CAPTAIN ALLEN FINDS RUPERT AND BREAKS THE LAW
When Steve Allen stepped across his threshold he caught the gleam of
something white lying on the floor just inside the door-sill. He picked
up the slip of paper and, striking a light, looked at it. The writing
on it was in a cramped backhand that Steve did not know and could
hardly read. At last, however, he made it out:
“Your friend is in jail here on charge of murder. Will be taken to city
to-night for trial.” It had been signed, “A Friend,” but this had been
much scratched over and was almost illegible. Steve read the words
again and again. Suddenly he left his office and walked quickly around
the back part of the court-green, looking in all the corners and dark
places. It had occurred to him that he had heard someone retreating as
he approached his office. Everything, however was quiet, and the only
sound he heard was that of a horse galloping on the road some distance
away. As he stood still to listen again it died away. In a few minutes
he had called his friend Helford into his office and laid before him
his information. Helford received it coldly—thought it might be a
trick to throw them off the track and obtain delay. He argued that
even if it would have been possible for Rupert Gray to be put in jail
right under their noses, he could not have been kept there all day
without its being discovered. Steve was of a different opinion. Perdue,
the jailer, was a creature of Leech’s and Still’s. Something assured
him that the information was true, and he laid his plans accordingly.
The men who were at the county seat were requested to wait, without
being told what was the reason; riders were sent off to call in the
searchers who were still engaged, a rendezvous near the village being
appointed. Steve, leaving the men present under charge of Helford, rode
off as if to continue the search; but a short distance down the road he
turned, and, riding back by another way, tied his horse and returned to
the court-green. He entered at the rear, walked up to the jail and rang
the bell. After some delay a man peeped at him through the wicket and
asked who it was. Steve gave his name, and said he wanted to see the
prisoner who had been brought in the night before. The man hesitated
a second, then said there was no such prisoner there. He took a half
step backward to close the shutter, but Steve was too quick for him. He
was sure from the jailer’s manner that he was lying to him. The next
second there was a scraping sound on the grating and the man found a
pistol-barrel gleaming at him through the bars, right under his nose.
“Stir, and you are a dead man,” said Steve. “Open the door.”
“I ain’t got the keys.”
“Call for them. Don’t stir! I’ll give you till I count five:
one—two—three——”
“Here they are, sir.” The pistol-barrel was shining right in his face,
and Steve’s eyes were piercing him through the bars. He unlocked the
door, and Steve stepped in.
“Take me to Mr. Gray’s cell instantly, and remember a single word from
you means your death.” Steve expected to be taken to one of the front
rooms in which the prisoners of better condition were usually kept;
but his guide went on, and at length stopped at the door of one of
the worst cells in the place, where the most abandoned criminals were
usually confined. Two negro prisoners, in another cell, seeing Captain
Allen, howled at him in glee through their bars.
“You don’t mean to say that you’ve put him in here?” Steve asked,
sternly.
“That’s orders,” said the man, and added, explanatorily, as he fumbled
at the lock. “You see, he was pretty wild when they brought him here.”
“Don’t defend it,” said Steve, in a voice which brought the turnkey up
shaking.
“No, suh—no, suh—I ain’ defendin’ it. I jest tellin’ you.” He
unlocked the door.
“Walk in,” said Steve, and, pushing the other ahead, he stepped in
behind him and took his light. It was so dark that he could not at
first make out anything inside; but after a moment a yet darker spot in
the general gloom became dimly discernible.
“Rupert?” Steve called. At the voice the dark shadow stirred. “Rupert
Gray?”
There was a cry from the dark corner.
“Steve! Oh, Steve! Steve!”
“Come here,” said Steve, who was keeping close beside the jailer.
“I can’t. Oh, Steve!”
“Why not?—Over there!” he said, with emotion to the jailer, to walk
before him.
“I’m chained.”
“What!” The young man turned and caught the jailer by the shoulder, and
with a single twist of his powerful arm sent him before him spinning
into the corner of the room. Stooping, Steve felt the boy and the chain
by which he was bound to a great ring in the wall. The next second he
faced the keeper.
“Dog!”
For a moment the man thought he was as good as dead. Steve’s eyes
blazed like coals of fire, and he looked like a lion about to spring.
The man began to protest his innocence, swearing with a hundred oaths
that he had nothing to do with it; that it was all Leech’s doings—his
orders and other men’s work. He himself had tried to prevent it.
Steve cut him short.
“Liar, save yourself the trouble. What are their names? Where are they?”
“I don’t know. They’ve gone, I don’t know where. They went away this
mornin’ before light.”
“Get the key and unlock that chain.”
The man swore that he did not have it—the men had taken it with them.
Steve reflected a moment. He had no time to lose.
“Oh, Steve! never mind me,” broke in Rupert, his self-possession
recovered. “Go—I’m not worth saving. Oh, Steve! if you only knew! I
have done you an irreparable injury. I don’t mind myself, but——” His
voice failed him and his words ended in a sob. “I’m not crying because
I’m here or am afraid,” he said, presently. “But if you only knew——”
Steve Allen leant down over him and, throwing his arm around him,
kissed him as if he had been a child.
“That’s all right,” he said, tenderly, and whispered something which
made the boy exclaim:
“Oh, Steve! Steve!” The next moment he said, solemnly, “I promise you
that I will never touch another drop of liquor again as long as I live.”
“Never mind about that now,” said Steve.
“But I want to promise. I want to make you that promise. It would help
me, Steve. I have never broken my word.”
“Wait until you are free,” said Steve, indulgently. He turned to the
keeper, who still stood cowering in the corner.
“Come—walk before me.” As they left the cell he said to him: “In a
half-hour two hundred men will be here. These doors will go like paper.
If they find that boy chained and you are here, your life will not be
worth a button. Nothing but God Almighty could save you.” He left him
at the front door and went out. A number of men were already assembling
about the jail. It transpired afterward that old Waverley had seen
Steve enter the jail, and, fearing that he might not get out again, had
told Andy Stamper, who had just arrived. As Steve came out of the door
Andy stepped up to him.
“We were going in after you,” he said.
Steve took him aside and had a talk with him, telling him the state of
the case and putting him in charge until his return.
“If Perdue wants to come out, let him do so,” he said, as he left him.
As he walked across the green he fell in with Waverley, who gave an
exclamation of joy.
“I sutney is glad to see you. I was mighty feared dee’d keep you in
dyah.” He was very full of something he wanted to tell him. Steve did
not have time to listen then, but said he wanted him, and took him
along.
“Well, jes’ tell me dis, Marse Steve; is you foun’ my young marster?”
“Yes, we have.”
“Well, thank Gord for dat!” exclaimed old Waverley. “Whar is he?”
Steve pointed back to the jail. “In there.”
The old man gave an outcry.
“In dyah! My young marster? My marster and mistis’ son! Go way, Marse
Steve—you jokin’; don’t fool me ’bout dat.”
“He’s in there, and in chains; and I want you to cut them off him,”
said Steve.
The old man broke out into a tirade. He ended:
“Dat I will! De’s a blacksmiff shop yonder. I’ll git a hammer and cole
chisel d’rectly.” He started off. When he arrived, the shop had already
been levied on for sledges and other implements.
The crowd was beginning to be excited. Steve took charge at once. He
spoke a few words in a calm, level, assured tone; stated the fact of
Rupert Gray’s arrest by Leech’s order, not for his own offence, but
more for that of others, of his imprisonment in irons in the jail, and
of his own intention to take him out. And he declared his belief that
it was the desire of those assembled, that he should command them, and
expressed his readiness to do so.
The response they gave showed their assent.
Then they must obey his orders.
They would, they said.
“The first is—absolute silence.”
“Yes, that’s right,” came from all sides.
“The second is, that we will release our friend, but take no other
step—commit no other violence than that of breaking the doors and
taking him out.”
“Oh, h—l! We’ll hang every d——d nigger and dog in the place,” broke
in a voice near him. Steve wheeled around and faced the speaker. He was
a man named Bushman, a turbulent fellow. As quick as thought the pistol
that had been shining under Perdue’s nose a little before was gleaming
before this man’s eyes.
“Step out and go home!” Steve pointed up the road.
The man began to growl.
“Go,” said Steve, imperiously, and the crowd applauded.
“That’s right, send him off.” They opened a path through which the
ruffian slunk, growling, away.
“Now, men, fall in.”
They fell in like soldiers, and Steve marched them off to the spot he
had appointed as the place for others to join them.
The rendezvous was in a pine forest a little off the road, and only a
quarter of a mile or so back of the village. Near the road the pines
were thick, having sprung up since the war; but here, in a space of
some hundreds of yards each way, the trees, the remnants of a former
growth, were larger and less crowded, leaving the ground open and
covered with a thick matting of “tags,” on which the feet fell as
noiselessly as on a thick carpet, and where even the tramp of horses
made hardly a sound. It was an impressive body assembled there in the
darkness, silent and grim, the stillness broken only by the muffled
stamping and tramping of a restless horse, by an almost inaudible
murmur, or an order given in a low, quiet tone. By a sort of soldierly
instinct the line had fallen into almost regimental form, and, from
time to time, as new recruits came up, directed by the pickets on the
roads outside, they, too, fell into order.
Just as they were about to move, a horseman galloped up, and a murmur
went through the ranks.
“Dr. Cary!”
Whether it was surprise, pleasure, or regret, one at first could
scarcely have told.
“Where is Captain Allen?” asked the Doctor, and pushed his way to
the head of the line. A colloquy took place between him and Steve in
subdued but earnest tones, the Doctor urging something, Steve replying,
while the men waited, interested, but patient. The older man was
evidently protesting, the other defending. At length Dr. Cary said:
“Well, let me speak a word to them.”
“Certainly,” assented Steve, and turned to the men.
“Dr. Cary disagrees with us as to the propriety of the step we are
about to take and urges its abandonment. He desires to present his
views. You will hear him with the respect due to the best and wisest
among us.” He drew back his horse, and the Doctor rode forward and
began to speak.
“First, I wish you to know that I am with you, heart and soul—for
better, for worse; flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone. Next
to my God and my wife and child, I love my relatives and neighbors.
Of all my relatives, perhaps, I love best that boy lying in yonder
jail, and I would give my life to save him. But I could not kneel to
my God to-night if I did not declare to you my belief—my profound
conviction—that this is not the way to go about it. I know that the
wrongs we are suffering cry to God, but I urge you to unite with me in
trying to remedy them by law, and not by violence. Let us unite and
make an appeal to the enlightened sense of the American people, of
the world, which they will be forced to hear. Violence on our side is
the only ground which they can urge for their justification. It is a
terrible weapon we are furnishing them, and with it, not only can they
defeat us now, but they can injure us for years to come.”
He went on for ten or fifteen minutes, urging his views with impressive
force. Never was a stronger appeal made. But it fell on stony ears. The
crowd was touched by him, but remained unchanged. It had resolved, and
its decision was unaltered. When he ended, there was, for a moment, a
low murmur all through the ranks, which died down, and they looked to
their captain. Steve did not hesitate. In a firm, calm voice he said:
“For the first time in my life almost, I find myself unable to agree
in a matter of principle with the man you have just heard. At the same
time, this may be only my personal feeling, and, recognizing the force
of what he has said, I wish all who may think as he does to fall out of
line. The rest will remain as they are. If all shall leave, feeling as
I do I shall still undertake to rescue Rupert Gray. Those who disagree
with me will ride forward.”
There was a rustle and movement all down the ranks, but not a man
stirred from his place. As the men looked along the line and took in
the fact, there went up a low, suppressed sound of gratification and
exultation.
“Silence, men,” said the captain. He turned his horse to face Dr. Cary.
“Dr. Cary, I beg you to believe that we all recognize the wisdom of
your views and their unselfishness, and we promise you that no violence
shall be offered a soul beyond forcing the doors and liberating the
boy.”
A murmur of assent came from the ranks. Dr. Cary bowed.
“I shall wait at the tavern,” he said, “to see if my services may be of
any use.”
Steve detailed two men to conduct him through the guards, and he rode
slowly away.
A few minutes later Captain Allen gave the order, and, wheeling, the
column marched off through the dusk.
Steve had made the men disguise themselves by tying strips of cotton
across their faces. He himself wore no mask. When he arrived at the
jail he learned from Andy Stamper that Perdue had taken advantage of
the hint given him and had escaped.
“I had hard work at first to git him out,” said Andy. “I had to go up
to the door and talk to him; but when he found what was comin’, he was
glad enough to go. I let him slip by, and last I seen of him, he was
cuttin’ for the woods like a fox with the pack right on him. If he kept
up that lick he’s about ten miles off by this time.”
The breaking into the jail was not a difficult matter. It meant
only a few minutes’ work bursting open the outer door with a heavy
sledge-hammer, and a little more in battering down the iron inner
doors. During the whole time the crowd without was as quiet as the
grave, the silence broken only by the orders given and the ringing
blows of the iron hammers. But it was very different inside. The two or
three negroes confined within were wild with terror. They all thought
that the mob was after them, and that their last hour was come; and
they who an hour before had hooted at the visitor, yelled and prayed
and besought mercy in agonies of abject terror. When the squad detailed
by Steve passed on to the cell in which Rupert was confined and began
to break down the door, these creatures quieted a little, but even then
they prayed earnestly, their faces, ashy with fear in the glare of the
torches, pressed to the bars and their eyeballs almost starting from
their sockets. When the door gave way the low cry that came up from the
party sent them flying and trembling back into the darkness of their
cells.
It took a considerable time to cut the irons that bound the prisoner,
who, under the excitement of the rescuing party’s entrance, had been
overjoyed, but a moment later had keeled over into Andy Stamper’s arms.
Under the steady blows of the old blacksmith’s hammer, even that was
at length accomplished, and the rescuers moved out bearing Rupert with
them. As they emerged from the building with the boy in their arms,
the long-pent-up feeling of the crowd outside burst forth in one wild
cheer, which rang through the village and was heard miles away on the
roads. It was quickly hushed; the crowd withdrew into the woods, and in
a few minutes the jail was left in the darkness as silent as the desert.
The news of the assault on the jail and the liberation of the prisoner
thrilled through the County next morning, and the thrill extended far
beyond the confines of the section immediately interested. The party
of detectives who were waiting to take their prisoner to the city made
their way by night through the country to a distant station, to take
the cars; and Leech and McRaffle, who had come on the morning train to
meet them, deemed it prudent to catch it on its way back and return to
the city.
Ruth, the morning after her visit to the court-house and the rescue of
Rupert, was in a state of great unrest. Finally she mounted her horse
and paid a visit to Blair Cary. They were all in intense excitement.
Ruth herself was sensible of constraint; but she had an object in view
which made it necessary to overcome it. So she chatted on easily,
almost gayly. At length she made an excuse to get Blair off by herself.
In the seclusion of Blair’s room the secret came out. Ruth, on her
part, learned that Rupert was to be sent off; Blair did not know
where. One difficulty was the want of means to send him. This Ruth had
divined. With a burning face, she told Blair she had a great favor to
ask of her; and when Blair wonderingly assented, she took from her
pocket a roll of money—what seemed to Blair an almost vast amount. It
was her own, she said; and the favor was: that Blair would help her to
get that money to Rupert without anyone knowing where it came from.
She wanted Rupert to go out to the West and join Reely Thurston there.
Blair demurred at this. Captain Thurston was an army officer, and
Rupert was——. She paused. Ruth flushed. She would be guaranty that
Thurston would stand his friend.
There was also another thing which Blair discovered, though she did
not tell Ruth that she had done so. She simply rose and kissed her.
This discovery decided her to accept Ruth’s offer. It seemed to draw
Ruth nearer to her and to make her one with themselves. So she told
Ruth where Rupert was. He was at that time at the house of Steve’s old
mammy, Peggy. He was to be conducted out of the County that night.
Whether he could be persuaded to go to Captain Thurston, Blair did not
know; but she promised to aid Ruth so far as to suggest it, and try
to persuade him to do so. There were two difficulties. One was that
she might be watched, and it might lead to Rupert’s re-arrest. She did
not state what the other was. But Ruth knew. She, too, could divine
things without their being explained. If, however, Blair could not meet
Jacquelin Gray, there was no reason why Ruth herself could not. And she
determined to go. Suddenly Blair changed. She, too, would go. She could
not let Ruth go alone.
That evening, toward dusk, old Peggy was “turning about” in her little
yard, when the sound of horses’ feet caught her ear. As quick as
thought the old woman ran to her door and spoke a few words to some one
inside, and the next moment the back door opened and a figure sprang
across the small cleared space that divided the cabin from the woods,
and disappeared among the trees. In a little while the riders appeared
in sight, and when the old negress turned, to her surprise, they were
two ladies. When they took off their veils, to old Peggy’s still
greater astonishment, they were Miss Blair and the young lady who had
visited her with her young master the evening of the rain-storm.
The old woman greeted them pleasantly, but when they said they wanted
to see Rupert Gray, her suspicions returned again.
“He ain’t heah,” she said, shortly. “What you want wid him?” Her eyes
gleamed with shrewdness.
“We want to see him.”
“Well, you won’ see him heah.”
They began to cajole.
“Can’t you trust me?” asked Blair.
But old Peggy was firm.
“I don’ trus’ nobody. I ain’ got nothin’ ’t all to do wid it. Why n’t
you go ax Marse Steve?” she asked Ruth, suddenly. Ruth’s face flushed.
The dilemma was unexpectedly relieved by the appearance of Rupert
himself. From his covert he had recognized the visitors, and could not
resist the temptation to join them. Old Peggy was in a great state of
excitement at his appearance. She began to scold him soundly for his
imprudence. But the boy only laughed at her.
Blair and Ruth took him aside and began to broach the object of their
visit. At first he was obstinate. He would not hear of the plan they
proposed. In fact, he was not going away at all, he declared. He would
not be run out of the County. He would stay and fight it out, and let
them try him, if they wished to get all they wanted. He showed the butt
of a pistol, with boyish pride.
In this state of the case, Ruth began to plead with him on his
brother’s account, and Blair, as her argument, took Steve. They said
he was bound in honor to go, if they wished it. Ruth deftly put in a
word about Thurston, and the opportunity the trip would give Rupert
to see the world. He could join in the campaigns against the Indians
out there, if he wished; and, finally, she begged him to go and join
Thurston, as a favor to her.
These arguments at length prevailed, and Rupert said he would go.
As his friends were soon to come for him, the girls had to leave, which
they did after binding old Peggy over with many solemn promises not
to breathe to a single soul a word of their visit. “If she does,” said
Rupert, “I’ll come back here and make her think the Ku Klux are after
her.” The old woman laughed at the threat.
“Go ’way from heah, boy! What you know ’bout Ku Klux? You done told too
much ’bout ’em now.”
This home-thrust shut Rupert up. Blair put into his hand the package
that Ruth had given her and kissed him good-by, and he turned to Ruth.
Ruth said, as she took his hand, “Rupert, I am going to ask you to
grant me that favor you once promised me you would grant.”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“I will do it.”
“I want you to promise me you will not drink any more.”
“I promise,” he said, softly, and bent over and kissed her hand. As he
stood up, the girl leant forward and kissed him. He turned to Blair
and, throwing his arms around her neck, suddenly burst into tears.
“Oh, Blair, Blair,” he sobbed, “I can’t go.”
The girls soothed him, and when they left a little later he was calm
and firm.
Within a little time other detectives came, and some who were not known
as detectives performed the functions of that office. But no trace of
the rescued boy was found. The nearest approach to a clew was a report
that Andy Stamper and old Waverley, a short time after the breaking
into the jail, took a long journey with Andy’s covered wagon into
another State, “selling things,” and that Steve Allen and several other
men were about the same time in the same region, and even rode with the
wagon for some days.
However, this was not traced up. And it illustrates the times, that
two accounts of the affair of the rescue were published and given
circulation: one that the prisoner was rescued by his friends, the
other that he was taken from the jail by a band of Ku Klux outlaws
and murdered, because he had confessed to having taken part in some of
their outrages and had given information as to his accomplices. This
was the story that was most widely circulated in some parts of the
country and was finally accepted.