_Atlantic Monthly, May, 1875._
At the Isles of Shoals, on the 5th of March in the year 1873, occurred
one of the most monstrous tragedies ever enacted on this planet. The
sickening details of the double murder are well known; the newspapers
teemed with them for months: but the pathos of the story is not
realized; the world does not know how gentle a life these poor people
led, how innocently happy were their quiet days. They were all
Norwegians. The more I see of the natives of this far-off land, the
more I admire the fine qualities which seem to characterize them as a
race. Gentle, faithful, intelligent, God-fearing human beings, they
daily use such courtesy toward each other and all who come in contact
with them, as puts our ruder Yankee manners to shame. The men and
women living on this lonely island were like the sweet, honest, simple
folk we read of in Bjoernson's charming Norwegian stories, full of
kindly thoughts and ways. The murdered Anethe might have been the Eli
of Bjoernson's beautiful Arne or the Ragnhild of Boyesen's lovely
romance. They rejoiced to find a home just such as they desired in
this peaceful place; the women took such pleasure in the little house
which they kept so neat and bright, in their flock of hens, their
little dog Ringe, and all their humble belongings! The Norwegians are
an exceptionally affectionate people; family ties are very strong and
precious among them. Let me tell the story of their sorrow as simply
as may be.
Louis Wagner murdered Anethe and Karen Christensen at midnight on the
5th of March, two years ago this spring. The whole affair shows the
calmness of a practiced hand; _there was no malice in the deed_, no
heat; it was one of the coolest instances of deliberation ever
chronicled in the annals of crime. He admits that these people had
shown him nothing but kindness. He says in so many words, "They were
my best friends." They looked upon him as a brother. Yet he did not
hesitate to murder them. The island called Smutty-Nose by human
perversity (since in old times it bore the pleasanter title of Haley's
Island) was selected to be the scene of this disaster. Long ago I
lived two years upon it, and know well its whitened ledges and grassy
slopes, its low thickets of wild-rose and bayberry, its sea-wall still
intact, connecting it with the small island Malaga, opposite
Appledore, and the ruined break-water which links it with Cedar
Island on the other side. A lonely cairn, erected by some long ago
forgotten fishermen or sailors, stands upon the highest rock at the
southeastern extremity; at its western end a few houses are scattered,
small, rude dwellings, with the square old Haley house near; two or
three fish-houses are falling into decay about the water-side, and the
ancient wharf drops stone by stone into the little cove, where every
day the tide ebbs and flows and ebbs again with pleasant sound and
freshness. Near the houses is a small grave-yard, where a few of the
natives sleep, and not far, the graves of the fourteen Spaniards lost
in the wreck of the ship Sagunto in the year 1813. I used to think it
was a pleasant place, that low, rocky, and grassy island, though so
wild and lonely.
From the little town of Laurvig, near Christiania, in Norway, came
John and Maren Hontvet to this country, and five years ago took up
their abode in this desolate spot, in one of the cottages facing the
cove and Appledore. And there they lived through the long winters and
the lovely summers, John making a comfortable living by fishing,
Maren, his wife, keeping as bright and tidy and sweet a little home
for him as man could desire. The bit of garden they cultivated in the
summer was a pleasure to them; they made their house as pretty as they
could with paint and paper and gay pictures, and Maren had a shelf for
her plants at the window; and John was always so good to her, so kind
and thoughtful of her comfort and of what would please her, she was
entirely happy. Sometimes she was a little lonely, perhaps, when he
was tossing afar off on the sea, setting or hauling his trawls, or had
sailed to Portsmouth to sell his fish. So that she was doubly glad
when the news came that some of her people were coming over from
Norway to live with her. And first, in the month of May, 1871, came
her sister Karen, who stayed only a short time with Maren, and then
came to Appledore, where she lived at service two years, till within a
fortnight of her death. The first time I saw Maren she brought her
sister to us, and I was charmed with the little woman's beautiful
behavior; she was so gentle, courteous, decorous, she left on my mind
a most delightful impression. Her face struck me as remarkably good
and intelligent, and her gray eyes were full of light.
Karen was a rather sad-looking woman, about twenty-nine years old; she
had lost a lover in Norway long since, and in her heart she fretted
and mourned for this continually: she could not speak a word of
English at first, but went patiently about her work and soon learned
enough, and proved herself an excellent servant, doing faithfully and
thoroughly everything she undertook, as is the way of her people
generally. Her personal neatness was most attractive. She wore gowns
made of cloth woven by herself in Norway, a coarse blue stuff, always
neat and clean, and often I used to watch her as she sat by the fire
spinning at a spinning-wheel brought from her own country; she made
such a pretty picture, with her blue gown and fresh white apron, and
the nice, clear white muslin bow with which she was in the habit of
fastening her linen collar, that she was very agreeable to look upon.
She had a pensive way of letting her head droop a little sideways as
she spun, and while the low wheel hummed monotonously, she would sit
crooning sweet, sad old Norwegian airs by the hour together, perfectly
unconscious that she was affording such pleasure to a pair of
appreciative eyes. On the 12th of October, 1872, in the second year of
her stay with us, her brother, Ivan Christensen, and his wife, Anethe
Mathea, came over from their Norseland in an evil day, and joined
Maren and John at their island, living in the same house with them.
Ivan and Anethe had been married only since Christmas of the preceding
year. Ivan was tall, light-haired, rather quiet and grave. Anethe was
young, fair, and merry, with thick, bright sunny hair, which was so
long it reached, when unbraided, nearly to her knees; blue-eyed, with
brilliant teeth and clear, fresh complexion, beautiful, and beloved
beyond expression by her young husband, Ivan. Mathew Hontvet, John's
brother, had also joined the little circle a year before, and now
Maren's happiness was complete. Delighted to welcome them all, she
made all things pleasant for them, and she told me only a few days
ago, "I never was so happy in my life as when we were all living there
together." So they abode in peace and quiet, with not an evil thought
in their minds, kind and considerate toward each other, the men
devoted to their women and the women repaying them with interest, till
out of the perfectly cloudless sky one day a bolt descended, without a
whisper of warning, and brought ruin and desolation into that peaceful
home.
Louis Wagner, who had been in this country seven years, appeared at
the Shoals two years before the date of the murder. He lived about the
islands during that time. He was born in Ueckermuende, a small town of
lower Pomerania, in Northern Prussia. Very little is known about him,
though there were vague rumors that his past life had not been without
difficulties, and he had boasted foolishly among his mates that "not
many had done what he had done and got off in safety;" but people did
not trouble themselves about him or his past, all having enough to do
to earn their bread and keep the wolf from the door. Maren describes
him as tall, powerful, dark, with a peculiarly quiet manner. She says
she never saw him drunk--he seemed always anxious to keep his wits
about him: he would linger on the outskirts of a drunken brawl,
listening to and absorbing everything, but never mixing himself up in
any disturbance. He was always lurking in corners, lingering, looking,
listening, and he would look no man straight in the eyes. She spoke,
however, of having once heard him disputing with some sailors, at
table, about some point of navigation; she did not understand it, but
all were against Louis, and, waxing warm, all strove to show him he
was in the wrong. As he rose and left the table she heard him mutter
to himself with an oath, "I know I'm wrong, but I'll never give in!"
During the winter preceding the one in which his hideous deed was
committed he lived at Star Island and fished alone, in a wherry; but
he made very little money, and came often over to the Hontvets, where
Maren gave him food when he was suffering from want, and where he
received always a welcome and the utmost kindness. In the following
June he joined Hontvet in his business of fishing, and took up his
abode as one of the family at Smutty-Nose. During the summer he was
"crippled," as he said, by the rheumatism, and they were all very good
to him, and sheltered, fed, nursed and waited upon him the greater
part of the season. He remained with them five weeks after Ivan and
Anethe arrived, so that he grew to know Anethe as well as Maren, and
was looked upon as a brother by all of them, as I have said before.
Nothing occurred to show his true character, and in November he left
the island and the kind people whose hospitality he was to repay so
fearfully, and going to Portsmouth he took passage in another fishing
schooner, the Addison Gilbert, which was presently wrecked off the
coast, and he was again thrown out of employment. Very recklessly he
said to Waldemar Ingebertsen, to Charles Jonsen, and even to John
Hontvet himself, at different times, that "he must have money if he
murdered for it." He loafed about Portsmouth eight weeks, doing
nothing. Meanwhile Karen left our service in February, intending to go
to Boston and work at a sewing-machine, for she was not strong and
thought she should like it better than housework, but before going she
lingered awhile with her sister Maren--fatal delay for her! Maren told
me that during this time Karen went to Portsmouth and had her teeth
removed, meaning to provide herself with a new set. At the Jonsens',
where Louis was staying, one day she spoke to Mrs. Jonsen of her
mouth, that it was so sensitive since the teeth had been taken out;
and Mrs. Jonsen asked her how long she must wait before the new set
could be put in. Karen replied that it would be three months. Louis
Wagner was walking up and down at the other end of the room with his
arms folded, his favorite attitude. Mrs. Jonsen's daughter passed near
him and heard him mutter, "Three months! What is the use! In three
months you will be dead!" He did not know the girl was so near, and
turning, he confronted her. He knew she must have heard what he said,
and he glared at her like a wild man.
On the fifth day of March, 1873, John Hontvet, his brother Mathew, and
Ivan Christensen set sail in John's little schooner, the Clara Bella,
to draw their trawls. At that time four of the islands were inhabited:
one family on White Island, at the light-house; the workmen who were
building the new hotel on Star Island, and one or two households
beside; the Hontvet family at Smutty-Nose; and on Appledore, the
household at the large house, and on the southern side, opposite
Smutty-Nose, a little cottage, where lived Joerge Edvardt Ingebertsen,
his wife and children, and several men who fished with him.
Smutty-Nose is not in sight of the large house at Appledore, so we
were in ignorance of all that happened on that dreadful night, longer
than the other inhabitants of the Shoals.
John, Ivan and Mathew went to draw their trawls, which had been set
some miles to the eastward of the islands. They intended to be back to
dinner, and then to go on to Portsmouth with their fish, and bait the
trawls afresh, ready to bring back to set again next day. But the wind
was strong and fair for Portsmouth and ahead for the islands; it would
have been a long beat home against it; so they went on to Portsmouth,
without touching at the island to leave one man to guard the women, as
had been their custom. This was the first night in all the years Maren
had lived there that the house was without a man to protect it. But
John, always thoughtful for her, asked Emil Ingebertsen, whom he met
on the fishing-grounds, to go over from Appledore and tell her that
they had gone on to Portsmouth with the favoring wind, but that they
hoped to be back that night. And he would have been back had the bait
he expected from Boston arrived on the train in which it was due. How
curiously everything adjusted itself to favor the bringing about of
this horrible catastrophe! The bait did not arrive till the half-past
twelve train, and they were obliged to work the whole night getting
their trawls ready, thus leaving the way perfectly clear for Louis
Wagner's awful work.
The three women left alone watched and waited in vain for the schooner
to return, and kept the dinner hot for the men, and patiently wondered
why they did not come. In vain they searched the wide horizon for that
returning sail. Ah me, what pathos is in that longing look of women's
eyes for far-off sails! That gaze, so eager, so steadfast, that it
would almost seem as if it must conjure up the ghostly shape of
glimmering canvas from the mysterious distances of sea and sky, and
draw it unerringly home by the mere force of intense wistfulness! And
those gentle eyes, that were never to see the light of another sun,
looked anxiously across the heaving sea till twilight fell, and then
John's messenger, Emil, arrived--Emil Ingebertsen, courteous and
gentle as a youthful knight--and reassured them with his explanation,
which having given, he departed, leaving them in a much more cheerful
state of mind. So the three sisters, with only the little dog Ringe
for a protector, sat by the fire chatting together cheerfully. They
fully expected the schooner back again that night from Portsmouth, but
they were not ill at ease while they waited. Of what should they be
afraid? They had not an enemy in the world! No shadow crept to the
fireside to warn them what was at hand, no portent of death chilled
the air as they talked their pleasant talk and made their little
plans in utter unconsciousness. Karen was to have gone to Portsmouth
with the fishermen that day; she was all ready dressed to go. Various
little commissions were given her, errands to do for the two sisters
she was to leave behind. Maren wanted some buttons, and "I'll give you
one for a pattern; I'll put it in your purse," she said to Karen, "and
then when you open your purse you'll be sure to remember it." (That
little button, of a peculiar pattern, was found in Wagner's possession
afterward.) They sat up till ten o'clock, talking together. The night
was bright and calm; it was a comfort to miss the bitter winds that
had raved about the little dwelling all the long, rough winter.
Already it was spring; this calm was the first token of its coming. It
was the 5th of March; in a few weeks the weather would soften, the
grass grow green, and Anethe would see the first flowers in this
strange country, so far from her home where she had left father and
mother, kith and kin, for love of Ivan. The delicious days of summer
at hand would transform the work of the toiling fishermen to pleasure,
and all things would bloom and smile about the poor people on the
lonely rock! Alas, it was not to be.
At ten o'clock they went to bed. It was cold and "lonesome" up-stairs,
so Maren put some chairs by the side of the lounge, laid a mattress
upon it, and made up a bed for Karen in the kitchen, where she
presently fell asleep. Maren and Anethe slept in the next room. So
safe they felt themselves, they did not pull down a curtain, nor even
try to fasten the house-door. They went to their rest in absolute
security and perfect trust. It was the first still night of the new
year; a young moon stole softly down toward the west, a gentle wind
breathed through the quiet dark, and the waves whispered gently about
the island, helping to lull those innocent souls to yet more peaceful
slumber. Ah, where were the gales of March that might have plowed that
tranquil sea to foam, and cut off the fatal path of Louis Wagner to
that happy home! But nature seemed to pause and wait for him. I
remember looking abroad over the waves that night and rejoicing over
"the first calm night of the year!" It was so still, so bright! The
hope of all the light and beauty a few weeks would bring forth stirred
me to sudden joy. There should be spring again after the long
winter-weariness.
"Can trouble live in April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?"
I thought, as I watched the clear sky, grown less hard than it had
been for weeks, and sparkling with stars. But before another sunset it
seemed to me that beauty had fled out of the world, and that goodness,
innocence, mercy, gentleness, were a mere mockery of empty words.
Here let us leave the poor women, asleep on the lonely rock, with no
help near them in heaven or upon earth, and follow the fishermen to
Portsmouth, where they arrived about four o'clock that afternoon. One
of the first men whom they saw as they neared the town was Louis
Wagner; to him they threw the rope from the schooner, and he helped
draw her in to the wharf. Greetings passed between them; he spoke to
Mathew Hontvet, and as he looked at Ivan Christensen, the men noticed
a flush pass over Louis's face. He asked were they going out again
that night? Three times before they parted he asked that question; he
saw that all the three men belonging to the island had come away
together; he began to realize his opportunity. They answered him that
if their bait came by the train in which they expected it, they hoped
to get back that night, but if it was late they should be obliged to
stay till morning, baiting their trawls; and they asked him to come
and help them. It is a long and tedious business, the baiting of
trawls; often more than a thousand hooks are to be manipulated, and
lines and hooks coiled, clear of tangles, into tubs, all ready for
throwing overboard when the fishing-grounds are reached. Louis gave
them a half promise that he would help them, but they did not see him
again after leaving the wharf. The three fishermen were hungry, not
having touched at their island, where Maren always provided them with
a supply of food to take with them; they asked each other if either
had brought any money with which to buy bread, and it came out that
every one had left his pocket-book at home. Louis, standing by, heard
all this. He asked John, then, if he had made fishing pay. John
answered that he had cleared about six hundred dollars.
The men parted, the honest three about their business; but Louis, what
became of him with his evil thoughts? At about half-past seven he went
into a liquor shop and had a glass of something; not enough to make
him unsteady,--he was too wise for that. He was not seen again in
Portsmouth by any human creature that night. He must have gone, after
that, directly down to the river, that beautiful, broad river, the
Piscataqua, upon whose southern bank the quaint old city of Portsmouth
dreams its quiet days away; and there he found a boat ready to his
hand, a dory belonging to a man by the name of David Burke, who had
that day furnished it with new thole-pins. When it was picked up
afterward off the mouth of the river, Louis's anxious oars had eaten
half-way through the substance of these pins, which are always made of
the hardest, toughest wood that can be found. A terrible piece of
rowing must that have been, in one night! Twelve miles from the city
to the Shoals,--three to the light-houses, where the river meets the
open sea, nine more to the islands; nine back again to Newcastle next
morning! He took that boat, and with the favoring tide dropped down
the rapid river where the swift current is so strong that oars are
scarcely needed, except to keep the boat steady. Truly all nature
seemed to play into his hands; this first relenting night of earliest
spring favored him with its stillness, the tide was fair, the wind
was fair, the little moon gave him just enough light, without
betraying him to any curious eyes, as he glided down the three miles
between the river banks, in haste to reach the sea. Doubtless the
light west wind played about him as delicately as if he had been the
most human of God's creatures; nothing breathed remonstrance in his
ear, nothing whispered in the whispering water that rippled about his
inexorable keel, steering straight for the Shoals through the quiet
darkness. The snow lay thick and white upon the land in the moonlight;
lamps twinkled here and there from dwellings on either side; in Eliot
and Newcastle, in Portsmouth and Kittery, roofs, chimneys, and gables
showed faintly in the vague light; the leafless trees clustered dark
in hollows or lifted their tracery of bare boughs in higher spaces
against the wintry sky. His eyes must have looked on it all, whether
he saw the peaceful picture or not. Beneath many a humble roof honest
folk were settling into their untroubled rest, as "this planned piece
of deliberate wickedness" was stealing silently by with his heart full
of darkness, blacker than the black tide that swirled beneath his boat
and bore him fiercely on. At the river's mouth stood the sentinel
light-houses, sending their great spokes of light afar into the night,
like the arms of a wide humanity stretching into the darkness helping
hands to bring all who needed succor safely home. He passed them,
first the tower at Fort Point, then the taller one at Whale's Back,
steadfastly holding aloft their warning fires. There was no signal
from the warning bell as he rowed by, though a danger more subtle,
more deadly, than fog, or hurricane, or pelting storm was passing
swift beneath it. Unchallenged by anything in earth or heaven, he kept
on his way and gained the great outer ocean, doubtless pulling strong
and steadily, for he had no time to lose, and the longest night was
all too short for an undertaking such as this. Nine miles from the
light-houses to the islands! Slowly he makes his way; it seems to take
an eternity of time. And now he is midway between the islands and the
coast. That little toy of a boat with its one occupant in the midst of
the awful, black, heaving sea! The vast dim ocean whispers with a
thousand waves; against the boat's side the ripples lightly tap, and
pass and are lost; the air is full of fine, mysterious voices of winds
and waters. Has he no fear, alone there on the midnight sea with such
a purpose in his heart? The moonlight sends a long, golden track
across the waves; it touches his dark face and figure, it glitters on
his dripping oars. On his right hand Boone Island light shows like a
setting star on the horizon, low on his left the two beacons twinkle
off Newburyport, at the mouth of the Merrimack River; all the
light-houses stand watching along the coast, wheeling their long,
slender shafts of radiance as if pointing at this black atom creeping
over the face of the planet with such colossal evil in his heart.
Before him glitters the Shoals' light at White Island, and helps to
guide him to his prey. Alas, my friendly light-house, that you should
serve so terrible a purpose! Steadily the oars click in the rowlocks;
stroke after stroke of the broad blades draws him away from the
lessening line of land, over the wavering floor of the ocean, nearer
the lonely rocks. Slowly the coast-lights fade, and now the rote of
the sea among the lonely ledges of the Shoals salutes his attentive
ear. A little longer and he nears Appledore, the first island, and now
he passes by the snow-covered, ice-bound rock, with the long buildings
showing clear in the moonlight. He must have looked at them as he went
past. I wonder we who slept beneath the roofs that glimmered to his
eyes in the uncertain light did not feel, through the thick veil of
sleep, what fearful thing passed by! But we slumbered peacefully as
the unhappy woman whose doom every click of those oars in the
rowlocks, like the ticking of some dreadful clock, was bringing
nearer and nearer. Between the islands he passes; they are full of
chilly gleams and glooms. There is no scene more weird than these
snow-covered rocks in winter, more shudderful and strange: the
moonlight touching them with mystic glimmer, the black water breaking
about them, and the vast shadowy spaces of the sea stretching to the
horizon on every side, full of vague sounds, of half lights and
shadows, of fear, and of mystery. The island he seeks lies before him,
lone and still; there is no gleam in any window, there is no help
near, nothing upon which the women can call for succor. He does not
land in the cove where all boats put in; he rows round to the south
side and draws his boat up on the rocks. His red returning footsteps
are found here next day, staining the snow. He makes his way to the
house he knows so well.
All is silent: nothing moves, nothing sounds but the hushed voices of
the sea. His hand is on the latch, he enters stealthily, there is
nothing to resist him. The little dog, Ringe, begins to bark sharp and
loud, and Karen rouses, crying, "John, is that you?" thinking the
expected fishermen had returned. Louis seizes a chair and strikes at
her in the dark; the clock on a shelf above her head falls down with
the jarring of the blow, and stops at exactly seven minutes to one.
Maren, in the next room, waked suddenly from her sound sleep, trying
in vain to make out the meaning of it all, cries, "What's the matter?"
Karen answers, "John scared me!" Maren springs from her bed and tries
to open her chamber door; Louis has fastened it on the other side by
pushing a stick through over the latch. With her heart leaping with
terror the poor child shakes the door with all her might, in vain.
Utterly confounded and bewildered, she hears Karen screaming, "John
kills me! John kills me!" She hears the sound of repeated blows and
shrieks, till at last her sister falls heavily against the door, which
gives way, and Maren rushes out. She catches dimly a glimpse of a tall
figure outlined against the southern window; she seizes poor Karen and
drags her with the strength of frenzy within the bedroom. This
unknown terror, this fierce, dumb monster who never utters a sound to
betray himself through the whole, pursues her with blows, strikes her
three times with a chair, either blow with fury sufficient to kill
her, had it been light enough for him to see how to direct it; but she
gets her sister inside and the door shut, and holds it against him
with all her might and Karen's failing strength. What a little heroine
was this poor child, struggling with the force of desperation to save
herself and her sisters!
All this time Anethe lay dumb, not daring to move or breathe, roused
from the deep sleep of youth and health by this nameless, formless
terror. Maren, while she strives to hold the door at which Louis
rattles again and again, calls to her in anguish, "Anethe, Anethe! Get
out of the window! run! hide!" The poor girl, almost paralyzed with
fear, tries to obey, puts her bare feet out of the low window, and
stands outside in the freezing snow, with one light garment over her
cowering figure, shrinking in the cold winter wind, the clear
moonlight touching her white face and bright hair and fair young
shoulders. "Scream! scream!" shouts frantic Maren. "Somebody at Star
Island may hear!" but Anethe answers with the calmness of despair, "I
cannot make a sound." Maren screams herself, but the feeble sound
avails nothing. "Run! run!" she cries to Anethe; but again Anethe
answers, "I cannot move."
Louis has left off trying to force the door; he listens. Are the
women trying to escape? He goes out-of-doors. Maren flies to the
window; he comes round the corner of the house and confronts Anethe
where she stands in the snow. The moonlight shines full in his face;
she shrieks loudly and distinctly, "Louis, Louis!"
Ah, he is discovered, he is recognized! Quick as thought he goes back
to the front door, at the side of which stands an ax, left there by
Maren, who had used it the day before to cut the ice from the well. He
returns to Anethe standing shuddering there. It is no matter that she
is beautiful, young, and helpless to resist, that she has been kind to
him, that she never did a human creature harm, that she stretches her
gentle hands out to him in agonized entreaty, crying piteously, "Oh,
Louis, Louis, Louis!" He raises the ax and brings it down on her
bright head in one tremendous blow, and she sinks without a sound and
lies in a heap, with her warm blood reddening the snow. Then he deals
her blow after blow, almost within reach of Maren's hands, as she
stands at the window. Distracted, Maren strives to rouse poor Karen,
who kneels with her head on the side of the bed; with desperate
entreaty she tries to get her up and away, but Karen moans, "I cannot,
I cannot." She is too far gone; and then Maren knows she cannot save
her, and that she must flee herself or die. So, while Louis again
enters the house, she seizes a skirt and wraps round her shoulders,
and makes her way out of the open window, over Anethe's murdered body,
barefooted, flying away, anywhere, breathless, shaking with terror.
Where can she go? Her little dog, frightened into silence, follows
her,--pressing so close to her feet that she falls over him more than
once. Looking back she sees Louis has lit a lamp and is seeking for
her. She flies to the cove; if she can but find his boat and row away
in it and get help! It is not there; there is no boat in which she can
get away. She hears Karen's wild screams,--he is killing her! Oh,
where can she go? Is there any place on that little island where he
will not find her? She thinks she will creep into one of the empty old
houses by the water; but no, she reflects, if I hide there, Ringe will
bark and betray me the moment Louis comes to look for me. And Ringe
saved her life, for next day Louis's bloody tracks were found all
about those old buildings where he had sought her. She flies, with
Karen's awful cries in her ears, away over rocks and snow to the
farthest limit she can gain. The moon has set; it is about two o'clock
in the morning, and oh, so cold! She shivers and shudders from head to
feet, but her agony of terror is so great she is hardly conscious of
bodily sensation. And welcome is the freezing snow, the jagged ice and
iron rocks that tear her unprotected feet, the bitter brine that beats
against the shore, the winter winds that make her shrink and tremble;
"they are not so unkind as man's ingratitude!" Falling often, rising,
struggling on with feverish haste, she makes her way to the very edge
of the water; down almost into the sea she creeps, between two rocks,
upon her hands and knees, and crouches, face downward, with Ringe
nestled close beneath her breast, not daring to move through the long
hours that must pass before the sun will rise again. She is so near
the ocean she can almost reach the water with her hand. Had the wind
breathed the least roughly the waves must have washed over her. There
let us leave her and go back to Louis Wagner. Maren heard her sister
Karen's shrieks as she fled. The poor girl had crept into an
unoccupied room in a distant part of the house, striving to hide
herself. He could not kill her with blows, blundering in the darkness,
so he wound a handkerchief about her throat and strangled her. But now
he seeks anxiously for Maren. _Has_ she escaped? What terror is in the
thought! Escaped, to tell the tale, to accuse him as the murderer of
her sisters. Hurriedly, with desperate anxiety, he seeks for her. His
time was growing short; it was not in his programme that this brave
little creature should give him so much trouble; he had not calculated
on resistance from these weak and helpless women. Already it was
morning, soon it would be daylight. He could not find her in or near
the house; he went down to the empty and dilapidated houses about the
cove, and sought her everywhere. What a picture! That blood-stained
butcher, with his dark face, crawling about those cellars, peering for
that woman! He dared not spend any more time; he must go back for the
money he hoped to find, his reward for this! All about the house he
searches, in bureau drawers, in trunks and boxes: he finds fifteen
dollars for his night's work! Several hundreds were lying between some
sheets folded at the bottom of a drawer in which he looked. But he
cannot stop for more thorough investigation; a dreadful haste pursues
him like a thousand fiends. He drags Anethe's stiffening body into the
house, and leaves it on the kitchen floor. If the thought crosses his
mind to set fire to the house and burn up his two victims, he dares
not do it: it will make a fatal bonfire to light his homeward way;
besides, it is useless, for Maren has escaped to accuse him, and the
time presses so horribly!
But how cool a monster is he! After all this hard work he must have
refreshment, to support him in the long row back to the land; knife
and fork, cup and plate, were found next morning on the table near
where Anethe lay; fragments of food which was not cooked in the house,
but brought from Portsmouth, were scattered about. Tidy Maren had left
neither dishes nor food when they went to bed. The handle of the
tea-pot which she had left on the stove was stained and smeared with
blood. Can the human mind conceive of such hideous _nonchalance_?
Wagner sat down in that room and ate and drank! It is almost beyond
belief! Then he went to the well with a basin and towels, tried to
wash off the blood, and left towels and basin in the well. He knows he
must be gone! It is certain death to linger. He takes his boat and
rows away toward the dark coast and the twinkling lights; it is for
dear life, now! What powerful strokes send the small skiff rushing
over the water!
There is no longer any moon, the night is far spent; already the east
changes, the stars fade; he rows like a madman to reach the land, but
a blush of morning is stealing up the sky, and sunrise is rosy over
shore and sea, when panting, trembling, weary, a creature accursed, a
blot on the face of the day, he lands at Newcastle--too late! Too
late! In vain he casts the dory adrift; she will not float away; the
flood tide bears her back to give her testimony against him, and
afterward she is found at Jaffrey's Point, near the "Devil's Den," and
the fact of her worn thole-pins noted. Wet, covered with ice from the
spray which has flown from his eager oars, utterly exhausted, he
creeps to a knoll and reconnoitres; he thinks he is unobserved, and
crawls on towards Portsmouth. But he is seen and recognized by many
persons, and his identity established beyond a doubt. He goes to the
house of Mathew Jonsen, where he has been living, steals up-stairs,
changes his clothes, and appears before the family, anxious,
frightened, agitated, telling Jonsen he never felt so badly in his
life; that he has got into trouble and is afraid he shall be taken. He
cannot eat at breakfast, says "farewell forever," goes away and is
shaved, and takes the train to Boston, where he provides himself with
new clothes, shoes, a complete outfit, but lingering, held by fate, he
cannot fly, and before night the officer's hand is on his shoulder
and he is arrested.
Meanwhile poor shuddering Maren on the lonely island, by the
water-side, waits till the sun is high in heaven before she dares to
come forth. She thinks he may be still on the island. She said to me,
"I thought he must be there, dead or alive. I thought he might go
crazy and kill himself after having done all that." At last she steals
out. The little dog frisks before her; it is so cold her feet cling to
the rocks and snow at every step, till the skin is fairly torn off.
Still and frosty is the bright morning, the water lies smiling and
sparkling, the hammers of the workmen building the new hotel on Star
Island sound through the quiet air. Being on the side of Smutty-Nose
opposite Star, she waves her skirt, and screams to attract their
attention; they hear her, turn and look, see a woman waving a signal
of distress, and, surprising to relate, turn tranquilly to their work
again. She realizes at last there is no hope in that direction; she
must go round toward Appledore in sight of the dreadful house. Passing
it afar off she gives one swift glance toward it, terrified lest in
the broad sunshine she may see some horrid token of last night's work;
but all is still and peaceful. She notices the curtains the three had
left up when they went to bed; they are now drawn down; she knows
whose hand has done this, and what it hides from the light of day.
Sick at heart, she makes her painful way to the northern edge of
Malaga, which is connected with Smutty-Nose by the old sea-wall. She
is directly opposite Appledore and the little cottage where abide her
friend and countryman, Joerge Edvardt Ingebertsen, and his wife and
children. Only a quarter of a mile of the still ocean separates her
from safety and comfort. She sees the children playing about the door;
she calls and calls. Will no one ever hear her? Her torn feet torment
her, she is sore with blows and perishing with cold. At last her voice
reaches the ears of the children, who run and tell their father that
some one is crying and calling; looking across, he sees the poor
little figure waving her arms, takes his dory and paddles over, and
with amazement recognizes Maren in her night-dress, with bare feet and
streaming hair, with a cruel bruise upon her face, with wild eyes,
distracted, half senseless with cold and terror. He cries, "Maren,
Maren, who has done this? what is it? who is it?" and her only answer
is "Louis, Louis, Louis!" as he takes her on board his boat and rows
home with her as fast as he can. From her incoherent statement he
learns what has happened. Leaving her in the care of his family, he
comes over across the hill to the great house on Appledore. As I sit
at my desk I see him pass the window, and wonder why the old man comes
so fast and anxiously through the heavy snow.
Presently I see him going back again, accompanied by several of his
own countrymen and others of our workmen, carrying guns. They are
going to Smutty-Nose, and take arms, thinking it possible Wagner may
yet be there. I call down-stairs, "What has happened?" and am
answered, "Some trouble at Smutty-Nose; we hardly understand."
"Probably a drunken brawl of the reckless fishermen who may have
landed there," I say to myself, and go on with my work. In another
half-hour I see the men returning, reinforced by others, coming fast,
confusedly; and suddenly a wail of anguish comes up from the women
below. I cannot believe it when I hear them crying, "Karen is dead!
Anethe is dead! Louis Wagner has murdered them both!" I run out
into the servants' quarters; there are all the men assembled, an
awe-stricken crowd. Old Ingebertsen comes forward and tells me the
bare facts, and how Maren lies at his house, half-crazy, suffering
with her torn and frozen feet. Then the men are dispatched to search
Appledore, to find if by any chance the murderer might be concealed
about the place, and I go over to Maren to see if I can do anything
for her. I find the women and children with frightened faces at the
little cottage; as I go into the room where Maren lies, she catches my
hands, crying, "Oh, I so glad to see you! I so glad I save my life!"
and with her dry lips she tells me all the story as I have told it
here. Poor little creature, holding me with those wild, glittering,
dilated eyes, she cannot tell me rapidly enough the whole horrible
tale. Upon her cheek is yet the blood-stain from the blow he struck
her with a chair, and she shows me two more upon her shoulder, and her
torn feet. I go back for arnica with which to bathe them. What a
mockery seems to me the "jocund day" as I emerge into the sunshine,
and looking across the space of blue, sparkling water, see the house
wherein all that horror lies!
Oh, brightly shines the morning sun and glitters on the white sails of
the little vessel that comes dancing back from Portsmouth before the
favoring wind, with the two husbands on board! How glad they are for
the sweet morning and the fair wind that brings them home again! And
Ivan sees in fancy Anethe's face all beautiful with welcoming smiles,
and John knows how happy his good and faithful Maren will be to see
him back again. Alas, how little they dream what lies before them!
From Appledore they are signalled to come ashore, and Ivan and Mathew,
landing, hear a confused rumor of trouble from tongues that hardly can
frame the words that must tell the dreadful truth. Ivan only
understands that something is wrong. His one thought is for Anethe; he
flies to Ingebertsen's cottage, she may be there; he rushes in like a
maniac, crying, "Anethe, Anethe! Where is Anethe?" and broken-hearted
Maren answers her brother, "Anethe is--at home." He does not wait for
another word, but seizes the little boat and lands at the same time
with John on Smutty-Nose; with headlong haste they reach the house,
other men accompanying them; ah, there are blood-stains all about the
snow! Ivan is the first to burst open the door and enter. What words
can tell it! There upon the floor, naked, stiff and stark, is the
woman he idolizes, for whose dear feet he could not make life's ways
smooth and pleasant enough--stone dead! Dead--horribly butchered! her
bright hair stiff with blood, the fair head that had so often rested
on his breast crushed, cloven, mangled with the brutal ax! Their eyes
are blasted by the intolerable sight: both John and Ivan stagger out
and fall, senseless, in the snow. Poor Ivan! his wife a thousand times
adored, the dear girl he had brought from Norway, the good, sweet girl
who loved him so, whom he could not cherish tenderly enough! And he
was not there to protect her! There was no one there to save her!
"Did heaven look on
And would not take their part!"
Poor fellow, what had he done that fate should deal him such a blow as
this! Dumb, blind with anguish, he made no sign.
"What says the body when they spring
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole
Strength on it? No more says the soul."
Some of his pitying comrades lead him away, like one stupefied, and
take him back to Appledore. John knows his wife is safe. Though
stricken with horror and consumed with wrath, he is not paralyzed like
poor Ivan, who has been smitten with worse than death. They find
Karen's body in another part of the house, covered with blows and
black in the face, strangled. They find Louis's tracks,--all the
tokens of his disastrous presence,--the contents of trunks and drawers
scattered about in his hasty search for the money, and all within the
house and without, blood, blood, everywhere.
When I reach the cottage with the arnica for Maren, they have returned
to Smutty-Nose. John, her husband, is there. He is a young man of the
true Norse type, blue-eyed, fair-haired, tall and well made, with
handsome teeth and bronzed beard. Perhaps he is a little quiet and
undemonstrative generally, but at this moment he is superb, kindled
from head to feet, a firebrand of woe and wrath, with eyes that flash
and cheeks that burn. I speak a few words to him,--what words can meet
such an occasion as this!--and having given directions about the use
of the arnica, for Maren, I go away, for nothing more can be done for
her, and every comfort she needs is hers. The outer room is full of
men; they make way for me, and as I pass through I catch a glimpse
of Ivan crouched with his arms thrown round his knees and his head
bowed down between them, motionless, his attitude expressing such
abandonment of despair as cannot be described. His whole person seems
to shrink, as if deprecating the blow that has fallen upon him.
All day the slaughtered women lie as they were found, for nothing can
be touched till the officers of the law have seen the whole. And John
goes back to Portsmouth to tell his tale to the proper authorities.
What a different voyage from the one he had just taken, when happy and
careless he was returning to the home he had left so full of peace
and comfort! What a load he bears back with him, as he makes his
tedious way across the miles that separate him from the means of
vengeance he burns to reach! But at last he arrives, tells his story,
the police at other cities are at once telegraphed, and the city
marshal follows Wagner to Boston. At eight o'clock that evening comes
the steamer Mayflower to the Shoals, with all the officers on board.
They land and make investigations at Smutty-Nose, then come here to
Appledore and examine Maren, and, when everything is done, steam back
to Portsmouth, which they reach at three o'clock in the morning. After
all are gone and his awful day's work is finished at last, poor John
comes back to Maren, and kneeling by the side of her bed, he is
utterly overpowered with what he has passed through; he is shaken with
sobs as he cries, "Oh, Maren, Maren, it is too much, too much! I
cannot bear it!" And Maren throws her arms about his neck, crying,
"Oh, John, John, don't! I shall be crazy, I shall die, if you go on
like that." Poor innocent, unhappy people, who never wronged a
fellow-creature in their lives!
But Ivan--what is their anguish to his? They dare not leave him alone
lest he do himself an injury. He is perfectly mute and listless; he
cannot weep, he can neither eat nor sleep. He sits like one in a
horrid dream. "Oh, my poor, poor brother!" Maren cries in tones of
deepest grief, when I speak his name to her next day. She herself
cannot rest a moment till she hears that Louis is taken; at every
sound her crazed imagination fancies he is coming back for her; she is
fairly beside herself with terror and anxiety; but the night following
that of the catastrophe brings us news that he is arrested, and there
is stern rejoicing at the Shoals; but no vengeance on him can bring
back those unoffending lives, or restore that gentle home. The dead
are properly cared for; the blood is washed from Anethe's beautiful
bright hair; she is clothed in her wedding-dress, the blue dress in
which she was married, poor child, that happy Christmas time in
Norway, a little more than a year ago. They are carried across the sea
to Portsmouth, the burial service is read over them, and they are
hidden in the earth. After poor Ivan has seen the faces of his wife
and sister still and pale in their coffins, their ghastly wounds
concealed as much as possible, flowers upon them and the priest
praying over them, his trance of misery is broken, the grasp of
despair is loosened a little about his heart. Yet hardly does he
notice whether the sun shines or no, or care whether he lives or dies.
Slowly his senses steady themselves from the effects of a shock that
nearly destroyed him, and merciful time, with imperceptible touch,
softens day by day the outlines of that picture, at the memory of
which he will never cease to shudder while he lives.
Louis Wagner was captured in Boston on the evening of the next day
after his atrocious deed, and Friday morning, followed by a hooting
mob, he was taken to the Eastern depot. At every station along the
route crowds were assembled, and there were fierce cries for
vengeance. At the depot in Portsmouth a dense crowd of thousands of
both sexes had gathered, who assailed him with yells and curses and
cries of "Tear him to pieces!" It was with difficulty he was at last
safely imprisoned. Poor Maren was taken to Portsmouth from Appledore
on that day. The story of Wagner's day in Boston, like every other
detail of the affair, has been told by every newspaper in the country:
his agitation and restlessness, noted by all who saw him; his curious,
reckless talk. To one he says, "I have just killed two sailors;" to
another, Jacob Toldtman, into whose shop he goes to buy shoes, "I have
seen a woman lie as still as that boot," and so on. When he is caught
he puts on a bold face and determines to brave it out; denies
everything with tears and virtuous indignation. The men whom he has so
fearfully wronged are confronted with him; his attitude is one of
injured innocence; he surveys them more in sorrow than in anger, while
John is on fire with wrath and indignation, and hurls maledictions at
him; but Ivan, poor Ivan, hurt beyond all hope or help, is utterly
mute; he does not utter one word. Of what use is it to curse the
murderer of his wife? It will not bring her back; he has no heart for
cursing, he is too completely broken. Maren told me the first time she
was brought into Louis's presence, her heart leaped so fast she could
hardly breathe. She entered the room softly with her husband and
Mathew Jonsen's daughter. Louis was whittling a stick. He looked up
and saw her face, and the color ebbed out of his, and rushed back and
stood in one burning spot in his cheek, as he looked at her and she
looked at him for a space, in silence. Then he drew about his evil
mind the detestable garment of sanctimoniousness, and in sentimental
accents he murmured, "I'm glad Jesus loves me!" "The devil loves you!"
cried John, with uncompromising veracity. "I know it wasn't nice,"
said decorous Maren, "but John couldn't help it; it was too much to
bear!"
The next Saturday afternoon, when he was to be taken to Saco, hundreds
of fishermen came to Portsmouth from all parts of the coast,
determined on his destruction, and there was a fearful scene in the
quiet streets of that peaceful city when he was being escorted to the
train by the police and various officers of justice. Two thousand
people had assembled, and such a furious, yelling crowd was never seen
or heard in Portsmouth. The air was rent with cries for vengeance;
showers of bricks and stones were thrown from all directions, and
wounded several of the officers who surrounded Wagner. His knees
trembled under him, he shook like an aspen, and the officers found it
necessary to drag him along, telling him he must keep up if he would
save his life. Except that they feared to injure the innocent as well
as the guilty, those men would have literally torn him to pieces. But
at last he was put on board the cars in safety, and carried away to
prison. His demeanor throughout the term of his confinement, and
during his trial and subsequent imprisonment, was a wonderful piece of
acting. He really inspired people with doubt as to his guilt. I make
an extract from the Portsmouth Chronicle, dated March 13th, 1873:
"Wagner still retains his amazing _sang froid_, which is wonderful,
even in a strong-nerved German. The sympathy of most of the visitors
at his jail has certainly been won by his calmness and his general
appearance, which is quite prepossessing." This little instance of his
method of proceeding I must subjoin: A lady who had come to converse
with him on the subject of his eternal salvation said, as she left
him, "I hope you put your trust in the Lord," to which he sweetly
answered, "I always did, ma'am, and I always shall."
A few weeks after all this had happened, I sat by the window one
afternoon, and, looking up from my work, I saw some one passing
slowly,--a young man who seemed so thin, so pale, so bent and ill,
that I said, "Here is some stranger who is so very sick, he is
probably come to try the effect of the air, even thus early." It was
Ivan Christensen. I did not recognize him. He dragged one foot after
the other wearily, and walked with the feeble motion of an old man. He
entered the house; his errand was to ask for work. He could not bear
to go away from the neighborhood of the place where Anethe had lived
and where they had been so happy, and he could not bear to work at
fishing on the south side of the island, within sight of that house.
There was work enough for him here; a kind voice told him so, a kind
hand was laid on his shoulder, and he was bidden come and welcome. The
tears rushed into the poor fellow's eyes, he went hastily away, and
that night sent over his chest of tools,--he was a carpenter by trade.
Next day he took up his abode here and worked all summer. Every day I
carefully observed him as I passed him by, regarding him with an
inexpressible pity, of which he was perfectly unconscious, as he
seemed to be of everything and everybody. He never raised his head
when he answered my "Good-morning," or "Good-evening, Ivan." Though I
often wished to speak, I never said more to him, for he seemed to me
to be hurt too sorely to be touched by human hand. With his head sunk
on his breast, and wearily dragging his limbs, he pushed the plane or
drove the saw to and fro with a kind of dogged persistence, looking
neither to the left nor right. Well might the weight of woe he carried
bow him to the earth! By and by he spoke, himself, to other members of
the household, saying, with a patient sorrow, he believed it was to
have been, it had so been ordered, else why did all things so play
into Louis's hands? All things were furnished him: the knowledge of
the unprotected state of the women, a perfectly clear field in which
to carry out his plans, just the right boat he wanted in which to make
his voyage, fair tide, fair wind, calm sea, just moonlight enough;
even the ax with which to kill Anethe stood ready to his hand at the
house door. Alas, it was to have been! Last summer Ivan went back
again to Norway--alone. Hardly is it probable that he will ever return
to a land whose welcome to him fate made so horrible. His sister Maren
and her husband still live blameless lives, with the little dog Ringe,
in a new home they have made for themselves in Portsmouth, not far
from the river-side; the merciful lapse of days and years takes them
gently but surely away from the thought of that season of anguish; and
though they can never forget it all, they have grown resigned and
quiet again. And on the island other Norwegians have settled, voices
of charming children sound sweetly in the solitude that echoed so
awfully to the shrieks of Karen and Maren. But to the weirdness of the
winter midnight something is added, a vision of two dim, reproachful
shades who watch while an agonized ghost prowls eternally about the
dilapidated houses at the beach's edge, close by the black, whispering
water, seeking for the woman who has escaped him--escaped to bring
upon him the death he deserves, whom he never, never, never can find,
though his distracted spirit may search till man shall vanish from off
the face of the earth, and time shall be no more.