The Death Shot: A Story Retold

After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure – whether ghost or human – turns face toward the tract of lighter woodland, extending between the thick timber and cleared ground of the plantations.

Having traversed this, the nocturnal wayfarer comes within sight of the deserted cottage, late occupied by the Clancys.

The moonlight, falling upon his face, shows it to be white. Also, that his cheeks are pallid, with eyes hollow and sunken, as from sickness – some malady long-endured, and not yet cured. As he strides over fallen logs, or climbs fences stretching athwart his course, his tottering step tells of a frame enfeebled.

When at length clear of the woods, and within sight of the untenanted dwelling, he stops, and for a time remains contemplating it. That he is aware of its being unoccupied is evident, from the glance with which he regards it.

His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On entering the cottage grounds, which he soon after does, through, some shrubbery at the back, he takes the path leading up to the house, without appearing to have any doubt about its being the right one.

For all this he makes approach with caution, looking suspiciously around – either actually afraid, or not desiring to be observed.

There is little likelihood of his being so. At that hour all in the settlement should be asleep. The house stands remote, more than a mile from its nearest neighbour. It is empty; has been stripped of its furniture, of everything. What should any one be doing there?

What is he doing there? A question which would suggest itself to one seeing him; with interest added on making note of his movements.

There is no one to do either; and he continues on to the house, making for its back door, where there is a porch, as also a covered way, leading to a log-cabin – the kitchen.

Even as within the porch, he tries the handle of the door which at a touch goes open. There is no lock, or if there was, it has not been thought worth while to turn the key in it. There are no burglars in the backwoods. If there were, nothing in that house need tempt them.

Its nocturnal visitor enters under its roof. The ring of his footsteps, though he still treads cautiously, gives out a sad, solemn sound. It is in unison with the sighs that come, deep-drawn, from his breast; at times so sonorous as to be audible all over the house.

He passes from room to room. There are not many – only five of them. In each he remains a few moments, gazing dismally around. But in one – that which was the widow’s sleeping chamber – he tarries a longer time; regarding a particular spot – the place formerly occupied by a bed. Then a sigh, louder than any that has preceded it, succeeded by the words, low-muttered: —

“There she must have breathed her last!”

After this speech, more sighing, accompanied by still surer signs of sorrow – sobs and weeping. As the moonbeams, pouring in through the open window, fall upon his face, their pale silvery light sparkles upon tears, streaming from hollow eyes, chasing one another down emaciated cheeks.

After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears a very agony of grief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber; passes through the narrow hall-way; and on into the porch. Not now the back one, but that facing front to the road.

On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half cleared, half woodland; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. It seems to belong to no one, as if not worth claiming, or cultivating. It has been, in fact, an appanage of Colonel Armstrong’s estate, who had granted it to the public as the site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground – free to all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. The schoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there – only distinguishable from the surrounding terrain by some oblong elevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are in all about a score of them; some having a plain head-board – a piece of painted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age of him or her resting underneath.

Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with dates decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which the paint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like a meteor.

He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyes directed on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down from the porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goes straight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither.

When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage has not yet grown.

The night is a cold one – chill for that Southern clime. The dew upon the withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoar frost, adding to its ghostly aspect.

The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on the opposite side.

But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he is enabled to decipher the inscription.

It is the simplest form of memento – only a name, with the date of death —

“Caroline Clancy,

Died January 18 – ”

After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears start from his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregarding the dew, thinking nought of the night’s dullness, he stretches his arms over the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of one beloved!

For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly rising erect, as if impelled by some strong purpose, there comes from his lips, poured forth in wild passionate accent, the speeches: —

“Mother! dear mother! I am still living! I am here! And you, dead! No more to know – no more hear me! O God!”

They are the words of one frantic with grief, scarce knowing what he says.

Presently, sober reason seems to assert itself, and he again resumes speech; but now with voice, expression of features, attitude, everything so changed, that no one, seeing him the moment before, would believe it the same man.

Upon his countenance sternness has replaced sorrow; the soft lines have become rigid; the melancholy glance is gone, replaced by one that tells of determination – of vengeance.

Once more he glances down at the grave; then up to the sky, till the moon, coursing across high heaven, falls full upon his face. With his body slightly leaning backward, the arms along his sides, stiffly extended, the hands closed in convulsive clutch, he cries out: —

“By the heavens above – by the shade of my murdered mother, who lies beneath – I swear not to know rest, never more seek contentment, till I’ve punished her murderer! Night and day – through summer and winter – shall I search for him. Yes; search till I’ve found and chastised this man, this monster, who has brought blight on me, death to my mother, and desolation to our house! Ah! think not you can escape me! Texas, whither I know you have gone, will not be large enough to hold, nor its wilderness wide enough to screen you from my vengeance. If not found there, I shall follow you to the end of the earth – to the end of the earth, Richard Darke!”

“Charley Clancy!”

He turns as if a shot had struck him. He sees a man standing within six paces of the spot.

“Sime Woodsy!”

Chapter Thirty Six.

“She is true – still true!”

The men who thus mutually pronounce each other’s names are they who bear them. For it is, in truth, Charles Clancy who stands by the grave, and Simeon Woodley who has saluted him.

The surprise is all upon the side of Sime, and something more. He beholds a man all supposed to be dead, apparently returned from the tomb! Sees him in a place appropriate to resurrection, in the centre of a burying-ground, by the side of a recently made grave!

The backwoodsman is not above believing in spiritual existences, and for an instant he is under a spell of the supernatural.

It passes off on his perceiving that real flesh and blood is before him – Charles Clancy himself, and not his wraith.

He reaches this conclusion the sooner from having all along entertained a doubt about Clancy being dead. Despite the many circumstances pointing to, almost proving, his death, Woodley was never quite convinced of it. No one has taken so much trouble, or made so many efforts, to clear up the mystery. He has been foremost in the attempt to get punishment for the guilty man, as in the search for the body of his victim; both of which failed, to his great humiliation; his grief too, for he sincerely lamented his lost friend. Friends they were of no common kind. Not only had they oft hunted in company, but been together in Texas during Clancy’s visit to the Lone Star State; together at Nacogdoches, where Borlasse received chastisement for stealing the horse; together saw the thief tied to the stake, Woodley being one of the stern jury who sentenced him to be whipped, and saw to the sentence being carried into execution.

The hunter had been to Natchez for the disposal of some pelts and deer-meat, a week’s produce of his gun. Returning at a late hour, he must needs pass the cottage of the Clancys, his own humble domicile lying beyond. At sight of the deserted dwelling a painful throb passed through his heart, as he recalled the sad fate of those who once occupied it.

Making an effort to forget the gloomy record, he was riding on, when a figure flitting across the road arrested his attention. The clear moonlight showed the figure to be that of a man, and one whose movements betrayed absence of mind, if not actual aberration.

With the instinct habitual to the hunter Woodley at once tightened rein, coming to a stop under the shadow of the roadside trees. Sitting in his saddle he watched the midnight wanderer, whose eccentric movements continued to cause him surprise. He saw the latter walk on to the little woodland cemetery, take stand by the side of a grave, bending forward as if to read the epitaph on its painted slab. Soon after kneeling down as in prayer, then throwing himself prostrate along the earth. Woodley well knew the grave thus venerated. For he had himself assisted in digging and smoothing down the turf that covered it. He had also been instrumental in erecting the frail tablet that stood over. Who was this man, in the chill, silent hour of midnight, flinging himself upon it in sorrow or adoration?

With a feeling far different from curiosity, the hunter slipped out of his saddle, and leaving his horse behind, cautiously approached the spot. As the man upon the grave was too much absorbed with his own thoughts, he got close up without being observed; so close as to hear that strange adjuration, and see a face he never expected to look upon again. Despite the features, pale and marked with emaciation, the hollow cheeks, and sunken but glaring eyeballs, he recognised the countenance of Charles Clancy; soon as he did so, mechanically calling out his name.

Hearing his own pronounced, in response, Sime again exclaims, “Charley Clancy!” adding the interrogatory, “Is it yurself or yur shader?”

Then, becoming assured, he throws open his arms, and closes them around his old hunting associate.

Joy, at seeing the latter still alive, expels every trace of supernatural thought, and he gives way – to exuberant congratulation.

On Clancy’s side the only return is a faint smile, with a few confused words, that seem to speak more of sadness than satisfaction. The expression upon his face is rather or chagrin, as if sorry at the encounter having occurred. His words are proof of it.

“Simeon Woodley,” he says, “I should have been happy to meet you at any other time, but not now.”

“Why, Clancy!” returns the hunter, supremely astonished at the coldness with which his warm advances have been received. “Surely you know I’m yur friend?”

“Right well I know it.”

“Wal, then, believin’ you to be dead – tho’ I for one never felt sure o’t – still thinking it might be – didn’t I do all my possible to git justice done for ye?”

“You did. I’ve heard all – everything that has happened. Too much I’ve heard. O God! look there! Her grave – my murdered mother!”

“That’s true. It killed the poor lady, sure enough.”

“Yes; he killed her.”

“I needn’t axe who you refar to. I heerd you mention the name as I got up. We all know that Dick Darke has done whatever hez been done. We hed him put in prison, but the skunk got away from us, by the bribin’ o’ another skunk like hisself. The two went off thegither, an’ no word’s ever been since heerd ’bout eyther. I guess they’ve put for Texas, whar every scoundrel goes nowadays. Wal, Lordy! I’m so glad to see ye still alive. Won’t ye tell me how it’s all kim about?”

“In time I shall – not now.”

“But why are ye displeezed at meetin’ me – me that mayent be the grandest, but saitinly one o’ the truest an’ fastest o’ yur friends?”

“I believe you are, Woodley – am sure of it. And, now that I think more of the matter, I’m not sorry at having met you. Rather am I glad of it; for I feel that I can depend upon you. Sime, will you go with me to Texas?”

“To Texas, or anywhars. In coorse I will. An’ I reck’n we’ll hev a good chance o’ meetin’ Dick Darke thar, an’ then – ”

“Meet him!” exclaimed Clancy, without waiting for the backwoodsman to finish his speech, “I’m sure of meeting him. I know the spot where. Ah, Simeon Woodley! ’tis a wicked world! Murderer as that man is, or supposed to be, there’s a woman gone to Texas who will welcome him – receive him with open arms; lovingly entwine them around his neck. O God!”

“What woman air ye talkin’ o’, Clancy?”

“Her who has been the cause of all – Helen Armstrong.”

“Wal; ye speak the truth partwise – but only partwise. Thar’ can be no doubt o’ Miss Armstrong’s being the innercent cause of most o’ what’s been did. But as to her hevin’ a likin’ for Dick Darke, or puttin’ them soft white arms o’ hern willingly or lovingly aroun’ his neck, thar you’re clar off the trail – a million miles off o’ it. That ere gurl hates the very sight o’ the man, as Sime Woodley hev’ good reason to know. An’ I know, too, that she’s nuts on another man – leastwise has been afore all this happened, and I reck’n still continue to be. Weemen – that air, weemen o’ her kidney – ain’t so changeable as people supposes. ’Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin’ once been inclined to’ardst this other man, an’ ready to freeze to him, I hev’ the proof in my pocket.”

“The proof! What are you speaking of?”

“A dookyment, Charley Clancy, that shed hev reached you long ago, seein’ that it’s got your name on it. Thar’s both a letter and a pictur’. To examine ’em, we must have a clarer light than what’s unner this tree, or kin be got out o’ that ’ere moon. S’pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar we kin set the logs a-bleezin’. When they throw thar glint on the bit o’ paper I’ve spoke about, I’ll take long odds you won’t be so down in the mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye’ve had a durned dodrotted deal both o’ sufferin’ an’ sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley’s got somethin’ thet’s likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It’s only a bit o’ pasteboard an’ a sheet o’ paper – both inside what in Natcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi’ me to the ole cabin, an’ thar you kin take a squint at ’em.”

Clancy’s heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley have inspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenly restored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as he follows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigour and elasticity.

When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light he reads Helen Armstrong’s letter, and looks upon her photograph – on that sweet inscript intended for himself – he cries out in ecstasy, —

“Thank heaven! she is true – still true!”

No longer looks he the sad despairing invalid, but the lover – strong, proud, triumphant.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

The home of the hunted slave

Throughout all these days where has Clancy been? Dead, and come to life again? Or, but half killed and recovered? Where the while hidden? And why? Questions that in quick succession occur to Simeon Woodley meeting him by his mother’s grave.

Not all put then or there; but afterwards on the hunter’s own hearth, as the two sit before the blazing logs, by whose light Clancy has read the letter so cheering him.

Then Woodley asks them, and impatiently awaits the answers.

The reader may be asking the same questions, and in like manner expecting reply.

He shall have it, as Woodley, not in a word or at once, but in a series of incidents, for the narration of which it is necessary to return upon time; as also to introduce a personage hitherto known but by repute – the fugitive slave, Jupiter.

“Jupe” is of the colour called “light mulatto,” closely approximating to that of newly tanned leather. His features are naturally of a pleasing expression; only now and then showing fierce, when he reflects on a terrible flogging, and general ill treatment experienced, at the hands of the cruel master from whom he has absconded.

He is still but a young fellow, with face beardless; only two darkish streaks of down along the upper lip. But the absence of virile sign upon his cheeks has full compensation in a thick shock covering his crown, where the hair of Shem struggles for supremacy with the wool of Ham, and so successfully, as to result in a profusion of curls of which Apollo might be proud. The god of Beauty need not want a better form or face; nor he of Strength a set of sinews tougher, or limbs more tersely knit. Young though he may be, Jupe has performed feats of Herculean strength, requiring courage as well. No wonder at his having won Jule!

A free fearless spirit he: somewhat wild, though not heart-wicked; a good deal given to nocturnal excursions to neighbouring plantations; hence the infliction of the lash, which has finally caused his absconding from that of Ephraim Darke.

A merry jovial fellow he has been – would be still – but for the cloud of danger that hangs over him; dark as the den in which he has found a hiding-place. This is in the very heart and centre of the cypress swamp, as also in the heart and hollow of a cypress tree. No dead log, but a living growing trunk, which stands on a little eyot, not immediately surrounded by water, but marsh and mud. There is water beyond, on every side, extending more than a mile, with trees standing in and shadowing its stagnant surface.

On the little islet Nature has provided a home for the hunted fugitive – an asylum where he is safe from pursuit – beyond the scent of savage hounds, and the trailing of men almost as savage as they; for the place cannot be approached by water-craft, and is equally unapproachable by land. Even a dog could not make way through the quagmire of mud, stretching immediately around it to a distance of several hundred yards. If one tried, it would soon be snapped up by the great saurian, master of this darksome domain. Still is there a way to traverse the treacherous ground, for one knowing it, as does Darke’s runaway slave. Here, again, has Nature intervened, lending her beneficent aid to the oppressed fleeing from oppression. The elements in their anger, spoken by tempest and tornado, have laid prostrate several trees, whose trunks, lying along the ooze, lap one another, and form a continuous causeway. Where there chances to be a break, human ingenuity has supplied the connecting link, making it as much as possible to look like Nature’s own handiwork; though it is that of Jupiter himself. The hollow tree has given him a house ready built, with walls strong as any constructed by human hands, and a roof to shelter him from the rain. If no better than the lair of a wild beast, still is it snug and safe. The winds may blow above, the thunder rattle, and the lightning flash; but below, under the close canopy of leaves and thickly-woven parasites, he but hears the first in soft sighings, the second in distant reverberation, and sees the last only in faint phosphoric gleams. Far brighter the sparkle of insects that nightly play around the door of his dwelling.

A month has elapsed since the day when, incensed at the flogging received – this cruel as causeless – he ran away, resolved to risk everything, life itself, rather than longer endure the tyrannous treatment of the Darkes.

Though suspected of having taken refuge in the swamp, and there repeatedly sought for, throughout all this time he has contrived to baffle search. Nor has he either starved or suffered, except from solitude. Naturally of a social disposition, this has been irksome to him. Otherwise, he has comforts enough. Though rude his domicile, and remote from a market, it is sufficiently furnished and provided. The Spanish moss makes a soft couch, on which he can peacefully repose. And for food he need not be hard up, nor has he been for a single day. If it come to that, he can easily entrap an alligator, and make a meal off the tenderest part of its tail; this yielding a steak which, if not equal to best beef, is at all events eatable.

But Jupe has never been driven to diet on alligator meat too much of musky flavour. His usual fare is roast pork, with now and then broiled ham and chicken; failing which, a fricassée of ’coon or a barbecue of ’possum. No lack of bread besides – maize bread – in its various bakings of “pone,” “hoe cake,” and “dodger.” Sometimes, too, he indulges in “Virginia biscuit,” of sweetest and whitest flour.

The question is called up, Whence gets he such good things? The ’coon and ’possum may be accounted for, these being wild game of the woods, which he can procure by capture; but the other viands are domestic, and could only be obtained from a plantation.

And from one they are obtained – that of Ephraim Darke! How? Does Jupiter himself steal them? Not likely. The theft would be attended with too much danger. To attempt it would be to risk not only his liberty, but his life. He does not speculate on such rashness, feeling sure his larder will be plentifully supplied, as it has hitherto been – by a friend.

Who is he?

A question scarce requiring answer. It almost responds to itself, saying, “Blue Bill.” Yes; the man who has kept the fugitive in provisions – the faithful friend and confederate – is no other than the coon-hunter.

Something more than bread and meat has Blue Bill brought to the swamp’s edge, there storing them in a safe place of deposit, mutually agreed upon. Oft, as he starts forth “a-cooning,” may he be observed with something swelling out his coat-pockets, seemingly carried with circumspection. Were they at such times searched, they would be found to contain a gourd of corn whisky, and beside it a plug of tobacco. But no one searches them; no one can guess at their contents – except Phoebe. To her the little matter of commissariat has necessarily been made known, by repeated drafts on her meat-safe, and calls upon her culinary skill. She has no jealous suspicion as to why her scanty store is thus almost daily depleted – no thought of its being for Brown Bet. She knows it is for “poor Jupe,” and approves, instead of making protest.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

An excursion by canoe

On that day when Dick Darke way-laid Charles Clancy, almost the same hour in which the strife is taking place between them, the fugitive slave is standing by the side of his hollow tree, on the bit of dry land around its roots.

His air and bearing indicate intention not to stay there long. Ever and anon he casts a glance upward, as if endeavouring to make out the time of day. A thing not easily done in that sombre spot. For he can see no sun, and only knows there is such by a faint reflection of its light scarce penetrating through the close canopy of foliage overhead. Still, this gradually growing fainter, tells him that evening is at hand.

Twilight is the hour he is waiting for, or rather some twenty minutes preceding it. For, to a minute he knows how long it will take him to reach the edge of the swamp, at a certain point to which he contemplates proceeding. It is the place of deposit for the stores he receives from the coon-hunter.

On this particular evening he expects something besides provender, and is more than usually anxious about it. Mental, not bodily food, is what he is craving. He hopes to get tidings of her, whose image is engraven upon his heart – his yellow girl, Jule. For under his coarse cotton shirt, and saddle-coloured skin, Jupe’s breast burns with a love pure and passionate, as it could, be were the skin white, and the shirt finest linen.