A GIRL AT BAY
I drew back hastily, but in silence, eager to get away before the
sheriff and his deputy should return to their seats by the porch rail.
My original plan of warning the women of the house of their peril was
blocked, completely overturned by the presence of these men. The
situation had thus been rendered more complicated, more difficult to
solve, and I could only act on impulse, or as guided by these new
conditions. Beyond all question, those I had hoped to serve were
already aware of their position--someone had reached them before
me--and two, at least, were already in hiding. Why the third, the one
most deeply involved, had failed to accompany the others, could not be
comprehended. The mystery only made my present task more difficult.
Could the others have fled and deliberately left her to her fate? Had
some mistake been made? or had some accident led to their absence, and
her falling into the inhuman clutches of Kirby? Why should Delia, the
slave, disappear in company with Eloise, the free, and leave her own
daughter Rene behind to face a situation more terrible than death? I
could not answer these questions; but, whatever the cause, the result
had been the complete overthrow of the gambler's carefully prepared
plans. Not that I believed he would hesitate for long, law or no law;
but Donaldson, the sheriff, refused to be a party to any openly illegal
act, and this would for the present tie the fellow's hands. Not until
Miss Eloise was found and duly served with the eviction papers would
Donaldson consent to take possession of a single slave. This might
still give me time for action.
Kirby, angry and baffled, could rave and threaten; but to no end.
Whether this condition of affairs had been attained as a result of
legal advice, or through a mere accident, made no difference; the
present inability to reach the daughter of the Judge--the legal heiress
to his estate--completely blocked the conspiracy. Yet Kirby was not
the kind to surrender without a fight, and a desperate one; all that
was savagely brutal in the man had been aroused by this check. The
very sound of his voice indicated his intention--he proposed to drive,
with a whip if necessary, the helpless girl in his power to a full
confession. She was his slave, his chattel, and, under the influence
of ungoverned passion, he was capable of any degree of cruelty to
attain his end. I knew--seemed to realize--all this in an instant, and
as swiftly decided to risk life if need be in her defense. There was
at that moment no thought in my mind of her stain of negro blood; she
was not a slave to me, but merely a woman helpless and alone, fronting
dishonor and degradation.
I slipped along in the shadow of the house, without definite plan of
action, but with a firm purpose to act. The side door I knew to be
securely locked, yet, first of all, it was essential that I attain to
the interior. But one means to this end occurred to me--the unshaded
window through which the glow of light continued to stream. I found I
could reach the edge of the balcony with extended fingers, and drew
myself slowly up, until I clung to the railing, with feet finding
precarious support on the outer rim. This was accomplished
noiselessly, and, from the vantage point thus obtained, I was enabled
to survey a large portion of the room. The illumination came from a
chandelier pendent from the center of the high ceiling, but only one
lamp had been lighted, and the apartment was so large that both ends
and sides remained in partial shadow. It might have been originally
intended as either a sitting room or library, for there were bookcases
against the walls, and a large writing table, holding books and writing
material, stood directly beneath the chandelier, while on the sofa in
one corner reposed a bit of women's sewing, where it had apparently
been hastily dropped. A fireplace, black and gloomy, evidently unused
for some time, yawned in a side wall, and above it hung a rifle and
powder horn.
I clambered over the rail, assured by this first glance that the room
was empty, and succeeded in lifting the heavy sash a few inches without
any disturbing noise. Then it stuck, and, even as I ventured to exert
my strength to greater extent to force it upward, the single door
directly opposite, evidently leading into the hall, was flung violently
open, and I sank back out of view, yet instantly aware that the first
party to enter was Joe Kirby.
Without venturing to lift my eyes to the level of the opening, I could
nevertheless imagine his movements, while the sound of his voice when
he spoke was as distinct as though I stood beside him. He strode
forward to the table, striking the wooden top angrily with his fist and
knocking something crashing to the floor.
"You know where she is, don't you?" he asked, in the same threatening
tone he had used without.
"Of course I do; didn't I help put her there?" It was Carver who
replied, standing in the open doorway.
"Then bring the hussy in here. By God! I'll make the wench talk, if I
have to choke it out of her; she'll learn what it means to be a nigger."
The door closed, and Kirby strode across to the fireplace, muttering to
himself, and stood there, an arm on the mantel, nervously stirring up
the dead ashes with one foot. Plainly enough the events of the night
had overcome all his boasted self-control, his gambler's coolness, and
the real underlying brutality of his nature demanded expression. He
yearned to crush, and hurt something--something that would cringe
before him. I ventured to raise my head cautiously, so as to gain a
glimpse of the man, and was surprised to note the change in his face.
It was as though he had removed a mask. Heretofore, always holding the
winning hand, and able to sneer at opposition, he had always in my
presence assumed an air of cold bravado, insolent and sarcastic; but
now, baffled in his plans, checkmated by a girl, and believing himself
unobserved, the gambler had given way to his true nature, both
expression and manner exhibiting a temper beyond control.
I had but a moment in which to observe this new exhibit of the man's
personality, for almost immediately Carver flung the door of the room
open, and Kirby swung impatiently about to face the entrance. Except
for a possibility of thus attracting the attention of the newcomer, I
was in no special danger of being detected by those within.
Nevertheless I sank lower, with eyes barely above the edge of the sill,
eager to witness this meeting, and especially interested in gaining a
first view of their prisoner. Carver thrust her forward, but remained
himself blocking the doorway. I use the word thrust, for I noted the
grip of his hand on her arm, yet in truth she instantly stepped forward
herself, her bearing in no way devoid of pride and dignity, her head
held erect, her eyes fearlessly seeking the face of Kirby. Their
glances met, and she advanced to the table, the light of the swinging
lamp full upon her. The impression she made is with me yet. Hers was
a refined, patrician face, crowned by a wealth of dark hair. Indignant
eyes of hazel brown, shadowed by long lashes, brightened a face
whitened by intense emotion, and brought into agreeable contrast
flushed cheeks, and red, scornful lips. A dimpled chin, a round, full
throat, and the figure of young womanhood, slender and yet softly
curved, altogether formed a picture so entrancing as to never again
desert my imagination. With one bound my heart went out to her in
sympathy, in admiration, in full and complete surrender. Yet, even in
that instant, the knowledge of the truth, in all its unspeakable
horror, assailed me--this girl, this proud, beautiful girl, was a
slave; within her veins a cursed drop of negro blood stained her with
dishonor, made of her a chattel; and the sneering brute she faced was
by law her master. My hands clinched in the agony of the thought, the
knowledge of my own impotence. Yet all this was but the flash of an
instant. Before I could change posture, almost before I could draw
fresh breath, her voice, trembling slightly with an emotion she was
unable wholly to suppress, yet sounding clear as a bell, addressed the
man confronting her.
"May I ask, sir, what this outrage means? I presume you are
responsible for the insolence of this fellow who brought me here?"
Kirby laughed, but not altogether at ease.
"Well, not altogether," he answered, "as his methods are entirely his
own. I merely told him to go after you."
"For what purpose?"
"So pretty a girl should not ask that. Carver, close the door, and
wait outside."
I could mark the quick rise and fall of her bosom, And the look of fear
she was unable to disguise. Yet not a limb moved as the door closed,
nor did the glance of those brown eyes waver.
"You are not the same man I met here before," she began doubtfully.
"He said he was connected with the sheriff's office. Who are you?"
"My name is Kirby; the sheriff is here under my orders."
"Kirby!--the--the gambler?"
"Well I play cards occasionally, and you have probably heard of me
before. Even if you never had until tonight, it is pretty safe to bet
that you do now. Donaldson, or his man, told you, so there is no use
of my mincing matters any, nor of your pretence at ignorance."
"I know," she admitted, "that you won this property at cards, and have
now come to take possession. Is that what you mean?"
"That, at least, is part of it," and he took a step toward her, his
thin lips twisted into a smile. "But not all. Perhaps Donaldson
failed to tell you the rest, and left me to break the news. Well, it
won't hurt me any. Not only this plantation is mine, but every nigger
on it as well. You are Rene Beaucaire?"
"Yes," she replied, slowly, almost under her breath, and hesitating
ever so slightly, "I am Rene Beaucaire."
"And you don't know what that means, I suppose?" he insisted, savagely,
angered by her coolness. "Perhaps the sheriff did not explain this.
Yet, by God! I believe you do know. Someone spread the word before we
ever got up here--that damn lawyer Haines likely enough. That is why
the others have disappeared; why they have hidden themselves away. Who
was it?"
"I cannot answer."
"Oh, I reckon you can. Why did they run off and leave you here?"
"I cannot answer."
"Damn you, stop that! Don't try any of your fine airs on me. Do you
know who and what you are?"
She rested one hand on the table in support, and I could note the
nervous trembling of the fingers, yet her low voice remained strangely
firm.
"I know," she said distinctly, "I am no longer a free white woman; I am
a negro, and a slave."
"Oh, so you know that, do you? Then you must also be aware that you
are my property. Perhaps it will be well for you to remember this in
answering my questions. Now tell me who informed you of all this?"
"I cannot answer."
"Cannot! You mean you will not. Well, young woman, I'll find means to
make you, for I have handled your kind before. Drop this dignity
business, and remember you are a slave, talking to your master. It
will be better for you, if you do. Where is Eloise Beaucaire?"
"Why do you seek to find her? There is no slave blood in her veins."
"To serve the necessary papers, of course."
He spoke incautiously, urged on by his temper, and I marked how quickly
her face brightened at this intelligence.
"To serve papers! They must be served then before--before you can take
possession? That is what I understood the sheriff to say."
"Why, of course--the law requires that form."
"Then I am not really your slave--yet?" her voice deepening with
earnestness and understanding. "Oh, so that is how it is--even if I am
a negro, I do not belong to you until those papers have been served.
If you touch me now you break the law. I may not be free, but I am
free from you. Good God! but I am glad to know that!"
"And damn little good it is going to do you," he growled. "I was a
fool to let you know that; but just the same you are here in my power,
and I care mighty little what the law says. Sheriff, or no sheriff, my
beauty, you are going to St. Louis with me tonight; so I advise you to
keep a grip on that tongue of yours. Do you think I am going to be
foiled altogether by a technical point of law? Then, by God! you don't
know Joe Kirby. Possession is the main thing, and I have you where you
can't get away. You hear me?"
She had not moved, although her form had straightened, and her hand no
longer rested on the table. Kirby had stepped close in front of her,
his eyes glowing with anger, his evident intention being to thus
frighten the girl into compliance with his wishes, but her eyes,
defiant and unafraid, looked him squarely in the face.
"I certainly hear," she replied calmly. "Your voice is sufficiently
distinct. I am a slave, I suppose, and in your power; but I despise
you, hate you--and you are not going to take me to St. Louis tonight."
"What can stop me?"
"That I am not obliged to tell you, sir."
"But what will prevent? The sheriff? Puh! a few dollars will take
care of him. The Judge is a friend of mine."
"It is not the sheriff--nor the Judge; I place reliance on no friend of
yours."
He grasped at her arm, but she stepped back quickly enough to avoid
contact, and the red lips were pressed together in a thin line of
determination. Kirby could not have seen what I did, or if he did see,
failed to attach the same significance to the action. Her hand had
suddenly disappeared within the folds of her skirt; but the angry man,
apparently blinded by the violence of his passion, his eagerness to
crush her spirit, thought only that she counted on outside aid for
deliverance.
"You silly little fool," he snapped, his moustache bristling. "Why,
what could you do to stop me? I could break your neck with one hand.
So you imagine someone is going to save you. Well, who will it be?
Those yokels down at the Landing? Haines, the lawyer? You have a
surprise up your sleeve for me, I suppose! Hell! it makes me laugh;
but you might as well have your lesson now, as any other time. Come
here, you wench!"
He caught her arm this time, brutally jerking her toward him, but as
instantly staggered backward, grasping at the table, the flash of anger
in his eyes changing to a look of startled surprise. A pistol was
leveled full in his face, the polished black barrel shining ominously
in the light of the overhead lamp.
"Now perhaps you know what I mean," she said. "If you dare to touch me
I will kill you like a dog. That is no threat; it is true as God's
gospel," and the very tone of her voice carried conviction. "You say I
am a slave--your slave! That may be so, but you will never possess
me--never! Life means nothing to me any more, and I never expect to go
out of this house alive; I do not even care to. So I am not afraid of
you. Do you know why? Probably not, for men of your kind would be
unable to understand. It is because I would rather die than have your
dirty hand touch me--a thousand times rather. Do not drop your arms,
you low-lived cur, for you have never been nearer death in all your
miserable life than you are now. God knows I want to kill you; it is
the one desire of my heart at this moment to rid the earth of such a
beast. But I'll give you one chance--just one. Don't you dare call
out, or answer me. Do what I say. Now step back--back along the
table; that's it, a step at a time. Oh, I knew you were a cowardly
bully. Go on--yes, clear to that window; don't lower those hands an
inch until I say you may. I am a slave--yes, but I am also a
Beaucaire. Now reach behind you, and pull up the sash--pull it up
higher than that."
Her eyes dilated with sudden astonishment and terror. She had caught
sight of me, emerging from the black shadow just behind her victim.
Kirby also perceived the quick change in the face fronting him, read
its expression of fright, and sought to twist his head so as to learn
the truth. Yet before he could accomplish this, or his lips could give
utterance to a sound, my hands closed on his throat, crushing him down
to the sill, and throttling him into silence between the vise of my
fingers.