Arrested, Richard Darke is taken to jail. This not in Natchez, but a
place of less note; the Court-house town of the county, within the
limits of which lie the Darke and Armstrong plantations. He is there
consigned to the custody of Joe Harkness, jailer.
But few, who assisted at the arrest, accompany him to the place of
imprisonment; only the Deputy, and the brace of constables.
The sheriff himself, with the others, does not leave Ephraim Darke's
premises, till after having given them a thorough examination, in quest
of evidence against the accused.
This duty done, without regard to the sensibilities of the owner, who
follows them from room to room, now childishly crying--now frantically
cursing.
Alike disregarded are his tears and oaths.
The searchers have no sympathy for him in his hour of affliction. Some
even secretly rejoice at it.
Ephraim Darke is not a Southerner, _pur sang_; and, though without the
slightest taint of abolitionism--indeed the very opposite--he has always
been unpopular in the neighbourhood; alike detested by planter and "poor
white." Many of both have been his debtors, and felt his iron hand over
them, just as Archibald Armstrong.
Besides, some of these now around his house were present two days before
upon Armstrong's plantation; saw his establishment broken up, his goods
and chattels confiscated, his home made desolate.
Knowing by whom all this was done, with ill-concealed satisfaction, they
now behold the _arcana_ of Ephraim Darke's dwelling exposed to public
gaze; himself humiliated, far more than the man he made homeless.
With no more ceremony than was shown in making the arrest, do the
sheriff and party explore the paternal mansion of him arrested, rudely
ransacking it from cellar to garret; the outbuildings as well, even to
the grounds and garden.
Their search is but poorly rewarded. All they get, likely to throw
light on the matter of inquiry, is Richard Darke's double-barrelled gun,
with the clothes he wore on the day fatal to Clancy. On these there is
no blood; but while they are looking for it, something comes under their
eyes, almost equally significant of strife.
Through the coat-skirt is a hole, ragged, and recently made. Several
pronounce it a bullet-hole; further declaring the ball to have been
discharged from a rifle.
For certain, a singular discovery!
But like all the others that have been made, only serving to perplex
them. It is rather in favour of the accused; giving colour to the idea,
that between him and Clancy there has been a fight, with shots fired
from both sides. The question is, "has it been a fair one?"
To negative this, a bit of adjunct evidence is adduced, which goes
against the accused. The coat, with the perforated skirt, is _not_ the
one worn by him on the day before, when out assisting in the search;
while it is that he had on, the day preceding, when Clancy came not
home. Ephraim Darke's domestics, on being sternly interrogated, and
aside, disclose this fact; unaware how greatly their master may desire
them to keep it concealed.
Still, it is not much. A man might have many reasons for changing his
coat, especially for the dress of two different days. It would be
nothing, but for the conjoint circumstance of the shot through the
skirt. This makes it significant.
Another item of intelligence, of still more suspicious nature, is got
out of the domestics, whose stern questioners give them no chance to
prevaricate. Indeed, terrified, they do not try.
Their young "Massr Dick" had on a different pair of boots the day he
went out hunting, from those worn by him, when, yesterday, he went
searching.
The latter are in the hands of the sheriff, but the former are missing--
cannot be found anywhere, in or about the house!
All search for them proves idle. And not strange it should; since one
is in the side-pocket of Sime Woodley's surtout, the other having a like
lodgment in that of Ned Heywood.
The two hunters, "prospecting" apart, found the boots thickly coated
with mud, concealed under a brush pile, at the bottom of the peach
orchard. Even the sheriff does not know what bulges out the coat-skirts
of the two backwoodsmen.
Nor is he told there or then. Sime has an object in keeping that secret
to himself and his companion; he will only reveal it, when the time
comes to make it more available.
The affair of the arrest and subsequent action over, the sheriff and his
party retire from the plantation of Ephraim Darke, leaving its owner in
a state of frenzied bewilderment.
They go direct to Mrs Clancy's cottage; not to stay there, but as a
starting point, to resume the search for the body of her son, adjourned
since yester-eve.
They do not tell her of Dick Darke's arrest. She is inside her
chamber--on her couch--so prostrated by the calamity already known to
her, they fear referring to it.
The doctor in attendance tells them, that any further revelation
concerning the sad event may prove fatal to her.
Again her neighbours, now in greater number, go off to the woods, some
afoot, others on horseback. As on the day preceding, they divide into
different parties, and scatter in diverse directions. Though not till
after all have revisited the ensanguined spot under the cypress, and
renewed their scrutiny of the stains. Darker than on the day before,
they now look more like ink than blood!
The cypress knee, out of which Woodley and Heywood "gouged" the
smooth-bore bullet, is also examined, its position noted. Attempts are
made to draw inferences therefrom, though with but indifferent success.
True, it tells a tale; and, judging by the blood around the bullet-hole,
which all of them have seen, a tragic one, though it cannot of itself
give the interpretation.
A few linger around the place, now tracked and trodden hard by their
going and coming feet. The larger number proceeds upon the search, in
scattered parties of six or eight each, carrying it for as many miles
around.
They pole and drag the creek near by, as others at a greater distance;
penetrate the swamp as far as possible, or likely that a dead body might
be carried for concealment. In its dim recesses they discover no body,
living or dead, no trace of human being, nought save the solitude-loving
heron, the snake-bird, and scaly alligator.
On this second day's quest they observe nothing new, either to throw
additional light on the commission of the crime, or assist them in
recovering the corpse.
It is but an unsatisfactory report to take back to the mother of the
missing man. Perhaps better for her she should never receive it?
And she never does. Before it can reach her ear, this is beyond hearing
sound. The thunder of heaven could not awake Mrs Clancy from the sleep
into which she has fallen. For it is no momentary unconsciousness, but
the cold insensible slumber of Death.
The long-endured agony of ill fortune, the more recent one of widowhood,
and, now, this new bereavement of a lost, only son--these accumulated
trials have proved too much for her woman's strength, of late fast
failing.
When, at evening hour, the searchers, on their return, approach the
desolated dwelling, they hear sounds within that speak of some terrible
disaster.
On the night before their ears were saluted by the same, though in tones
somewhat different. Then the widow's voice was lifted in lamentation;
now it is not heard at all.
Whatever of mystery there may be is soon removed. A woman, stepping out
upon the porch, and, raising her hand in token of attention, says, in
sad solemn voice,--
"_Mrs Clancy is dead_!"