both his hands, he had put the lamp down on a small table. Now they were
rolling on the floor together, and twice he had essayed to kneel on her
that he might thus crush the breath from her body, and deprive her
altogether of her strength; but she had been too active for him, moving
herself along the ground, though in doing so she dragged him with her.
But by degrees he got one hand at liberty, and with that he pulled a
clasp knife out of his pocket and opened it. “I will cut your head off
if you do not let go my hair,” he said. But still she held fast by him.
He then stabbed at her arm, using his left hand and making short,
ineffectual blows. Her dress partly saved her, and partly also the
continual movement of all her limbs; but, nevertheless, the knife
wounded her. It wounded her in several places about the arm, covering
them both with blood;--but still she hung on. So close was her grasp in
her agony, that, as she afterwards found, she cut the skin of her own
hands with her own nails. Had the man’s hair been less thick or strong,
or her own tenacity less steadfast, he would have murdered her before
any interruption could have saved her.
And yet he had not purposed to murder her, or even, in the first
instance, to inflict on her any bodily harm. But he had been determined
to get money. With such a sum of money as he had named, it might, he
thought, be possible for him to win his way across to America. He might
bribe men to hide him in the hold of a ship, and thus there might be for
him, at any rate, a possibility of escape. That there must be money in
the house he had still thought when first he laid hands on the poor
woman; and then, when the struggle had once begun, when he had felt her
muscles contending with his, the passion of the beast was aroused within
him, and he strove against her as he would have striven against a dog.
But yet, when the knife was in his hand, he had not driven it against
her heart.
Then suddenly, while they were yet rolling on the floor, there was a
sound of footsteps in the passage. Aaron Trow instantly leaped to his
feet, leaving his victim on the ground, with huge lumps of his thick
clotted hair in her hand. Thus, and thus only, could he have liberated
himself from her grasp. He rushed at the door, and there he came against
the two negro servant-girls who had returned down to their kitchen from
the road on which they had been straying. Trow, as he half saw them in
the dark, not knowing how many there might be, or whether there was a
man among them, rushed through them, upsetting one scared girl in his
passage. With the instinct and with the timidity of a beast, his impulse
now was to escape, and he hurried away back to the road and to his lair,
leaving the three women together in the cottage. Poor wretch! As he
crossed the road, not skulking in his impotent haste, but running at his
best, another pair of eyes saw him, and when the search became hot after
him, it was known that his hiding-place was not distant.
It was some time before any of the women were able to act, and when some
step was taken, Anastasia was the first to take it. She had not
absolutely swooned, but the reaction, after the violence of her efforts,
was so great, that for some minutes she had been unable to speak. She
had risen from the floor when Trow left her, and had even followed him
to the door; but since that she had fallen back into her father’s old
arm-chair, and there sat gasping not only for words, but for breath
also. At last she bade one of the girls to run into St. George, and beg
Mr. Morton to come to her aid. The girl would not stir without her
companion; and even then, Anastasia, covered as she was with blood, with
dishevelled hair, and her clothes half torn from her body, accompanied
them as far as the road. There they found a negro lad still hanging
about the place, and he told them that he had seen the man cross the
road, and run down over the open ground towards the rocks of the
sea-coast. “He must be there,” said the lad, pointing in the direction
of a corner of the rocks; “unless he swim across the mouth of the
ferry.” But the mouth of that ferry is an arm of the sea, and it was not
probable that a man would do that when he might have taken the narrow
water by keeping on the other side of the road.
At about one that night Caleb Morton reached the cottage breathless with
running, and before a word was spoken between them, Anastasia had fallen
on his shoulder and had fainted. As soon as she was in the arms of her
lover, all her power had gone from her. The spirit and passion of the
tiger had gone, and she was again a weak woman shuddering at the thought
of what she had suffered. She remembered that she had had the man’s hand
between her teeth, and by degrees she found his hair still clinging to
her fingers; but even then she could hardly call to mind the nature of
the struggle she had undergone. His hot breath close to her own cheek
she did remember, and his glaring eyes, and even the roughness of his
beard as he pressed his face against her own; but she could not say
whence had come the blood, nor till her arm became stiff and motionless
did she know that she had been wounded.
It was all joy with her now, as she sat motionless without speaking,
while he administered to her wants and spoke words of love into her
ears. She remembered the man’s horrid threat, and knew that by God’s
mercy she had been saved. And _he_ was there caressing her, loving her,
comforting her! As she thought of the fate that had threatened her, of
the evil that had been so imminent, she fell forward on her knees, and
with incoherent sobs uttered her thanksgivings, while her head was still
supported on his arms.
It was almost morning before she could induce herself to leave him and
lie down. With him she seemed to be so perfectly safe; but the moment he
was away she could see Aaron Trow’s eyes gleaming at her across the
room. At last, however, she slept; and when he saw that she was at rest,
he told himself that his work must then begin. Hitherto Caleb Morton had
lived in all respects the life of a man of peace; but now, asking
himself no questions as to the propriety of what he would do, using no
inward arguments as to this or that line of conduct, he girded the sword
on his loins, and prepared himself, for war. The wretch who had thus
treated the woman whom he loved should be hunted down like a wild beast,
as long as he had arms and legs with which to carry on the hunt. He
would pursue the miscreant with any weapons that might come to his
hands; and might Heaven help him at his need as he dealt forth
punishment to that man, if he caught him within his grasp. Those who had
hitherto known Morton in the island, could not recognise the man as he
came forth on that day, thirsty after blood, and desirous to thrust
himself into personal conflict with the wild ruffian who had injured
him. The meek Presbyterian minister had been a preacher, preaching ways
of peace, and living in accordance with his own doctrines. The world had
been very quiet for him, and he had walked quietly in his appointed
path. But now the world was quiet no longer, nor was there any preaching
of peace. His cry was for blood; for the blood of the untamed savage
brute who had come upon his young doe in her solitude, and striven with
such brutal violence to tear her heart from her bosom.
He got to his assistance early in the morning some of the constables
from St. George, and before the day was over, he was joined by two or
three of the warders from the convict establishment. There was with him
also a friend or two, and thus a party was formed, numbering together
ten or twelve persons. They were of course all armed, and therefore it
might be thought that there would be but small chance for the wretched
man if they should come upon his track. At first they all searched
together, thinking from the tidings which had reached them that he must
be near to them; but gradually they spread themselves along the rocks
between St. George and the ferry, keeping watchmen on the road, so that
he should not escape unnoticed into the island.
Ten times during the day did Anastasia send from the cottage up to
Morton, begging him to leave the search to others, and come down to her.
But not for a moment would he lose the scent of his prey. What! should
it be said that she had been so treated, and that others had avenged
her? He sent back to say that her father was with her now, and that he
would come when his work was over. And in that job of work the
life-blood of Aaron Trow was counted up.
Towards evening they were all congregated on the road near to the spot
at which the path turns off towards the cottage, when a voice was heard
hallooing to them from the summit of a little hill which lies between
the road and the sea on the side towards the ferry, and presently a boy
came running down to them full of news. “Danny Lund has seen him,” said
the boy, “he has seen him plainly in among the rocks.” And then came
Danny Lund himself, a small negro lad about fourteen years of age, who
was known in those parts as the idlest, most dishonest, and most useless
of his race. On this occasion, however, Danny Lund became important, and
every one listened to him. He had seen, he said, a pair of eyes moving
down in a cave of the rocks which he well knew. He had been in the cave
often, he said, and could get there again. But not now; not while that
pair of eyes was moving at the bottom of it. And so they all went up
over the hill, Morton leading the way with hot haste. In his waistband
he held a pistol, and his hand grasped a short iron bar with which he
had armed himself. They ascended the top of the hill, and when there,
the open sea was before them on two sides, and on the third was the
narrow creek over which the ferry passed. Immediately beneath their feet
were the broken rocks; for on that side, towards the sea, the earth and
grass of the hill descended but a little way towards the water. Down
among the rocks they all went, silently, Caleb Morton leading the way,
and Danny Lund directing him from behind.
“Mr. Morton,” said an elderly man from St. George, “had you not better
let the warders of the gaol go first; he is a desperate man, and they
will best understand his ways?”
In answer to this Morton said nothing, but he would let no one put a
foot before him. He still pressed forward among the rocks, and at last
came to a spot from whence he might have sprung at one leap into the
ocean. It was a broken cranny on the sea-shore into which the sea beat,
and surrounded on every side but the one by huge broken fragments of
stone, which at first sight seemed as though they would have admitted of
a path down among them to the water’s edge; but which, when scanned more
closely, were seen to be so large in size, that no man could climb from
one to another. It was a singularly romantic spot, but now well known to
them all there, for they had visited it over and over again that
morning.
“In there,” said Danny Lund, keeping well behind Morton’s body, and
pointing at the same time to a cavern high up among the rocks, but quite
on the opposite side of the little inlet of the sea. The mouth of the
cavern was not twenty yards from where they stood, but at the first
sight it seemed as though it must be impossible to reach it. The
precipice on the brink of which they all now stood, ran down sheer into
the sea, and the fall from the mouth of the cavern on the other side was
as steep. But Danny solved the mystery by pointing upwards, and showing
them how he had been used to climb to a projecting rock over their
heads, and from thence creep round by certain vantages of the stone till
he was able to let himself down into the aperture. But now, at the
present moment, he was unwilling to make essay of his prowess as a
cragsman. He had, he said, been up on that projecting rock thrice, and
there had seen the eyes moving in the cavern. He was quite sure of that
fact of the pair of eyes, and declined to ascend the rock again.
Traces soon became visible to them by which they knew that some one had
passed in and out of the cavern recently. The stone, when examined, bore
those marks of friction which passage and repassage over it will always
give. At the spot from whence the climber left the platform and
commenced his ascent, the side of the stone had been rubbed by the close
friction of a man’s body. A light boy like Danny Lund might find his way
in and out without leaving such marks behind him, but no heavy man could
do so. Thus before long they all were satisfied that Aaron Trow was in
the cavern before them.
Then there was a long consultation as to what they would do to carry on
the hunt, and how they would drive the tiger from his lair. That he
should not again come out, except to fall into their hands, was to all
of them a matter of course. They would keep watch and ward there, though
it might be for days and nights. But that was a process which did not
satisfy Morton, and did not indeed well satisfy any of them. It was not
only that they desired to inflict punishment on the miscreant in
accordance with the law, but also that they did not desire that the
miserable man should die in a hole like a starved dog, and that then
they should go after him to take out his wretched skeleton. There was
something in that idea so horrid in every way, that all agreed that
active steps must be taken. The warders of the prison felt that they
would all be disgraced if they could not take their prisoner alive. Yet
who would get round that perilous ledge in the face of such an
adversary? A touch to any man while climbing there would send him
headlong down among the waves! And then his fancy told to each what
might be the nature of an embrace with such an animal as that, driven to
despair, hopeless of life, armed, as they knew, at any rate, with a
knife! If the first adventurous spirit should succeed in crawling round
that ledge, what would be the reception which he might expect in the
terrible depth of that cavern?
They called to their prisoner, bidding him come out, and telling him
that they would fire in upon him if he did not show himself; but not a
sound was heard. It was indeed possible that they should send their
bullets to, perhaps, every corner of the cavern; and if so, in that way
they might slaughter him; but even of this they were not sure. Who could
tell that there might not be some protected nook in which he could lay
secure? And who could tell when the man was struck, or whether he were
wounded?
“I will get to him,” said Morton, speaking with a low dogged voice, and
so saying he clambered up to the rock to which Danny Lund had pointed.
Many voices at once attempted to restrain him, and one or two put their
hands upon him to keep him back, but he was too quick for them, and now
stood upon the ledge of rock. “Can you see him?” they asked below.
“I can see nothing within the cavern,” said Morton.
“Look down very hard, Massa,” said Danny, “very hard indeed, down in
deep dark hole, and then see him big eyes moving!”
Morton now crept along the ledge, or rather he was beginning to do so,
having put forward his shoulders and arms to make a first step in
advance from the spot on which he was resting, when a hand was put forth
from one corner of the cavern’s mouth,--a hand armed with a pistol;--and
a shot was fired. There could be no doubt now but that Danny Lund was
right, and no doubt now as to the whereabouts of Aaron Trow.
A hand was put forth, a pistol was fired, and Caleb Morton still
clinging to a corner of the rock with both his arms was seen to falter.
“He is wounded,” said one of the voices from below; and then they all
expected to see him fall into the sea. But he did not fall, and after a
moment or two, he proceeded carefully to pick his steps along the ledge.
The ball had touched him, grazing his cheek, and cutting through the
light whiskers that he wore; but he had not felt it, though the blow had
nearly knocked him from his perch. And then four or five shots were
fired from the rocks into the mouth of the cavern. The man’s arm had
been seen, and indeed one or two declared that they had traced the dim
outline of his figure. But no sound was heard to come from the cavern,
except the sharp crack of the bullets against the rock, and the echo of
the gunpowder. There had been no groan as of a man wounded, no sound of
a body falling, no voice wailing in despair. For a few seconds all was
dark with the smoke of the gunpowder, and then the empty mouth of the
cave was again yawning before their eyes. Morton was now near it, still
cautiously creeping. The first danger to which he was exposed was this;
that his enemy within the recess might push him down from the rocks with
a touch. But on the other hand, there were three or four men ready to
fire, the moment that a hand should be put forth; and then Morton could
swim,--was known to be a strong swimmer;--whereas of Aaron Trow it was
already declared by the prison gaolers that he could not swim. Two of
the warders had now followed Morton on the rocks, so that in the event
of his making good his entrance into the cavern, and holding his enemy
at bay for a minute, he would be joined by aid.
It was strange to see how those different men conducted themselves as
they stood on the opposite platform watching the attack. The officers
from the prison had no other thought but of their prisoner, and were
intent on taking him alive or dead. To them it was little or nothing
what became of Morton. It was their business to encounter peril, and
they were ready to do so;--feeling, however, by no means sorry to have
such a man as Morton in advance of them. Very little was said by them.
They had their wits about them, and remembered that every word spoken
for the guidance of their ally would be heard also by the escaped
convict. Their prey was sure, sooner or later, and had not Morton been
so eager in his pursuit, they would have waited till some plan had been
devised of trapping him without danger. But the townsmen from St.
George, of whom some dozen were now standing there, were quick and eager
and loud in their counsels. “Stay where you are, Mr. Morton,--stay
awhile for the love of God--or he’ll have you down.” “Now’s your time,
Caleb; in on him now, and you’ll have him.” “Close with him, Morton,
close with him at once; it’s your only chance.” “There’s four of us
here; we’ll fire on him if he as much as shows a limb.” All of which
words as they were heard by that poor wretch within, must have sounded
to him as the barking of a pack of hounds thirsting for his blood. For
him at any rate there was no longer any hope in this world.
My reader, when chance has taken you into the hunting-field, has it ever
been your lot to sit by on horseback, and watch the digging out of a
fox? The operation is not an uncommon one, and in some countries it is
held to be in accordance with the rules of fair sport. For myself, I
think that when the brute has so far saved himself, he should be
entitled to the benefit of his cunning; but I will not now discuss the
propriety or impropriety of that practice in venery. I can never,
however, watch the doing of that work without thinking much of the
agonising struggles of the poor beast whose last refuge is being torn
from over his head. There he lies within a few yards of his arch enemy,
the huntsman. The thick breath of the hounds make hot the air within his
hole. The sound of their voices is close upon his ears. His breast is
nearly bursting with the violence of that effort which at last has
brought him to his retreat. And then pickaxe and mattock are plied above
his head, and nearer and more near to him press his foes,--his double
foes, human and canine,--till at last a huge hand grasps him, and he is
dragged forth among his enemies. Almost as soon as his eyes have seen
the light the eager noses of a dozen hounds have moistened themselves in
his entrails. Ah me! I know that he is vermin, the vermin after whom I
have been risking my neck, with a bold ambition that I might ultimately
witness his death-struggles; but, nevertheless, I would fain have saved
him that last half hour of gradually diminished hope.
And Aaron Trow was now like a hunted fox, doomed to be dug out from his
last refuge, with this addition to his misery, that these hounds when
they caught their prey, would not put him at once out of his misery.
When first he saw that throng of men coming down from the hill top and
resting on the platform, he knew that his fate was come. When they
called to him to surrender himself he was silent, but he knew that his
silence was of no avail. To them who were so eager to be his captors the
matter seemed to be still one of considerable difficulty; but, to his
thinking, there was no difficulty. There were there some score of men,
fully armed, within twenty yards of him. If he but showed a trace of his
limbs he would become a mark for their bullets. And then if he were
wounded, and no one would come to him! If they allowed him to lie there
without food till he perished! Would it not be well for him to yield
himself? Then they called again and he was still silent. That idea of
yielding is very terrible to the heart of a man. And when the worst had
come to the worst, did not the ocean run deep beneath his cavern’s
mouth?
But as they yelled at him and hallooed, making their preparations for
his death, his presence of mind deserted the poor wretch. He had stolen
an old pistol on one of his marauding expeditions, of which one barrel
had been loaded. That in his mad despair he had fired; and now, as he
lay near the mouth of the cavern, under the cover of the projecting
stone, he had no weapon with him but his hands. He had had a knife, but
that had dropped from him during the struggle on the floor of the
cottage. He had now nothing but his hands, and was considering how he
might best use them in ridding himself of the first of his pursuers. The
man was near him, armed, with all the power and majesty of right on his
side; whereas on his side, Aaron Trow had nothing,--not a hope. He
raised his head that he might look forth, and a dozen voices shouted as
his face appeared above the aperture. A dozen weapons were levelled at
him, and he could see the gleaming of the muzzles of the guns. And then
the foot of his pursuer was already on the corner stone at the cavern’s
mouth. “Now, Caleb, on him at once!” shouted a voice. Ah me! it was a
moment in which to pity even such a man as Aaron Trow.
“Now, Caleb, at him at once!” shouted the voice. No, by heavens; not so,
even yet! The sound of triumph in those words raised the last burst of
energy in the breast of that wretched man; and he sprang forth, head
foremost, from his prison house. Forth he came, manifest enough before
the eyes of them all, and with head well down, and hands outstretched,
but with his wide glaring eyes still turned towards his pursuers as he
fell, he plunged down into the waves beneath him. Two of those who stood
by, almost unconscious of what they did, fired at his body as it made
its rapid way to the water; but, as they afterwards found, neither of
the bullets struck him. Morton, when his prey thus leaped forth,
escaping him for awhile, was already on the verge of the cavern,--had
even then prepared his foot for that onward spring which should bring
him to the throat of his foe. But he arrested himself, and for a moment
stood there watching the body as it struck the water, and hid itself at
once beneath the ripple. He stood there for a moment watching the deed
and its effect, and then leaving his hold upon the rock, he once again
followed his quarry. Down he went, head foremost, right on to the track
in the waves which the other had made; and when the two rose to the
surface together, each was struggling in the grasp of the other.
It was a foolish, nay, a mad deed to do. The poor wretch who had first
fallen could not have escaped. He could not even swim, and had therefore
flung himself to certain destruction when he took that leap from out of
the cavern’s mouth. It would have been sad to see him perish beneath the
waves,--to watch him as he rose, gasping for breath, and then to see him
sinking again, to rise again, and then to go for ever. But his life had
been fairly forfeit,--and why should one so much more precious have been
flung after it? It was surely with no view of saving that pitiful life
that Caleb Morton had leaped after his enemy. But the hound, hot with
the chase, will follow the stag over the precipice and dash himself to
pieces against the rocks. The beast thirsting for blood will rush in
even among the weapons of men. Morton in his fury had felt but one
desire, burned with but one passion. If the Fates would but grant him to
fix his clutches in the throat of the man who had ill-used his love; for
the rest it might all go as it would.