subject over which she had been secretly brooding since
his arrival.
“First of all, Sandy,” she now said, “I want to talk to you about
Gilbert Potter. The man's my friend, and I thought you cared enough
about me to let my friends alone.”
“So I do, Deb., when they let me alone. I had a right to shoot the
fellow, but I let him off easy, as much for your sake as because he was
carryin' another man's money.”
“That's not true!” she cried. “It was his own money, every cent of
it,--hard-earned money, meant to pay off his debts; and I can say it
because I helped him earn it, mowin' and reapin' beside him in the
harvest-field, thrashin' beside him in the barn, eatin' at his table,
and sleepin' under his roof. I gev him my word he was safe from you, but
you've made me out a liar, with no more thought o' me than if I'd been a
stranger or an enemy!”
“Come, Deb., don't get into your tantrums. Potter may be a decent
fellow, as men go, for anything I know, but you're not beholden to him
because he treated you like a Christian as you are. You seem to forgit
that he tried to take my life,--that he's hardly yet giv' up huntin'
me like a wild beast! Damn him, if the money _was_ his, which I don't
believe, it wouldn't square accounts between us. You think more o' his
money than o' my life, you huzzy!”
“No I don't, Sandy!” she protested, “no I don't. You know me better'n
that. What am I here for, to-night? Have I never helped you, and hid
you, and tramped the country for you back and forth, by day and by
night,--and for what? Not for money, but because I'm your wife, whether
or not priest or 'squire has said it. I thought you cared for me, I did,
indeed; I thought you might do one thing to please me!”
There was a quivering motion in the muscles of her hard face; her lips
were drawn convulsively, with an expression which denoted weeping,
although no tears came to her eyes.
“Don't be a fool!” Sandy exclaimed. “S'pose you have served me, isn't it
somethin' to have a man to serve? What other husband is there for you in
the world, than me,--the only man that isn't afeard o' your fist? You've
done your duty by me, I'll allow, and so have I done mine by you!”
“Then,” she begged, “do this one thing over and above your duty. Do it,
Sandy, as a bit o' kindness to me, and put upon me what work you please,
till I've made it up to you! You dunno what it is, maybe, to have one
person in the world as shows a sort o' respect for you--that gives you
his hand honestly, like a gentleman, and your full Chris'en name. It
does good when a body's been banged about as I've been, and more used
to curses than kind words, and not a friend to look after me if I was
layin' at Death's door--and I don't say you wouldn't come, Sandy, but
you can't. And there's no denyin' that he had the law on his side, and
isn't more an enemy than any other man. Maybe he'd even be a friend in
need, as far as he dared, if you'd only do it”--
“Do what? What in the Devil's name is the woman drivin' at?” yelled
Sandy Flash.
“Give back the money; it's his'n, not Barton's,--I know it. Tell me
where it is, and I'll manage the whole thing for you. It's got to be
paid in a month or two, folks says, and they'll come on him for it,
maybe take and sell his farm--sell th' only house, Sandy, where I git
my rights, th' only house where I git a bit o' peace an' comfort! You
wouldn't be that hard on me?”
The highwayman took another deep drink and rose to his feet. His face
was stern and threatening. “I've had enough o' this foolery,” he said.
“Once and for all, Deb., don't you poke your nose into my affairs! Give
back the money? Tell you where it is? Pay him for huntin' me down? I
could take you by the hair and knock your head ag'in the wall, for them
words!”
She arose also and confronted him. The convulsive twitching of her mouth
ceased, and her face became as hard and defiant as his. “Sandy Flash,
mark my words!” she exclaimed. “You're a-goin' the wrong way, when you
stop takin' only from the Collectors and the proud rich men, and sparin'
the poor. Instead o' doin' good to balance the bad, it'll soon be all
bad, and you no better 'n a common thief! You needn't show your teeth;
it's true, and I say it square to y'r face!”
She saw the cruel intensity of his anger, but did not flinch. They had
had many previous quarrels, in which neither could claim any very great
advantage over the other; but the highwayman was now in an impatient and
exasperated mood, and she dared more than she suspected in defying him.
“You ----!” (the epithet he used cannot be written,) “will you stop your
jaw, or shall I stop it for you? I'm your master, and I give you your
orders, and the first order is, Not another word, now and never, about
Potter or his money!”
He had never before outraged her by such a word, never before so
brutally asserted his claim to her obedience. All the hot, indignant
force of her fierce, coarse nature rose in resistance. She was
thoroughly aroused and fearless. The moment had come, she felt, when the
independence which had been her compensation amid all the hardships and
wrongs of her life, was threatened,--when she must either preserve it by
a desperate effort, or be trampled under foot by this man, whom she both
loved and feared, and in that moment, hated.
“I'll not hold my jaw!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “Not even at your
biddin', Sandy Flash! I'll not rest till I have the money out o' you;
there's no law ag'inst stealin' from a thief!”
The answer was a swift, tremendous blow of the highwayman's fist,
delivered between her eyes. She fell, and lay for a moment stunned, the
blood streaming from her face. Then with a rapid movement, she seized
the hunting-knife which lay beside the fire, and sprang to her feet.
The knife was raised in her right hand, and her impulse was to plunge it
into his heart. But she could not avoid his eyes; they caught and held
her own, as if by some diabolical fascination. He stood motionless,
apparently awaiting the blow. Nothing in his face or attitude expressed
fear; only all the power of the man seemed to be concentrated in his
gaze, and to hold her back. The impulse once arrested, he knew, it would
not return. The eyes of each were fixed on the other's, and several
minutes of awful silence thus passed.
Finally, Deb. Smith slightly shuddered, as if with cold, her hand slowly
fell, and without a word she turned away to wash her bloody face.
Sandy Flash grinned, took another drink of whiskey, resumed his seat
before the fire, and then proceeded to fill his pipe. He lit and smoked
it to the end, without turning his head, or seeming to pay the least
attention to her movements. She, meanwhile, had stopped the flow of
blood from her face, bound a rag around her forehead, and lighted her
own pipe, without speaking. The highwayman first broke the silence.
“As I was a-sayin',” he remarked, in his ordinary tone, “we've got to
look out for new holes, where the scent isn't so strong as about these.
What do you think o' th' Octorara?”
“Where?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse and strange, but he took no
notice of it, gazing steadily into the fire as he puffed out a huge
cloud of smoke.
“Well, pretty well down,” he said. “There's a big bit o' woodland, nigh
onto two thousand acres, belongin' to somebody in Baltimore that doesn't
look at it once't in ten years, and my thinkin' is, it'd be as safe
as the Backwoods. I must go to--it's no difference where--to-morrow
mornin', but I'll be back day after to-morrow night, and you needn't
stir from here till I come. You've grub enough for that long, eh?”
“It'll do,” she muttered.
“Then, that's enough. I must be off an hour before day, and I'm devilish
fagged and sleepy, so here goes!”
With these words he rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and
stretched himself on the bed of leaves. She continued to smoke her pipe.
“Deb.,” he said, five minutes afterwards, “I'm not sure o' wakin'. You
look out for me,--do you hear?”
“I hear,” she answered, in the same low, hoarse voice, without turning
her head. In a short time Sandy Flash's deep breathing announced that he
slept. Then she turned and looked at him with a grim, singular smile,
as the wavering fire-light drew clear pictures of his face which the
darkness as constantly wiped out again. By-and-by she noiselessly moved
her seat nearer to the wall, leaned her head against the rough logs, and
seemed to sleep. But, even if it were sleep, she was conscious of
his least movement, and started into alert wakefulness, if he turned,
muttered in dreams, or crooked a finger among the dead leaves. From time
to time she rose, stole out of the cabin and looked at the sky. Thus the
night passed away.
There was no sign of approaching dawn in the dull, overcast, snowy air;
but a blind, animal instinct of time belonged to her nature, and about
two hours before sunrise, she set about preparing a meal. When all was
ready, she bent over Sandy Flash, seized him by the shoulder, and shook
his eyes open.
“Time!” was all she said.
He sprang up, hastily devoured the bread and meat, and emptied the jug
of its last remaining contents.
“Hark ye, Deb.,” he exclaimed, when he had finished, “you may as well
trudge over to the Turk's Head and fill this while I'm gone. We'll need
all of it, and more, tomorrow night. Here's a dollar, to pay for't. Now
I must be on the tramp, but you may look for me to-morrow, an hour after
sun.”
He examined his pistols, stuck them in his belt, threw his drover's
cloak over his shoulders, and strode out of the cabin. She waited until
the sound of his footsteps had died away in the cold, dreary gloom, and
then threw herself upon the pallet which he had vacated. This time she
slept soundly, until hours after the gray winter day had come up the
sky.
Her eyes were nearly closed by the swollen flesh, and she laid handfuls
of snow upon her face, to cool the inflamation. At first, her movements
were uncertain, expressing a fierce conflict, a painful irresolution of
feeling; she picked up the hunting-knife, looked at it with a ghastly
smile, and then threw it from her. Suddenly, however, her features
changed, and every trace of her former hesitation vanished. After
hurriedly eating the fragments left from Sandy's breakfast, she issued
from the cabin and took a straight and rapid course eastward, up and
over the hill.
During the rest of that day and the greater part of the next, the cabin
was deserted.
It was almost sunset, and not more than an hour before Sandy Flash's
promised return, when Deb. Smith again made her appearance. Her face was
pale, (except for the dark blotches around the eyes,) worn, and haggard;
she seemed to have grown ten years older in the interval.
Her first care was to rekindle the fire and place the replenished jug in
its accustomed place. Then she arranged and rearranged the rude blocks
which served for seats, the few dishes and the articles of food on
the shelf, and, when all had been done, paced back and forth along the
narrow floor, as if pushed by some invisible, tormenting power.
Finally a whistle was heard, and in a minute afterwards Sandy Flash
entered the door. The bright blaze of the hearth shone upon his bold,
daring, triumphant face.
“That's right, Deb.,” he said. “I'm dry and hungry, and here's a rabbit
you can skin and set to broil in no time. Let's look at you, old gal!
The devil!--I didn't mean to mark you like that. Well, bygones is
bygones, and better times is a-comin'.”
“Sandy!” she cried, with a sudden, appealing energy, “Sandy--once't
more! Won't you do for me what I want o' you?”
His face darkened in an instant. “Deb!” was all the word he uttered, but
she understood the tone. He took off his pistol-belt and laid it on the
shelf. “Lay there, pets!” he said; “I won't want you to-night. A long
tramp it was, and I'm glad it's over. Deb., I guess I've nigh tore off
one o' my knee-buckles, comin' through the woods.”
Placing his foot upon one of the logs, he bent down to examine the
buckle. Quick as lightning, Deb., who was standing behind him, seized
each of his arms, just above the elbows, with her powerful hands, and
drew them towards each other upon his back. At the same time she uttered
a shrill, wild cry,--a scream so strange and unearthly in its character
that Sandy Flash's blood chilled to hear it.
“Curse you, Deb., what are you doing? Are you clean mad?” he ejaculated,
struggling violently to free his arms.
“Which is strongest now?” she asked; “my arms, or your'n? I've got you,
I'll hold you, and I'll only let go when I please!”
He swore and struggled, but he was powerless in her iron grip. In
another minute the door of the cabin was suddenly burst open, and two
armed men sprang upon him. More rapidly than the fact can be related,
they snapped a pair of heavy steel handcuffs upon his wrists, pinioned
his arms at his sides, and bound his knees together. Then, and not till
then, Deb. Smith relaxed her hold.
Sandy Flash made one tremendous muscular effort, to test the strength
of his bonds, and then stood motionless. His white teeth flashed between
his parted lips, and there was a dull, hard glare in his eyes which
told that though struck dumb with astonishment and impotent rage, he was
still fearless, still unsubdued. Deb. Smith, behind him, leaned against
the wall, pale and panting.
“A good night's work!” remarked Chaffey, the constable, as he possessed
himself of the musket, pistol-belt, and hunting-knife. “I guess this
pitcher won't go to the well any more.”
“We'll see,” Sandy exclaimed, with a sneer. “You've got me, not through
any pluck o' your'n, but through black, underhanded treachery. You'd
better double chain and handcuff me, or I may be too much for you yet!”
“I guess you'll do,” said the constable, examining the cords by the
light of a lantern which his assistant had in the mean time fetched from
without. “I'll even untie your knees, for you've to walk over the hill
to the next farm-house, where we'll find a wagon to carry you to Chester
jail. I promise you more comfortable quarters than these, by daylight.”
The constable then turned to Deb. Smith, who had neither moved nor
spoken.
“You needn't come with us without you want to,” he said. “You can get
your share of the money at any time; but you must remember to be ready
to appear and testify, when Court meets.”
“Must I do that?” she gasped.
“Why, to be sure! It's a reg'lar part of the trial, and can't be left
out, though there's enough to hang the fellow ten times over, without
you.”
The two unbound Sandy Flash's knees and placed themselves on each side
of him, the constable holding a cocked pistol in his right hand.
“March is the word, is it?” said the highwayman. “Well, I'm ready.
Potter was right, after all; he said there'd be a curse on the money,
and there is; but I never guessed the curse'd come upon me through
_you_, Deb!”
“Oh, Sandy!” she cried, starting forward, “you druv me to it! The curse
was o' your own makin'--and I gev you a last chance to-night, but you
throwed it from you!”
“Very well, Deb,” he answered, “if I've got my curse, don't think you'll
not have your'n! Go down to Chester and git your blood-money, and see
what'll come of it, and what'll come to you!”
He turned towards her as he spoke, and the expression of his face seemed
so frightful that she shuddered and covered her eyes. The next moment,
the old cabin door creaked open, fell back with a crash, and she was
alone.
She stared around at the dreary walls. The sound of their footsteps had
died away, and only the winter night-wind wailed through the crannies of
the hut. Accustomed as she was to solitary life and rudest shelter, and
to the companionship of her superstitious fancies, she had never before
felt such fearful loneliness, such overpowering dread. She heaped sticks
upon the fire, sat down before it, and drank from the jug. Its mouth
was still wet from his lips, and it seemed that she was already drinking
down the commencement of the curse.
Her face worked, and hard, painful groans burst from her lips. She threw
herself upon the floor and grovelled there, until the woman's relief
which she had almost unlearned forced its forgotten way, through cramps
and agonies, to her eyes. In the violent passion of her weeping and
moaning, God saw and pitied, that night, the struggles of a dumb,
ignorant, yet not wholly darkened nature.
Two hours afterwards she arose, sad, stern, and determined, packed
together the things she had brought with her, quenched the fire (never
again to be relighted) upon the hearth, and took her way, through cold
and darkness, down the valley.