WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF A VOLUNTARY AND AN INVOLUNTARY VISIT OF SAM
YATES TO NUMBER NINE.
Mr. Belcher followed up the acquaintance which he had so happily made on
New Year's Day with many of the leading operators of Wall street, during
the remainder of the winter, and, by the careful and skillful
manipulation of the minor stocks of the market, not only added to his
wealth by sure and steady degrees, but built up a reputation for
sagacity and boldness. He struck at them with a strong hand, and
gradually became a recognized power on 'Change. He knew that he would
not be invited into any combinations until he had demonstrated his
ability to stand alone. He understood that he could not win a leading
position in any of the great financial enterprises until he had shown
that he had the skill to manage them. He was playing for two
stakes--present profit and future power and glory; and he played with
brave adroitness.
During the same winter the work at Number Nine went on according to
contract. Mike Conlin found his second horse and the requisite sled,
and, the river freezing solidly and continuously, he was enabled not
only to draw the lumber to the river, but up to the very point where it
was to be used, and where Jim and Mr. Benedict were hewing and framing
their timber, and pursuing their trapping with unflinching industry.
Number Ten was transformed into a stable, where Mike kept his horses on
the nights of his arrival. Two trips a week were all that he could
accomplish, but the winter was so long, and he was so industrious, that
before the ice broke up, everything for the construction of the house
had been delivered, even to the bricks for the chimney, the lime for the
plastering, and the last clapboard and shingle. The planning, the
chaffing, the merry stories of which Number Nine was the scene that
winter, the grand, absorbing interest in the enterprise in which these
three men were engaged, it would be pleasant to recount, but they may
safely be left to the reader's imagination. What was Sam Yates doing?
He lived up to the letter of his instructions. Finding himself in the
possession of an assured livelihood, respectably dressed and engaged in
steady employment, his appetite for drink loosened its cruel hold upon
him, and he was once more in possession of himself. All the week long he
was busy in visiting hospitals, alms-houses and lunatic asylums, and in
examining their records and the mortuary records of the city. Sometimes
he presented himself at the doors of public institutions as a
philanthropist, preparing by personal inspection for writing some book,
or getting statistics, or establishing an institution on behalf of a
public benefactor. Sometimes he went in the character of a lawyer, in
search of a man who had fallen heir to a fortune. He had always a
plausible story to tell, and found no difficulty in obtaining an
entrance at all the doors to which his inquisition led him. He was
treated everywhere so courteously that his self-respect was wonderfully
nourished, and he began to feel as if it were possible for him to become
a man again.
On every Saturday night, according to Mr. Belcher's command, he made his
appearance in the little basement-room of the grand residence, where he
was first presented to the reader. On these occasions he always brought
a clean record of what he had done during the week, which he read to Mr.
Belcher, and then passed into that gentleman's hands, to be filed away
and preserved. On every visit, too, he was made to feel that he was a
slave. As his self-respect rose from week to week, the coarse and brutal
treatment of the proprietor was increased. Mr. Belcher feared that the
man was getting above his business, and that, as the time approached
when he might need something very different from these harmless
investigations, his instrument might become too fine for use.
Besides the ministry to his self-respect which his labors rendered,
there was another influence upon Sam Yates that tended to confirm its
effects. He had in his investigations come into intimate contact with
the results of all forms of vice. Idiocy, insanity, poverty, moral
debasement, disease in a thousand repulsive forms, all these had
frightened and disgusted him. On the direct road to one of these
terrible goals he had been traveling. He knew it, and, with a shudder
many times repeated, felt it. He had been arrested in the downward road,
and, God helping him, he would never resume it. He had witnessed brutal
cruelties and neglect among officials that maddened him. The
professional indifference of keepers and nurses towards those who, if
vicious, were still unfortunate and helpless, offended and outraged all
of manhood there was left in him.
One evening, early in the spring, he made his customary call upon Mr.
Belcher, bringing his usual report. He had completed the canvass of the
city and its environs, and had found no testimony to the death or recent
presence of Mr. Benedict. He hoped that Mr. Belcher was done with him,
for he saw that his brutal will was the greatest obstacle to his reform.
If he could get away from his master, he could begin life anew; for his
professional brothers, who well remembered his better days, were ready
to throw business into his hands, now that he had become himself again.
"I suppose this ends it," said Yates, as he read his report, and passed
it over into Mr. Belcher's hands.
"Oh, you do!"
"I do not see how I can be of further use to you."
"Oh, you don't!"
"I have certainly reason to be grateful for your assistance, but I have
no desire to be a burden upon your hands. I think I can get a living now
in my profession."
"Then we've found that we have a profession, have we? We've become
highly respectable."
"I really don't see what occasion you have to taunt me. I have done my
duty faithfully, and taken no more than my just pay for the labor I have
performed."
"Sam Yates, I took you out of the gutter. Do you know that?"
"I do, sir."
"Did you ever hear of my doing such a thing as that before?"
"I never did."
"What do you suppose I did it for?"
"To serve yourself."
"You are right; and now let me tell you that I am not done with you yet,
and I shall not be done with you until I have in my hands a certificate
of the death of Paul Benedict, and an instrument drawn up in legal form,
making over to me all his right, title and interest in every patented
invention of his which I am now using in my manufactures. Do you hear
that?"
"I do."
"What have you to say to it? Are you going to live up to your pledge, or
are you going to break with me?"
"If I could furnish such an instrument honorably, I would do it."
"Hm! I tell you, Sam Yates, this sort of thing won't do."
Then Mr. Belcher left the room, and soon returned with a glass and a
bottle of brandy. Setting them upon the table, he took the key from the
outside of the door, inserted it upon the inside, turned it, and then
withdrew it, and put it in his pocket. Yates rose and watched him, his
face pale, and his heart thumping at his side like a tilt-hammer.
"Sam Yates," said Mr. Belcher, "you are getting altogether too virtuous.
Nothing will cure you but a good, old-fashioned drunk. Dip in, now, and
take your fill. You can lie here all night if you wish to."
Mr. Belcher drew the cork, and poured out a tumblerful of the choice
old liquid. Its fragrance filled the little room. It reached the
nostrils of the poor slave, who shivered as if an ague had smitten him.
He hesitated, advanced toward the table, retreated, looked at Mr.
Belcher, then at the brandy, then walked the room, then paused before
Mr. Belcher, who had coolly watched the struggle from his chair. The
victim of this passion was in the supreme of torment. His old thirst was
roused to fury. The good resolutions of the preceding weeks, the moral
strength he had won, the motives that had come to life within him, the
promise of a better future, sank away into blank nothingness. A patch of
fire burned on either cheek. His eyes were bloodshot.
"Oh God! Oh God!" he exclaimed, and buried his face in his hands.
"Fudge!" said Mr. Belcher. "What do you make an ass of yourself for?"
"If you'll take these things out of the room, and see that I drink
nothing to-night, I'll do anything. They are hell and damnation to me.
Don't you see? Have you no pity on me? Take them away!"
Mr. Belcher was surprised, but he had secured the promise he was after,
and so he coolly rose and removed the offensive temptation.
Yates sat down as limp as if he had had a sunstroke. After sitting a
long time in silence, he looked up, and begged for the privilege of
sleeping in the house. He did not dare to trust himself in the street
until sleep had calmed and strengthened him.
There was a lounge in the room, and, calling a servant, Mr. Belcher
ordered blankets to be brought down. "You can sleep here to-night, and I
will see you in the morning," said he, rising, and leaving him without
even the common courtesy of a "good-night."
Poor Sam Yates had a very bad night indeed. He was humiliated by the
proof of his weakness, and maddened by the outrage which had been
attempted upon him and his good resolutions. In the morning, he met Mr.
Belcher, feeble and unrefreshed, and with seeming acquiescence received
his directions for future work.
"I want you to take the road from here to Sevenoaks, stopping at every
town on the way. You can be sure of this: he is not near Sevenoaks. The
whole county, and in fact the adjoining counties, were all ransacked to
find him. He cannot have found asylum there; so he must be either
between here and Sevenoaks, or must have gone into the woods beyond.
There's a trapper there, one Jim Fenton. He may have come across him in
the woods, alive or dead, and I want you to go to his camp and find out
whether he knows anything. My impression is that he knew Benedict well,
and that Benedict used to hunt with him. When you come back to me, after
a faithful search, with the report that you can find nothing of him, or
with the report of his death, we shall be ready for decisive operations.
Write me when you have anything to write, and if you find it necessary
to spend money to secure any very desirable end, spend it."
Then Mr. Belcher put into the hands of his agent a roll of bank-notes,
and armed him with a check that might be used in case of emergency, and
sent him off.
It took Yates six long weeks to reach Sevenoaks. He labored daily with
the same faithfulness that had characterized his operations in the city,
and, reaching Sevenoaks, he found himself for a few days free from care,
and at liberty to resume the acquaintance with his early home, where he
and Robert Belcher had been boys together.
The people of Sevenoaks had long before heard of the fall of Sam Yates
from his early rectitude. They had once been proud of him, and when he
left them for the city, they expected to hear great things of him. So
when they learned that, after entering upon his profession with
brilliant promise, he had ruined himself with drink, they bemoaned him
for a while, and at last forgot him. His relatives never mentioned him,
and when, well dressed, dignified, self-respectful, he appeared among
them again, it was like receiving one from the dead. The rejoicing of
his relatives, the cordiality of his old friends and companions, the
reviving influences of the scenes of his boyhood, all tended to build up
his self-respect, reinforce his strength, and fix his determinations for
a new life.
Of course he did not make known his business, and of course he heard a
thousand inquiries about Mr. Belcher, and listened to the stories of the
proprietor's foul dealings with the people of his native town. His own
relatives had been straitened or impoverished by the man's rascalities,
and the fact was not calculated to strengthen his loyalty to his
employer. He heard also the whole story of the connection of Mr. Belcher
with Benedict's insanity, of the escape of the latter from the
poor-house, and of the long and unsuccessful search that had been made
for him.
He spent a delightful week among his friends in the old village, learned
about Jim Fenton and the way to reach him, and on a beautiful spring
morning, armed with fishing tackle, started from Sevenoaks for a
fortnight's absence in the woods. The horses were fresh, the air
sparkling, and at mid-afternoon he found himself standing by the
river-side, with a row of ten miles before him in a birch canoe, whose
hiding-place Mike Conlin had revealed to him during a brief call at his
house. To his unused muscles it was a serious task to undertake, but he
was not a novice, and it was entered upon deliberately and with a
prudent husbandry of his power of endurance. Great was the surprise of
Jim and Mr. Benedict, as they sat eating their late supper, to hear the
sound of the paddle down the river, and to see approaching them a city
gentleman, who, greeting them courteously, drew up in front of their
cabin, took out his luggage, and presented himself.
"Where's Jim Fenton?" said Yates.
"That's me. Them as likes me calls me Jim, and them as don't like
me--wall, they don't call."
"Well, I've called, and I call you Jim."
"All right; let's see yer tackle," said Jim.
Jim took the rod that Yates handed to him, looked it over, and then
said: "When ye come to Sevenoaks ye didn't think o' goin' a fishin'.
This 'ere tackle wasn't brung from the city, and ye ain't no old
fisherman. This is the sort they keep down to Sevenoaks."
"No," said Yates, flushing; "I thought I should find near you the tackle
used here, so I didn't burden myself."
"That seems reasomble," said Jim, "but it ain't. A trout's a trout
anywhere, an' ye hain't got no reel. Ye never fished with anything but a
white birch pole in yer life."
Yates was amused, and laughed. Jim did not laugh. He was just as sure
that Yates had come on some errand, for which his fishing tackle was a
cover, as that he had come at all. He could think of but one motive that
would bring the man into the woods, unless he came for sport, and for
sport he did not believe his visitor had come at all. He was not dressed
for it. None but old sportsmen, with nothing else to do, ever came into
the woods at that season.
"Jim, introduce me to your friend," said Yates, turning to Mr. Benedict,
who had dropped his knife and fork, and sat uneasily witnessing the
meeting, and listening to the conversation.
"Well, I call 'im Number Ten. His name's Williams; an' now if ye ain't
too tired, perhaps ye'll tell us what they call ye to home."
"Well, I'm Number Eleven, and my name's Williams, too."
"Then, if yer name's Williams, an' ye're Number 'leven, ye want some
supper. Set down an' help yerself."
Before taking his seat, Yates turned laughingly to Mr. Benedict, shook
his hand, and "hoped for a better acquaintance."
Jim was puzzled. The man was no ordinary man; he was good-natured; he
was not easily perturbed; he was there with a purpose, and that purpose
had nothing to do with sport After Yates had satisfied his appetite
with the coarse food before him, and had lighted his cigar, Jim drove
directly at business.
"What brung ye here?" said he.
"A pair of horses and a birch canoe."
"Oh! I didn't know but 'twas a mule and a bandanner hankercher," said
Jim; "and whar be ye goin' to sleep to-night?"
"In the canoe, I suppose, if some hospitable man doesn't invite me to
sleep in his cabin."
"An' if ye sleep in his cabin, what be ye goin' to do to-morrer?"
"Get up."
"An' clear out?"
"Not a bit of it."
"Well, I love to see folks make themselves to home; but ye don't sleep
in no cabin o' mine till I know who ye be, an' what ye're arter."
"Jim, did you ever hear of entertaining angels unaware?" and Yates
looked laughingly into his face.
"No, but I've hearn of angels entertainin' theirselves on tin-ware, an'
I've had 'em here."
"Do you have tin peddlers here?" inquired Yates, looking around him.
"No, but we have paupers sometimes," and Jim looked Yates directly in
the eye.
"What paupers?"
"From Sevenoaks."
"And do they bring tin-ware?"
"Sartin they do; leastways, one on 'em did, an' I never seen but one in
the woods, an' he come here one night tootin' on a tin horn, an' blowin'
about bein' the angel Gabrel. Do you see my har?"
"Rather bushy, Jim."
"Well, that's the time it come up, an' it's never been tired enough to
lay down sence."
"What became of Gabriel?"
"I skeered 'im, and he went off into the woods pertendin' he was tryin'
to catch a bullet. That's the kind o' ball I allers use when I have a
little game with a rovin' angel that comes kadoodlin' round me."
"Did you ever see him afterward?" inquired Yates.
"Yes, I seen him. He laid down one night under a tree, an' he wasn't
called to breakfast, an' he never woke up. So I made up my mind he'd
gone to play angel somewheres else, an' I dug a hole an' put 'im into
it, an' he hain't never riz, if so be he wasn't Number 'leven, an' his
name was Williams."
Yates did not laugh, but manifested the most eager interest.
"Jim," said he, "can you show me his bones, and swear to your belief
that he was an escaped pauper?"
"Easy."
"Was there a man lost from the poor-house about that time?"
"Yes, an' there was a row about it, an' arterward old Buffum was took
with knowin' less than he ever knowed afore. He always did make a fuss
about breathin', so he give it up."
"Well, the man you buried is the man I'm after."
"Yes, an' old Belcher sent ye. I knowed it. I smelt the old feller when
I heern yer paddle. When a feller works for the devil it ain't hard to
guess what sort of a angel _he_ is. Ye must feel mighty proud o' yer
belongins."
"Jim, I'm a lawyer; it's my business. I do what I'm hired to do."
"Well," responded Jim, "I don't know nothin' about lawyers, but I'd
rather be a natural born cuss nor a hired one."
Yates laughed, but Jim was entirely sober. The lawyer saw that he was
unwelcome, and that the sooner he was out of Jim's way, the better that
freely speaking person would like it. So he said quietly:
"Jim, I see that I am not welcome, but I bear you no ill will. Keep me
to-night, and to-morrow show me this man's bones, and sign a certificate
of the statements you have made to me, and I will leave you at once."
The woodsman made no more objection, and the next morning, after
breakfast, the three men went together and found the place of the
pauper's burial. It took but a few minutes to disinter the skeleton,
and, after a silent look at it, it was again buried, and all returned to
the cabin. Then the lawyer, after asking further questions, drew up a
paper certifying to all the essential facts in the case, and Jim signed
it.
"Now, how be ye goin' to get back to Sevenoaks?" inquired Jim.
"I don't know. The man who brought me in is not to come for me for a
fortnight."
"Then ye've got to huff it," responded Jim.
"It's a long way."
"Ye can do it as fur as Mike's, an' he'll be glad to git back some o'
the hundred dollars that old Belcher got out of him."
"The row and the walk will be too much."
"I'll take ye to the landing," said Jim.
"I shall be glad to pay you for the job," responded Yates.
"An' ef ye do," said Jim, "there'll be an accident, an' two men'll get
wet, an' one on 'em'll stan' a chance to be drownded."
"Well, have your own way," said Yates.
It was not yet noon, and Jim hurried off his visitor. Yates bade
good-bye to Benedict, jumped into Jim's boat, and was soon out of sight
down the stream. The boat fairly leaped through the water under Jim's
strong and steady strokes, and it seemed that only an hour had passed
when the landing was discovered.
They made the whole distance in silence. Jim, sitting at his oars, with
Yates in the stern, had watched the lawyer with a puzzled expression. He
could not read him. The man had not said a word about Benedict. He had
not once pronounced his name. He was evidently amused with something,
and had great difficulty in suppressing a smile. Again and again the
amused expression suffused the lawyer's face, and still, by an effort of
will, it was smothered. Jim was in torture. The man seemed to be in
possession of some great secret, and looked as if he only waited an
opportunity beyond observation to burst into a laugh.
"What the devil ye thinkin' on?" inquired Jim at last.
Yates looked him in the eyes, and replied coolly:
"I was thinking how well Benedict is looking."
Jim stopped rowing, holding his oars in the air. He was dumb. His face
grew almost livid, and his hair seemed to rise and stand straight all
over his head. His first impulse was to spring upon the man and throttle
him, but a moment's reflection determined him upon another course. He
let his oars drop into the water, and then took up the rifle, which he
always carried at his side. Raising it to his eye, he said:
"Now, Number 'leven, come an' take my seat. Ef ye make any fuss, I'll
tip ye into the river, or blow yer brains out. Any man that plays
traitor with Jim Fenton, gits traitor's fare."
Yates saw that he had made a fatal mistake, and that it was too late to
correct it. He saw that Jim was dangerously excited, and that it would
not do to excite him further. He therefore rose, and with feigned
pleasantry, said he should be very glad to row to the landing.
Jim passed him and took a seat in the stern of the boat. Then, as Yates
took up the oars, Jim raised his rifle, and, pointing it directly at the
lawyer's breast, said:
"Now, Sam Yates, turn this boat round."
Yates was surprised in turn, bit his lips, and hesitated.
"Turn this boat round, or I'll fix ye so't I can see through ye plainer
nor I do now."
"Surely, Jim, you don't mean to have me row back. I haven't harmed you."
"Turn this boat round, quicker nor lightnin'."
"There, it's turned," said Yates, assuming a smile.
"Now row back to Number Nine."
"Come, Jim," said Yates, growing pale with vexation and apprehension,
"this fooling has gone far enough."
"Not by ten mile," said Jim.
"You surely don't mean to take me back. You have no right to do it. I
can prosecute you for this."
"Not if I put a bullet through ye, or drown ye."
"Do you mean to have me row back to Number Nine?"
"I mean to have you row back to Number Nine, or go to the bottom
leakin'," responded Jim.
Yates thought a moment, looked angrily at the determined man before him,
as if he were meditating some rash experiment, and then dipped his oars
and rowed up-stream.
Great was the surprise of Mr. Benedict late in the afternoon to see
Yates slowly rowing toward the cabin, and landing under cover of Jim's
rifle, and the blackest face that he had ever seen above his good
friend's shoulders.