Duganne, A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey), 1823-1884 [1843], The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude: being the adventures of Henry Fowler and Richard Martin (Brainard & Co., Boston) [word count] [eaf087].
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Front matter
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Preliminaries
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THE
TWO CLERKS,
OR
THE ORPHAN'S GRATITUDE:
BEING THE
ADVENTURES
OF
HENRY FOWLER AND RICHARD MARTIN
BY AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE,
UTHOR OF “THE PIRATE CHIEF,” “VIRGIN OF VESTA,” “FORTUNES
OF PERTINAX,” “WOMAN'S REVENGE,” &C. &C.
BOSTON:
BRAINARD & CO., No. 13 COURT STREET.
1843.
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Acknowledgment
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EWER & WESTON, Printers,
No. 7 Wilson's, Lane.
Main text
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THE TWO CLERKS, — OR, THE— ADVENTURES OF HENRY FOWLER AND RICHARD MARTIN. CHAPTER I. THE DEATH-BED.
And who may feel a mother's woe,
And who may read a mother's heart,
And tell me why no tear may flow?
—Allen.
It was a bitter night in December. The
wind howled round the streets and lanes of
Boston, entering every crevice, and penetrating,
with cutting severity, the frail abodes of
poverty, making the shivering tenant draw
closer round the dim fire, or crawl beneath
the thin covering of his miserable bed. The
rich felt it, too!—it swept down the Backbay,
and whistled round the trees of the Common—
it murmured hoarsely as it blew adown
Beacon Street, and rattled the windows, and
caused the vanes to creak.—Yes, the rich felt
it,—but they felt it, as we perceive the acid
in our food, only to enjoy the sweetness more.
Stretched on their downy beds, or dozing
over their sea-coal fires, they thought not of
the houseless and the wanderer, or, if they
did, 'twas but to mutter “Poor wretches,”
and turn again to their downy slumbers.
But the poor felt it—the famished—the dying—
and every blast that rattled the windows
of the North-end, struck like the chill of
death to the heart of some houseless creature.
The scanty fire sogged dismally on the
cheerless hearth,—the last crust of bread lay
untasted on the pine table,—the children
had crept together and were folded in each
other's arms, and ever and anon they cast
fearful glances to the spot where, on a miserable
bed, lay their sick and dying mother!
A knock came to the door, and the children,
with noiseless care, unfastened it. It
was a poor but charitable neighbor, come to
render the last offices of friendship to her dying
friend. She bore in her hands a few simple
delicacies, purchased with her own hard
earnings, to tempt the appetites of the suffering
children.
Blessed Charity! when thou art banished
from the rich and the powerful, thou art seen
with the lowly and the poor, and when the
glare of fashion and folly hideth thee, thou
shinest forth in thine own light, by the dying
bed of the world-forgotten:
“Mary, are you better?” said Mrs. Martin,
bending over the sufferer.
The widow raised her eyes, and recognised
the visiter. “Yes!” she murmured,
“I am better—but—but—” and the mute
look that she east at the trembling children,
struck the heart of her friend, for she, too,
was a mother.
“I am not long for this world—but I dread
not death. Mine has not been a flowery
path—”
“Nay, you are young,” said Mrs. Martin,
“and your children—”
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“Yes, tis they—Oh, this is death's bitterness.
Must I leave them without a father's
care, a mother's watchfulness? Must I—”
She cast one look at her children, who,
clasped together, were seated by the dim
fire. It was but one glance, but it was
enough; it spoke whole volumes of sorrow,
of doubt, of deep and dark regret; it told
the whole misery of a mother's mind, the
agony with which she thought of the last
pang of separation—to leave them alone—
alone—in a wide world of sin and misery.
The eye of the good Samaritan followed
the mother's glance—the workings of the
mother's heart—and taking her thin white
hand within her own, she called the children
to the bedside; then, clasping the cold
fingers of the orphans, she held them up,
and, with a voice which the scene, the silence,
and the deep heart-feeling, rendered
peculiarly solemn and impressive, she spoke,
“Mary, I am poor, and labor hard for
bread,—but you have befriended me when I
was friendless, and now, in the presence of
the God who knows our hearts, I promise
that, while my hands and strength are left
me, your children shall have a home,—and I
will be their mother.”
The truthful sincerity of these tones, and
the holy charity which beamed from her
eyes, gave to the lowly woman, an appearance
almost divine. The mother's features
lighted up with a smile of peace and satisfaction.
Her fingers closed firmly around the
hand of her friend,—and she sank gently
back to her last sleep, with the hope of a
tranquil spirit.
Mrs. Martin stooped over the body, from
which the last breath had departed; then
taking the hushed and wondering children
by the hand, she sat down, and wiping her
eyes with the corner of her coarse check
apron, she addressed them,—
“My children,”—but the good woman's
tears flowed faster than her words, and the
eldest child, a thin, sickly boy of twelve, comprehended,
with the instinct of affection, the
dreadful truth. Uttering a wild cry, he flung
himself upon the bed, and throwing his arms
around the neck of his dead parent, pressed
his lips to hers. The awful chill of death
struck fearfully through him, and he gazed
wildly upon the corpse. The eyes were
open, and fixed, but the smile still played on
the lips, and he could not believe that it was
death. His heart felt stifled and choked—
deep sobs came thick and fast from his bosom,
and he groaned in the bitter loneliness
of his young soul. But no tear fell. He
thought of all his past life. Every little act
of disobedience, every slight,—all that he
had done to wound his mother's heart, came
with terrible distinctness before him. What
would he not have given, if for one moment
he could hear her voice, if she could speak
but one word to him, to say that he was forgiven!
He had not believed that she would
die—he could not—and he had looked forward
to that event as a thing afar off. But
it had come; it was here in all the awful
truth of reality; she was dead—dead, and
he was alone in the world, for what would
the world be to him without his mother? He
hid his face in the scanty coverlid, and sobbed
as if his little heart would break.
His sister's grief was calmer; tears, soothing
tears, came to the relief of her young
spirit, and poured like rain down her cheeks;
she buried her face in the bosom of the kind
neighbor, and gave way to the sorrow that
will not be comforted. And the kind-hearted
woman was but little fitted to soothe her,
for the tears streamed plentifully from her
own eyes, as she witnessed the grief of the
orphans.
But the last rites must be performed, and
the last offices of friendship rendered. With
difficulty the sobbing boy was led from his
mother's bed; for he clung to her body as if
he still fancied life was there; and with his
little sister he followed the friendly neighbor
to her abode. It was humble enough; but
the kindliness that makes a hovel seem a
palace was there, and the children soon forgot
in slumber the grief that was to come
again, to-morrow, and to-morrow, for many
a long day!
CHAPTER II. THE ORPHANS.
Forth on the world's wide sea,
The storm of Fortune pelting at his bark,
The haven yet unseen.
—J. Browne.
The next day the remains of the poor
widow were committed to the earth, and the
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last duties performed by the charitable woman
to her friend. To one in her situation
this was a heavy expense. She knew that
by bringing to her board the orphans, she
must toil late and early to gain the means of
living. She knew that her scanty means
scarcely now enabled her to provide for her
own two little ones, and that it would be
long ere she could expect assistance from
their labors. But Mrs. Martin's was not a
mind to quail; she had not spoken hastily,
nor without thought, when she had so solemnly
promised her dying friend; she saw
the difficulties of her situation, but should
she desert the helpless orphans in their sore
need,—should she let them be cast forth to
the cold mercy of the world, while a grain
of meal was in her barrel, or a drop of oil
in her cruse? No! she resolved that her
own children should suffer before she should
neglect the holy trust committed to her.
“And they will not suffer,” she said in
her heart; “the God of the orphan and the
fatherless will assist me, and enable me to
perform my duty to the children of my
friend.”
There are many in the wide world like
Mrs. Martin. But they are not found among
the prosperous and wealthy; they move not
in the glare of fashion, and in the gardens of
luxury. No, they must be sought where
they are—in the lowly abodes of poverty—
among those who earn by the sweat of the
brow, a hard fare and a harder pillow—among
those whose love and charity are not blazoned
forth in the eyes of the world, but whose
deeds are written with the pens of angels, on
the imperishable records of heaven.
Mrs. Martin was a hard-working woman.
She went daily forth to her duties, and
scarcely earned, with all her industry, a subsistence
for herself and children. But her
heart was a kind and cheerful one, and
whether bending over the wash-tub, or sitting
in the evening at her quiet fireside,
with her children around her, she was still
the same loving, unrepining creature, with a
wish to do more good than her means would
ever admit of. Mrs. Martin's husband, formerly
a pilot, had been lost in the terrible
storm of 1816, and she had been left, with
her two children, to procure a subsistence by
the daily and laborious occupation of a
washerwoman.
A few months passed, and the orphan
children had become reconciled to their new
home, and ceased to miss the kind voice
and look of their own dear parent. Mrs.
Martin was, as she had promised, a mother,
and more than a mother, to them; when she
returned from her labors, and brought some
little nick-nack to please the taste of children,
the little strangers were always sure to
have their share; and so solicitous was the
good woman lest her natural affection might
cause injustice, that the largest portion was
often that of the orphans. Before the death
of their mother, they had been constant in
their attendance at the public school, and
there still were they sent. And it would
have joyed the heart of an angel to witness
the pleasure that sparkled in the eyes of the
good Mrs. Martin, when at evening they
came around her and told her of the progress
they had made. Her own children were too
young to attend school, and it was the joy
of the orphan boy, Henry Fowler, to teach
them in the evening what he had learned
during the day. And his sister, though
scarcely nine years old, had already learned
to take care of the youngest child—a bright
little fellow of four years old—to make the
fire, sweep the room, and the thousand little
offices performed the more cheerfully, because
not required.
CHAPTER III. THE SCHOOLMASTER.
But man—proud man!
Dressed in a little brief authority,
* * * * like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep!
—Shakspeare.
The school which Henry Fowler attended
was the best public school in Boston, but unfortunately
the teacher was a man, who, infected
with the aristocratic notions, which
too many of his class entertain, was unable
to see, in the coarsely-clad orphan, aught of
the talent so plainly discernible in the pupils
whose parents possessed that grand
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desideratum—wealth. Consequently Henry, though
applying himself closely to study, progressed
but slowly in the ranks of his school. It
was not supposed possible by the whitegloved
preceptor, that a lad with such a jacket
could by any means excel in learning.
And poor Henry, instead of being aided and
advanced in his laudable desire for improvement,
was discouraged and impeded by the
pride of one who should have been first to
perceive and reward his real merit. When he
had been a year or two at school an observer
might have seen that something preyed upon
his spirit. He had striven honorably and
well for that place in the teacher's favor,
which he saw open to his companions of less
merit; and he met, for his endeavors, with
but the sneer of scorn, or the mocking tones
of distrust and pity. This had changed his
character, totally and sadly changed it.
When he entered the school, it was with
buoyant hopes, and a resolve to be, what he
fondly believed he could be, a faithful and
successful scholar; and he was, as far as he
could himself achieve it. But he had his
fond trust nipped in the opening. When
he hoped and expected approval, he met only
neglect; where he sought to advance, he
was repelled, and the heart that glowed with
all the generous ardor of a young and trustful
disposition, had been, in the space of two
short years, changed by the mistaken views
of one man, to a suspicious, distrustful, and
unhappy one. This may not appear, but is,
nevertheless, true, and the instances, even
now, are by no means rare, when such are
the effects of the ill-directed partiality of
teachers in public schools.
But if Henry Fowler possessed no friend
in the master, he had gained many among
his fellow-pupils, who, measuring him by
his mind instead of his coat, soon learned to
love and respect him. Among these was
one named William Abbot, a frank, noble
boy, blunt and quick in anger, but firm in his
friendship. He was a lad who always called
things by their right names, and judged of
them not by their outward appearance, but
intrinsic value. He was older than Henry,
and, in a manner, took him under his protection;
joined in his sports, and won his
heart by those thousand friendly acts, which
he mind of childhood understands and ap
preciates. He was the son of a Kilby Street
merchant, and of course was a favorite of the
schoolmaster, a circumstance which, perhaps,
made Henry less objectionable in the eyes of
that dignitary.
“William, why do you associate with that
fellow?” asked a lad of about fourteen, clad
in a bright-buttoned coat of green, his hair
nicely parted, and his ruffle-collar falling
gracefully over his neck, all betokening him
one of the teacher's geniuses. “I should
really think you would have more respect
for yourself, than to be seen with such a
dunce.”
“A dunce, Frank Haywood?—you know
better; who helped you in your lesson yesterday?”
“Poh,” said the young gentleman, blushing
up to his frilled collar, “he only showed
me what I knew before. And he is a dunce,
for the master says so, and he knows.”
“Frank Haywood, you envy him, and
that's all—and I should rather go with Harry
Fowler any time, than be seen with a
fellow who lies about him,” and William
Abbot turned away.
Haywood's blood mounted to his eyes, but
he was afraid of William, and he bit his lips
in silence. As William turned his back,
however, so contemptuously upon him, he
could bear no longer, and springing forward
he struck him in the back, and at the same
time, putting his foot in front, William fell
upon the ground.
But he had better provoked a lion—William
was up in an instant, and pursuing the
treacherous Haywood, overtook, and gave
him a most righteous whipping, so that the
discomfitted young aristocrat returned home
with his ruffle wofully torn, his face ornamented
with sundry scratches, and a most
chopfallen expression of countenance.
Such an occurrence could not be passed
over unnoticed. The father of Frank Haywood
was a retired merchant, very wealthy,
and moreover, a selectman. And it was
not to be expected that such an assault on
his son would be passed unheeded by. Accordingly,
the next day, during school hours,
a thundering knock was heard at the door.
The master opened it, and there, to his dismay,
stood the wrathful Mr. Haywood, holding
by the hand his dear boy, upon whose
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face sundry pieces of court-plaster, admirably
disposed for effect, gave expression to
otherwise rather blank features.
The body of the pedagogue described the
segment of a circle as he invited the great
man in.
“I am come,” said Mr. Haywood, raising
his voice, in order that the school might hear
how a selectman could speak—“I am come
to know why—yes, sir—why—my boy—my
son—yes, sir—has been shamefully maltreated
and vilely abused—yes, sir—by one of
your scholars, yes, sir!”
Here the selectman stopped to breathe.
“He shall be made an example of, sir,”
said the schoolmaster. “But may I ask who
was the delinquent?”
“Ask my son, sir—yes, sir,” said the selectman.
“It was Bill Abbot,” roared the interesting
son.
The face of the schoolmaster grew pale.
“But, Francis, my dear, how did this happen,—
eh, my boy?”
“Why, I called Harry Fowler a dunce,
and William—”
“Ah, I see it—I see it all; Mr. Haywood,
that boy, Fowler, has been more
trouble to me—Yes, I see it. Fowler, come
here, sir!”
Henry rose from his seat, and walked
towards the master's desk, wondering what
new piece of injustice was to be performed.
“Come here, sir; ask that gentleman's
pardon, sir!”
“For what,” asked Henry.
“Ask his pardon!”
“I won't!” said Henry, doggedly.
“You shall,” said the pedagogue; “Abbot,
step here,” and William came to the
desk, “Fowler was the cause of your quarrel
with Francis, yesterday, was he not, eh?”
“Frank Haywood called him a dunce,
and—”
“There, Fowler, you hear that—now, sir,
ask Mr. Haywood's pardon for causing this
quarrel.”
Henry hesitated; he knew that the master
was not his friend, and he knew if he refused
it would be considered rebellion. At
his moment William Abbot whispered,
“Don't do it, Harry, you're not to blame.”
The schoolmaster bit his lip. “Will you
obey me, sir?”
“I will not ask his pardon!”
“Then, sir, you are no longer a member
of my school. Your refusal to obey me has
destroyed all my confidence in you. I have
long feared it would come to this. Take
your books, sir—here, give me your copy
book,” and the despotic teacher wrote, on a
page of it—“expelled.”
“Here is my writing book; you're a tyrant,
and I'll tell my father to remove me
from school!” cried the fearless William
Abbot.
The countenance of the master fell.
“Mr. Haywood,” said he, apart to that
official, “this boy, here, Abbot, is the son of
S. Abbot, firm of Abbot & Co., Kilby Street—
you are aware, sir—his influence—eh, sir?”
“Ah!” said the retired merchant, “Abbot
& Co.—yes, sir—S. Abbot. Sir, it is my
opinion, the quarrels of boys are best settled
among themselves—yes, sir. Good day, sir.
I hope that my son does not associate with
boys of this Fowler's class?”
“No, my dear sir; he is a boy of much
taste and discretion—hereditary, I think,
sir.”
“Ah!—I hope nothing unpleasant will
occur again—yes, sir. Good day, sir,” and
the gratified ex-merchant walked away, leading
his hopeful son by the hand.
“Fowler,” said the schoolmaster to Henry,
who was placing his books in order, “Come
here, sir.”
Harry advanced a few steps towards the
master's desk, then turned, and proceeded to
pack his books.
“Fowler, do you hear!” exclaimed the
pedagogue.
“I don't belong to this school, now, I believe,”
said Harry, whose spirit was roused
by the injustice he had experienced.
The master saw his error; and he saw,
too, that already the boys suspected the affair,
and enjoyed his situation. He therefore left
his desk, and walking to that of Henry, took
up the copy-book, and drew his pen across
the sentence of expulsion; then returning,
he called again,
“Fowler!”
And this time Henry came.
“Abbot,” said the teacher to William,
who had all the time been standing beside
the desk, inwardly exulting in Henry's spirit,
“You see, I was mistaken in supposing
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Fowler to blame in this affair; you know
I wish you both well, and I hope that you
will preserve your temper, William, for it is
very disgraceful to fight.”
“He struck me in the back, like a coward,”
said William.
“I am very sorry it has happened,” said
the repentant schoolmaster, “and I hope
you will endeavor to agree better in future.
And Fowler,” continued he, “you must not
be too familiar with Haywood; you know,”
said he, in a sneering tone, “familiarity breeds
contempt.”
William Abbot could have knocked the
master down, but he said nothing; he merely
looked at Henry, as if to tell him not to
mind him. But Henry was too proud to
care.
“Now, boys, take your seats,” said the
pedagogue, in an elevated tone. “First
class, prepare to recite.”
CHAPTER IV. THE KILBY STREET MERCHANT.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.
A few days after this scene, poor Henry
was called to witness another, far more harrowing.
Mrs. Martin, the friend and benefactress
of his childhood; she, who had
watched and guided him, and his helpless
sister, for three years, was laid low on the
bed of pain, with few hopes of ever rising
from it. The affliction of Henry was extreme;
she had been to him more than a
mother, and, but for her, he had long since
been turned on the world, to battle with
labor for his daily bread. But she never
reproached him; and when, a year before,
the orphan had expressed a desire to do
something which would relieve her of the
burden of his support, his request was received
almost as an insult.
“No, my boy,” said she, “go to your
school—you will never regret it; but I shall,
if I take you away. Go, and when my poor
body is in the grave, you will bless the lowly
widow's heart!”
And Henry did bless her, many and many
a time; and now, when he was called upon
to resign her—when she was to be taken
from the humble sphere of usefulness which
she occupied—he felt again the bitterness of
losing a friend—the second death of his heart.
Again he would be left, without protection,
to buffet the wild waves of the world's sea
as he could; but he cared not for himself;
the declining widow and her children, and
his own dear little sister, claimed all his
sympathies.
But Providence never deserts the good;
the charity of the poor widow was an enduring
monument—and the God who witnessed
it, would not abandon her helpless
offspring to the miseries from which she had
shielded another's.
A friend now appeared, in the person of
the father of William Abbot; and never
came a friend more opportunely, and never
came a kindlier one.
Mr. Abbot was a man of high and honorable
feelings, and therein his son resembled
him. And our friend the schoolmaster knew
this, when William threatened to inform him
of the affair with Haywood. This may account
for his desire to settle the difficulty
amicably. But William was not deceived,
and he, at an early period, related the circumstance
to his father. The surprise of Mr.
Abbot was extreme, for he had supposed
that in a public school all who attended were
considered, in point of rank, as equals. And
that had been one reason why he had permitted
William to attend it, rather than a
private school; for, free from the vulgar
vanity which would despise honest poverty,
he wished his son should also be; and supposed
that a school founded on the very
principles of equality, would be the most
suitable place to attain his object. He little
knew the injury which an ill-directed mind
placed in the situation of preceptor of a public
school, could inflict. He little knew,
that though no overt act of injustice might
be done, a system of persecution could be
carried on, calculated to break the proudest
spirit—to dampen the most generous ardor.
Nor had he reflected, that the conduct of the
schoolmaster is the model which the pupils
follow; that where vanity, and regard for
extraneous things, is encouraged by the
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teacher, the scholars, apt in all things, will
not fail to learn a lesson which will prove
their bane and ruin.
When, however, he had learned the truth,
he resolved that his son should no longer be
subjected to the influence of such a man;
and accordingly removed him from the school.
At the same time he expressed a wish to see
Henry, for whom William had conceived
such a friendship. William went at once to
seek his friend. He found him at the bedside
of his benefactress; she was extremely
ill—indeed, it was apparent that she would
not recover, and bitterly was the poor woman's
heart wrung at the thought of leaving
her children. But she trusted in God—that
he would not desert her; and she looked
back with satisfaction on the good she had
done. William was deeply shocked at the
sad scene.
“Come with me, Henry,” said he; “my
father must know this.” And the two friends
left the house, Henry promising to return as
soon as possible.
When arrived at Mr. Abbot's, a splendid
mansion in Collonade Row, William at once
informed his father of the scene he had just
witnessed, and Mr. Abbot requested a recital
of the story from Henry.
The orphan with a swelling heart related
it. He told his own sad story; the generous
conduct of the poor widow, and her untiring
exertions in supporting and shielding the orphan
children. He spoke of the poor woman's
sorrow at leaving her offspring alone
in the world, and concluded with—
“But they shall never want; if I work
day and night to support them, they shall
never have it to say that Henry Fowler is
ungrateful!”
“You are a noble boy,” said the merchant,
gazing with interest on the pale but animated
countenance of Henry; “but you shall never
work night and day; your friend shall not
want, nor shall her children be deserted.”
The good merchant then left the room
rather cheerfully, and Henry thought he observed
a tear to glisten in his eye, while
William, taking his hand, cried, “There,
Harry, I knew father would love you, so
never fear; all will be well.”
Mr. Abbot soon returned, and telling Henry
he would call on the morrow, with Wil
liam, kindly bade him good-bye, and Henry
returned to the bedside of his benefactress,
to convey the welcome tidings of a friend.
“Blessed be God,” said Mrs. Martin, devoutly;
“He deserts not the widow in her
sore need!”
CHAPTER V. ANOTHER DEATH-BED.
God keep thee from thy mother's foes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;
And when thou meet'st thy mother's friend
Remember him for me
—Burns.
But we have almost forgotten the other
orphan of our tale. Fanny, the little sister
of Henry Fowler—but what was there
in her quiet, guileless life, to chronicle? She
was so young at the death of her mother that
the change of homes could not affect her
very deeply, and she soon found in her little
playmates, the children of Mrs. Martin, new
objects to love; and to love was, with her,
to be happy. And by unnumbered acts of
kindness and affection she knit the hearts of
her little friends to herself. She was ever
first in sporting with the young children, and
in ministering by every little act of a loving
spirit, to her dear mother, as she fondly called
her benefactress. But if there was one
thing more than another in the heart of the
little maiden, it was a deep and abiding love
for her brother. To her mind there was
none in the wide world like him; none were
so kind, so generous, so brave, so learned.
Every little secret of her heart was confided
to him; every little trouble sought in him a
cure. Indeed, it was a strange and holy
thing—the love which those two orphans
bore each other. They seemed to realize
that they were alone in the world—that they
were all to one another. The love was entwined
around their hearts like two interlocking
tendrils of one vine, which might
not be sundered but with death to both.
Each was happy but in the joy of the other.
The other children of the family, Richard
and Charles Martin, were of entirely different
dispositions. Richard, the eldest, was a
reserved, suspicious boy, jealous of the least
attention paid to another, which he did not
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share, and possessed of a revengful temper.
Charles, on the contrary, was the counterpart
of his mother—the same lovely, kindly
disposition—studious of the good of others,
and totally regardless of self. And of course
he was the favorite of little Fanny; while
Richard's disposition, as soon as it began to
manifest itself, caused the little girl to shun
him, instinetively, and bestow all her attention
on her favorite. Nor was Richard
more of a favorite with Henry; yet, strange
to say, his mother seemed to love him better
than his brother; it might be that he had
the faculty of concealing his bad qualities
from his doting parent; certain it is, that the
mother manifested more affection for him
than for the little bright-eyed, rosy, happy
Charles.
Mr. Abbot did not forget his promise. The
next morning, accompanied by William, he
came to the abode of Mrs. Martin. Nor did
he merely come, as many do, to look on misery,
depart, and come no more. He took
active measures to smooth the poor woman's
passage to the grave, and relieve her mind
from all anxiety respecting her children.
The story of Henry had enlisted all his sympathies
in favor of the lowly widow, whose
mite had been shared with the orphan and
the fatherless. The youngest boy was already
provided for by the kidness of a relation,
who gladly welcomed his bright little
face into the circle of her own children.
Mr. Abbot had already offered to Henry a
situation in his store, and he now resolved
that Richard should also be admitted. None
now remained but the sweetest one of all—
the little Fanny; and a sister of Mrs. Abbot's,
a resident of Newburyport, entreated that
the dear child might be committed to her
care; for she had been charmed with the
simple truthfulness of the little maiden, and,
having no children of her own, wished to
adopt her. This was, if possible, a more
severe trial to her brother, than to herself;
to be separated, even for a little distance,
and with even the prospect of seeing her
often, from his only sister, seemed like tearing
apart his heartstrings. But he knew it
was for the best, and he manfully restrained
his sorrow, and, wiping away the scalding
tears that streamed fast from his sister's eyes,
he bade her be of good heart and courage,
and they would soon be united again. Poor
child! she knew not how her brother could
wish her to go, but she knew he wished it,
and what he desired was to her a law—and
she dried her tears, and resting her head on
his bosom, mourned herself to sleep, in silent
sorrow of heart.
It was midnight. The candle burned
dimly on the table; the dying embers shot
forth a sickly light; and the wind howled
around the frail tenement. Henry lay asleep
on a bench by the fire; for he had become
exhausted by continued watching, which
nature could sustain no longer. The younger
children slumbered in an inner room; and
Richard sat at a table poring over “Rinaldo
Rinaldini.” On a bed in a corner of the
poor apartment, lay the sick mother; and at
intervals the moans, that she struggled hard
to repress, told of the agony she endured.
The care of Mr. Abbot had supplied her
with a nurse; but she had left the house, a
short time before, to summon to the bedside
a sister of Mrs. Martin, whom she had expressed
a desire to see.
Richard rose and approached the bed; his
mother lay upon her side, and she raised her
eyes to his face, with a faint smile.
“Mother, it is time to take your drops.”
“Stop, Richard,” said she, and taking
from beneath her pillow a little key, she directed
him to open a trunk beside the bed.
He obeyed, and, at her indication, drew
from it a small parcel.
“Richard, my boy, I am dying! I shall
not last till morning.” The boy seized her
hand, and, while the tears gushed from his
eyes, and his whole frame shook, cried,
“Oh, no, no! mother! no, you will not
die—”
“Yes, my child' ” said Mrs. Martin; “but
I shall die happy; the good Mr. Abbot has
promised to take you under his care. Richard,”
continued she, impressively, “remember
the last words of your mother; fear
God, my son; do on sin: never be guilty of
a falsehood, never! and always do your duty
to your master, and your God. And this
packet—” said she, speaking with difficulty,
“I hoped to have seen Mr. Abbot once more,—
but this—when I am gone—take it—”
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Suddenly an awful change came over her
countenance; she gasped for breath, and uttering
a stifled cry, sank back upon the pillow.
Henry sprung from where he had
been sleeping, and rushed to the bed—Richard
hastily concealed the packet.
Mrs. Martin was in the agonies of death.
Henry threw himself upon the bed beside
her, and implored her to speak to him. Her
lips half opened, and she strove for utterance;
but in vain. The hand of the cold
tyrant was upon her. But even in the pangs
of dissolution, her eye shone with the joy of
a Christian's hope, and her bright smile fell
upon Henry, as if it were a glimpse of that
heaven to which she was rapidly speeding.
She grasped his hand, and placing within it
the trembling fingers of Richard, seemed to
consign her son to the care of the elder orphan.
Then sinking back again on her pillow,
she awaited, in silent resignation, the
stroke of death.
It was a sad thing to see those children
watching by the bedside of the dying woman.
They spoke not to one another, but listened
fearfully to her short, quick breathings, and
gazed wildly on her changing features. Suddenly,
the breathing ceased—all was silent!
Her slack hand embraced their own no longer,
and a moaning cry broke from their bosoms,
for they knew that death was among
them!
CHAPTER VI. THE CLUB SUPPER.
Madly each reckless soul,
Rushes to ruin in the brimming bowl!
—Adams.
Time passed on, and the boys continued
in their occupation. But circumstances soon
developed the character of each. Henry's
studious disposition sought in the home of
his employer the pleasure of his leisure
hours. With his companion, William Abbot,
he still pursued the studies commenced at
school, and daily progressed in the attainment
of knowledge. Richard, on the contrary,
launched out into all the follies of the
class to which he belonged. His was the
heaviest cane that rattled in the pit of the
Federal Street Theatre; his was the straitest
ball on the Washington Garden alleys. Dick
was a connoiseur in the art of good living—
on a small scale.
Probably it would have been a rich sight
to a Washingtonian of the present day, to
have seen the inside of a room of one of our
crack hotels, one night in 1820, when the
jolly W. R. C.—which, being interpreted,
meaneth Wharf-Rat Club,—were met for a
spree. A dozen youths, from fourteen to
eighteen, seated round a table, on which the
rosy wine and the steaming punches sent up
their vapors to mingle with the smoke of cigars
that rolled in circling clouds to the ceiling.
Here, with his head placed in his
neighbor's lap, reclined a young gentleman
upon three chairs, with a brimming glass of
flip, with which he was performing the praise
worthy feat of drinking without putting his
nasal organ in his tumbler. There, with his
legs at an angle of forty-five degrees with
his head, sat another, testing with a straw
his powers of suction, upon a glass of whiskey-punch.
At a side-table, four more were
engaged in a game called whist, but the volleys
of oaths and the shouts of laughter that
came from them, evinced that it deserved
aught but that title. At the head of the table,
with a goodly array of glasses and bottles
for a body-guard, sat Richard Martin,
president of the W. R. C. Dick had striven
hard and long for the high honor which he
had now attained; a black eye, twelve bottles
of wine, and a box of cigars, had been
the price of the dignity, and the expense of
electioneering. But it was gained—he was
installed, and this was the election-spree.
Dick was in his glory, and his wit poured
out like the sparks from a black-smith's anvil.
“Hip, hip, hurra!”
“Hurra!—that's the ticket. Come, Dick,
let's have a song!”
“A song, boys; yes—hurra—a song; come
Fred., you 're the poet-laureate. Strike up.”
“Well, here goes!”
SONG.
Away with care and sadness,
And welcome mirth and gladness!
All sorrow is but madness—
So, happy we will be!
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[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]
The man who's always whining,
Sees not the sunbeams shining,
Nor rosy wreaths entwining,
Around his destiny!
Then let us laugh, and let us quaff
The gleaming, beaming wine, boys!
Ay, merrily, merrily let us quaff
The draught that is divine, boys!
And let us sing,
And cheerily, cheerily strive,
From our bright ring,
The monster care to drive!
And laugh, and quaff, and merrily drink,
And merrily, merrily drink
Of the wine that's red, till the night is fled,
And the rosy daylight shine, boys!
Ay, merrily, merrily laugh, and quaff
The draught that is divine, boys!
“Well, now, that's what I call nice,” said
a promising young man, dressed to the top
of the fashion, as he stretched out his hand
to the decanter. “It's wine that makes the
verse run—hey, Dick”
“Yes, I endorse that. By the way, boys,
did you hear of my scrape with the Charlies
the other night, eh?”
“No—let's have it. Hurra for Dick Martin's
scrape with the Charlies!”
“Well, you see, boys,” said Dick, filling
his glass, and casting a knowing look round
the table, “I was going along Common street—
let me see—yes! last club night — yes,
that was the time—”
“Never mind the time, Dick, let's have
the story.”
“Don't interrupt, gentlemen! I was
walking along Common street, and just as I
got to Brimstone corner—Jupiter! the tightest
piece that ever I saw appeared before me.
I gave chase, caught up with her, and peeped
under her bonnet; she smiled; I said `good
evening;' she smiled again. Says I, `my
dear, shall I see you home?' and run my arm
though hers. Blazes! she set up such a
scream I thought the steeple would come
down. I began to sheer off, when a Charlie
(I suppose he had been asleep on Brimstone
steps) placed his paw on my shoulder, and—”
“What did you do?”
“Do! why, damme! I stuck my fist in
his mug—unclasped my cloak-collar, wound
it round my arm, and streaked like lightning
over the fence on to the Common.”
“Chase you?”
“Did he—yes! and the way he ground out
the music warn't slow. There they were—
half a dozen of them—after me, and I
lining for the Back Bay. But just as I reached
Charles street wall, damme, if a posse
didn't start up, rattles, hooks, and all, to intercept
me—I bolted over the wall into the
burying-ground, and there I lay, snug as a
bug—never catch a Charlie to enter a grave-yard!”
“So you escaped, Dick?”
“Yes!—But let's have another horn.
There, you, Frank Block, where's that bottle
I won of you at nine-pins?”
“On hand, Dick—but let's finish the
whiskey. Here, waiter, more cigarros—
Life's but a joke—so drink and smoke,
Let the world say what it will!
For the rosy wine, and the girls divine,
Are ours to toy with still!”
“Fred., what will you have? wine?”
“No, gin; that's the true and literal
wisdom.”
“How 's that, Fred?”
“Why, nothing's plainer; wisdom is
Minerva and gin is my nerver!”
“Ha, ha, ha! a pun—kick him out!—ha,
ha, ha!”
A knock was heard, and the waiter entered—
“A gentleman wishes to see Mr. Martin.”
“Ask him—d—n it!—ask him, you
booby—hullo! there, come in.”
The door was thrown wide open, and,
much to the president's discomfiture, Henry
Fowler walked in. Dick was up in a moment,
and, catching Henry by the arm, led
him out and closed the door.
“Richard, this is bad!”
“Why you see, Harry, they 've elected
me president of the society, and this is the
election-supper: that's all, Harry.”
“What society?”
“Why—why—the—the—Boston Literary
Society!”
“Oh, is that all. Well, Richard, don't
get into bad habits—you know Mr. Abbot's
strictness. But what I came for is—that
package, that I gave you to hand to Captain
Jones; he has not received it.”
“Oh, yes! I forgot, really! Harry, you
won't speak to the old man, will you?—you
see—”
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[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
“No, no! never mind—I'll take charge
of it. But don't be so negligent in future,
Richard!”
“Will you? you're a glorious fellow,
Harry; mother always loved you—you're
so kind—”
“Well, no matter, Richard. Good night!”
“Good night!”
“Who the devil was that?” asked Fred.
Johnson, as Richard returned.
“A d—d pimping, prying fellow-clerk
of mine—I'll smash his head some time!
Hurra! boys! let's have another drink all
round, and then, hey for the theatre. There's
a new piece, and besides that—keep dark!—
tight enough—I've seen her—just from New
York. Show your bottoms, gentlemen!”
“Drink!—hurra for Dick Martin!”
Drink, drink, my boys,
Drink, drink, my boys!
Think not of the morrow!
CHAPTER VII. THE BURGLAR.
It is some evil business, then,
That leads you from your home.
Southey's, Eclogues.”
The situation of Henry Fowler in the
service of Mr. Abbot was a pleasant and
happy one. Every day he received new
demonstrations of his master's confidence
and generosity. In the family, he soon became
a favorite William Abbot still continued
his friendship; and though separated
from him, being at a distant boarding-school,
pursuing his studies, many were the letters
which passed between them. But with the
sister of William, the bright little Lucia,
Henry became an especial favorite. When
he returned at evening from the store, she
was the first to welcome him; and when the
happy circle met around the social fire, the
chair of Lucia, was drawn close to Henry's,
and the maiden listened with rapt attention
while he read from the stories of distant adventures,
or recited the beautiful poetry he
had himself learned to admire. Happy indeed
was the orphan in the home of the
Abbots. But it was destined to be fleeting—
as what joy is not!
Henry had been but a year in the store of
Mr. Abbot, when he and Richard were advanced
to stations in the establishment usually
held by older and more experienced
clerks. But their employer had the utmost
confidence in their integrity; and as Richard
Martin was not an inmate of his house, he
was entirely ignorant of the habits which he
had formed. Consequently the smooth
tongue of Dick, and his punctual business
habits, (for he never neglected his duties,)
had the effect of concealing his true character
from his unsuspecting master.
A short time after Richard's “spree,” as
he termed it, Henry was detained late at
night at the counting room. He was engaged
in copying letters which were to be
despatched the next morning. The clocks
of the town had pealed the hour of midnight;
yet Henry still continued at his task. Suddenly
he heard the lock snap in the inner
store, and the door creaked on its hinges.
Surprised he well might be, for he had been
intrusted with the keys of the building, and
even now they lay before him on the desk.
But Henry was brave, and his resolution was
formed in an instant. Hastily extinguishing
the lamp, he retired to a corner of the
counting-room, and awaited the approach of
the midnight visitor. A stealthy step approached
the office, seemingly a familiar
one, for it avoided the boxes and bales, and
advanced directly to the glazed door; the
intruder entered, and Henry held his breath,
and listened to his movements. A moment
after, he heard the click of the steel and
flint of a tinder-box; and the next, the light
of an ignited match discovered to him the
countenance of Richard Martin. Wondering
what could have called him to the store,
at that late hour, and how he had effected
an entrance, he awaited his further movements.
And his worst suspicions were
realized; for the young man unlocked the
desk, and, looking fearfully around, laid his
hand upon a roll of bills which lay within it.
But as the gaze of the young robber wandered
over the room, it met the steady glance
of his fellow-clerk, and uttering a wild cry,
he dropped his prize.
Henry advanced towards him. “Richard!”
he said; and his voice was choked and sorrowful.
“Richard!”
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[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
The guilty boy fell upon his knees, and
hid his face in his hands.
“Oh, Harry! do not expose me! I—I—
Oh, save me, Harry!”
Henry was silent; but his breast heaved,
and his face was pale. At length he said,
“Richard, how could you do this? How
could you—” The word would not come
to the orphan's lips, for the child of his mother's
friend was before him.
The ready lie came to the aid of Richard.
“O, Harry! I never would have thought
of this, but I owed Fred. Johnson; and I had
no money to pay him. I intended to replace
it next week. Oh, Harry, I did not mean to
steal it; do you think I did?”
“I hope not, Richard; but how did you
procure a key? How did you enter?”
“It was the key of the upper loft door;
it fits this.” Richard trembled while he uttered
the lie, for he had taken a wax impression
of the lock. But Henry noticed it
not.
“And you will not inform Mr. Abbot,
Henry! It would ruin me. I should be
cast forth, on the world, without a character.
Oh, Harry!” and the artful youth smiled inwardly,
for he saw the tears in the eyes of
his credulous friend.
“Will you promise me never to attempt
the like again, Richard!”
“Yes! yes! I swear it.”
“Only promise, Richard! and keep your
promise. Now how much do you owe your
friend?”
“Five dollars”
Henry took out his pocket book. “Here
is the sum,” said he; “and when you want
money, come to me, and I will share with
you what I have. But O, I implore you,
Richard, never contemplate the crime you
have this night escaped. And leave these
companions! They will lead you into new
difficulties, that perhaps I cannot relieve.”
“I will, Henry!” said Richard; “you
have saved me, and I will follow your advice!”
“Well, Richard, heaven grant you may!
And now good night!” continued he, as he
prepared to leave the store. “I will keep
your secret for your dead mother's sake!”
They parted, and Henry proceeded to his
home.
“D—n him!” muttered Richard between
his teeth; and he half turned back to the
store. “But I won't, though! His five
dollars will pay for the next spree! Cursed
fool!—ha, ha!”
CHAPTER VIII. THE ACCUSATION.
But, oh! Distrust,
Filling the innocent soul with misery;
Blasting the peace—and planting in the heart
The hemlock seeds of hatred.
—Baillie.
Henry arose the next morning with that
strange, unaccountable feeling we have all,
at times, experienced, but none can comprehend;
that indefinable presentiment of coming
misfortune which may, for aught we
know, be one part of our invisible communication
with the world of spirits. He pursued
his labors, however, with his usual zeal, tho'
he could not cast from his soul the heaviness
which oppressed it.
It was evening. The other clerks, with
Richard, had departed, and Henry was preparing
to close the store, when Mr. Abbot
appeared. It was contrary to his usual habit
to return after his late dinner, and Henry
knew not what should have brought him
forth; but the vague feeling of coming ill
rose again to his mind. But his heart was
right; why should he fear?
“Henry, I should like to speak a few words
with you,” said Mr. Abbot.
Henry unlocked the door, and re-entered
the store with his employer.
Mr. Abbot seated himself, and motioned
Henry to a chair. He obeyed, and then,
wonderingly awaited what his master should
say.
“My boy,” said the merchant, “I have
heard some accusations against you. I am
loth to believe them. Several sums have
been missed, at different times, by Mr.
Woodley, and he has been unable to account
for them. But mark me, Henry! I do not
suspect you, my boy! But I would be relieved
of any doubt in the matter. You
keep the cash account?”
“Yes, sir.”
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[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
“Will you permit me to inspect it?”
“Certainly, sir,” as he unlocked the draw,
and took out the book. “It's here.”
The merchant took it, and glanced over
the columns. He appeared satisfied, as Henry's
glance rested on his face. Suddenly he
paused, and looked at the boy with a scrutinizing
gaze—
“Will you look here?”
Henry glanced at the page—he changed
color, and was silent.
“Are not these figures altered?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By your hand?”
Henry was again silent.
“I am sorry—I am, my boy! But I cannot
believe you guilty—”
“Oh, do not believe it. I am innocent—
indeed I am. I know not who has changed
the figures, I—”
“Yet it was Richard who first informed
Mr. Woodley that there were several small
sums missing which had not been entered on
the cash account.”
“Richard!” cried Henry.
“I was loath to believe his suspicions of
your dishonesty. I did not credit them. Yet
I knew not but that you had thoughtlessly
done this. Tell me, my boy! have you been
urged to this by difficulties. Confess to me.
If it is so, and you will reveal it all to me, I
promise to forgive you. Nay, more; I will
see that in future you shall not be—” The
merchant paused, for the orphau had risen
from his seat, and stood proudly confronting
him.
“Sir, I am INNOCENT! I know not who
would ruin me.”
“How, then, are the alternations of your
figures to be accounted for?”
Henry spoke not. A sad, a dark suspicion
shot across his mind. Richard had spoken
to Mr. Abbot. Richard, whom he had detected,
and—forgiven—Richard, whom he
had befriended And he was thus repaid.
A dark thought of revenge crossed his mind.
But again came the thought of his mother's
friend—of his own loved benefactress. He
was silent still.
Mr. Abbot gazed at him sorrowfully. “Is
it come to this?” he asked. “Do you fear
to trust me? Have I not been your friend?”
“Oh, my benefactor! my more than fa
ther!” cried the orphan, falling on his
knees. “I would not wrong you. I have
nothing to confess; I am innocent, in truth
I am!”
“And whom do you suspect?”
“Richard Martin,” rose to the lips of
Henry, but he uttered not the name aloud.
“This is trifling, Henry,” said the merchant.
“I would save you, I would befriend
you. But you must first confess your folly—
I will not call it crime. To-morrow I shall
expect your decision.” And buttoning his
great coat, for the night was cold and stormy,
Mr. Abbot rose to leave. Henry mechanically
locked the door, and put the keys in
his pocket.
“I will take the keys to-night,” said the
merchant.
Henry felt as if a dagger had pierced his
heart. His breast heaved convulsively—he
spoke not, but stretched forth his hand. Mr.
Abbot walked quickly away, and the orphan
sunk upon the stone step of the door.
The cold, biting sleet blew keenly in his
unprotected face. The wind whistled around
the corner of Central street, and swept the
chill drifts towards him. But he heeded
them not!
CHAPTER IX. THE ATTACK AND THE RESCUE.
“Now, Balthazar, when be comes, spring at him.”
“Ay, I'll warrant thee, I'll make short work!”
The Patrician's Son.
Henry entered the house of Mr. Abbot —
now no more a home to him — and proceeded
to the parlor which he had always entered
with a light and buoyant step. The family
were seated round the centre-table, and Mrs.
Abbot, with her usual kindly greeting, made
a place for Henry. Lucia drew to his side,
and whispered,
“O, I've been wishing you'd come. This
beautiful annual father has given me, and I do
wish you would read from it. Mother would
so like to hear it.”
Henry glancd at Mr. Abbot. He was
intently poring over a newspaper; but there
was a cloud upon his usually placid brow,
and the orphan knew too well the cause.
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[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
Lucia remarked the saddened expression
of his countenance. She looked up in his
face with a sweet smile, and said, “Henry,
what is the matter with you?”
Henry answered not, but he could not
check the sigh—it would come!
“Are you not well, Henry?” asked Mrs.
Abbot.
“Yes—that is—yes, I am well—perfectly.”
“Will you not read this beautiful story,
Henry?” said Lucia; “that is, if you would
like—”
“Lucia, it is time to retire; and Henry,
there is much for you to do to-morrow,” said
Mr. Abbot, with a significant glance.
Henry arose, and left the room.
When the orphan reached his chamber, he
could scarcely support himself. But kneeling
down by the bedside, he prayed—prayed to
the Giver of all good, to the Father of mercy,
for strength to bear his trials. He arose
with a feeling of trust and confidence. “But
I cannot stay,” he said to himself, “I cannot
brook distrust.”
Hastily seizing a pen, with trembling hand
he wrote the following letter to Mr. Abbot.
My dear Master
—for you are still dear
to me: I am unjustly suspected, and the time
will come when it shall appear so. I can no
longer serve you, or be an inmate of your
family. Circumstances are against me, but
I cannot explain them. I cannot remain. I
throw myself again upon the world. May
heaven bless you and your family.
Henry.
His few arrangements were soon made,
and in an hour he had quietly left the house.
A small bundle of clothes were his whole
incumbrance, with a few dollars, that he had
saved from his salary, in his pocket. It was
a dreadful night. One of those, when the
wind that sweeps along the streets is like a
scythe; when the vanes creak on their icy
pivots, and the sleet is piled up on the deserted
door-stones; a night for deeds of
crime: a night to make the poor groan: a
night in which the houseless—die!
Henry walked along Common street, until
he reached Market. Then he stopped,
and pondered. “Alone!” murmured he;
“a wanderer, and an outcast. Oh, my mother,
my mother!” The clock of Park Street
Church tolled out the midnight hour. He
thought of the last night—of Richard
“Have I deserved this of you—alas!—But
I will forgive him for his mother's sake!”
Suddenly he recollected that he had not
left the letter which he had written to Mr.
Abbot It was in his pocket. “I cannot
return to the house,” thought he; and he
turned down Court street, and took his way
to the store was
watchman, as the young man passed him,
recognised and addressed him: “A raw night
this.” “Yes, sir,” and Henry turned the
corner of Kilby street. How the signs
creaked! How the wind swept up from the
water. He reached the door—the stone—
where a few hours since he had given his
master his keys and his trust. He stooped,
and slid the letter beneath the door. A keen
blast swept at the same time along the street,
and chilled his heart.
With hurried step, Henry left the store,
and retraced his course. He had entered
Flag Alley, searcely minding whither he
went, when a distant cry aroused him—a
short, quick cry, as of one in a struggle. He
grasped his cane firmly in one hand and his
bundle in the other, and sped swiftly in the
direction of the sound. He dashed through
into Dock Square, and the cry was heard
again. It was for help. He rushed on till
he found himself in the dreary and vicious
part of the North End, known then and since
as Hatter's Square.
A moment's glance, as he entered the dim
avenue, revealed the object of his pursuit.
Two ruffians had attacked a stranger in the
streets, and while he defended himself, it
was his sharp cry for succor that had roused
the orphan. His aid indeed was opportune
The stranger had sunk to the ground, and
the knee of one of the villains was upon
his breast. Henry was slight, but his sinews
were strong, and his heart brave. He paused
not, but rushed upon them, and a well-directed
blow struck the foremost senseless to the
ground. The other took counsel of his
fears, and made good his escape, at the same
instant that a watchman's rattle was heard,
in the distance, and a posse advanced to the
spot. Henry knelt beside the stranger, and
took his hand. A dagger was in his breast,
but it had not struck the heart. The sudden
blow of Henry had foiled the murderer's
purpose.
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“Hillo, hillo—o—o! here! what's the
row?” cried a burly watchman in a great
box-coat, with hook and rattle in his hand;
“A man killed—what's the matter?'
“Matter—no matter. Come and help this
man here, and take that ruffian into custody,”
said Fowler, as he bent over the fallen
stranger.
“Why, I'm blest if the man an't bleody.
Here's murder—here's assassination in the
streets of Boston!”
The eager lookers-on crowded round to
satisfy themselves that the man was really—
no mistake—bloody; and the individual who
had a moment or two before been prostrated
by Henry's blow, seeing their attention
engaged, quietly gathered himself up from
the ground, and took a station among the
throng.
A tall, slim individual, in a green frock
coat, elbowed his way through the crowd,
who awe-stricken fell back. “I am a gentleman
of the press,” said he; “what are
the facts? who are the individuals?”
Half a dozen windows new flew open;
half a dozen night-caps appeared in them,
and half a dozen cracked trebles shrieked,
“what's the matter?”
In a few minutes the wounded man recovered
sufficiently from his swoon, to thank
his preserver. His short tale was soon told,
the crowd gazing with open mouths upon
him.
“I am captain of the ship Mexique,” said
he, in a foreign accent, “I was attacked by
these ruffians, whom you have delivered me
from; I defended myself as long as I was
able, when an unlucky blow in the temple
stretched me; I can recollect nothing, then,
but a sharp pain in my side, at the same instant
that the ruffian over me reeled, and—
I suppose I must have fainted.”
“Where's the man you struck, sir?” asked
one of the watchmen of Fowler.
`Where is he?' and `where is he?' went
round the ring. `He lay there,' and `I saw
him,' cried several at once.
But he had disappeared. Henry felt a
slight pull at the string of a locket which
hung around his neck, and which contained
a lock of his sister's hair; he turned, but he
saw only the bluff face of a watchman. He
felt in his bosom; the locket was gone, the
string cut.
“He must be an old un',” said the watch,
as Henry made known his loss; “right in
the teeth of the ufficers.”
But it was useless to attempt to find him,
in the crowd that had now collected.
“But shall I not accompany you, sir,” said
Henry, turning to the wounded captain.
“Thanks, brave sir,” and leaning on his
arm he walked with Fowler from the wondering
crowd, and proceeded to the ship of
which he was commander. She was a Callao
bark, and lay in the stream.
“Mexique, a-h-o-y; send your boat ashore.”
The ship's boat soon struck the wharf, and
the captain took his seat within it. Henry
was turning to depart, when the captain said,
“Will you not come aboard, my brave
young man?”
Henry was about to refuse, but the captain
again spoke: “Come, come, amigo. We
must not part thus. I sail in the early morning—
come on board.”
Fowler thus urged, seated himself beside
the captain, and a dozen brawny arms soon
laid the quiverin boat alongside the ship.
After the captain's wound had been attended
to, he had some refreshment spread
before them, and urged Henry to partake.
“Pardon my freedom,” said the captain,
as he filled their glasses for the second time
from a bottle of old Port, and after the conversation
began to be lively, “pardon my
freedom, but may I ask what occupation
you follow?”
“At present, none,” answered Henry.
“Ah, excuse me—a gentleman, as I might
have seen.”
“No, you mistake me,” said the self-exiled
clerk. But this led to inquiries which
resulted in the orphan's relation of his whole
history.
The simple story of Henry Fowler made
a great impression upon Captain Mina. It
bore the stamp of truth, for the agitation of
the poor orphan could not have been feigned.
Yet it seemed strange indeed that a youth
scarcely of age should have renounced his
friends and his home, and fled with the brand
of suspicion upon him, rather than expose
his enemy. Many would have doubted
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Henry's truth; but Captain Mina, a man of high
feeling, saw the mainspring of the orphan's
action—a deep and lasting gratitude for the
kindness of his mother's friend, that would
never permit him to injure her child. Fowler
reasoned wrong: exposure of Richard's
character would not then have ruined him
entirely, and it might have saved him from
a darker fate. But Henry was no philosopher.
“Come with me, my brave boy,” said
Captain Mina, after Henry had finished his
recital; “come with me, and I will make
your fortune. My ship sails to-morrow. Go
with me to Lima. I have interest there.”
Henry grasped the hand of the Captain,
and thanked him for his generous offer. It
was no time to hesitate.
“And yet,” said Captain Mina, “would
you return to your employer, I will go with
you. Think well. Much as I should be
gratified in your sailing with me, you shall
do nothing against your inclination.
“Oh, sir! I cannot return. No! even
were my innocence proved, yet he has suspected
me. I cannot return.”
“Well, then, you shall not. Come with
me. Here,” continued he, opening a closet
in the cabin, “are books. You will find
some English ones among them; you—”
“But am I not to do any thing?” asked
Henry.
“Do! I think we shall find employment
enough when we get out. There, I shall
want you to keep log, read to me, and other
things. You will find enough to do. And
another thing; did you ever study Spanish?”
Henry had, in his leisure hours, made
some progress in the language, and the information
pleased his friend exceedingly.
“Well, well; you will master it easily. O,
yes, amigo, we shall find enough to do.”
CHAPTER X. THE ROBBERY.
Dorhety. “Finish this job, and we shall be rich.”
Martin. “Come on, then.”
—The Highwayman.
“Who the devil was the covey?” said the
ruffian who had fled when his comrade was
felled by Henry's blow, as they met again, in
a dark alley at the water's edge, where now
stands Quincy Market.
“Who was it? If you hadn't run away,
like a coward, you'd seen who it was. It
was Harry Fowler.”
“What could I do? half a dozen watchmen
singing out. But how came Fowler
out?”
“Hang me if I know. But I've tripped
up his heels at the store for him. But, look
you, Fred. If you ever catch me in such a
scrape again, blow me for a greeny.”
“But you proposed it, Dick.”
“Well, but how the blazes was I to know
the d—d fool would fight so?” Why, I
had to stick him in self-defence.”
“Heavens!” cried his companion, turning
pale, and seizing Martin's arm, “you didn't
murder him?”
“No, only let a little blood, and curse me
if I didn't lose my dirk, too. That Fowler's
arm is a young sledge.”
“But the man? did — did he recover.”
“Yes! don't stand there shaking. There
is no damage done. Only gi' me your hand
to thrash Fowler. His jig'll be up at the
store, soon.”
“But won't it be better to make him one
of us. D—n it, we can get him jugged.”
“Yes, and then have him peach. No, the
sneaking devil would as soon cut his own
throat as touch a cent of his master's money.
I've got a better train than that laid; ha, ha!”
“But how are we to make a raise? I'm
cleaned out, and owe Charley Minot a V.”
“Pay him?”
“When I pay my board-bill; ha, ha, ha!”
“But an't you going to try to get back to
old Billy's again?”
“No, by Jove! S'pose I'm going to be
store-sweep another year? No! can't we
make a raise? Look here, Dick, store open?
eh, my boy?”
Richard held up a key. “But what's the
use? nothing to be had; bank deposit.”
“None drawn this afternoon?”
“Yes, by hokey! I forgot. Fifteen hundred
dollars were put in the safe since bankhours.”
Fred's eyes twinkled. “Can't we have
the handling?”
“No, d—n it—our coach is blocked there
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—it's in the safe. But you got those skeleton
keys?”
“Had'em this fortnight.”
“Then it's done. Will you swear to
stick by me?”
“Yes!”
“Then we'll appropriate, and then we'll
off to New York. There'll be no staying
here; Fowler'll be suspected, and, d—n
him, he'll blow me!”
“Well, come on!”
“Give us your fist!” And the two emerged
from the alley, and stole along the water's
side till they reached Kilby street. They
crept round to the back entrance, and reconnoitred.
All was silent; the snow that
had fallen in the evening blocked up the
door, and Richard called out, “Fred, lend
us a hand to clear this.” The drift was
soon removed, and Martin unlocked the door.
“You hang on and keep watch; I'll go
in. Let's have the keys.”
Fred Johnson produced a bunch of delicate
keys, known as skeleton, and then, leaving
the door ajar, Richard entered the store.
Striking a light, he looked with a searching
gaze around the room. The rays fell upon
something beneath the door. Richard took
it up; it was Henry Fowler's letter.
The countenance of the false friend turned
pale as death, as he read the few lines. His
heart smote him for his injustice to the generous
Fowler; and the thought of all his fellow
orphan had done for him came at once
to his mind. He beheld him, in his mind's
vision, sustaining his own dying mother;
and he thought of the return he had made.
Richard was conscience-stricken. Had a
word from Henry's lips then come to his ear,
the springs of his hard heart had gushed.
He almost turned to leave the store, when
the voice of Fred. Johnson recalled him to
his former self.
“Be quick, Dick; it's most morning.
Richard opened the counting-room door,
and unlocked the safe. The money was
before him, and all thought of the wronged
Henry was banished.
“Ha, ha!” laughed he; “it's all the better.
There'll be no need of our sloping to-morrow.
Fowler'll have to bear the blame.
He's run away, and I've got his letter. Ho,
ho!”
“What the devil are you laughing at?”
cried Fred. Johnson, through the door.
“Who would'nt laugh—here's the article,”
said Martin. “Hurra! here's tin enough
for a spree,” cried he, exhibiting a roll of
bills.”
“Come, then! let's be off, and prepare for
our journey.”
“D—n it, Fred., you may go, but I'll
stay. I'll warrant you I'll get out of the
scrape. Come down to my room, and we'll
divide. You can streak if you wish, and I'll
make all right here. Come, softly!”
The promising couple closed the door, and
took their way, skulking along, till they
reached Richard's lodgings in Milk street.
Great was the wonder of the Abbot family
the next morning when Henry's seat at the
breakfast-table was vacant. The servants
knocked repeatedly at his chamber-door, but
there was no answer; and when the room
was entered, the bed was found unpressed.
Mr. Abbot knew not what to think. He
was fearful that some accident had befallen
the orphan; and he regretted his severity,
for in his heart he still thought him innocent.
With burried steps, the merchant walked
to his store. It was still unopened, and Mr.
Woodley, his partner, was at the door. They
entered together, and the merchant anxiously
inquired for Henry.
“I have not seen him since yesterday,”
was the reply.
“And Richard?”
“I have just despatched him to your house
for the keys.”
Mr. Abbot knew not what to say. He
seated himself, and took up the morning paper.
Suddenly a cry escaped his partner.
The merchant looked up, and beheld Mr.
Woodley standing pale and motionless before
the safe.
“The store has been entered. Fifteen
hundred dollars have been abstracted from
the safe.”
The paper fell from the merchant's hand.
At this moment Richard entered.
The quick eye of the clerk comprehended
at a glance the state of affairs. But his face
appeared unconscious, he trembled not, but
advanced towards Mr. Woodley.
“Richard, have you seen Henry?”
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“Not since he left the store at half past
nine o'clock last night, sir.”
“What time!”
“Half past nine, sir.”
“Were you with him?”
“No, sir, He was locking the door, when
I happened to come along, and told me he
was going home.”
“You are sure of this, Richard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Woodley, we must look into this.
Prepare some advertisements for the newspapers,
and describe this boy's appearance.”
Mr. Woodley fixed his eye on Richard, for
the young clerk was no favorito with him,
while, on the contrary, Henry's quiet virtues
had made him universally beloved. But
there appeared in Martin's countenance nothing
but blank amazement.
“Richard, you need not spread this business.”
“May I ask, sir, what it is?”
“The safe has been entered, and money
taken.”
“But you do not suspect Henry, sir,” cried
Richard, turning an appealing look to Mr.
Abbot.
“I cannot do otherwise.”
“I do not believe—”
“But yet you informed me of his previous
peculations.”
“But---but---sir, Henry would not.”
“My boy, I am afraid he is guilty. But
at present we will look further into this matter.
Mr. Woodley, you had better lodge information
of this at the police office, and take
such other steps as you may deem advisable.”
Lucia felt unhappy all the morning. She
knew not why, but Henry's absence brought
a cloud over every object. And yet she said,
“He will return; he will be home to dinner.”
But dinner came, and her father, but no
Henry. And there was a frown on Mr.
Abbot's brow, and he met not her anxious
look with his usual smile. She went up to
him, and asked, “Where is Henry?”
“I know not—he is a scoundrel!”
Lucia let fall her father's hand, and uttered
a cry, while the good Mrs. Abbot dropped
the work which she was embroidering, and
raising her spectacles, looked with an inquiring
gaze at her husband.
“You are not speaking of Henry?” she
said.
“But I am. He has absconded with fifteen
hundred dollars.”
Mrs. Abbot gazed at her husband with an
incredulous expression, and shook her head.
Lucia burst into tears.
“Father, it isn't so; you do not mean it;
say, father.”
“Nay, child, it is true. He has been in
the habit of abstracting sums from the desk;
I discovered it, and spoke with him last
evening. Fearing punishment if he remained,
perhaps, he has disappeared, having entered
the store, last night, with false keys,
and stolen all that was in the safe.”
“This is a sad affair,” said Mrs. Abbot;
“he appeared so good, so—”
“It isn't true, mother; father has been
deceived; Henry could not do it!”
“My child! But how did you discover
that he had been dishonest?” asked Mrs
Abbot.
“It was his junior, Richard Martin, who
intimate it to me.”
“And have you no reason to doubt him?”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Lucia, “it's that
Richard; he hates Henry, I know. Oh,
father! Henry is not guilty; I know he is
not!”
“Lucia, you had better retire,” said her
father; “Henry is guilty.” Lucia, with
weeping eyes, went to her chamber.
“I was loth to think this of Henry,” said
the merchant to his wife. “I thought that
Richard might have been mistaken. I knew
not that he might not have some object. But
this last night's business has forced me to
believe him guilty. He was seen last night
to enter the store.”
“By whom?”
“Richard, and—”
Mrs. Abbot looked distrustful; “Richard
again?”
“The watchman, too, met Henry at midnight,
in the midst of the storm. He had a
packet in his hand, and appeared in great agitation.
All is against him.”
“And yet I doubt his guilt!” said Mrs.
Abbot.
Lucia was in her chamber, weeping
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bitterly for her lost friend. Yet she said not, `I
doubt his guilt,' but “I know he is innocent.”
Henry was out on the broad sea, ten hours'
sail from Boston. Had he known the gentle
Lucia's thoughts, his heart had not been
sad!
CHAPTER XI. FANNY.
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage began.
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Farewell a word that must be, and hath been,
A sound that makes us linger,yet farewell
Childe Harold.
What a happy creature was Fanny Fowler!
happy in her own blithe heart and her
own sweet temper. But she was not now
the little laughing Fanny of other days; but
the levely and innocent maiden of sweet sixteen.
And she was a favorite with all, and,
most of all, with Mrs. Merton, the kind lady
who had adopted her. All loved the sweet
girl, and joyed to hear her merry voice at
home, or her light laugh in the green woods.
And Fanny was grateful, too, to her kind
friends. Bright and joyous would she return
from her early rambles, when summer sprinkled
the fields with snow-drops, and garlanded
the woods with jessamine, to lay on
Mrs. Merton's table the freshest bunch of
flowers. But most of all she loved to prepare
a flower-gift for her Henry, and many a
green wreath and sweet boquet were woven
to send to Bosten for her dear brother. But
when from him came a letter, then was the
maiden's gladnass. It was read again and
again, and thea deposited among her choicest
treasures.
It was a cold, raw afternoon. Fanny had
just returned from school, and sat with Mrs.
Merton, by the bright fire, reading a story of
the pilgrims' trials and triumphs. It was her
usual occupation the long winter afternoons.
A knock came to the door.
“A letter for Miss Fanny,” said Cæsar,
as his shining face appeared at the parlor-door.
“O, from Henry,” cried she, dropping her
book, and starting up. The good black's
countenance reflected the joy that sparkled
in the eyes of his young mistress. He handed
her the letter, and then lingered to ask
about “Massa Henry's” health.
Fanny broke the seal. Alas for the joy of
the sister's heart! It was her brother's farewell
and blessing. He was going to South
America. The letter fell from the sister's
hand, and she burst into passionate tears.
Mrs. Merton drew the poor girl to her bosom,
and Fanny tried again to read:—
“ * * * * Fanny, I have been wronged;
suspected of a crime; and I cannot explain.
I shall go a distant land. When I return, I
trust, my immocence will be established. O,
my dear sister, may heaven guard you! Remember
your poor brother, and pray for him.
Good-bye, my dear, dear Fanny —”
She could read no farther, but, throwing
her arms around the neck of Mrs. Merton,
she sobbed long and bitterly. Had he then
left her — his sister — and gone to a foreiga
land? she could not bolieve it. “He would
not leave his Fanny!” she murmured. But
he was suspected — of a crime! What was
it?
Her kind friend's tears mingled with the
orphan's, as she perused poor Henry's letter.
It was the outpouring of a brother's love;
and there was so much sorrow, too, and yet
so high, so noble a tone of resolution in it,
that she could not but believe the writer's
was a virtuous soul. “Dear Fanny,” she
said, “do not weep Of whatever he is accused,
I believe he is innocent. Dry your
tears, my dear child, and pray with me that
he may be proved so.”
The orphan knelt by the side of her kind
hearted friend, and prayed for her her far-off
brother.
But the next day a letter came from Mr.
Abbot, and the cold, hard statement of the
merchant almost carried conviction to the
mind of Mrs. Merton. A postscript was in
Mrs. Abbot's hand, and it relieved the heart
of her sister, for it spoke her belief in Henry's
innocence, and her fear that Mr. Abbot
was deceived.
A kind note came, too, from Lucia; a note
for Henry's sister. Fanny wept and smiled
over it; for it breathed the writer's confidence
in the suspected one, and her love and
sympathy for his sister. “May heaven bless
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[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
her kind heart,” said she; “for she believes
my brother guiltless.”
“You had better write to your cousin Lucia,”
said Mrs. Merton.
Fanny looked up in her face; “Cousin?”
she said.
“And are you not my adopted daughter,
my dear child?” said the lady, kissing the
orphan's forehead.
Fanny's tears gushed forth again, but they
were not sorrowful tears. “Cousin!” she
repeated; “cousin Lucia!”
How much often lies hid in a single word!
How much the future may develope! Time
is the Grave-digger—and—the Resurrectionist!
CHAPTER XII. CONCERT HALL.
Where the gas lights burn so brightly,
Where the music sounds so sprightly,
Wilt thou meet me there, love?
Where the hacks and cabs are posting
To the fancy halls in Bosting,
Wilt thou meet me there, love?
—Song.
“Where's Fred. Johnson gone, Dick?”
“New York.”
“Have you heard from Fowler?”
“No, he's got clear; Woodley's mad as
h—l.” G-d, I thought he would be on to
me.”
“You, Dick?”
“Yes, you see I was intimate with the
cursed scamp.”
“Well, you going to Forster's, to-night?”
“I don't know; what's the spree?”
“Oh, a ball. Go; Frank Block is going.”
“Who do you take, Ned?”
“Kate.”
“Hang on to her still, eh?”
“Yes, d—n it, can't get rid of her. But
you'll go, won't you?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Be ou hand, then; I'll meet you at the
Exchange, at 7 o'clock.”
“Exchange, 7 o'clock, yes.”
This conversation took place between our
worthy friend Dick, and a worthy associate,
and clerk, Ned Rifton. Ned was a wild fellow,
but an honorable one; and so Dick
“kept dark,” as he expressed it, in his company.
“Forster's,” as Concert Hall was
designated, was then, as now, used as an assembly
room, for the elite of the town; and
the ball of to-night was the best of the season.
Richard, since his successful villany,
had not mingled much with his former associates,
but had confined himself exclusively
to business, hoping to elude thus the suspicions
of Mr. Woodley, whom he knew suspected
that there had been some foul play.
Mr. Abbot had repeatedly questioned Richard
upon what he knew of his fellow-clerk's habits,
and, with a cunning beyond his years
he had invariably labored to give as favorable
a east to the orphan's character as he
could. He spoke so often of Henry's generosity,
and told how he had assisted him in
his boyish troubles, that he grew daily more
and more in the good graces of his master;
and even Lucia, who had boldly avowed her
suspicions of Richard, in the outset, began
insensibly to believe that she had wronged
him, and that he was indeed, as he protessed,
a friend to the lost Henry.
Concert Hall was in its glory. To be sure
there was no “big lantern” then, and the
deacons, and cobblers, and stone fences, and
fries, and stews, were not then, as now, the
lares of the establishment. But Forster kept
a good table, prime bar, and got out fine
“sprees” for the F. Y. M. of the town. Tonight
the windows were brilliantly illuminated,
and the merry jigs and contra dances
kept time to the inspiring music. There was
the mingling of the pure and the polluted:
the enervated roue, and the young girl trusted
by her proud mamma to “a friend's” protection.
Richard Martin and Ned Rifton
were there, with their associate Frank Block.
Rifton was accompanied by a girl of seventeen,
a lovely creature, yet with the stamp of
violent passions on her brow, and a reckless
expression in her dark eye. She was virtuous,
and Ned Rifton knew it, and he loved
her. Yet his long intercourse with her had
been interpreted by his loose companions as
one not favorable to Kate's character. Ned
had not the courage to deny their suspicions
and hence his slighting mention of her name
to Martin. Yet he loved her, and was beloved.
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“How can you endure that Martin?” asked
Kate Willis of her partner.
“Oh, he's a jovial, social fellow, Kate,”
answered Ned. “You don't know him;
you must be acquainted with him. Here,
Dick; allow me to present to you my dear
friend, Miss Willis, Mr. Martin,” said the
young buck, with a wink at the person addressed,
which was not annoticed by the
quick eyes of the fair one.
Richard made his best “Schaffer-bow,” as
the salute of a celebrated professor of antics
in those days was called; and the lady greeted
him with a most captivating smile. He
requested her hand for the next cotillion.
She did not refuse, though she had wondered
`how Ned could endure that Martin'!
What had changed Kate so suddenly? The
wink of Ned had nettled her, for she knew
too well what it meant, and she resolved to
play off Dick against her lover.
Ned Rifton felt unhappy. He knew not
why, but he did not like to see Dick intimate
with Kate so suddenly. Three times he had
asked her hand for a dance; she was engaged;
she danced with Mr. Martin. “The
devil take Martin,” thought Ned; “but I'm
glad of it. I shall get rid of the girl.” Ned
thought so, but he felt it not. Such is the
friendship and confidence of the “jovial
souls!”
The merry sets whirled round in the mazy
dance. The brilliant lights shed their glare
on the smiling faces, and the gorgeous dresses.
Dick talked, and laughed, and rattled
away, the gayest of the gay. Kate had enchanted
him. Where was Henry Fowler!
There was a pause in the dancing, and
Richard Martin and Kate Willis promenaded
the hall. Suddenly a hand was laid upon
the arm of the clerk. He turned and beheld—
Fred. Johnson.
“You here,” cried he, turning pale.
“Yes; can't you disengage yourself,
Dick?”
Martin spoke a few words to Kate, and
led her to a seat. Ned Rifton was by her
side in a moment.
“You were agreeably entertained by the
`unendurable' Martin?” said Ned.
Kate looked up with a provoking smile.
“Yes, he is another instance of how one
may be deceived by first impressions.”
“And pray may I ask who was the first?”
Kate sighed; she saw he was vexed.
“I can interpret that sigh—”
“And what may be your interpretation,
sir?”
“That you are tired of me, Miss Willis.”
“Ha, ha! you are a wizard,” laughed Kate.
Ned Rifton sprang to his feet.
“Don't let us have a scene here,” said the
malicious girl.
“H—l and—”
“Ah, Ned, how are you,” said Frank
Block, advancing. “Miss Willis, may I request
your hand for the next dance?”
“Certainly.” And she gave her hand to
Frank, with a triumphant smile, as she noticed
Ned's amazement. Rifton looked after
her a moment. “The devil! does she
mean to—”
He walked across the hall, and requested
the homeliest girl he could find to favor him
with her hand; and led her to the set in
which were Kate and her partner.
And there they danced. Both felt vexed
and unhappy; every word they spoke seemed
to choke. Yet they exchanged scornful
glances. This was jealousy; and what
young lovers call—a proper spirit! Ho, ho!
“What in the old-boy's name are you back
here for?” asked Dick, as he rejoined Fred.
Johnson; “supposing you're suspected?”
“I'm in a serape and you must get me
out; what say you?”
“What's the row?”
“I've been passing bogus.”
“The devil you have! Where's your
share of our lift?”
“Gone by the board long ago, and, d—a
it, I wish I had gone too—”
“Come in here,” said Martin, leading him
to a private room; “let's hear the yarn.
Here, waiter, a couple of punches.”
“Why, you see it's just here,” said Fred.
as he drained his liquor and replaced the
glass, “I got to New York flush; staid there
a fortnight, and found myself with a hundred
and fifty out of six hundred—the d—d
faro-table swallowed it up. I then went up
the river, to see an old aunt of mine, and—”
Fred. stopped. He seemed undecided
whether to go on or not.
“Well, what then?” asked Dick.
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“I was received by the old lady like a
son; and by her daughter Mary—”
A smile stole over Richard Martin's features.
“But what's the use in dwelling on it,”
continued Fred. “I fell in love with Mary—”
“And seduccd her, eh, Fred.?”
“Yes! black-hearted scoundrel that I was—
I did—”
“Ha, ha! Fred. Johnson, going to preach?”
“Preach? no, but practise; will you listen
to me?”
“Go on.”
“We eloped together—hired lodgings in
New York, and—I lived happy for a short
time. Well, the money was soon spent.
How long have I been gone?”
“Three months.”
“Well, six weeks from the time I left
Boston, I found myself with twenty dollars
in my pocket, expensive lodgings, and a
helpless girl depending on me. Dick, I risked
that—that last—and—lost it!”
Fred. paused, and covered his face with
his hands.
“More fool you,” thought Richard Martin,
but he said nothing.
“Well, I lost it, and left the table. As I
went out of the door, the man who won it
followed me; `Sir,' said he, `I'll lend you
what you've lost, if you want to try your
luck again.' I grasped at his offer; played,
and won—won, won, won!”
“D—d lucky dog,” thought Dick, but
he still said nothing.
“After the hell was closed, I refunded the
money which the stranger had lent me. He
requested me to aceompany him home; when
we arrived—”
“This is a cursed long yarn,” thought
Dick, but he did not think aloud.
“`Young man,' said he `do you know
what you've been doing to-night?' I looked
at him. `You've been playing with counterfeit
stakes. Look at the bills I let you
have.' I looked; they appeared to me as
good. `And yet,' continued he, `this is all
bogus.'
`Explain yourself, sir,' says I.
`Why, it is simply this. I saw you were
in a strait. I thought your fortune might
turn, and I offered you this loan. If you had
lost, it would have been only the expense of
the paper to me; if you gained, you'd pay
me in current money.'
`But supposing I had been discovered, and
the money proved false?'
`That would have been your business.'
`But if I had revealed your loan?'
`What good would it have done you? I
could and should have proved that you had
lost your money to me in the evening. I
should have maintained that I lent you what
I won of you; could you have disproved it?'
I was thunderstruck. `You are uncommonly
candid, sir,' said I.
`Why should'nt I be; no one overhears
our conversation. But hark ye, young man.
I have an object. If you will join me, you
shall be rich. You see how easy it is to escape
detection. We will work together. If
one is accused at the gaming table, the other
shall support him in implicating some one
else.”'
“And you closed with him, eh, Fred.?”
said Dick, with a cunning wink.
“What could I do? I knew not what the
man might do. His coolness surprised me,
and, to speak the truth, I felt afraid of him.
Then I thought of Mary; she had been accustomed
to every luxury; d—n it, I
couldn't have her suffer, and I knew not but
she might.”
“Why didn't you leave her?”
“Look here, Dick! I love that girl; she
is the—By heaven, I would not leave her
for my life!”
“And yet you seduced her,” said Richard,
sneeringly.
“Yes, and by heaven, I will marry her
Dick Martin, you don't know her She has
changed me.”
“Well, no matter about that. Go on with
your story.”
“I fell into the snare. I started the false
money, and won. And Stimson, the villain,
encouraged me. But it could not last long.
I lost; I was discovered, and Stimson, the
traitor, deserted me.”
“And you was lagged?”
“No, thank God. I escaped. I gave up
to the master of the hell five hundred dollars.
I had won. I am here, without a cent Mary
is here, too.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I want two hundred dollars, and will
leave town.”
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“And where do you expect to raise it,
Fred.?”
“Of you, Dick?”
“Of me?”
“Yes, yes! I must have it of you. I know
you've got it, and—why do you look so,
man?”
“Fred., you had your share.”
“Dick, I know you're a d—d rascal.
But I must have that money. I know your
secret, and by H—I, old Abbot shall know it
too, if you refuse me.”
“Softly, Fred.; who talked of refusing
you?” said Dick, startled at the vehemence
of his companion. “But, hang it, I—I—
havn't got it now.”
“None of that, Dick,” said Fred., threateningly.
“It's a fact. I have put it in some ventures.”
“It's a lie!”
Dick turned pale, and clinched his hands;
but his prudence did not forsake him. “I
tell you it's true. I have invested it in half
a dozen small ventures. I've got but fifty
on hand.”
“Dick, I believe you are gumming. But
let us have the fifty. That'll only pay a
few of my debts.”
“Let 'em run.”
“I've had an officer dogging me all day—”
“D—n it, you shall have it!”
They re-entered the hall.
“Ha! Fred., returned?” exclaimed Frank
Block, as he recognised them. “Here, Ned,
Johnson's got back.”
“Hillo, old boy! glad to see you.”
Richard Martin rejoined Kate Willis. He
danced, laughed, and chatted with her. Ned
was in an agony. The brilliant ball closed,
and not till then, did he rejoin Kate Willis.
He attended her home in silence.
CHAPTER XIII. THE COUNTERFEITER.
A bold, bad man,
Who murders with a smile upon his lip,
And laughs at vil any.
—Brooks.
Richard and Fred. left the hall together.
“When can you let me have it, Dick?”
“To-morrow night.”
“Honor bright?”
“Honor bright.”
They parted. As Dick walked with hurried
steps along, he noticed that he was followed
by a stout man, dressed in a great white
coat. Dick fixed his eyes on him, and kept
his way, but he found that the stranger still
dogged him. As he reached his lodgings in
Milk street, the man advanced, and laying
his hand upon the clerk's arm, “I should
like to speak with you,” said he.
“Walk in,” said Richard, surprised; “I
have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir,”
continued he, as the light fell on the stranger's
face.
“No. You will probably know me better
some time, however,” said the stranger,
carelessly, as he unbuttoned his coat, and
threw himself back in a chair; “my name
is Stimson”
“Stimson?” echoed Martin.
“Ay! you have heard some fine tales of
me, probably. You were closeted with my
young friend, Fred. Johnson.”
“And how know you that?”
“O, some have considered me ubiquitous,”
said the stranger. “But no matter. I want
to have a little talk with you. Will you tell
me how you are connected with Johnson?”
“And why should I inform a stranger—”
“Let's be better acquainted; if you'll trust
me, we shall. Did Johnson tell you of the
gambling business?”
“Bogus,” said Dick, placing his forefinger
at the side of his nose.
“Ah, I see you know; well, he said I
backed out—left him, eh?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, it's true. But, I'll tell you why.
I found he was—honest!”
“Honest!—ha, ha!”
“Yes, or about to be. Now, my dear
young friend,” continued the stranger, with
a bland smile, “I have a great horror of the
animal called a `repentant rogee.' I'd rather
have a fine, spirited fellow, who don't mind
sticking sea-captains, on a pinch, or unlocking—
safes—etc.—ha, ha, ha!”
Dick started. “He knows all,” thought
he. “I must work my card.” Stimson noticed
his agitation.
“Now will you trust me?”
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“Can I depend on you?”
“Depend? why, my boy, can't I blow you
this minute, if I wish it. But you are safe.”
“And what—”
“I know what you would ask. I'll be
frank with you. Johnson told me all about
your scrape, when he was half-drunk. Says
I, this is a fellow of the right mettle, and I
resolved to see you. I have a scheme in
preparation, and want a fellow of your spunk.
As for that fellow, Johnson, he's a cowardly
curse. Now, tell me what he said, for I
reckon he tried to milk you.”
“D—n him,” said Dick; and he proceeded
to detail Fred.'s conversation; for he
felt himself in the power of the stranger,
and resolved to trust him, though he plotted
in his heart—revenge!
“And you are going to pay him the hush-money,
eh?”
“What can I do?”
“Do? I'll let you into the secret Pay
him the fifty—pay him. He has in his possession
a hundred or two of the bogus; but
his d—d honest scruples, that he has picked
up, will make him destroy them. He has
not yet done so, I know. Well, pay him,
and make him promise not to reveal your
secret. Then, my boy, I'll jug him. I will
send a letter to the police, informing them
that a famous gambler and counterfeiter is in
town. They'll arrest him, and the bogus
will be found. D—n it, don't you see,”
cried Stimson, rubbing his hands, and good-humoredly
punching his comrade; “don't
you see?”
“I see it, yes!” said Dick. “But won't
he peach? And how shall you escape?”
“Ho, ho—I shall make myself scarce.—
Now, will you come into my scheme?”
“What is it?”
“The particulars are in this paper,” said
the stranger, taking a packet from his bosom.
“Read them, and I will see you at this hour
to-morrow night. Pay Johnson—two hours
from the time he receives your fifty—he's
jugged. All night, my boy!”
For a few minutes after Stimson had left,
Richard Martin remained in deep thought.
Then, seizing the paper which the stranger
had given him, he hurriedly perused its contents.
It was the plan of a contemplated mutiny
on board the ship Halcion, in which
Stimson, and three others had engaged passages.
Four others also, were in the plot,
who had shipped as seamen in the same vessel.
The paper went on to state that, after
the mutiny, the vessel was to run for the
Floridas, and then take on board twelve
more who were sworn to the business.
“A well-concerted plan, truly,” thought
the young clerk. “But if the fool thinks I'll
play second fiddle, he's mistaken, that's all.
But hang it, can't I turn this to my advantage?
This paper—But no; blast it, he'll
blab my secret if I try to injure him. I'm in
a h—l of a hobble; but I reckon I'll sleep
on it.” So saying the `nice young man' adjourned
to the land of Nod.
After Fred. Johnson left Dick, he took his
course for the North End, and crossing the
Mill Creek, wound round the back street, till
he reached Sun Court, where now stands the
Mariner's Bethel, but which was then occupied
by one of those old oak-panelled, family
mansions, that have now nearly all been
swept away before the avalanche of bricks
and mortar. It was once the residence of
one of the colonial dignitaries, when Boston
was a colonial town, and the North End was
in its glory. But it was now no longer illumined
by the blaze of festal mirth, nor
echoed the deserted chambers to the sound
of merry music. Fred. entered the unfastened
front door, and passed along the broad
hall, till he reached the small winding staircase,
which conducted him to the chamber
of his Mary.
She was a beautiful being. With a face almost
infantile in its contour, and in the expression
of trust and confidence that beamed
from it; a complexion as fair as the lily,
through which the rich blood mantled like
the sunlight upon an alabaster bust. She
was indeed beautiful. And for such as thou,
Fred. Johnson, had this being of beauty fallen.
She sprang to her feet, as Fred. gently unclosed
the door, and threw herself in his
arms. “My dear Frederick, you have been
gone so long.”
“But I am returned, my love,” said the
young man tenderly, as he kissed her fair
brow, “Soon, soon I hope we shall be always
together.” Mary sighed. Alas! she
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felt that prescience which the sage nor the
wizard can command.
“Frederick, have you seen that rough
man who came to visit you in New York?”
“No, my love! have you heard aught of
him?” asked Johnson, anxiously.
“He has been here.”
“Here!” echoed Fred., “then I am lost!”
“What mean you, Frederick,” cried
Mary, alarmed at the paleness which overspread
her lover's countenance. “Lost—
nay— what mean you?”
“Nothing. But that man is my enemy.”
“Ah, Frederick, will you not confide in
me? There is some trouble in your heart.—
Dear Frederick, speak!”
“I dare not tell you, Mary, you would—”
“Cling to you and comfort you, forever,”
cried the girl. “O, if you are guilty, you
are still my Frederick—my own dear—”
“Husband, it shall be,” interrupted the
youth vehemently. “O forgive me for my
cruelty—my baseness. We will fly from the
town to the happy home of my father. He
will pardon his guilty son, and love that son's
dear wife. Mary! I will reveal all to you—
my guilt—my misery.”
And while the head of the trusting girl
rested on the bosom of her lover, he told the
whole history of his life—left not one word
unsaid. And then Mary looked up in his
face with a quiet smile, and said, “I love
you better—better than ever!
“But you must not receive that Martin's
money. We will fly from him. Here—
here are the jewels which you gave me,
here are some of my own—my watch; take
them, Frederick, they will be sufficient for
us. We will go to your home, and it shall
be mine, shall it not, dear Frederick!”
“Forever! And here,” cried the youth,
sinking upon his knees, “here I swear, never
again to swerve from the strict path of rectitude.
May God give me strength to keep
my resolution.”
“Amen,” said Mary.
Some villanous plot
Is working to my ruin. Said he aught,
Or smiled he while he planned mischance to me?
Shipton.
Wednesday afternoon. And the nine
worshipful selectmen of the good town of
Boston had met at their office in Faneuil
Hall. A letter was brought in, and forthwith
opened.
Johnson, a celebrated gambler and forger,
who has escaped from New York, is now in
town. Counterfeit money which he intends
to utter is now in his possession. The police
had better be speedy. His house is 15 Sun-Court
street, and he will probably be found
there, at 10, P. M. When he is arrested,
your informant will make further disclosures
affecting the public weal, if his own safety
shall be guarantied him.
A Friend.
This was a bone for the nine worthy selectmen
to pick. It must be seen to. What
impudence! A gambler and forger! Counterfeited
money!
“Send for the superintendent of police.”
“But isn't it a hoax?” put in a wary member
of the worthy nine
“No,” was the majority's voice. “It is
plain that some rascal reveals the secret
through revenge.” So the superintendent of
police was sent for, and the “council of ten”
resolved upon the arrest of the unsuspecting
Johnson.
Frederick and Mary were together. They
had just finished their simple supper, and
were conversing; Fred. making new resolutions
of amendment, and Mary, with her
sweet smile, encouraging him in all. A knock
was heard, and Johnson, opening it, ushered
in Richard Martin.
Dick fairly started back, on beholding the
beautiful apparition that rose at her lover's
introduction, to greet him. He advanced,
and returned her salutation.
“I have come to let you have the small
sum I owe you,” said he to Fred. Mary cast
a glance at Johnson.
“I think I shall not need this sum, Richard,”
said Frederick.
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“Not need it,” echoed Dick. “Surely,
surely, Fred.—”
“I do not wish it. You have nothing to
fear from me, however.”
“Can I speak a few words in private with
you?” whispered Dick.
“If you wish it.” He opened the door of
a small apartment, and ushered Richard into
it. “Martin,” said he, after the door was
closed, “I do not want this money. I have
given up my old principles, thank God! I
wish you would.”
Dick laughed. “You're going to peach,
eh?”
“No. But I'm changed from what I
was.”
“Well, I suppose your change will make
you desert and betray your old friend.”
“Not so; your secret is safe; at least so
long as you are my friend.”
“And do you not think I am your friend?”
“I hope you are. But—”
“And why will you not take this?”
“I will not. But I will not betray you.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise you, Dick.”
“I'm satisfied. Now, Fred., is that the
piece, eh? is that your Mary?”
“It's my wife.”
“Your wife, ha, ha! when did the ceremony
take place?”
“It shall take place to-morrow.”
Dick smiled. “To-morrow!” thought he,
and laughed within himself.
They returned to the room in which they
had left Mary. Richard talked and laughed
a half hour; and fancied he had made a favorable
impression. Mary listened to him,
and he treated her with studious politeness,
as if not aware of the position which she
occupied. She was flattered by the attentions
of her Frederick's tempter. She knew
he was a villain; yet he was a pleasing one.
Richard bade them farewell, and Fred. felt
as if a load had been taken from his breast,
for he had resisted Satan, “and he had fled
from him.”
“Thus you are free again, my Frederick,”
murmured Mary; but as she spoke the door
once more opened, and two men advanced.
“Your name, sir,” was the first question
addressed to Johnson.
“Frederick Johnson I am called.”
“You are our prisoner—”
“For what am I arrested?”
“Counterfeiting. Come, walk!”
“He is not guilty. He has not committed
it. Ye shall not arrest him,” were Mary's
wild and rapid exclamations, as she flung
herself upon the neck of Johnson.
“That's gammon,” said one of the officers.
But the other gently unclosed her
fingers, and attempted to lead her away. But
she uttered a wild shriek, and again her arms
were clasped around the neck of her lover.
Frederick spoke not; but he kissed the
bloodless lips of his Mary, and pressed her
to his heart.
“Who has done this?” she cried.
“It is the work of Stimson,” returned
Frederick; “but calm yourself, dear Mary.
They will release me soon.” Her hold relaxed
around his neck. The officer quickly
stretched out his hand, or she would have
fallen.
“She has fainted, sir,” said the officer,
and his hard features wore a pitying expression,
as he gazed on the loveliness he upheld.
“Shall I lay her on the bed?”
Frederick motioned him to do so. Then,
bending over her he kissed her pale cheek.
“Will you request the lady who lives beneath
us to attend to her?”
The officer left the room and returned with
the woman. Frederick cast one more look
at the form of his Mary, then he followed
his conductors—to prison!
Dick met the stranger, Stimson. Together
they cracked a bottle of wine, and laughed
over the fall of Johnson. Together they
arranged the plan of a darker scheme. Then
Dick went to bed, and slept—very soundly.
Alas, poor Fred. To this had all his resolutions
come. In this had his hopes and
aspirations ended. He was in inmate of a
dungeon—a prisoner, and a criminal. Three
days had passed away—three long nights,
too, of vigil and restlessness. What had been
the fate of his Mary? Was she in the power
of Stimson? He shuddered at the thought.
The lock of the cell-door snapped, and the
turnkey entered with a lady veiled. But
Fred. knew at a glance his Mary, and extending
his arms, with a cry of joy she sank
within them.
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What a world is woman in herself! how
mighty her influence for good or for evil!—
Through this woman had come the change
in Johnson's character. From the wild, careless,
unprincipled youth he had become—in
resolve, at least—an honorable man. And
what a strange thing is the heart of a woman.
It pours itself out in love for the depraved—
the worthless of our sex; but within it, still,
there lies the little leaven of good which will
leaven the whole of man's vileness. Mary
loved Fred. She saw not his faults when
she loved him, and she fell. But from the
depth she now strove to rise, and bear upward,
on the wings of her love, her repentant
lover.
“Mary! this is kind, I had feared for you—
has that villain Stimson—”
“Alas, Frederick, there is a greater villain
than him to fear.”
“What mean you?”
“O, Frederick—I have suffered so much—
I have been wronged—insulted—”
“Who has dared?—speak, Mary!”
“Martin—hear me Frederick. He came
to me on the morning after your arrest. He
told me that he would conduct me to you. I
was overjoyed at the offer—for I knew not
whither they had dragged you. But—but—”
“Go on, Mary—tell me—”
“He brought a coach to the door; I entered
it with him, and we were driven I
know not where; I found myself among
strangers, and—and—he insulted me—with
the vilest propositions—O Frederick—would
we had been married!”
“He has not dared—”
“He would have dared anything. I spurned
him, for though fallen, I am not the
wretched thing he deemed me. Three days
was I confined, and insulted by the villain's—”
“By the God of heaven he shall answer
for this—I will—”
“Let us leave him to the God of heaven,”
said Mary—I have escaped—”
“And how, Mary?”
“This morning he came to me again. He
renewed his infamous proposals. He told
me you had been tried and sentenced—that
I was alone, and helpless. I knew the villain
lied—I told him so, and he was enraged—”
“And—and—Mary—what—”
“He swore that I should be his—I resisted
him—I screamed, for he was strong, and
a stranger rushed in, and—I—”
“Was preserved, my Mary,—who was
he?”
“He led me from that dreadful place—I
begged him to take me to the prison—he
complied. He is below, now.”
“I must see him —think him. Will you
request the gentleman below to enter,” said
Fred. to the jailor, who had remained outside
the door. The turnkey withdrew, and
returned with the stranger. Fred. gazed at
him a moment, then springing forward he
grasped his hand; “Ned Rifton?” cried he.
“Ha, my dear Fred., is it you? Jove, my
boy. I didn't know it—how are you—”
“I will tell you all, Ned. But first let me
thank you for my wife Ned, may—”
“Hang it, don't mention it. But what a
d—d rascal that Martin is, to be sure.—
Why, I never could have believed it—but
let's hear how you've got caged.”
Again was the tale of crime repeated, and
Ned Rifton grasped his friend's hand, as he
concluded, and Mary turned her mild eyes
on Fred., and he was strengthened.
CHAPTER XV. KATE.
There is a tide in the affairs of women,
Which, taken at the flood, leads
—God knows where,
Don Juan.
“Dick Martin, you are in a scrape,”
thought Richard, as he left the “assignation
house,” after recovery from the effects of a
blow which had prostrated him; a blow that
had been dealt by the hand of Ned Rifton,
and had rescued Mary from his clutches.
He walked across the Common, and took
his way to the store. It was ten o'clock,
and he had not been there before that morning.
Mr. Woodley greeted him rather harshly
as he entered. “Hang it,” thought Dick,
“should they find out, I should get small favor
in that quarter.” The day wore away,
and Richard was confined closely to the desk.
Many and confused were the thoughts of the
abandoned youth. He had been foiled in
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
his attempts on the mistress of his friend,
and he felt sore and revengful. He had recognised
the rescuer of the girl, and with the
thought of Ned Rifton, came the form of
Kate Willis to his mind. “I'll try the girl;
I'll be revenged on him. Ha, ha! Dick
Martin, Boston'll soon be too hot to hold
you. But, d—n it, when my jig's up,
hurra for the Gulf of Mexico!”
That night Dick visited Kate Willis. And
she was pleased, for Martin knew well whom
he dealt with, and his smile and his word
were winning.
There are moments in a woman's life,
when the scale of her destiny is poised. This
was Kate's. She had listened to the tempter,
for he promised her revenge. For what?
for Ned's coldness, which she herself had
caused. Yet to herself she would not own
it. Ned Rifton had deserted her—so Richard
assured her—he had spoken slightingly
of her to his friends; he had boasted of his
easy conquest. Richard lied not there, and
Kate vowed revenge.
“He never loved me.”
“Rifton in love, dear Kate? I know him
too well.” As Dick said this his arm was
round Kate's neck, and his lips close to her
warm cheek. Her heart beat fast— * * *
Richard left Kate Willis an hour after.
“You're a lucky dog, Dick Martin,” muttered
he to himself, “You were born under
Venus.”
As Dick passed from the house of Kate
Willis, a figure passed him which he recognised.
He turned, and followed it to the door
he had just quitted. It was Ned Rifton.
Dick heard him ascend the stairs that conducted
to her room.
Kate was seated upon the sofa, and rose
to meet her quondam lover.
He took her hand, and led her to a seat.
“Kate,” said he, “I once loved you; I imagined
it was returned, but I was deceived.”
“No, no! not deceived, not deceived, Edward!”
cried the guilty girl. She thought
of Richard Martin, and buried her face in
her hands.
“Martin can best tell that. Yes, you have
deceived me, Kate. I have come to bid you
farewell!”
“Edward, no!”
“But beware of that Martin. As I once
loved you, as I love you still, Kate, I warn
you. He is a scoundrel, whose crimes will
to-morrow be exposed.
“Edward, Edward! you will not leave
me. Martin is not what you suppose—he—
he loves me.”
Loves you, Kate? ha, ha! But tell me—
speak—he—” Ned could not finish the sentence.
Kate looked at him with a vacant air; she
seemed to wait for him to speak.
“He is a villain, Kate Willis; a villain of
the deepest die; he has tempted others to
crime, only to desert them; he has consigned
his friend to a prison, and attempted the honor
of that friend's wife—”
“This is not Richard.”
“It is true, by heaven! Kate, promise
me you will guard yourself against this man.
He will ruin you.”
“Oh, Edward Rifton, spurn me from you.
I am lost! I am fallen! I love him not.
But—but—” She sank insensible at the feet
of her astonished visiter.
Ned raised her from the floor. As he did
so, the door opened, and Richard Martin
entered. With an oath on his lip, Ned
sprang to his feet, and confronted the clerk.
“Villain!” came to his lips. “But you
have not long to run.”
Dick laughed. “Before to-morrow, may-hap,
you nor your d—d fool of a friend,
Johnson, will be able to track Dick Martin,
ha, ha! I heard your fine story, my dear
friend Ned.”
Ned rushed forward, and grasped the throat
of Dick.
“Unhand me, Ned Rifton, if you please.”
“You stir not from here, sir, but to prison;
your tune's up, my friend,” said Ned, compressing
the clerk's neck with the grasp of a
vice.
Dick quietly drew a pistol from his pocket,
and pointed it at the breast of Rifton.
“No, my dear Ned, you had much better
take care of `ma chere amie' on the floor
there,” said he, pointing to the still insensible
form of Kate Willis; “women of such
easy virtue”—Ned started and his hand dropped—
“need a protector against the `villain
Martin.' ”
“What mean you?”
“What I say---that Dick Martin found as
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much favor with Kate as most husbands do
with their better halves, ha, ha, ha!”
And with a sweep of his arm, Dick sprang
to the door, and disappeared. Ned bent over
the reviving Kate, and she awoke; awoke
to her guilt. Truly, she was revenged; and
such is the revenge of the sex—their own
ruin!
CHAPTER XVI. NEW YORK.
A weed,
Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath
prevail.
Childe Harold
At eight o'clock, the next morning, the
dull beams of a winter sun shone on a little
schooner, sailing with a spanking breeze
from the harbor of Boston. On board were
two individuals previously favorably known
to the reader; their names were Richard
Martin, and our friend Stimson. At nine
o'clock the affidavit of Frederick Johnson to
the robbery of Abbot & Co., was on file in
the town court.
Away went the little bark over the blue
waters. Stimson unfolded carefully the plan
of his contemplated villany. “How much
l'argent do you at present possess, my young
friend?” asked he of Dick, with a winning
smile.
“A couple of hundreds.”
“Which will give you a genteel fit-out in
the piratical line.”
“Piratical?”
“Ay, you did not think that mutiny was
our only object. No, my boy, a few years
cruising in the Main will fill our pockets,
and then we can hoist colors for one of the
five hundred republics of South America,
and with a commission, sail scot free. Hey,
my boy, what say you?”
“Why can we not hoist colors at first,
and procure a commission, it'll be safer.”
“Don't you see? Well, they're all by
the ears now, and it would puzzle a Philadelphia
lawyer to tell which will beat. So,
we free boys of the ocean will prey on all,
and declare for the one that fights longest—
ho!”
“A fine plan if we don't fail in the outset.”
“Fail, my boy! there's no such a word in
the almanac I go by; no, our way is clear;
only be firm, and don't stick, and your fortune's
made.”
“And yours marred,” thought Dick—and
then, he plotted in his thoughts his own
schemes, for he hated the man with whom
he had linked himself, and revenge was his
god.
New York burst upon them—New York,
with its thousand ships, and its thousand
warehouses—its merchant-princes, and its
pauper-villains. New York was before them;
the light skiffs, the swift steamboats plying
for pleasure or profit, the turmoil of a great
city's crowd—the voice of a mighty traffic
“See you that neat-built craft, that sits
like a duck in the water, with the black
yards, and the long pennon streaming from
her topmast?”
Richard cast his eye in the direction indicated;
“that,” said Stimson, as the two
gazed from the schooner's quarter deck—
“that's the Halcion, our ship, my boy.”
The schooner sped along, and passed,
broadside to, the vessel Stimson had pointed
out. She was indeed a goodly craft. Her
white taper masts contrasted strongly with
the sable hue of her fairy spars. Her long
sharp build, and low draught, marked her as
“Baltimore built,” and she swayed up and
down at every heave of the waves, like a
swan rocked to sleep by her own watery
cradle. Every thing was “taught-drawn,”
“ship-shape.” She was a craft for a sailor
to love.
“Yes, that's our ship, and with brave
hearts and firm nerves, d—n it, my friend,
our fortune's in our own hands.”
Dick answered not. The schooner soon
hauled up, and the two worthies took their
course for their quarters. They preceeded
up Peck Slip, and striking through the city,
directed their steps to the eastern side, then,
as now, a sort of Alsatia for the mass of rascals
who infest the metropolis. At the corner
of Fish street, they stopped, and Stimson,
leading the way, conducted Richard to
the upper part of a house, whose time-worn
sign-board, as it swung on its rusty crane,
gave forth the intimation that this was the
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“Pipe and Bowl” Inn. They traversed a
long entry, and Stimson, after listening a
moment at a door, made known his presence
by three smart raps upon its pannel. It
was opened by a young man, clad in a short
sea-jacket, his linen entirely guiltless of the
christian ordinance of baptism.
“Halcion,” said Stimson.
“Come in,” said the man, and then, as
they entered, he held up the lamp to scrutinize
their features, for the entry, entirely
destitute of windows, rendered a lamp, although
it was broad daylight without, indispensable
within.
“Ha, captain, is it you?” cried the engaging
janitor,—“when did you spring?”
“Five bells,” said Stimson, “but who's
ashore; I'm half frozen, and hungry enough
to eat a horse. Heave away, and overhaul
the bread-locker.”
“Ay, ay! come along,” said the man, and
opening another door, he ushered them into
a room, where were four others seated round
a table, discussing the merits of a steaming
bowl of punch that sent up its fragrance to
the olfactories of the visitors. They all rose
as Stimson entered, and shaking his hand,
poured out a confused volley of oaths and
welcomings, which almost stunned the ears
of the sensitive Dick.
“I'll tell you all, my hearties, in a jiffey,
but give way there, till I make you acquainted
with a new comrade; here, my boys is
Dick Martin—true blue—staunch to the backbone.
What do you say—Dick—we're a jolly
crew.”
“Bear a hand with the grog, Jim,” cried
Dick, “I always sail best with a deep cargo.”
“Hurra for Dick Martin, he's the boy,”
cried the sailors, who were taken with Dick's
joke, and his frank manner.
“Thank you, my hearties; here's halcion
days for all of us.” The toast was drunk
with vehement applause; scarcely one in
the company understood what it meant, only
the “halcion” pleased them; and then Dick,
ensconseing himself in a vacant seat, was
as deep in punch, pipes, and plotting as the
oldest of them.
“When do we sail?” asked Stimson of an
old tar, with a long pigtail, and a deep scar
over his left eye. He had been a pirate with Lafitte.
“Vy, that sall be as se vind sall go,” answered
the man; “if it sall blow east, vy,
ve sail to-morar, and if—”
“D—n your ifs; when did the captain-
tell you to be on board.”
“Tomorar, sare, tomorar.”
“Be on hand, my hearties, then,” said
Stimson; “we sail to-morrow, probably;
you will be in your stations. Tusker,” continued
he, glancing at a large, heavy-built
man, who had been smoking a long meerschaum,
in utter abstraction, “Tusker will go
with us, in the cabin-passengers. Look here
boys, listen.”
The jingle of the glasses ceased instantly,
and there was a dead silence. It was evident
that Stimson possessed as much control
over the rest as he had attained over the cidevant
clerk.
“We shall sail to-morrow: now, mark
me, in eight-and-forty hours from the time
we pass the Narrows, with a stiff breeze, the
Halcion must be ours. What say you, boys?”
“Ay, ay! hurra for Captain Spanker.”
“A new name,” thought Dick. “Captain
Spanker,” shouted he, “Captain Spanker
forever!”
CHAPTER XVII. BATTLE OF CARABOBO.
When even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war,
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar.
—Byron.
It was in the early summer of 1821, and
near the town of Carabobo the army of the
South American republicans, under Bolivar,
had encamped, awaiting the command of
their general to attempt the dislodgement of
the enemy from their entrenchments in the
almost impregnable mountain-fastnesses.
Around a watchfire, at one of the outposts,
a party of Republican officers were engaged
in conversation.
“You are certain that Paez is in Varinas?”
asked a tall officer in the uniform of Bolivar's
staff, of another, whose bluff, careless air,
plainly discovered him to be one of the trans-atlantic
adventurers who had joined the army,
and whose valor had mainly contributed
to its success
“Ay, by me sowl,” answered he, with a
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rich Irish brogue; “and with as fine a set of
barelegged llaneros, as ever throttled a wild-bull.
Och! he's a broth of a by, that same
Paez. But when does the gineral intind to
make a clane swape of the dirty blackguards
up there?” continued the Irishman, pointing
with his sword, to the far-off fires in the
mountains, “Mr. Diego?”
“At day-break,” answered Don Diego,—
“and you are on the vanguard.”
“Thank his excellency for that same,”
said the Irishman. “Who leads?”
“The General himself.”
“Before Paez comes up, Mr. Diego?”
“Se, Senor O'Callagan,” said a voice, and
another officer advanced towards them.
“Ah, how are you, Major Mina? good
luck to you; where's our young frind, the
liftinant?”
“He is here,” said Mina, and at the same
moment a young officer made his appearance,
beneath whose white plume, still shone
the blue eyes of Henry Fowler. “I am
here, my good O'Callagan,” giving his hand
to the officer. “And Major Mina,” said he,
turning to one whom the reader will recognize
as the captain whose life Henry had
saved in the streets of Boston, “We are on
the attack to-morrow.”
“Ah, 'tis well, amigo. We must prepare,
buonos noches cavalero,” said he, touching
his cap to Captain O'Callagan.
“Swate slape till the trumpit sounds,” answered
the captain. And Mina left the
watchfire.
“Captain,” said Henry, as he seated himself,
“I have something to request of you?”
“And you can do that, my darlint, asily?”
“You have always, since I joined the army
of Bolivar, expressed an interest in me.”
“Niver mind that, me young soldier, sure
aren't you a 'Mirican of the ould states of
Washington?” asked O'Callagan, using a
term by which the South American Republicans
designated the North American Union.
“But you have never heard why I left the
States, and it is time you should,” said Fowler,
and he proceeded to narrate to his Irish
friend the story of his life, up to the time we
left him.
“It was through the influence of Captain
Mina,” continued he, “that I have become
the favorite with our general, and an officer
of his staff.
“When we arrived at Callao, the castles
were still in the possession of the Spaniards,
and Captain Mina resolved then to put into
operation a plan he had long contemplated;
to join the Republicans, and strike one blow,
at least, for the freedom of his country. But
he generously gave me my choice to proceed
with him to the camp, or remain in a situation
which he would procure me in one of the
seaports. I had but one desire—to win an
honorable name—and I resolved to follow
him. We arrived at the camp; you were
the first, my dear captain, to take by the
hand the young volunteer—”
“Yes, and a lucky take it was for me,
maybe you forget the sabre-cut that you got
instead of meself at the battle of Coronas.”
“No matter for that, captain. But what
I ask of you is this, as I may not survive to-morrow's
action; will you bear the tidings of
my fate to my friends—my sister?”
“Och! don't be talking of dying; ye're
worth twinty dead min, yet, me young liftinant.”
“But I may fall, captain, and Mina may
never again visit North America. Will you
promise me, captain?”
“It's I that'll do whativer you ask,” said
the captain. “But don't spake of dying;
for if a dirty bullet should be after shaping
its course for you, by St. Patrick! it must
first make a hole in Dinnis O'Callagan.”
“Thanks! my kind friend,” said Fowler,
as he drew his cloak around him, and returned
to the General's quarters.
The morning had not yet broken, when
the army of Bolivar was in motion. Paez
was still in Varinas, and it was not probable
he would come up with the main army in
season to join in the attack, with his mountain
llaneros. Nevertheless General Bolivar
determined to attempt the passage of the
heights, and Cedeno was despatched to reconnoitre.
General La Torre, the Spanish
commander, had entrenched himself strongly
among the almost inaecessible cliffs, and defended
in person the only pass through the
mountains—a Thermopylæ which a handful
might have defended, and which the
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numbers of the Spaniards seemed to make indeed
impregnable.
“We shall have hot work, captain,” said
Fowler.
“Throth, I think it; you're in the van?”
“With the staff.”
“Thin I'll be near ye. But, gallop!
there's the trumpit,” and putting spurs to
their horses, the two friends parted.
There was in Bolivar's army, a battalion
composed entirely of English and Irish, in
which Captain O'Callagan held his command.
Fowler, through the influence of his
friend Mina, and his knowledge of the language,
for which he was also indebted to the
instructions of the major, had obtained a
place near the person of Bolivar, as a lieutenant
of the general's staff.
The attack commenced. Oh, it was a
glorious sight! those brave men, mounting
the rocks with steady march, in the teeth of
the deadly and masked batteries. Rank after
rank was swept away by the fiery hail, and
still the trumpet sounded the attack.
At once La Torre and his grenadiers
emerged from among the rocks. Like a torrent
he bore down upon the assailants! Back—
back they rolled! Only one firm phalanx
withstood the rushing stream. It was the
Irish battalion, and the clear voice of O'Callagan
rose high above the din of the fray.
“Stiddy, my boys! strike for the honor
uv the green Isle!”
“Strike for the name of the three kingdoms!”
cried a brave Englishman to his
countrymen; “back, and drive the Spanish
dogs to their kennels!”
“Strike for the glory of the Stars and
Stripes!” shouted a Kentuckian, where a
small band, from Yankee-land, from the middle
States, and from the West, sustained the
hottest of the assault.
As the rock withstands the lashing waves,
the brave battalion kept back the advancing
Spaniards. La Torre himself led on his
men, but in vain. Far down the mountain
fled the scattered Republicans, in wild disorder.
But still the brave foreigners, behind
a rampart of their dead comrades, maintained
the unequal battle.
Bolivar, from a height, and surrounded by
his staff, surveyed the rout of his native
troops. He saw the battalion of foreigners
make its gallant stand, and his heart revived
again. “Forward, gentlemen, to the rescue!”
shouted he, waving his sword, and
plunging from the height. Mina and Fowler
dashed after the general. They gained
the ravine, and Cedeno met them.
“All is lost!”
“Back, back, ye cowards!” shouted Bolivar,
as he passed the flying throngs; “shall
the strangers achieve our freedom?”
The scattered Republicans rallied at the
trumpet-tones of their leader's voice.
Bolivar dashed forward, into the melee,
followed by the animated troops. The plain
of Tinaquillo presented one vast battle-field.
Foot to foot, breast to breast—the opposing
forces fought, and disputed every inch of
ground. At once a rush—a sweep—and the
General was separated from his officers. A
Spaniard's sword waved over his head—a
bullet struck the neck of his horse, and the
brave steed staggered beneath his master.—
Mina sprang forward, and a sabre-cut brought
him to the earth. The General's fate seemed
certain; a dozen bayonets were at his breast,
the hail of musket-balls fell fast around him.
“To the rescue!” shouted Henry Fowler
to the Irish captain, who, forced to retreat
from the rocks, had just reached the scene;
“Bolivar is in danger.”
“Come on, thin,” was the response of
O'Callagan, and together they plunged to
the rescue of the chief. A timely stroke levelled
a Spaniard who had aimed his knife at
the back of Bolivar, and enabled the General
to mount the horse of the lieutenant. Taking
the fallen Mina in their arms the Republican
officers now fought their retreat, while
the enemy, elated with their success, pressed
on with new vigor.
At once a trumpet was heard far up in the
mountains. It was the signal-blast of Paez,
who stopping not to join the army of Cedeno
and Anzuategui, had dashed boldly on to
dispossess the Spaniards of the heights.—
Like a hurricane he swept at the head of his
wild llaneros through the dangerous pass.
The frowning batteries stopped not his course.
On he dashed, and the terror-stricken foe,
fled far before him. It was his blast of victory
that Bolivar heard in the mountains.—
The battle was gained, and La Torre
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completely routed, ere the Commander-in-chief
was aware that Paez had passed him.
A glorious scene, the plain of Tinaquillo
preseated the morning after the battle of Calabobo.
The host of La Torre were scattered,
and the banners of liberty waved from
every height, that was crowned the day before
by the batteries of the Royalists.
“Senor Americano,” said the General; “I
owe my life to you; you are a captain; henceforth,
be this your country, and Bolivar your
friend forever!
“To the brave Paez, Republican soldiers,
we owe this day's victory. On the field of
battle I make him major-general of the army
of liberty.
“To you, brave, undaunted foreigners,”
continued Bolivar, turning to O'Callagan,
and the English and Irish troops, who were
drawn up behind the staff, “For you, let
your brave band be forever called `the Battalion
of Carabobo.”
A shout rose up, from the troops, and the
voice of O'Callagan cried, “long live Bolivar.”
CHAPTER XVIII. THE MUTINEERS.
O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our sonls as boundless and our thoughts as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home.
—Corsair
The Halcion left the waters of New York,
with the conspirators on board. Captain
Lewis, her master, was a blunt, careless sea-man,
who took the world as it came. He
had toiled long in the minor grades of the
merchant service, and this was the first ship
he had commanded.
“Mr. Richards,” said he, addressing one
of his passengers, “was you ever at sea before?”
“No,” said our friend Dick, “it's my first
voyage. It was at the urgent request of my
friend Nichols here,” continued he, pointing
to Stimson, who walked the quarter-deck,
“that I have come on board. He fears for
my health.”
The villains laid their schemes well. The
crew of the Halcion consisted of eight men.
Of these, four were leagued with Stimson,
and three more associates, in the character of
passengers, occupied with Stimson and Martin
the after cabin. The chief rascal had
taken the name of Nichols, and Martin was
called by that of Richards.
The vessel was three days out from the
harbor of New York, when the rising took
place. It was all over in an hour. Captain
Lewis was stabbed in his berth; two of the
crew joined the pirate; the mate and one
seaman, as Stimson expressed it, “carried the
news to Neptune.”
In eighty hours from the time the Halcion
left the wharf, a fearful crime had been committed
on her decks; a bloody deed planted
a new banner on her topmast—the flag of the
pirate-captain Spanker.
Richard Martin had wellnigh attained the
topmost round in the ladder of villany. He
had plunged his knife to the heart of an innocent
man, and given his hand to the chief
of an outlaw crew. Truly he was an apt
scholar.
Six months the pirate cruised on the Spanish
Main, and gained a harvest of blood and
gold. But Richard was not one to play the
second to a greater villain. Twice had his
temper broken out, when the pirate captain's
aims had clashed with his own, and already
had the crew taken sides; Richard's promises
had sapped the regard they had for their
commander.
There was an old Spaniard on board who
had joined the ship at Florida; a dark, designing
man, forever plotting, who had passed
his life in acts of villany; and with him
Richard Martin had tampered, till they had
conceived a new conspiracy.
In the memory of the young villain there
still shone the star of a better day — the
image of one whom, when a boy, he had
loved, as far as his bad heart was capable of
affection. It was his orphan foster-sister,
Fanny Fowler. It was she who had first
attracted his eye when the budding of her
youthful beauty had made her a rich object
to possess. He could not bear for the sweet
orphan the absorbing love of a brave and
generous soul, but the passion of a wild heart
had nourished itself into intensity, and as he
hourly dwelt on the recollection of the young
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maiden, he resolved that he should one day
possess her. This had prompted him the
night of the assault on the Mexican captain,
to wrench from Fowler's neck the ken
which he knew his fellow-clerk hel dear
and sacred—the locket of his sister's hair.
And, mingled with his dark plots with his
Spanish associate, came the thought of soon
possessing the lovely orphan girl.
It was the third watch, and the lights
were out in the forecastle of the pirate-bark.
Stimson lay asleep in the after cabin, his
pistols, as was his wont, beneath his pillow,
and his cutlass chained to his wrists, for such
is the happy security of suceessful crime.
At once a slight noise aroused the watchful
captain; his quick eyes unclosed, and
bending over him was the form of Richard
Martin; he sprang from the bed, and grasped
his pistols.
“What mean you, Martin?”
“Nothing, but that I command this craft,
now.”
“Rebel—take that!” cried Stimson, as he
discharged his pistol at the head of his lieutenant.
Richard laughed. “You forgot to charge
with ball eartridge,” said he.
“Mutiny, by heaven!” shouted Stimson,
and grasping his eutlass, he sprang upon the
traitor. But a swift blow met his. The
dagger of the Spanish sailor pierced his heart.
The Pirate chief fell dead at the feet of his
treacherous lieutenant.
“Ha!” cried Martin, springing to the door
of the magazine, as the crew, aroused by the
pistol-shot, poured into the cabin. “My
boys! behold Spanker, who would have
murdered me but for this brave man. Will
you sail with me, or shall I blow the ship to
hell, by firing my pistol there?” and he levelled
it at the open magazine.
“Hurra! hurra! for Captain Martin,” cried
a voice.
“The booty that we take is the crew's;
the beauty shall be your captain's. What
say you, my hearties?”
“Hurra for Captain Martin, our brave commander,”
was the response.
“Then chuck this dead dog over the taffrail,
and let the liquor run. What say you
my boys? we'll make a night of it.”
“Hurra for Captain Martin, and death to
mutineers!”
Brave comrades, we wait but the favoring gales,
With a spring on our eables, a bend on our sails.
The Buccanneer
She is won! we are gone!
—Scott.
It was a beautiful Spring-morning, and
Fanny Merton, as the sister of Henry Fowler
was now called, wandered, flower-gathering,
with her dear friend, Lucia Abbot, along the
banks of the Merrimac river. Lucia had
been for a month on a visit at her aunt's, and
the two girls had conceived a strong affection
for each other. Together they had climbed
the dark old Powow hill, together they had
glided over the smooth waters of the bay,
and together had they talked of the lost
Henry.
Too late had Mr. Abbot learned his error,
when the confessions of Frederick Johnson,
and the flight of Martin, had revealed the
true villain. Lucia had wept and laughed
by turns. “I knew he was innocent,” she
cried to her mother; “Henry would never
have committed such a crime.”
Mr. Abbot had taken every step to bring to
justice the offender. But he had escaped,
and the merchant could only regret his too
easy credulity. Frederick Johnson had made
a full and free confession, and through the
influence and exertions of his friend Rifton,
and Mr. Abbot, he had been pardoned.
“And William has come home again?”
said Fanny, inquiringly, to her young friend.
“Yes, but he is soon to leave again. Oh,
Fanny, I wish every one we love, would
stay with us; but I suppose that is impossible.”
“Where is he going, Lucia?”
“To South America; he is to be supercargo,
I believe they call it, of one of father's
ships. Father says his health requires a sea
voyage.
“But he will soon return, dear Lucia.”
“Yes, in a few months. Oh, I wish our
dear Henry would come with him.”
The orphan sighed. “But perhaps he
will meet with him.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Lucia, catching eagerly
at the thought; “wouldn't it be delightful if
William should bring him home.”
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At this moment, a man approached the
speakers. He came from towards the water
and was dressed in sailor garments, apparently
a seaman belonging to one of the numerous
craft that nestled in the snug harbor of
Newburyport. Doffing his hat, he made a
low bow, and looking at the astonished girls,
said,
“Mayhap I address the sister of Henry
Fowler--”
“Henry, Henry!” cried Fanny, darting
forward, and seizing the man's hand; “what
of my brother, sir? Oh, tell me!”
“He's alive and well. The captain has
a letter from him. I've been watching you
since you came from that great house on the
hill,” said the sailor, pointing to the mansion
of Mrs. Merton, which, from a high point on
the east side of the town, overlooked the
waters of the harbor.
“And why did you not bring it to me?”
asked Fanny, anxiously.
“I doesn't like to overhaul them front
doors,” answered the man, rolling his quid
of tobacco in his mouth, “and captain said I
must see Miss Fanny herself, and give her
this; be said you'd know what it meant;”
and he took from his pocket a little packet.
Fanny eagerly seized and unrolled it. It
was a little locket, and in it was a lock of her
own hair, which she had braided when she
last parted from her brother. It was the
same locket which Fowler had missed from
his neck the Right of his rescue of Captain
Mina. Richard Martin had snatched it, as
he retreated from the crowd.
“Oh, Lucia! brother sent it. Where is
he; when will he come, sir?”
“As to the matter of that, Miss, I can't
say; but the captain has got a letter for you.”
“Oh, tell him to bring it to one, do; can
he not, to-night?”
“He said if I saw the young lady to ax
her to walk down to the shore to-morrow, and
he would meet her and give it to her.”
“There is some mystery in this business,”
said Lucia, advancing; “why does not your
captain come to the house, and deliver his
letter?”
“Why, to tell you blunt,” said the man,
with an apparent air of frankness, “our ship
is a privateer in the South-service, and the
captain doesn't like to come on shore much;
it's rather dangerous. But he's a friend
of your brother, I take it, Miss, and won't
stop to serve him. At any rate, I'll ax him
to go to the house, if you won't tell what
the craft is.”
“O thank you, thank you, sir,” said Fanny,
“we won't say a word.”
“But you'd better come down to the shore,
howsomdever,” said the sailor. “Mayhaps I
can get the letter myself,” continued he, as
he took a new plug of tobacco, and turned
away.
The girls hurried home together, to talk
and weep over the lock of hair, and imagine
and dream what would be the contents of the
letter. Alas for golden antieipations!
Mr. Abbot was seated in his parlor, lefsurely
smoking a cigar, for, like all sensible
old gentlemen, he knew what was good to
settle his dinner. All at once a carriage
drove to the door, and the next moment
Lucia was in his arms.
“Bless me! returned, my child! and what
is the matter?” said he, observing the traces
of tears on his daughter's cheeks.
“Oh, father—father—poor Fanny!” was
all she could utter.
“What of Fanny, my child; what has
happened?”
“Oh, I cannot—here, here is aunt's letter;
Fanny is murdered!”
“Murdered! bless us! murdered! What
do you mean, Lucia? Let me see the letter.”
Lucia with a trembling hand produced
it.
My dear Brother:—Providence has
seen fit to afflict us in a peculiar manner.—
Our dear Fanny has been abducted; carried
we know not whither. A message, purporting
to be from Henry Fowler, came to
her a few days since. The man who
brought it gave her a locket from her brother
and requesting her to meet him on the shore
not a hundred rods from our house, and receive
a letter from her brother. The thoughtless
girl, without consulting me, repaired
there. Lucia accompanied her. She will
tell you the rest. My poor Fanny! I can
write no more. Will you use every means
to regain her. Lucia tells me that Richard
Martin, your clerk, was there.
Your afflicted sister,
Maria Merton.
Mr. Abbot for sometime was silent with
amazement. “Martin!” cried he at last
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“Lucia, tell me more of this. What are
the circumstances? What have the villains
done?”
As soon as Lucia could, she related her
story. They had met the stranger on the
beach, accompanied by another man. He
gave the delighted Fanny a letter, and ere
she could read a line, she was seized by his
companion and borne shrieking to the boat.
Lucia mingled her eries with Fanny's, and
fled to the house for succor. When she returned
with assistance, the boat was no
where to be found.
Mrs. Merton and her friends made every
exertion to rescue the lost girl. Boats were
immediately despatched down the harbor,
but the villains had escaped to their ship,
and with a smart breeze were already standing
from the bay. Porsuit with the heavy
and unprepared craft then in the harbor was
useless, and the boats were quickly left behind.
There was no cutter to overtake
them, and the pirate bark escaped with her
prize.
“And why do you,” said the father, when
Lucia had finished her narration, “why do
you think Richard--”
“I saw him, father. It was he who seized
my dear Fanny. I knew him, and he knew
me.”
“Knew you, Lucia?”
“Yes, father; he gave me a terrible look.
It was Richard Martin. I knew it, father.
Poor Fanny! he will murder her.”
What a thing is crime. Successful and
glorious. It carries all before it. The murderer
attains his object. The seducer attains
his object. It gave Dick Martin money,
power, freedom, love. Had he remained an
honest clerk, he might have starved on his
paltry salary. Ho, ho! for your Robinsons,
your Averys, and your Edwardses. Ho! ho!
for the merry hell-dance!
CHAPTER XX THE CAPTURE.
A sail, a sail! a promised prize to hope—
Mernation. flag—how speaks the telescope.
—Corsair.
The vessel, in which William Abbot, nominally
as supercargo, had sailed for the bene
fit of his health—which long confinement to
close study had impaired—left the port the
day on which his sister returned with the
sad intelligence of the abduction of the orphan
Fanny. He knew not of it, nor suspected;
for a letter, received a few days before
from his sister, had assured him of the
health and happiness of his cousin, as she
fondly called her.
William remembered with affection the
sweet sister of his exiled friend, for he had
heard her light laugh in his summer holiday
spent with his aunt, and her bright smile had
often rewarded his venturesome ascent of the
tall chestnut-trees, to shake the ripe fruit
into her out-spread hands. Sad and heavy
would his heart have been had be known of
the orphan's misfortune.
The good ship Garland lay tossed in the
Gulf-stream, and ten days the weary mariners
beheld the swift sails passing and repassing
before the favoring gales, while their own
was forced to lay becalmed, or driven at the
mercy of the current in a perpetual circle.
But at last a breeze sprung up, and before it
the ship stood gallantly on her course. William
had passed the monotonous hoars in
thoughts of his distant friends, and hailed
with joy the time when the wind bore the
ship on her homeward passage.
“A sail, a sail!”
“Where away?”
“On the windward.”
It was a Baltimore-built vessel, and she
bore down on them with a race-horse speed,
while her fore-foot dipped in the high waves,
like a dolphin in his gambollings.
“A pirate, by heaven!” cried the captain,
as a heavy lee-gun sent its iron messenger
across his bows, and a bluck flag rose slowly
to the top of the stranger's slender foremast.
“We must fight,” continued he, as he
turned and beheld at his side the youthful
supercargo.
“We must,” said William.
Another gun sent its summons from the
pirate's quarter. Captain Dalton sprang upon
the taffrail, and bailed the stranger through
his trumpet.
“What ship is that?”
“Lay to, or we sink you,” was the thundering
response, and a shot struck the bows
of the Garland.
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“Boys! do you hear that?” cried Captain
Dalton; “shall a Yankee ship be taken by a
bloody pirate?”
Three cheers rose from the hardy crew,
and in the twinkling of an eye the signal-guns
were hoisted from the hold, and their
muzzles run through the ship's portholes.
At the same time the arms were distributed
and a dozen men stood on the ships bows,
to repel the boarding attack which they knew
the approximation of the two vessels would
bring on.
The Garland had not slackened her course,
but the light craft of the pirate was already
abreast, and in the wind's eye, was bringing
her broadside to bear.
At once the beavens grew dark with clouds
and a long, loud, distant peal of thunder
shook the sky. There was a heavy flapping
of the ship's sails, as the breeze which had
borne her along died suddenly away, aud she
lay motionless upon the water. The Gulfstorm
was at hand, and a mantle of thick fog
fell around them. At the same instant the
pirate bark hove broadside to, beside the
Garland, and a peal of musketry from a score
of her fierce crew, rattled through the ship's
rigging
It was returned—and the cheering shout of
the brave Captain Dalton, inspired his willing
men. The pirates were two to one, and
their captain, waving a cutlass over his head,
led them to the attack. Three times the
grappling irons rang against the Garland's
side—three times the cry of the pirate chief,—
“Boarders away!”—impelled his followers
to the bulwarks—and three times—while the
thunder rolled above their heads, and the
thick darkness was only lit by the vivid
flashes of lightning that burst from the low
clouds around them—did the brave Americans
beat back their ruthless foes!
The pirate captain gaashed his teeth, as
for the last time he fell back upon his quarter
deck. “Once more!” shouted he; “there's
not a dozen left, to drive beneath the hatches.
Halcions, away!” and the shrill boarding-whistle
was again applied to his lips.
On they bore, and like a torrent poured
over the Garland's side. Dalton and William
fought side by side—the pirate chief
sprang first upon the quarter-deck, and his
cutlass crossed with the sword of the Yankee
captain. Dalton, a strong and powerful man,
bore down upon his antagonist; his blows
fell like rain upon the pirate blade; and the
latter retreated step by step towards the midship
melee. At once a bright flash, and a
quick clap, gleamed and rattled above them,
and the ship's topmast, with its vent flag,
came crashing to the deck; she had been
struck by lighteing. Dalton, astounded,
ceased his strokes, and the pirate's sword fell
upon his head. He sunk upon the deck,
while the shout of the pirate, as he rushed
forward, gave new vigor to his victorious
crew.
Another flash—another peal—and the dark
clouds fell away as suddenly as they had
risen; a stiff breeze filled the unfurled sails,
and, bearing down upon them, the mingled
combatants beheld a Colombian privateer.
The flag of the republic stood out from her
white topmast, and William, springing from
the throng, upon the quarter-deck, waved his
own tarn flag in his hand, and beckoned to
her crew.
But they had already beheld the scene, and
with a sudden bend, the privateer bore down
and hove to, beside the Garland, and while
the iron grapnels fixed themselves in the side
of the Yankee ship, a crowd of Republican
sailors pozred over her bulwark, and attacked
the pirate victors.
The pirates were taken almost by surprise,
and a vigorous rally of the Garland's crew,
forced them to retreat to their own vessel.
William engaged hand to hand with the corsair-captain.
Exeited by the fall of Dalton,
he resolved to revenge it, and pressed hravely
on his opponent. A well directed thrust
the pirate warded off, but as he did so, his
broad slouchy hat fell off, revealed the
face of Richard Martin.
“Ha!” cried William, and, thunderstruck,
his arm fell by his side. The pirate saw his
advantage, and rushed upon him. William
raised his arm, and caught the descending
blow; but his sword flew shivered from his
hand, and he sunk upon his knee.
Martin raised his arm. A shriek was
heard—a woman's cry—and a light airy form
sprang up the companion way. A pistol shot
rang in William's car and he beheld Richard
Martin reel, and fall upon the deck. The
bullet had struck his sword-arm, even as it
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
was descending on the supercargo's head.—
The next moment, the sister of his lost friend
was in the arms of William Abbot, and a
loud shout from the Colombian sailors told
the pirate crew's surrender.
Before the swift homeward breeze sped the
rescued ship, to the home of William Abbot.
And to her brave deliverer Fanny told the
story of her capture; how the villain had
talked to her of love and had sworn she
should be his; how she had resisted, and
how the cry from the deck of “a sail—ho!”
had summoned the pirate from his prize.
Then she told how the loud roar of the thunder,
the din of the fight, and the oaths of the
wounded pirates had appalled her. And
then, how she flew to the deck, and beheld
the pirate aiming the death-blow at the
head of William Abbot. And William
clasped the fair girl in his arms, and expressed
his gratitude for the timely shot that had
saved his life. Oh, a happy voyage was the
homeward-passage of William Abbot and his
betrothed Fanny
CHAPTER XXI. BOLIVAR'S ENTRY.
First came the trumpet at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang;
On prancing steeds they forward pressed.
His thoughts I scan not, but I ween,
The meanest groom in all the hall
Would not have been their prey
—Scott
The streets of Bogota were thronged with
exulting crowds. Bolivar, the president, was
about making his entry into the city, and the
voice of a liberated people sent up its loud
welcome. At the head of the cortege rode
Santander, the vice president of the Republic,
and then preceded by the bravest of his
officers, came Bolivar. By his side was Cedeno
and Anzuategui, and the brave Irish
captain, now Major O'Callagan, followed by
the “Battalion of Carabobo,” brought up the
rear. Henry Fowler, in the white plume
and starry searf of the general's guard, rode
on one side of the coach of Bolivar, while
Mina, recovered from the wound he had
received on the plain of Tinaquillo, occupied
the same position on the other.
“Viva la Libertador!” “Viva Bolivar!”
were the cries of the mighty crowd, and from
the balconies, white arms waved the flag of
the Republic, and fairy fingers scattered
flowers on the heads of the victorious troops.
But Henry felt not the joy and the exultation.
Though his heart beat high at the shouts of
liberty, as he felt that his own arm had fought
for it, yet his thoughts were of his own
distant and happy land, of his sweet orphan
sister, and of the bright and loving Lucia.
At the great square of Bogota, a band of
the city's guards drawn up around the gate of
a large building, attracted the attention of
the youthful captain. In their midst were a
dozen men chained together, their dark and
scowling faces strongly contrasting with the
joyous countenances of the shouting populace.
“What means this?” asked Fowler of an
officer of Bogota, who rode beside him.
“Pirates, senor, taken in a sea-engagement,
off Cicuta. There are Americans among
them, of the North.”
Fowler answered not. His eyes were
riveted on one who appeared to be the captain
of the pirates. The prisoner raised his
head, as Fowler's horse tramped by him.—
Their eyes met.
“Richard Martin!”
“Henry Fowler, by heaven!”
And such they were. The one a condemned
pirate—the other the favored officer of the
chief of a free nation. The thoughts of the
ruffian clerk ran back through his dark career
of crime, and he gnashed his teeth in
rage.
Henry Fowler rode on; but the form of
his fellow-clerk was before his mind's eye,
and the thought of his first benefactress—of
her death-bed—and the silent committal of
her son to his protection. “He is guilty—
he has wronged me!” murmured the orphan,
“but his mother was my friend, and the
friend of my mother!”
And what thought Richard. When
wounded and disabled, he had beheld the
capture of his ship, and, bound with chains,
he had been marched from the seaboard, he
had cursed his evil fate, and his victorious
foes. Then had succeeded a quiet despair,
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a hopelessness of escape, yet a sullen indifference
to his fate. Such were his feelings
when, amid the proud and the powerful army
of Bolivar, appeared the friend he had wronged—
the orphan, Henry Powler.
Then came a quick hope of escape; could
he not gain a pardon through his firm friend—
might he not work upon him? Well he
knew the gratitude that lived in the bosom
of Henry for the widow Martin's kindly
care.
“He shall release me, ha, ha!” said the
pirate, and despair fled at his laugh.
And Richard argued well. Henry could
not desert the son of his more than mother.
Bolivar had returned from the council-chamber,
and was alone. A page appeared.
“Captain Fowler desires admittance.”
“Ah, the brave young American; let him
enter.”
Henry advanced, and the general grasped
his hand; “always welcome, senor.”
Henry bowed; “I have come to ask a
favor, senor President.”
“Speak; if in my power, it shall be granted.”
“Some pirates have been brought hither
from the sea-board where they were taken.—
The captain, as I suppose, is one who was
once my friend—my school-mate. I would
save him. He is sentenced to the mines.”
“These men have become dangerous to
the Republic. Pause, ere you press your request.”
“But this may reclaim him, and I owe a
debt of gratitude to his mother, which I can
never sufficiently repay.”
“Enough, senor! I am convinced you
will request nothing that is wrong. He
shall be pardoned; his name?”
“Richard Martin.”
The President wrote an order for the release
of the prisoner. Henry enclosed it in
a letter to Richard at the public prison. He
besought him, as he valued his life and liberty—
by the memory of his mother, and his
brother—by everything he held dear, to renounce
his lawless course. And he requested
him to visit him and inform him of his
distant friends. Then despatching the pardon
by a trusty messenger, he awaited the
appearance of Richard.
But hours passed on—a day—a week; and
Henry heard no more of the pirate, but the
report of the keeper of the prison, that he
had been liberated.
Richard was alone, in his cell, when the
jailor came with his pardon, and delivered
to him the letter of his injured friend. Richard
read it; and a feeling of shame struck to
his heart, as he reviewed the wrongs he had
heaped upon the orphan's head. “I cannot
meet him—I dare not,” cried he, and crumbling
the paper in his hand, he rushed from
the prison.
It was night. The windows of the city
were illuminated in honor of the arrival of
Bolivar. Music sounded from the balconies;
gay throngs, beneath an October moon, promenaded
the grand square. Richard wandered
on—alone; he saw no friend in the merry
crowds; no warm hand grasped his own, and
his companion was his knawing and evil
conscience—his consoler, the thought of an
ill-spent life.
But the night wore away, and the morning
broke; yet the freed prisoner, the escaped
convict, found no shelter. And the broad
sun rose up in the heavens—the drum of the
troops on parade rang in his ears—the trumpet
that called them to the general's quarters.
Another sight, too, met the pirate captain's
eyes; the men who had fought and bled
with him on the high seas—the men whom
he had led to crime and ruin—he beheld
them marched, in manacles, by their guards,
to their dismal home for life—the mines of
Bogota. He fled from the sight.
But the pangs of hunger assailed him;
hunger, the gnawing demon that brings the
proud spirit down, to earth. He was a
stranger—where? Again the night came
on, and Martin grew desperate.
“Bread!” he cried, to a man that passed
him, “give me bread.”
“Away, beggar!”
“Hell seize you,” exclaimed Martin, and
sprung upon the speaker. But his frame,
weakened by confinement and abstinence,
was little able to cope with the man whom
he attacked. Quick as thought, he was
dashed to the ground, and the stranger's weapon
was at his throat.
“Spare me! I am starving!” shrieked
Martin.
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
“Ha! a bold beggar. Up with you.”
Richard staggered to his feet.
“Follow me,” said the stranger, and he
led him to an obscure tavern, in one of the
narrow streets of the lower town of Bogota.
“Ho, wine and meat,” said the stranger to
the host; “be speedy.”
Richard Martin ate as if he never expected
to get another meal; and the stranger watched
him with a quiet smile, contenting himself
with a draught of the wine.
“Well, senor,” said Martin, as he finished
his repast, and pushed away his plate, “what
do you want me to do?”
“Do?” echoed the stranger.
“Yes; a man don't feed a starving beggar
for nothing, especially when the beggar has
just attempted to throttle him.”
“Ah, I see you are the man I want. Well,
do you want employment?”
“What is it, and what's the pay?”
“The pay shall be princely. To a man of
your mettle, the job is slight. Listen,” and
he bent his head to the ear of Martin, “Bolivar's
death!”
Martin started back. “How?”
“The death of the tyrant. He who achieves
it will merit the gratitude of all true
republicans. Say, shall it be done?”
“In what manner is he to fall, senor?”
asked Richard.
“Shoot him when he reviews the troops.
There are a hundred windows on the Plaza,
behind which you might lie concealed.”
“But if I am taken? No, no, senor: some
safer mode than that!”
“What say you to striking the tyrant in
his own palace?”
“Amid his guards?”
“Ay; do you fear? The palace can be
entered—”
“But I am told that Bolivar invariably
sleeps with an officer of the guards in his ante-room.”
“The officer sleeps with him, senor. We
have more to fear from Bolivar's wakefulness,
than that of his servants. But the
plan is feasible. You shall enter the palace;
ay, the president's chamber. One blow will
change the destinies of the Republic; and
you shall be nobly rewarded.”
“And if I do not succeed?”
“You must. But you shall be safe. This
purse I give you as an earnest; it shall be
tripled when the deed is done; speak.”
“And who are you, senor, that are empowered—”
The stranger bent down and whispered a
name in the ear of Richard; a name that
was high in the roll of the Republic's bravest.
Martin sprang to his feet. “I will do it;
when?”
“The sooner the better; to-morrow night.”
“To-morrow night.”
“Remain, then, here,” said the stranger.
“I will visit you to-morrow, and you shall
know more. Farewell.”
CHAPTER XXII. THE CONSPIRATORS.
Wan treachery,
With his thirsty dagger drawn.
—Croly.
That night was a fearful one for Richard
Martin. Sleep came not to his glazed eyes,
nor rest to his troubled conscience. The distant
strokes of the cathedral clock struck to
his heart like a death summons. He grasped
the bowl, and poured out the red wine, until
his hand shook, and his brain danced
madly.
Morning came apace, and at last sleep stole
over the frame of the pirate-captain. Sleep,
the soother, the invigorator, came upon him.
But in the visions of his sleep came conscience,
and the dark form of the night-mare
fear perched on his heart, and gnawed his
rest away. He tossed restlessly, he breathed
hard, and strove in his dreams to wrestle
with it.
Then came a short, calm dream—a dream
of childhood; when he played with his brother,
and the orphans. The form of his mother
bent over him with a placid smile, and the
light laugh of Fanny Fowler rang in his ears.
And Henry came, and the scene of his first
detection, and the form of the friend he had
betrayed, in a distant land. Richard Martin
lived over again his wretched life.
Then, in his slumber he beheld the stranger
of the preceding night, beckoning him
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with a purse of gold, and his mother was
weeping over him, and praying him to return.
He awoke, and the stranger was indeed
beside him.
“You have slept well, 't is high noon.
Are you ready to accompany me?”
Richard gazed around with a wildered
glance; “whither?”
“We will instruct you.”
“I cannot go.”
“Ha! fear you?”
“No, but—but—Spaniard, I am deep in
blood; another drop will drown me.”
“In gold, senor, then. Come, come; if
you must stay, the soldiers of Bolivar shall be
your companions.”
“Do you threaten me? I know you, senor,
and may denounce you.”
“Ha, ha! where are your witnesses? no,
no, you must come, amigo.”
The stranger turned away, and—Richard
followed him.
In one of the chambers of a building whose
windows overlooked the Presidential palace,
were gathered a dozen individuals, whose
military garb bespoke them officers of the
Republic. On a table before them lay papers
and charts, plans of battles, and marches,
and over the door hung the flag of Venezuela.
“Think you he will be satisfied with the
presidency? Behold this,” and the speaker,
a slight, yet muscular man, with a dark,
bronzed face, and an eye like an eagle's,
held up a chart; “this is his plan for the invasion
of Peru, and the consolidation of a
Spanish Vice-royalty; look ye, senors.”
Dark frowns and muttered oaths came from
the group, as they silently passed around the
document.
“And how shall it be stayed?” was the
question of one who sat at the right of the
first speaker.
“Ay, how?” was the question that was
echoed from one to the other
The door flew open, and a tall form, enveloped
in a mantle, entered. A whisper ran
around the room, “'t is the major general.”
“How, but by the death of the tyrant? the
hour and the instrument are at hand.”
“What mean you, general?”
“That the tyrant, by your leave, shall die
to-night.”
A silence fell upon the listeners. Each
man was struck dumb by the boldness of the
proposition.
“Well,” cried he whom they called general,
“what say you? shall it be done?”
“How?—by what means?” asked the first
of the speakers.
“Ask ye that? Speak! who will volunteer
in his country's cause. Who will strike
the tyrant?”
There was no answer then, for the boldest
would not have dared to attack the life of one
girt by the shield of the people.
“Do ye fear? Well, I will myself.”
“Nay, nay, it were too perilons,” cried an
officer, who had fought foremost in the battle,
by the side of Bolivar.
The major general strode to the door;
“Senor Americanos.” Richard Martin entered.
“Here is the instrument, one who hates
tyrants, and will serve the republic. Speak,
senor, are you ready?”
“I am.”
“Remain, then, here. Friends, we will
take counsel.” And, followed by the other
conspirators, he entered an inner apartment.
Richard's ears caught the sound of loud
and angry discussion. He heard the name of
Bolivar more than once repeated, and with
it the word `tyrant.' At last, the door
opened, and he was called.
And what a sight was before him! Kneeling
around the apartment, were the conspirators,
each with his crosier-hilted sword
erect before him, and a white-stoled priest,
with a wafer in his hand, administered the
rite of Christianity.
As he entered, they arose, and the cross
was placed before him. “Swear, by the
emblem of salvation, to be true. Kneel and
swear—swear to strike deep to the heart of
the tyrant!”
And as the oath of the conspirator to do a
deed of murder came from his white lips,
the solemn `Amen' of the priest mingled
with it; and the brows of the soldiers bent
upon their cross-hilts.
And thus shall the bigot and the murderer
call upon religion to bless his crime, and it is
sanctified unto him.
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CHAPTER XXIII. THE MURDER.
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Thomas. I did not see its form,
Naught but the horrid face.
Bernard. It is the murderer.
Monk. What way went it.
—Baillie.
Bolivar slept. The victor, the liberator
slept, but not in calmness. Was it the
whisperings of mighty ambition that caused
the tossing and the restlessness, the deep
sigh, and the smothered groan? He awoke
suddenly, and sprung from his couch.
“Mina!”
The major, whose watch in the ante-room
it was that night, entered.
“Your excellency.”
“I am troubled, I know not why. Remain
with me, Mina, I would not be alone.
I am not superstitious, major,” said he with
a smile, “but there is a heaviness upon me
that I cannot account for.”
Mina bowed, and seated himself.
“Nay, major,” said Bolivar, “throw yourself
beside me on the couch; companionship
may drive off these vague forebodings.”
And there they rested; the two careworn
soldiers. The room was lit by a high candelabra,
and every object was distinctly discernable.
Bolivar's eyes wandered restlessly
around the apartment. Suddenly a shadow
flitted by the open casement upon the balcony.
Bolivar strained his glance; again it
passed, and the President sprang to his feet.
“My general!” said Mina.
“I will return---remain,” and Bolivar advanced
to the casement.
All was still. No sound save the distant
tread of the sentinel, as he paced his rounds
before the Palace. In the ante-room still
slumbered two officers of the Presidential
guard. Bolivar glanced at them, and through
the open casement upon the sleeping city.—
“This is childishness!” he murmured to
himself, “I will sleep,” and he turned towards
the couch.
Mina's eyes had followed the movements
of the President. As Bolivar left the casement,
the major's watchful eyes caught a
glimpse of a dark figure on the balcony. It
entered, and crept noiselessly behind the
general. Quick as lightning the pistol of the
major was discharged at the intruder, and
springing from the bed, Mina threw himself
before his general. Bolivar turned, startled
at the report and flash---turned, but to behold
his brave officer staggering to the floor.
“Treason!” cried he, and the guards in the
ante-chamber rushed in. A muffled figure
rushed by them, and sprang over the balcony.
Two shots from the pistols rang simultaneously
in the general's ears. The next
instant, the room was filled by the roused
soldiers. Bolivar bent over Mina---a dagger
stuck in his side.
“My general,” cried Mina, as his eyes
opened on the President, “it is well.”
The hand which Bolivar had grasped closed
upon his own, and Mina fell back. He
had died for his country's deliverer, a death
well fitting the soldier and the patriot.
“Pursue the assassin!” cried the general,
as he sprang to his feet. It needed no more.
Fowler, who had entered, cast but one look
at his dead friend, and rushed from the
apartment, followed by the excited guards.
Torches flashed through the gardens, and
over the Plaza. “Ha! blood!” cried a soldier,
stooping with his torch to examine
some dark stains upon a broad stone of the
court-yard. “We will track the murderer.”
And they followed the course of the blood
drops, across the Plaza, and through the imperial
street. Drop by drop, it led them on,
Fowler at their head. Suddenly the trail
stopped; they had reached the river side.
Fowler plunged in, beat back the wave, and
gained the opposite bank. The form of a
man lay prostrate upon the brink and the
young captain sprang towards it. The figure
rose and staggering forward, raised his sword.
The torch which Fowler bore, gleamed in
the man's face---it was the face of Richard
Martin.
Ay, HE was the murderer. The second
time had his dagger drank the blood of the
Peruvian captain; and this was the death-draught.
“Richard---again?” cried the horror-stricken
Fowler.
“I'm gone—Harry---shot---yes!” muttered
Dick, as he fell at the feet of Fowler.
Henry bent over him. The soldiers who
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had followed him, now gained the bank, and
surrounded the dying murderer. Curses
loud and deep rang in his ears. “Let him
confess,” said Fowler to them, in Spanish.
“Ay, confess—confess, I will do that,”
cried Richard. “Ha, ha! I'm dying; here,
Harry—Harry Fowler; I'm a villain. Here,
this is yours, take it,” and he tore open his
breast, and grasped a little packet. “Mercy!
Oh, God—water, water!” A soldier bent forward,
and presented his sword hilt; “the
cross,” he said.
“Away—damnation, ha, ha!”
“Richard—Richard—”
“Ah, Harry, are you there? Look here!
Fowler, I've wronged you—will you—will
you—”
“I forgive you Martin. May HE forgive
you!” said Fowler raising his eyes to heaven.
“Ha, ha, ha!” and the soul of the guilty
man fled—whither?
“He's gone,” said the young captain, as
he placed the packet in his bosom, “bear
him to the Palace.”
A tall form, muffled in a mantle, started
from behind one of the trees, that edged the
river, as the soldiers bore the murderer back.
“He cannot implicate me,” he muttered to
himself, “he is dead with Bolivar.” Mounting
a horse, he gallopped from the spot.
“What is that?” asked one of the soldiers
as the clatter of the horse's hoofs struck
their ears, as they crossed the narrow bridge
that spanned the river.
“The wind, comrade,” was the answer.
They knew not that the greater villain had
escaped, for the tool lay dead before them.
“And you must return,” said Bolivar to
Captain Fowler.
“I would do so, your excellency. I would
see my friends, and assert my innocence.
Your excellency has heard my story.”
“I have; yet I would have you remain.
Bethink yourself; I am your friend; your way
is open here. But, if you must, return to your
country. But let this,” and he took from
his finger a costly gem, “let this ring remind
you of Bolivar.”
Henry sank upon his knee, and grasped
the general's hand. “Farewell,” said the
President; “when next you visit South America,
I may be a private man. But I will still
be your friend, and your country's.”
“May heaven preserve your excellency.”
“Heaven has done so, thus far,” said Bolivar,
“from the dagger and the cannon ball.
I hold the sword of the Republic, under
heaven, for her good. The foes of her liberty
may hate and persecute me. The field of
battle shall attest the valor of our soldiers
and the triumph of our liberty; the same
fortunate field shall see me throw down the
palm of my command. Adieu, scnor, return
to your country, and remember Bolivar.”
Farewell to the sunny Southern shores!—
Farewell to the hard strife, to the glorious
victory! Henry Fowler turned from the
palace of Bolivar with a sigh and a smile—
a sigh for the friends he should leave behind,
and for the fate of the gallant Mina; but the
smile was the shadow of Hope, as she came
from his boyhood's home. His soul had
roved, aimless, amid the wild scenes of his
past year's life, but she had now found an
object.
Home!—how the young wanderer's heart
leaped at the thought, for the vision of a
bright future came with it. He longed for
the day when he should tread again his native
shores, with the proofs of his wrong
and his innocence. The dying Richard's
gift was the key of the orphan's future.
“Shure, but ye won't lave us, captain.”
“I must return, my dear O'Callagan; I
have fond friends in my own country, and
my heart is with them. But will you not
accompany me, my brave friend, and—”
“Throth and it's meself that has frinds,”
said the warm-hearted Irishman, as he dashed
a tear from his eye; “but, God hilp them,
they dwell in the stranger's land.”
“And have you none in your own country,
major?”
“Not while the yoke of the Sassenach is
upon her. No, me young frind, me breath
is freedom, and the curse of the stranger has
poisoned the air of the green Isle.”
“Come, then, with me, major, to my own
free land,” said Henry.
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“Nay, me lot is cast here, till the battles
of freedom are inded, or her light ahall
baam on the hills of swate Erin. Good bye,
me young soldier, and when you see an
Irishman frindliss and in ixile, befrind him
for me sake. God bliss ye. Remimber
O'Callagan.”
CHAPTER XXIV. THE RETURN. —CONCLUSION.
The Wanderer was returned! I saw him stand
Before an altar, with a blushing bride.
—Byron.
It was evening in the merry month of May.
A glad company were gathered in the mansion
of Mr. Abbot, in Collonade Row. It
was the bridal night of William. And who
did he wed? Who, but the lovely orphan
who had saved his life, was the bride of the
merchant's son. The heart of Fanny was
joyous, yet there was a sadness mingled with
its joyousness. Her smile was sweet, yet
there was melancholy in it, for she thought
of her absent brother.
Lucia, too, thought of him. But in that
thought was there nought but the thrill of
friendship for an absent one? Ah, ask the
youthful and glowing heart of the gentle
maiden if she did not even to herself confess
a stronger, deeper, warmer feeling—a
feeling to which their association in the
morning of their days had given birth, but
which had been nursed to an ardent intensity
because its object had not been near to share
it—the first breathing of love!
The guests were gay—the dance went
round. The wine, for they drank wine then,
was poured, in sparkling libations, to the
health of the happy pair.
“One thing alone is wanting,” said Mr.
Abbot; “were your brother here, my sweet
girl, our joy were all complete.”
The door opened, and the servant ushered
in a guest. All turned as a tall and commanding
figure entered the apartment, and
advanced towards the bride. He was muffled
in a mantle, that hid his face, but he no
ticed not the surprise of the company. He
took the hand of the bride.
“What means this, sir?” asked William,
advancing.
The stranger's cloak fell off. One moment,
Fanny gazed astonished at a form arrayed in
the rich uniform of the Bolivian Republic.
The next, she was in the arms of her long-lost
brother.
Henry strained her to his heart, and turned
to meet the bashful greeting of the wondering
Lucia. She was no longer the playmate—
the laughing girl, but a gentle and
loving woman.
“God be thanked!” said Mr. Abbot; “my
wronged boy is returned.”
“Welcome, Harry, my old friend, and
brother.”
Henry gave into the hands of Mr. Abbot
a small packet. It was that given him by
the dying Richard—it was that given to the
wretched murderer by his dying mother.
The merchant opened it, and his face grew
pale, and his hands trembled.
“My sister's letters!” cried he.
“And we are thy sister's children,” said
Henry, “the children of Mary Abbot.”
The tears gushed from the good merchant's
eyes.
“Then are you my children, bless ye,
bless ye.”
“So we are cousins,” said Lucia, throwing
herself in the arms of the happy Fanny.
What a long time it would take to tell the
joy of the reunited ones—to tell how Mr.
Abbot's sister Mary had eloped with a poor
man, and for love had lived and died in obscurity—
how she had committed to Mrs.
Martin the history of her life—how Richard
had concealed it from Henry; and how his
remorse had at last restored it to the orphan's
hands. And how long it would take to describe
the love of William and Fanny, too.
So, we will leave it to those who love, to
fancy it.
Thus far in the life-path of youth, have
we travelled. Shall we follow? No! for
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youth is the fresh floweret of the morning,
and the high sun of fortune, as well as the
storm-wind of adversity, must wither it. We
have followed the good and the bad, and we
have traced their fate. The long-lost has
come once more to his childhood's home.
There let him rest. The guilty one sleeps
in a foreign land, in a murderer's grave.
May he rest also, for of the grave we know
not.
But what has the old man Time done with
the others. The erring but loving Mary we
have lost sight of. The repentant Fred. we
left in a prison. The coquette Kate, and the
wild Ned Rifton—we must trace them, for
they, too, were the persons of the drama.
There was a beautiful little cottage, in a
lovely village in Massachusetts; and the
vines clambered over the door, and flowers
bloomed in the garden before it. Fields
with the shining tops of the grain glittering
in the summer sunset, were around it. And
at the open door, sat a farmer with a young
and beautiful wife, and a little cherub of an
infant sported before them.
“And have you not heard of Henry Fowler's
marri age with the beautiful daughter
Mr. Abbot.”
“Yes, Frederick, Mrs. Rifton told me in
her letter, and of the dreadful fate of Richard
Martin.”
“Yes, Mary; and such might have been
my fate, but for you,” and the husband looked
fondly on his young wife. “But when is
Rifton coming to visit us?”
“Next month. And Kate, too.”
“What a happy couple are they, Mary—
Ned and Kate.”
“And are not we, Frederick?”
“Yes, Mary; for I am honest now.”
Reader! This has not been a “seduction
tale.” You have not been dragged
through the chambers of a brothel, nor amid
the scenes of low vice. But the “life of the
gay spirits” has been lightly touched; and
the swift and sudden descent of the precipice
of crime has been faintly pictured.
What has been said is truth, in the main, and
the moral is the moral of life.
Duganne, A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey), 1823-1884 [1843], The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude: being the adventures of Henry Fowler and Richard Martin (Brainard & Co., Boston) [word count] [eaf087].
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