JUDGE LYNCH HOLDS COURT.
A short distance out of Lickskillet stood a country church. A
quiet-looking, unpretentious frame building, with a stunted little
steeple surmounted by a weather-vane in the shape of an arrow hanging
at right angles on an iron rod with a gilded point. The weekly prayer
meeting was being held that evening, and the yeomen of the vicinity met
to send their appeals for clemency, in a body, to the Great Judge on
high; each taking his turn in the supplications. A sort of prayerful
round-robin. An opportunity to improve the recording angel's record
in the celestial ledger, and enhance their reputations for goodness
among the neighbors by a full, (but inexpensive,) confession of their
sins and wickedness. Confessions on general principles, however--not
specific ones. Brother Longhorn prayed for forgiveness for his sins
in general, but did not mention defrauding Green Southdown in a horse
trade, nor did he speak any thing about restitution. Brother Ploughgit
demanded that the wicked be no longer allowed to flourish like the
green bay tree--and did not tremble with personal apprehension while
doing it. Brother Hedges took much satisfaction in announcing that he
was a poor, weak sinner--which confession was apparently concurred
in by a number of the brethren. Brother Ryefield spoke glowingly of
charity and prayed that they all might be greatly blessed with that
virtue--but said nothing about withdrawing a suit against a man who
was trying to support a wife, five children, and the consumption on
nothing. Brother Powter wanted strength to do His bidding, which
caused Brother Applegate to reflect that if His bidding conflicted
with Brother Powter's _own_ bidding it would take all the strength of
sixteen hundred million yoke of fat cattle to answer Brother Powter's
prayer. Brother Potts was thankful for what he had and wanted more.
Brother Rockafellow prayed that their hearts might all be filled with
an abiding peace and love. And they all say "Amen!"
After meeting the general topic was the capture of the horse thief.
Down in the village the unregenerated were still holding a feeble
celebration, but beyond an excuse for celebrating they did not look
upon the capture as an incentive to sterner action. Not so with the
brethren. They did not endorse the celebration. That is, not publicly.
Moreover they looked upon the celebrants as a vain and worldly people.
But at a cross road Brother Powter met Brother Longhorn, and was
overtaken by Brother Rockafellow and Brother Ploughgit and Brother
Hedges, and several other brothers, and a discussion ensued as to the
safety of live stock in that vicinity--more especially "hosses."
"I tell ye wot," said Brother Powter, "this thing's got to be stopped.
We aint none of us safe!"
"An' I don't see but now's the 'pinted time to stop it," said Brother
Rockafellow.
And Brother Longhorn said:
"Ef we make a example of this one, it'll clear the country of the
scoundrils an' give us peace an' security!"
"But mebbe the lor hed better take its course," suggested a timid
brother.
"Thet's it Brother Calfer; thet's it. Wot is the course of the lor?
Why it's to involve the county hed over ears in debts fur us farmers
to pay, an' let the hoss thief go free! Thet's wot the lor is!" and
this explanation of what the law consisted of met with many approving
expressions of "Thet's so!" "You've hit it!" "Lor's a swindle!" "Ropes
good cheap lor!" and other endorsements.
And the little crowd at the cross roads in caucus assembled appointed
each one present a committee of one to ride around the neighborhood
that night and invite the neighbors to meet before "sun up" on the
public square in Lickskillet, and "devise measures for the protection
of the public peace and property, more especially hosses."
On the cold floor of his prison the Evangelist lay folded in the arms
of the merciful angel of rest. The blood had dried upon his face, and
its deep crimson contrasted weirdly with the ghastly palor of his
countenance even in the faint star light that crept through the one
narrow aperture in the building. His long, thin fingers were clasped as
though in prayer, and ever and anon his lips would move and a smile
break upon them--hideously out of conformity with his blood-stained
face. But blood and wounds and bruises and rags and miseries and
wretchedness, were all forgotten by the sleeper. He was with his
mother. He was with her, in that realm entered only through the portals
of sleep. Again he was a boy. Again with dog-eared books flung over
his shoulder, he sauntered down the green New England lane;--rich in
the glories of wild-roses and gaudy thistle-blossoms; odor-ladened by
groups of cedar bushes and the mellow fragrance of old orchards, tuned
to harmony with the chatter of blue jays and the operatic notes of
bobolinks. Here a pebble to kick, there a mullen head to switch from
its stalk; now a puff-ball to crush with his heel, a rabbit to chase
in the brush, and an old post to lean against with hands in pockets
and books flung at his feet, while he looked and whistled and whistled
and looked, just in sheer glee and relief that the day's work in the
weather-stained schoolhouse was over. Then a shout and a run down
the low hill that ended by the cottage gate, where a thin care-worn
woman, with fond eyes, wrapped him in her arms and pressed her lips
lovingly to his--joyed with him in his joys and sorrowed with him in
his sorrows. No wonder that the lips of him who lay on the hard floor
of the Lickskillet lockup murmured the name of "_Mother_." The purest,
truest, holiest being that the heart of man ever enshrined for its idol!
But what is this? There is the noise of many voices without--a rush of
many feet. The door of his prison resounds to a heavy blow. The sharp
point of an iron bar is thrust between the jamb and the lock. It
shivers and groans with the pressure. Groans as if in protest against
the violence about to be committed. Then, with a grinding screech, it
flies open and the Evangelist springs to his feet. Springs to his feet
to be confronted by a judge from whose decision there is no appeal.
A judge whose court has flooded this fair land with scenes of blood
and murder. A judge whose jury is the brute passions of mankind. The
abettor of spite, vengeance, ignorance and bigotry. A judge who knows
no law save the law of _might_. A judge who held his court on the steps
of the guillotine, in the mountain haunts of the Covenanters, and in
the streets of old Venice. A judge, who when banished in loathing
from the old world, brought his dread court to the new, and treads
the civilization, the Christianity and the progress of the nineteenth
century beneath his heel in this fair land. A judge who daily calls
upon us by his acts, cited in the public press, to rise and hurl him
from his bench, and declare ourselves at last on a level with the
enlightened nations of the earth. JUDGE LYNCH!
As Horton arose to his feet he encountered this hideous parody upon
civilization in the shape of two hundred maddened men. Maddened with a
thirst for human life.
"Come out hyar!" yelled the mob.
"Bring him out! Bring him out! Hang the hoss thief! Shoot him! We'll
rid the country of him! Rope him! Rope him!" they cried.
There were many men in the crowd, who in calm reflective moments would
have shrunk from a deed of violence. But they were wild. Wild with
excitement. Wild with the darkness of night. Wild with a self-heated
anger. Wild with the horribly fantastic knowledge that a human life was
in their hands to do just as they pleased with. To crush, to destroy,
to _hang_--and none to say them nay.
"For God's sake, gentlemen, what will you do with me?" cried the
Evangelist.
"We'll show you! We'll teach you to steal hosses!" they yelled for an
answer.
"I did not steal! As God is my witness I am no thief. Time will prove
it. Will you not give me a chance for my life?" he pleaded wildly.
"Dry up! No use lying now! We know what kind of watches you fellers
trade for hosses!" and a loud laugh greeted this last witticism.
Four men seized the protesting man and running as many ropes about
his neck, they started off dragging him along the road in the clear
starlight, the crowd following hooting and yelling. The ropes tightened
around his throat, and it was with the utmost difficulty he kept
himself from being strangled. Speak he could not, though every atom of
his body was in a dreadful quiver with that appalling sensation which
those who have approached close to a horrible and unexpected death
alone can realize or understand.
Yelling, hooting and jeering, the crowd dragged him out of the village
to the patch of woods near the country church. Every thing was done
hurriedly. A man climbed an oak tree and flung a rope over a sturdy
limb into the hands of those below. At this moment the Evangelist found
tongue.
"Men!" he exclaimed. "Men or brutes! This is murder! _Murder!_ I am as
guiltless of stealing that horse as the child unborn. I have told you
truthfully how I came by it. Will you kill me thus without allowing
me to prove my innocence? _Are_ you men, are you human, are you
Christians? Will you deliberately take my blood upon your hands?"
But a voice replied, and it sounded like that of Brother Rockafellow,
though the man had a handkerchief tied over his face, partly concealing
it:
"Strangier, make yer peace with the Lord. Thar's even marcy fur such as
you, perhaps. Hev ye the rope ready?"
At this moment a new comer appeared on the scene. It was the lank,
thin, care-worn pastor of the little church; the shepherd of this
thirsty flock. The noise had aroused him in his faded cottage, and in
great perturbation and much trembling of his bony limbs, and rubbing of
his withered hands he approached to see what it was all about.
"It's a hoss thief, an' in a minit we're going to hev one less in the
kentry," explained the mob.
Instantly the thin, lank, trembling pastor was transformed into an
iron-nerved, fearless warrior of the Master's army.
"Men," he cried, and his thin voice fairly reached a shriek with the
unaccustomed energy; "men, you shall _not_ kill the man! Vengeance
is _mine_, saith the Lord! A murderer shall not enter the kingdom of
heaven, and you are committing murder! In the name of Jesus I implore
you to stop. Hold on. Let me alone. Release me. I _will_ get to him.
You are savages. How dare you, sir! Don't kill him. Stop, stop!" and
hustled back by the crowd, this soul, worthier of a nobler tenement,
went down on his knees and begged and prayed that they would hold their
vengeful hands.
"He'll not preach here no more." "We've done with him." "Conference
will hev to give us another preacher." "Make the durned old fool
shet up," and similar hostile expressions were unheard or unheeded.
He reproached, begged, threatened, implored. All was wasted upon the
crowd. The tiger was loose. He had wetted his lips in imagination,
was he to be cheated of his prey? The good man's protestations and
supplications were alike disregarded.
"At least let me pray with him. Let me give him the consolation of our
blessed Lord and Saviour in these, his last moments upon earth," he
implored.
This request was at first refused, but ultimately reluctantly granted,
with the observation that they could not see what the old idiot wanted
to make so much fuss over a durned hoss thief for. The good man shook
Horton by the hand, and spoke consolingly to him, giving him such
sympathy as he could, and begging him to turn his thoughts on Him who
died for all.
A great change had come over the Evangelist. He no longer supplicated
for life, nor indeed did he pay much attention to those around him.
Perhaps he saw how useless it was to search for their feelings.
Perchance his thoughts were far away and death had lost its terrors. To
a question of his only friend he replied:
"No, I have no relatives. There are none that I would care to acquaint
with my fate. But I am an innocent man. Here, standing on the brink
of Eternity, without a hope for this world, about to be ushered, all
unheralded, all unsummoned, into the presence of Him who gave me life,
I would not deceive you. I am innocent. And I solemnly adjure you at
whose hands I perish that in the future, when you have found out the
mistake of your crime, that it shall ever be a warning to you to hold
more sacred that life which God has given, and which, though you may
take, you cannot replace. And may He forgive you as I forgive you."
A man now flung the noose of the rope over his head. Others roughly
ordered the minister out of the way, and the good man affectionately
embracing Horton and bidding him good-bye, retreated to the church
steps, and seating himself, with face upturned and eyes flowing tears,
sang in a thin treble voice:
"Jesus, Saviour of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly."
At the moment the rope was tightening on the victim's neck, there
occurred a commotion on the outer edge of the crowd, and breathless and
hatless Ben forced his way through and up to the unfortunate companion
of his wanderings.
"Hold!" he cried, "hold! This man is innocent. I was with him when he
traded his watch for that horse. You are murdering an innocent man!"
"Who're you?" roughly enquired a number.
"He's the man who was with me when I got the horse; the man I told you
of. He will prove that I did not steal it," calmly replied Horton.
"That's a likely story!" exclaimed a voice.
"Thief a helpin' thief!" shouted another.
"He's another hoss thief!"
"We've got 'em both! Hang 'em both! Make a clean sweep and clean the
kentry of them!" yelled the crowd.
"I am no thief!" cried Ben. "My name is Benjamin Cleveland. Boston is
my home. I am walking to New Orleans on a wager. You can prove it by
telegraph and hang me if it is not so."
A derisive laugh greeted this information.
"Walkin' to New Orleans, air ye? Well ye'll hev to walk another route,
and a warmer one!"
"Rope him! Rope him! Let's clean the State of the villains, and leave
'em hanging up as a warning!"
As this was shouted Ben felt a rope thrown over his neck, and the next
instant both he and the Evangelist were jerked into the air amid a
chorus of yells. There was a confused murmur of voices beneath him.
He struggled and kicked. Tried to loose the rope that was strangling
him with his hands. The froth oozed from his mouth. The confined blood
seemed bursting his head. Ten thousand bells were clanging in his ears.
He tried to cry out. A low gurgle escaped him. Then all grew black and
blank.
When Ben regained consciousness he was lying at the foot of the oak
tree with a loosened rope around his neck. His head seemed gigantic
in its size and his lips were parched. The grey light of morning was
struggling over the eastern hills. Not a soul was in sight. No,--_not a
soul_.
But turning his eyes upward they encountered a sight that caused him to
close them again with a groan of horror. For there, swinging gently to
and fro, in the morning breeze, hung the stiff, lifeless body of Horton
the Evangelist. His eyes bulging from their sockets, his swollen tongue
protruding from his mouth, and his gaunt face tinted with the leaden
palor of stagnant blood.
Dead! Hung by the neck. Dead!
As the eye of God came grandly up over the eastern horizon, it glanced
upon awakening nature, and fell upon that hideous, untenanted clod of
abused clay, that gently swung from the sturdy oak. And as it glanced
on the ruin and devastation the little church fell in its way. And it
took the shadow of the steeple along over the road and over the open
space, to the woods, clean to the foot of the oak tree, up which it
pointed like some avenging finger. Up and still up crept the shadow
until it reached the body of the dead man with the weather-vane.
And, Lo! When Ben again dared to lift his eyes, there, on the stark,
still, pulseless breast of the Evangelist, was THE SHADOW OF THE
CROSS!