All established rules of the house of “J. Dunlap” were as the laws of the
Medes and Persians to David Chapman, inviolable. When the hour of twelve
struck and neither Mr. John Dunlap nor Mr. Burton appeared at the office,
the Superintendent immediately proceeded to the residence of Mr. Dunlap.
“I am sorry, Chapman, to have given you the trouble of coming out here,
but the fact is I am not so strong as formerly, and I expected that
Burton would be at the office and thought a day of repose might benefit
me,” remarked Mr. John Dunlap as Chapman entered his library carrying a
bundle of papers this March afternoon.
“Mr. Burton has only been at the office once within the past week and not
more than a dozen times since you all returned from Haiti some two months
ago,” replied the Superintendent, methodically arranging the various
memoranda on the large library table.
“First in order of date is as follows: Douglass and McPherson, the
solicitors at Glasgow, write that they have purchased the annuity for
old Mrs. McLeod and that the income secured to her is far larger than
any possible comfort or even luxury can require; they also say that the
lot in the graveyard has been secured and that the mother of the dead
ship carpenter is filled with gratitude for the granite stone you have
provided to mark her son’s grave and that no nobler epitaph for any
Scotsman could be carved than the one suggested by you to be cut on the
stone, ‘Died defending innocent women;’ they expect the body to arrive
within a few days and will follow instructions concerning the reinterment
of the remains of gallant McLeod; they add that beyond all expenditures
ordered they will hold a balance to our credit and ask what is your
pleasure concerning same, that the four thousand pounds remitted by you
was far too large a sum.”
“Far too small! Tell them to buy a cottage for McLeod’s mother and
draw at sight for more money, that the cottage may be a good one. Why!
Chapman, McLeod was a hero; but they were all of them that. He, however,
gave his life in our defense and there is no money value that can repay
that debt to him and his,” exclaimed Mr. Dunlap earnestly, and leaning
forward in the excitement that the recollection of the past recalled,
continued:
“David, the dead were heaped about the spot where McLeod, Brice and Jack
fell like corded fire-wood. When I could leave the women, Lieutenant
Maxon and his men had dispersed the blacks, I fairly waded in blood to
reach the place where Maxon and Burton were bending over Jack. It was a
fearful sight. It had been an awful struggle, but it was all awful that
night. I dared not leave the women, yet I knew that even my weak help was
needed at the gate. Had my messenger not met Maxon on the road, to whom
notice of the intended attack had been given by a friendly black, we had
all been killed.”
The excited old gentleman paused to regain his breath and resumed the
story of that dreadful experience.
“Martha Dunlap is the kind of woman to be mother of a hero. She was as
calm and brave as her son and helped me like a real heroine in keeping
the others quiet. We told Lucy it was only a jubilee among the natives
and that they were shouting and shooting off firearms in their sport
along the highway. God forgive me for the falsehood, but it served to
keep our poor girl perfectly calm and she does not even now know to the
contrary.” Mr. Dunlap reverently inclined his head when he spoke of that
most excusable lie that he had told.
“Jack does not get all of his nerve and courage from the Dunlap blood,
that is sure! When the surgeon was examining the great gash in his
breast, Martha stood at his side and held the basin; her hand never
trembled though her tearless face was as white as snow. All the others
of us, I fear, were blubbering like babies, I know, anyhow Tom Maxon was
whimpering more like a lass than the brave and terrible fighter that he
is. When the surgeon gave us the joyful news that the blow of the ax had
been stopped by the strong breast bone over our boy’s brave heart, we
were all ready to shout with gladness, but Martha then, woman like, broke
down and began weeping.”
There was rather a suspicious moisture in the eyes of the relator of the
scene, as he thought over the occurrences of that night in Haiti. Even
though all danger was past and his beloved namesake, Jack Dunlap, was
now so far recovered as to be able to walk about, true somewhat paler in
complexion and with one arm bound across his breast, but entirely beyond
danger from the blow of the desperate Haitian axman.
“That fighting devil of an American admiral soon cleared Port au Prince
of the insurgents and wished me to take up my residence at the consulate,
but I had enough of Haiti, for awhile anyway. So as soon as Jack could
safely be moved, and old Brice, whose skull must be made of iron, had
come around sufficiently after that smashing blow in the head, to take
command of the ‘Adams’ and navigate her to Boston, I bundled everybody
belonging to me aboard and sailed for home.” The word home came with a
sigh of relief from Mr. Dunlap’s lips as he settled back in his chair.
“When we heard of your frightful experience, I had some faint hope that
the shock might have restored Mrs. Burton to her normal condition of
mind,” said Chapman.
“Well, in the first place Lucy learned nothing concerning the affair,
and was simply told when she called for Jack that he was not well and
would be absent from her for a short time. But even had she received a
nervous shock from the harrowing events of that night, the experts in
mental disorders inform me that it is most unlikely that any good result
could have been produced; that as the primary cause of her dementia is
disappointed hope, expectation, and the recoil of the purest and best
outpouring of her heart, that the only shock at all probable to bring
about the desired change must come from a similar source,” answered Mr.
Dunlap.
“To proceed with my report,” said the Superintendent glancing over some
papers.
“Lieutenant Maxon is not wealthy, in fact, has only his pay from the
United States, and while his family is one of the oldest and most highly
respected in Massachusetts all the members of it are far from rich. The
watch ordered made in New York will be finished by the time the U.S.
Ship Delaware arrives, which will not be before next month.”
“That all being as you have ascertained, I am going to make a requisition
upon your ingenuity, David. You must secure the placing in Maxon’s hands
of twenty one-thousand dollar bills with no other explanation than that
it is from ‘an admirer.’ The handsome, gay fellow may think some doting
old dowager sent it to him. The watch I will present as a slight token
of my friendship when I have him here to dine with me, and he can never
suspect me in the money matter.” Mr. Dunlap chuckled at the deep cunning
of the diabolical scheme.
Chapman evidently was accustomed to the unstinted munificence of the
house of Dunlap, for he accepted the instruction quite as a mere detail
of the business, made a few notes and with his pen held between his teeth
as he folded the paper, mumbled:
“I’ll see that he gets the money all right, sir, without knowing where it
comes from.”
“Here are several things that Mr. Burton, who is familiar with the
preceding transactions, should pass upon, but as he is so seldom at the
office, I have had no opportunity to lay them before him,” continued the
ever vigilant Chapman, turning over a number of documents.
“I know even less than you do about Burton’s department, so make out the
best way that you can under the circumstances.”
“Is Mr. Burton ill, sir, or what is the reason why he is absent from
the office so much?” asked Chapman, to whom it seemed that the greatest
deprivation in life must be loss of ability to be present daily in the
office of J. Dunlap.
“I am utterly at a loss to explain Burton’s conduct, especially since
our return from Haiti. He is morbid, melancholy, and seems to avoid
the society of all those who formerly were his chosen associates and
companions. He calls or sends here daily with religious regularity to
ascertain the condition of Lucy’s health, and occasionally asks Jack
to accompany him on a ride behind his fine team. You know that he is
aware that Jack saved his life by taking the blow on his own breast that
was aimed at Burton’s head. He was devoted to Jack on the voyage home
and here, until Jack’s recovery was assured beyond a doubt, but now he
acts so peculiarly that I don’t know what to make of him,” replied the
perplexed old gentleman.
“Humph! Humph!” grunted Chapman, in a disparaging tone, and resumed the
examination of the sheets of paper before him. Selecting one, he said:
“I find Malloy, the father of the girl, who was the victim of that
nameless crime and afterward murdered, to be a respectable, worthy man,
poor, but in need of no assistance. He is a porter at Brown Brothers.
It appears that the girl, who was only fifteen years of age, was one of
the nursery maids in the Greenleaf family, and had obtained permission
to visit her father’s home on the night of the crime and was on her way
there when she was assaulted.”
“What has been done by the Police Department?” asked Mr. Dunlap eagerly.
“To tell the truth, very little. The detectives seem mystified by a crime
of so rare occurrence in our section that it has shocked the whole of
New England. However, I know what would have happened had the crowd
assembled around Malloy’s house when the body was brought home, been able
to lay hands on the perpetrator of the deed, the whole police force of
Boston notwithstanding.”
“What do you mean, David?”
“I mean that the wretch would have been lynched,” exclaimed Chapman.
“That had been a disgrace to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” said the
old gentleman warmly.
“That may or may not be, sir. Malloy and his friends are all peaceable,
law-abiding citizens. Malloy was almost a maniac, not at the death of his
child but the rest of the crime, and the agony of the heartbroken father
was too much for the human nature of his neighbors, and human nature is
the same in New England as elsewhere in our land.”
“But the law will punish crime and must be respected no matter what may
be the provocation to ignore its regular administration of justice,” said
Mr. Dunlap with a judicial air.
“Truth is, sir, that one can hardly comprehend a father’s feelings under
such circumstances, and I don’t imagine there is a great difference
between the paternal heart in Massachusetts and in Mississippi. Human
nature is much alike in the same race in every clime. Men of the North
may occasionally be slower to wrath but are fearfully in earnest when
aroused by an outrage,” rejoined Chapman.
“I frankly confess, David, that I recognize that it is one thing for me
to sit here calmly in my library and coolly discuss a crime in which I
have no direct personal interest, and announce that justice according
to written law only should be administered, but it would be quite a
different state of mind with which I should regard this crime if one of
my own family were the victim of the brute’s attack. I fear then I should
forget about my calm theory of allowing the regular execution of justice
and everything else, even my age and hoary head, and be foremost in
seeking quick revenge on the wretch,” said the old New Englander hotly.
“Knowing you and your family as I do, sir, I’ll make oath that you would
head the mob of lynchers.”
“My brother James, who was the soul of honor and a citizen of whom
the Commonwealth was justly proud, was very liberal in his opinion of
lynching for this crime. It was the single criminal act for which his
noble, charitable heart could find no excuse. I think even my brother
James, model citizen though he was, would have been a law-forgetting man
under such circumstances.”
Old John Dunlap’s voice grew soft and tender when he mentioned the
name of his beloved brother, and either Chapman became extraordinarily
near-sighted or the papers in his hand required close scrutiny.
“I have published the notice of the reward of one thousand dollars
offered by our house for the capture of the perpetrator of the crime,”
said the Superintendent rather huskily, changing the subject from that of
the character of his old master.
“That is well, we are the oldest business house in Boston, and none can
think it presumptuous that we should be anxious to erase this stain from
the escutcheon of our Commonwealth. I wish every inducement offered that
may lead to the apprehension of the criminal.” Mr. Dunlap stopped short
as if suddenly some new idea had occurred to his mind, and then exclaimed:
“David, you possess a wonderful faculty for fathoming deep and complex
mysteries. Why don’t you seek to discover the perpetrator of this
horrible crime?”
David Chapman was not in the habit of blushing, but certainly his
cheeks took on an unusually bright crimson hue, as Mr. Dunlap asked
the question, and he answered in a somewhat abashed manner, as though
detected in some act of youthful folly.
“I confess, sir, that I am making a little investigation in my own way.
There are a few trifling circumstances and fragments of evidence left by
the criminal that were considered unworthy of attention by the police
that I am tracing up, like an amateur Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good for you, David! May you succeed in unearthing the brutal villain!
You have carte-blanche to draw on the house for any expense that your
search may entail. Go ahead! I will stand by you!” cried John Dunlap
enthusiastically.