THE first spring of peace gave place to summer, a summer memorable
for its intense heat. One afternoon, toward the latter part of July,
clouds dark and angry overcast the sky, and peals of thunder and
flashes of lightning threatened a terrific storm. Pedestrians
hurried homeward, and man and beast sought safety under shelter. The
waters of the quiet harbor, tossed by rude winds, grew angry and
rose in white-capped breakers, that broke against the wharves,
piers, and fortresses, as far as the eye could see. Sea-gulls
screamed and flew wildly about at this ominous appearance of the
heavens, while the songsters of the woods, and the pigeons of the
barn-yard, sought shelter from the approaching tempest. At
night-fall the rain descended in torrents.
Safely sheltered in his comfortable home, Mr. Mordecai sat for an
hour or more, watching, from his library window, the fury of the
storm. The tall, graceful cedars and olive trees that adorned the
front and side gardens of his home, were swaying in the wind which
rudely snatched from their trellises the delicate jessamine and
honeysuckle vines that lent such delicious odor to the evening
winds. It tore the flowers from their stems, and the rain pelted
them into the earth in its fury. Leaves were whisked from their
branches, and blown out of sight in a twinkle. A weak-hinged
window-shutter of the attic was ruthlessly torn away and pitched
headlong into the street. All this Mr. Mordecai watched in
amazement, and then, as if some sudden apparition of thought or of
sight had appeared before him, he turned from the window with a
shudder, and said:
"This is a devilish wild night. I'll drop the curtain."
Seating himself then, by a brightly-shining lamp-the Queen City gas
works had been destroyed by the shelling guns-he clasped his arms
across his breast, and looked steadily up toward the ticking clock
upon the mantel. Thus absorbed in reverie, he sat for an hour; and
was only disturbed then by a loud rapping at the front door.
"By Jerusalem! who can be out this wild night?"
The rapping sounded again, louder than before.
"Mingo!" he exclaimed involuntarily. "Ah! the dog is free now, and
only answers my summons at his will. Good boy, though."
The rapping was repeated.
"I must go myself. Who can be so importunate, on this dark, wretched
night? No robber would be so bold!" and grasping the lamp, he glided
softly toward the front door. He turned the bolt cautiously, and
opening the door a little, peered out.
"Come, Mordecai, open the door," said a friendly voice without. "Do
you suspect thieves this foul night? No wonder."
Mr. Mordecai opened the door wider and saw Rabbi Abrams, and a man
so disguised that he could not tell whether it was any one he knew.
"What do you want, my friend?" he said kindly.
"Want you to go with us, Mordecai," replied the rabbi, drawing
closer his cloak, which the wind was trying to tear away.
"Go where?" asked Mr. Mordecai in consternation. "Only the devils
themselves could stand, such a night as this."
"Come, be quiet, my friend. I am summoned by this unknown friend, to
go with him to see a certain person who must see me, must see you,
too. That's all I know. Come along."
"Don't wait, my friend, time is precious," said the muffled voice of
the unknown man.
Mr. Mordecai frowned and shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
"Fear no evil, my friend, but come with me," continued the stranger
in a reassuring tone.
"The storm will not destroy us, Mordecai; I have tried its fury so
far," said the rabbi. "Come on."
Reluctantly Mr. Mordecai obeyed, and hastily preparing himself for
the weather, turned out into the darkness and the storm, with the
rabbi and the guide.
Onward they went, struggling against the wild wind and rain, and few
words were uttered by either as they proceeded on their unknown way.
At length the guide stopped suddenly, at the corner of a lonely,
obscure street, and said:
"There, gentlemen; in that low tenement opposite, where a light
gleams from the window, you will find the person who desires to see
you. Hasten to him. I shall be back before you leave. Ascend the
stairway and turn to the left. Open the door yourself; there will be
no one inside to admit you." Having uttered these words, the guide
disappeared in the darkness, and Mr. Mordecai and the rabbi were
left alone.
"What can this mean, Rabbi Abrams?" said Mr. Mordecai in a low
voice, greatly excited; "suppose it should prove some plot to decoy
us into trouble? I shall not go a step farther; we may be robbed or
even murdered in that miserable place. You know this is Dogg's
Alley, and it never was a very respectable locality. What say you?"
"I feel no fear, Friend Mordecai, though I admit the summons is
mysterious. If you will follow, I will lead the way. My curiosity
impels me onward."
"But there's no watchman on this lonely beat, on this wild night,
that we could summon in a moment of necessity; no street-lamp
either, you see. It's dark, fearfully dark! Had we not better wait
till to-morrow?"
"No, come on. I am fond of adventure. Let's see a little farther
into this mystery;" and so saying, the rabbi boldly crossed the
slippery street, Mr. Mordecai following timidly behind. They were
soon standing in the narrow door-way that led up the stairs. They
ascended slowly, and turning to the left, they discerned through the
crevice beneath the door, a faint light. To this chamber they softly
groped their way, and tapped gently on the door. No reply.
"Shall we go in?" whispered the banker. "This is an awfully
suspicious place."
"Yes, come on; I do not feel afraid."
Gently turning the bolt, they opened the door; the lamp upon the
table by the window revealed the contents of the apartment.
In a corner, upon a rude bed, lay a man, a negro, evidently sick,
whose widely glaring eyes were turned upon the door, as if in
expectation of their coming. Slowly lifting his hand as they
entered, the sick man beckoned the gentlemen toward him. They drew
near.
"Sir," he said, and so faintly that his voice did not rise above a
whisper, "I'm glad you come. I was 'feerd the rain would keep you
away." Then he grasped the hand of the rabbi with his cold, clammy
fingers, and with an intense gaze of the wild eyes, said again, "Do
you know me, Marster Abrams? Tell me, do you know me?"
The rabbi looked earnestly at him and after a moment's pause said
dubiously:
"Is it old Uncle Peter Martinet, the carrier of the 'Courier'?"
"De-same-marster, de-werry-same. But-de-end-ob-ole-Peter-is-nigh-
at-hand, marster-wery nigh-at-hand! Las'-winter-was hard-an'-w'en
de-work-ob de-Curyer-stop-it-went-mighty-hard-on-ole-Peter.
De-rheumatiz-marster! De rheumatiz? Bref-so-short!
Doctor-say-it's-de-rheumatiz on-de-heart now. Mebbe
so-marster-but-ole-Peter-mos'-done-now."
"Can I do anything for you, Peter?" asked the rabbi kindly. "What
will you have?"
At these words, the dying man, for he was dying, extended his other
hand to Mr. Mordecai, and clasping his, said:
"Yes, marster-I want-somethin'. I-want-you-and-Mr.
Mordecai-to-listen-to me; listen-to-me-a-moment. I-have-
something-to-to-tell-you."
"Certainly we will," they replied gently, observing with pain the
difficulty of the dying man's utterance. "What do you wish to say?"
"You-see, Marster-Abrams, I-am-dying. Ole-Peter-mos-done. I-can-not-
go-before God with-the-sin-upon-my-soul-that-now-distresses-me. I
must tell it-for-I die."
Here the old man strangled, from the effort made to communicate his
story, and the rabbi, gently raising his head, administered a
spoonful of water. Then, after a moment's pause, he continued:
"Ise-been-a-great-sinner, to keep my-mouf-shut-so long; but-I could
not-help it. Ole Peter-was feered-but now-I'se feered-no more.
Soon-I'll be wid-de great God-who has-know'd my secret too-an' I
feel-He will-forgive me-if-I-'fess it-'fore-I die. I know-he-will,
marster-de Spirit has-tole'-me so."
"Confess what?" inquired the rabbi softly, supposing that the old
man's utterances were but the ravings of delirium.
"A secret-marster; a secret-dat-I have-kep'-so long-it has become-a
sin-an awful sin-dat has burnt-me in here," placing his feeble hand
on his heart, "like coals-of-fire. Listen to me."
"I knows-how-Mars'-Mark-Abrams got-killed, an'-has-known it-ever
since-dat-dark-Jinnewary-night-w'en he-was-shot--"
"Merciful--"
"Hush! listen-to-me-my-bref-werry-short," he said, motioning the
rabbi to silence, who had turned pale with consternation at the mere
mention of his son's name.
"Hush! Mars'-Mark-was not-murdered-as-everybody-thought-but-was-
killed-by-de pistol-he-carried-in his-pocket. It-was-werry dark
dat-night-as you-may-remember. He-was-passin'-tru'-de-Citadel
Square-to cut-off de walk-comin'-from Crispin's-he said, an'-in-de
dark-he-stumble-an' fall-an' de-pistol-go-off-an' kill him. In
de-early-morning-jus'-'for-day-as-I was-hurryin'-aroun'
wid-my-paper, I was-carryin' de Curyer den-bless-de-Lord, I
came-upon-him-an' 'fore God-he was-mos' dead. He call-me-and tell
me-how he-was-hurt, an' beg-me to run-for his-father, for-you,
Marster-Abrams. He ask-me-to pick up-de-pistol-an' run
for-you-quick. W'en I foun'-de pistol-I ask-him-another question.
He-said-nothin'. I knew-he-was-dead. I was-skeered-
awful-skeered-an'-somethin'-tole me-to-run-away. I did run-as-fast
as-I-could-an' w'en-I was-many-squars-off, I foun' de-pistol-in
my-hand. Dat-skeered me-agin. I stop-a minit-to think. I-was-awful
skeered-marster-an' den I 'cluded I jus' keep-de secret, an'
de-pistol-too-for-fear-people-might-'cuse-me ob de-murder. An'-so I
has-kept both-till now. See-here's de pistol-an' I'se-told you-der
truth;" and the old man felt about under his pillow for the weapon.
With difficulty he drew it out, and handing it to the rabbi, said:
"Take it-it's-haunted-me long-enough. It's jes' as I
found-it-dat-night-only-it's-mighty rusty. I'se had-it-buried-a
long time-for-safe-keepin'.
W'en-Mars'-Emile-Le Grande-was-here in-prison-'cused of-dis-crime,-I
often-wanted to tell-my-secret den-but-was-still-afeerd. I-knew
he-was-not guilty-an' I determined-he should-not be-punished. So I
helped-him-to 'scape-jail. I-set-him-free. I take-him-in de night
time-to one-of de-blockade-wessels-off de Bar. W'ere-he go from
dere, God knows-Ole Peter-don't. Now, Marster Abrams, I'se done.
Before-God-dis is-de truf. I'se told-it-at-las'. Tole all-an' now-I
die-happy.
"A-little-more-water-Marster Abrams-if you-please, an' den
Ole-Peter-will-soon-be-at-rest."
Silently granting this last request, the rabbi turned suddenly to
observe the entrance of the guide, who by this time returned.
Not a word was spoken a he entered.
By the side of the table, where lay the pistol, the rabbi and Mr.
Mordecai both sat down, each in turn eyeing the deadly weapon with
unuttered horror.
The dying negro's confession had filled them both with sorrow and
amazement. The earnestness of his labored story impressed them at
once with its undeniable truth; and with hearts distressed and
agitated, they sat in silence by the bed-side, till a struggle
arrested their attention. Looking up once more they both caught the
voiceless gaze of the earnest eye, which seemed unmistakably to say,
"I have told the truth. Believe my story. Farewell." Then the old
carrier's earthly struggles were forever ended.