Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1850], The killers: a narrative of real life in Philadelphia (Hankinson and Bartholomew, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf257].
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PART I. THE STUDENTS.
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On a warm summer night, in the year 1846,
two students of Yale College, were sitting
alone, in their room, in the — Hotel, well
known to the people of the fair City of Elms.
One of these young men was the son of a
Philadelphia Merchant; the other was the son
of a native of Cuba, who for political offences
had been exiled from the “Gem of the Gulf.”
Seated near a table, copiously overspread with
the tokens of student-life, in all its phases—
pipes, cigars, bottles, glasses, Greek Grammars
and Latin Lexicons—these young men
were discussing their Havannahs of the latest
and best brand, as they engaged in earnest
conversation.
Cromwell Hicks, the son of the Philadelphia
merchant, was a youth of some nineteen
years, rather tall, with blue eyes, fair complexion
and a prominent chin adorned by a
precocious beard. Dressed in a flashy wrapper,
which thrown back, displayed a white
vest and blue cravat, Cromwell rested his
feet upon the table, in a manner that gave his
comrade every opportunity to examine the
plaid of his pantaloons and the patent leather
of his gaiters.
The young Cuban was a man of different
make: Slim, elegantly formed, his eyes, beard
and complexion dark, he rested his elbows
upon the table and leaning his cheeks upon his
hands, looked steadily into the face of Cromwell
from the opposite side of the table, at the
same time passing the smoke of his cigar
through his nostrils with all the gusto of a
confirmed smoker. Don Jorge Marin was
two years older than his companion; and
altogether of a more nervous and excitable
temperament.
The conversation of the young men will
disclose a portion of the incidents which open
our narrative.
“Expelled!” said Cromwell with an emphatic
puff.
“Expelled!” echoed Don Jorge, in very
good English, and with a column of smoke
issuing from each nostril.
“And after I have only been six months at
College!” said Cromwell, helping himself to
a glass of brandy.
“I have been here a little longer—a year,”
responded Don Jorge, lighting a fresh cigar.
“Just look at our affairs! In a lark—a quiet
genteel sort of lark—we attempted to abduct
the daughter of one of the Professors—after
which, with an old cannon, we took a shy at
one of the college buildings. We merely
wished to have a little fun with the girl and
blow the college building into its original element.
And for this we have been expelled.
Really George, my boy, the world is getting
illiberal.
“What shall we do?” responded Jorge or
George as you may choose to spell it — “I
can't move until I get a letter from my father
who is now at Saratoga. You know he was
exiled from Cuba when I was but a child, and
since then we have subsisted upon the wreck
of his fortune, which he managed to bring
with him to this country. Funds are rather
low with him just now, and besides that he is
always engaged upon some attempt or other to
free our native Island from the Spaniard. Besides
he's rather indignant about some of my
capers in New York last winter —”
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Don Jorge was interrupted by his companion—
“I too am waiting for a letter from my
father. He's an elderly gentleman, round in
face and white in cravat — devoted to stocks —
and with a kind of Quaker kink to the collar
of his coat. Fond of good living — sometimes
liberal — and sometimes stingy as Astor.
Mother, however, is my friend at court — some
fifteen years younger than father, she always
manages to bring the old man to terms. It
was through her that I escaped the counting-room,
and came to College. Zounds! I wish
the letter would come.”
Young Hicks rose, and going to the window
looked out upon the night. It was hot,
damp and “drizzly.” A misty cloud overspread
the City of Elms, and the prospect was
cheerless as the young man's fortunes. While
the young American, hands in his pockets,
was engaged in a sort of vacant survey of the
state of the weather, the young Cuban drew a
letter from his pocket, postmarked “Saratoga,”
and signed “Antonio Marin.” While he perused
the letter a singular smile gleamed over
his dark features, and his eyes shone with a
sudden and peculiar light.
“I have heard from my father,” he muttered,
and replaced the letter in his vest
pocket.
“Suppose the answer of your father is unfavorable,
what will you do, Crom?” asked
Don Jorge, as his comrade again approached
the light — “Get a clerkship in Pearl street,
or take daguerreotypes?”
The expression of his mustached lip did
not altogether please Cromwell. He consigned
the clerkship and the daguerreotype to a personage
not to be mentioned, and rounding off
the sentence with an oath continued —
“The old man dare not send an unfavorable
letter. Mother won't let him.”
Dropping into the chair, he took a fresh
cigar, and in a moment was lost in a cloud.
“I wonder if all the servants have gone to
bed? I should like to have some more
brandy,” exclaimed Don Jorge pulling the bell
rope. In a moment — it did not seem longer—
a servant appeared — and rubbing his
sleepy eyelids, asked in good Hibernian —
“What 'ud yez plase to have Misther
Hicks?”
“A little more brandy Patrick, and by the
bye, I came in late, and had no chance to see
whether there was any letters for me at the
Bar. Do you know of any?”
“Letthers? Be jabers ye'll excuse me for
saying the same but the Landlord was growlin'
about your bill — a matther of three months
unpaid — and the washerwoman was in the
hall, all the night long, awaitin' yez and swarin'
like blazes about the number of dozens that
she's done for yez. And the tailor — fax if I
was yez Misther Hicks I'd pay the divils and
lave this afore they would say Jack Robinson—”
Patrick was the confidential servant of Mr.
Cromwell Hicks — familiar with his vices and
his money — hence his familiarity. On the
present occasion however his jocular remarks
uttered in the richest Hibernian, were received
by his master with a gloomy scowl.
“Get some brandy Pat, and let the landlord,
washerwoman and tailor go to the —
There were no letters left for me?”
A look of intelligence passed between the
servant and Don Jorge. Patrick advanced to
the light, searching in his pockets with a sort
of half confused and half repentant air —
“Letthers! Och the blazes! Have I lost
it?”
“Lost it?”
“Jist five minutes ago, there was a ring at
the door, and one of the ould boys wid a
white towel about his neck — one of the chaps
from the college I mane — hands me a letther
for you. Fax I'd not forgot it. Here's the
crathur —”
Cromwell seized the letter, “From the old
man!” he muttered and broke the seal. As
he read Don Jorge watched him with a steady
gaze. The countenance of young Hicks gradually
darkened; his lip trembled, and at length
flinging the letter across the table, he asked
his companion to read it. Jorge seized the
letter, and hastily gathered its contents:
Sir:
Your education, supposed to have been commenced
at the counting room, but in reality begun at
the race course, the bar room and the brothel, has I
perceive found its appropriate termination in your recent
exploits at college. You can now apply what you
have learned, in your intercourse with the world. You
will need all your knowledge, for as regards money,
you need expect none from me. I have paid for your
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vices long enough and am determined to be disgraced
by you no longer.
Yours, &c.
Jacob D. Z. Hicks.
P. S. This time the persuasions of your mother are
fruitless. I have made up my mind.
When Jorge had finished the perusal of this
fatherly epistle, he drew from his vest pocket
the letter postmarked “Saratoga” and flung it
across the table.
“Read it Crom. I received it this evening
but was afraid to show it, until I learned your
fate.”
Cromwell cast his eye over the letter. It
was brief and delightfully concise.
Don Jorge:
Degenerate son of an illustrious line, I
have disowned you. I will pay none of your bills.
You have nothing to expect from me. My parting advice
is, that you lay aside the name which you have
disgraced, and let me never hear from you again.
Adieu
Antonio Marin.
Patrick who had observed the faces of the
young gentlemen, with one eye closed, now
broke the silence by the exclamation —
“It strikes me that there's a pair of yez in
the same box, be jabers!”
This lively remark was answered by Cromwell
with a sign and a word. He flung his
book at the servant's head, adding significantly
as he pointed to the door—“brandy!”
Patrick gone, the two young gentlemen took
council together. Their condition was indeed
desperate. Young, vigorous and with tolerable
talents, they were ashamed to work, and
had no disposition to earn its wages by one
effort of honest toil. Educated in the bar-room,
the gambling hell and the brothel, they now
saw the world before them, and had the opportunity
of testing its qualities, without a dollar
in their pockets.
“Bad!” said Jorge, stroking his black mustache.
“Not a dollar!” responded Cromwell, and
laid his head upon his hands. Patrick returned
with the brandy and a bundle of cigars; after
he had gone the young gentlemen took a glass
of the former, and a couple of the latter, and set
them down to contemplate their ruined fortunes.
For a long time they drank and smoked in silence.
“I have it,” cried Jorge, striking the table
with his clenched hand. “You must go to Philadelphia—
I to Saratoga. Each of us must
have a talk with his father. In three days
we'll meet in New York, at Lovejoy's Hotel
opposite the Park, and compare at once our
finances and our prospects. Will you give me
your hand on it?”
Cromwell opened his blue eyes,—“Why, I
have not a dollar to pay my passage from here
to Philadelphia. I'm dead broke!”
Jorge displayed a twenty dollar bill—‘I
borrowed it from Patrick this afternoon. I'll
halve it with you.”
“But how can we leave the hotel without
paying our bills?”
“Walk away,” responded Jorge.—“Walk
away at dead of night, Crom., and let the landlord
wait until we are in funds.”
“But suppose I come back to New York
without a cent of money? Suppose the old
man comes the granite—what then? Fathers
have done such things?”
His eyes fiery with brandy, he awaited the
answer of his comrade in evident hesitation.
Don Jorge bent over the table, his dark features
glowing with excitement.
“There is an island in the gulf—” he said,
“an Eden of a place, with many a snug cove
to shelter a craft which has not been properly
cleared at the Custom House. You take? An
Island which has free air, tropical fruits and
flowers, aye and a grand old cove, just deep
enough and wide enough, to shelter a band of
brave fellows, who after the perils of the sea
may choose to solace their solitude with good
wine and beautiful Creoles. Are you dull of
comprehension, or shall I sing it for you?”
The excitement which animated his face
seemed gradually to communicate itself to the
fair complexioned visage of his friend.
“An island in the gulf? Bah! You ain't
romancing? How shall we get there?”
“Four days from this a vessel leaves New
York city for Turk's Island. Her papers are
made out — her crew picked — her owners
only wait my answer.”
“Your answer?”
“Yes, my answer. Aware that I am by
birth a Cuban, they seem to think that I can
manage the affairs of the craft with the skill
of a born sailor. I have been at sea, you
know? These owners only wait for the
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captain and first mate of the “Sarah Jane.” I
have some knowledge of the sea; you have a
steady eye, and firm nerves. I will be captain—
you will be first mate —”
The proposition seemed to the half-drunken
Philadelphian like the fancy of a dream.
“Pshaw! You aint in earnest? The days
of Piracy are past and gone. As for Pirates,
they only exist in Melo-dramas — particularly
at the Chatham Street Theatre. Come, Georgy,
my boy, none of your gammon —”
“Piracy! I said nothing of Piracy,” quietly
interposed the Cuban, knocking the ashes
from his cigar—“Just hand me the bottle, and
I'll be more explicit.”
The bottle was handed, glasses filled, and in
low voice Don Jorge began to develope his
ideas. The countenance of Cromwell began
to brighten with something more than drunken
excitement.
“No! no! By Heaven, I'll have nothing
to do with it,” he cried, his not unhandsome
face stamped with horror.
“But the one trip will set us up for life,”
persuasively suggested Don Jorge.
“I won't, I swear I won't!” fairly shrieked
Cromwel — “Sooner will I go to Philadelphia
and go into the Counting house as an errand
boy. Come — George — this is a joke
of yours — aint it now?”
The sombre visage of the Cuban fairly glistened
with scorn. His lip curled under its
dark mustache as he replied—
“If you had the heart or pluck of a man,
you'd soon see what kind of a joke it is. I'm
ashamed of you, Mr. Hicks.”
These words excited all that was irritable in
the heart of the young Philadelphian. Starting
from his chair, he in incoherent words demanded
an explanation from Don Jorge, and flung
back the charge of cowardice into his teeth.
The Cuban also rose, his countenance displaying
more resolution than anger.
“It will do us no good to fight. Meet me
three days from this, at Lovejoy's in New York,
and if you don't conclude to accept my propo
sition, then I will fight you. There's my hand
on it.”
Young Hicks could not refuse the proffered
hand.
In a few moments, the young gentlemen left
the room and the hotel, without one word of
farewell to the landlord.
Scarce had they gone, when Patrick entered
their room, and surveying their trunks which
locked and corded stood near the windows, he
soliloquized: “Sure that Don Jorge is a broth
of a boy! To go and pay the hotel bill and
then purtend to stale off like a thafe o' th' world!
An' it's my private opinion that he's got young
Misther Hicks in tow, for some devl'ment or
'tother. Then he pays well, and it's a good
five dollar bill this?” drawing a bill from his
pocket—“The blackguards! Div'l a drop in
the bottle!”
— While Patrick concludes his soliloquy,
and our two young gentlemen are pushing their
way through the dark streets of New Haven,
we will briefly inform the reader of one or two
facts, which have an important bearing upon
the course of this narrative.
Don Jorge had involved Crom. Hicks in the
“scrape” which produced their expulsion.
Don Jorge had written under an assumed name
a full account of the affair to the father of his
comrade. Don Jorge had himself written the
letter, signed with the name of his own father,
and contrived that it should be forwarded to
him from Saratoga.
From this it will appear that Don Jorge had
rather a deep interest in the affairs of Mr.
Cromwell Hicks, son of Jacob D. Z. Hicks,
Esq.
The nature of this interest will appear in
the course of our narrative.
PART II. MR. CROMWELL HICKS AND THE “OLD MAN. ”
Two days after the scene recorded in part
I. late in the afternoon, Mr. Cromwell Hicks
ascended the marble steps of his father's mansion
in Walnut street. Dressed in a light blue
frock, buff vest and plaid pants, Cromwell was
covered with the dust of the cars; and his
whole appearance betrayed the tokens of anxiety
and fatigue. His heart fluttering under his
buff vest, he pulled the bell. It was answered
by a strange servant, who answered his inquiry
in regard to his father, with the information
that Mr. Hicks and family had left four
days previous for Cape May.
This was an unexpected blow. Surveying
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first the vacant face of the servant, and then
casting a glance at his dusty attire, Cromwell
for a few moments was in doubt as to his future
course. It was a broiling day; the streets
were almost deserted; to his eye the town
looked black and gloomy as in mid-winter.
He was without a dollar in the world, having
spent the last cent in defraying his passage
from New York.
“Will you leave your name, sir?” asked
the servant.
“Never mind,” exclaimed Cromwell, “I'll
stop at the counting house and leave my message
with Mr. Grimly.”
The “counting house” was an old brick
building, which stood in an alley near Chesnut
and Front, amid warehouses of more modern
construction, beside which it looked like
an old fashioned “man of business,” dressed
in Quaker garb, compared with the high collared
and dapper built men of business of the present
day. It was antiquity itself. Its bricks
were faded, its windows small and dark, its
cellars deep and cavernous: it was in fact one
of the old houses belonging to old firms, which
do more business in one day, with all their
cobwebs and dust, than your modern house
does in a year. To this aged edifice, determined
to try his powers of persuasion upon
Mr. Grimly, his father's head clerk, Cromwell
bent his steps.
He entered the counting room. It was hidden
away at the farther end of a large gloomy
place, and was fenced off from bales of goods,
and hogsheads of cogniac, by a dingy railing of
unpainted pine.
“Where is Mr. Grimly?” asked young
Hicks, of the negro porter, who was the only
person visible.
“Jist gone out,” answered the porter, who
did not recognize his employer's son; “back
d'rectly.”
“I'll wait for him,” was the answer, and
Cromwell sauntered into the counting room,
which was furnished with an old chair, a large
desk and a range of shelves filled with ledgers.
It was a gloomy place, with a solitary window
looking out upon a gloomier yard. An opened
letter, spread upon the desk, attracted the eye
of the hopeful youth. It was from Cape May,
bore the signature of his father, was addressed
to Mr. Grimly his head clerk, and contained
this brief injunction:
“Grimly —I send you a check for $5,000. Cash it
and meet that note of Tompkins & Co.—to-morrow—
you understand?”
“Where the deuce is the check?” soliloquised
Cromwell, and forthwith began to look
for it, but in vain. While thus engaged, his
ear was attracted by the sound of a footstep.
Looking through the railing, he beheld a short
little man, with a round face and a hooked
nose, approaching at a brisk pace. As he saw
him, his fertile brain hit upon a plan of operation.
“Grimly, my good fellow,” he said, as the
head clerk opened the door of the counting
room, “I've been looking for you all over
town. Quick! — At Walnut street wharf! —
There's no time to be lost!”
He spoke these incoherent words with every
manifestation of alarm and terror. As much
surprised at the sudden appearance of the vagabond
son in the counting room, as at his hurried
words, the head clerk was for a few moments
at a loss for words.
“You here — umph! Thought you was at
College — eh!” exclaimed Grimly as soon as
he found his tongue —“Walnut street wharf?
What do you mean?”
“Mr. Grimly,” responded the young man
slowly and with deliberation, “I mean that in
returning from Cape May father has been
stricken with an apoplectic fit. He's on board
the boat. Mother sent me up here, to tell you
to come down without delay. Quick! No
time's to be lost.”
Grimly seemed thunderstricken. He placed
his finger on the tip of his nose, muttering —
“Old Hicks struck with apoplexy — bad! bad!
Here's this check to be cashed, and that note
of Tompkins & Co. to be met. What shall I
do —”
“I'll tell you, Grimly. Give me the check—
I'll get it cashed and then go and take up
the note, while you hurry down to the wharf.”
He said this in quite a confidential manner,
laying his hand on Grimly's arm and looking
very affectionately into his face.
In answer to this, Mr. Grimly closed one
eye—arranged his white cravat—and seemed
buried in thought, while Cromwell stood waiting
with evident impatience for his answer.
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“You've been to Cape May—have you?”
he said, regarding Cromwell with one eye
closed.
“You know I haven't. I have just got on
from New York, and met one of father's servants
as I was coming off the boat. He told
me the old gentleman had been taken with apoplexy
on the way up. I went into the cabin
of the Cape May boat which had just come to,
and saw father there. Mother gave me the
message which I have just delivered. Indeed,
Mr. Grimly you'd better hurry—”
“Then you had better take this check,”
said Grimly extending his hand, “Get it
cashed and take up that note. It is now half
past two, it must be done without delay.”
His eyes glistening Cromwell reached forth
his hand to grasp the check, when Mr. Grimly
drew back his hand, quietly observing at the
same time “I think Cromwell you had better
ask your father. Here he is. Rather singular
that he's so soon recovered from his fit of
apoplexy?”
Scarcely had the words passed his lips,
when at his shoulder appeared the portly
figure of the father, Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks, a
gentleman of some fifty years, dressed in black
with a white waistcoat. His ruddy face was
overspread with a scowl; he regarded his son
with a glance full of meaning, at the same time
passing his 'kerchief incessantly over his bald
crown. He had overheard the whole of the
conversation between his son and his head
clerk. He had indeed returned from Cape
May, but had seen his clerk, only five minutes
previous to this interview. His feelings as
he overheard the conversation may be imagined.
“Scoundrel!” was his solitary ejaculation,
as he gazed upon his son, who now stood cowering
and abashed, in one corner of the counting
room.
“Father—” hesitated Cromwell.
The merchant pointed to the door.
“Go!” he said, and motioned with his
finger.
“Forgive me, father — I've been wild. I
know it —” faltered Cromwell.
“You saw me in a fit, did you? And you
would have got that check cashed and taken
up Tompkins & Co's note — would you?
You're a bigger scoundrel than I took you
for. Go!”
Cromwell moved to the door. While the
head clerk stood thunderstricken, the father
followed his son into the large room, which
filled with hogsheads and bales, intervened between
the counting room and the street. Cromwell
quietly threaded his way through the
gloomy place, and was passing to the street
when his father's hand stopped him on the
threshold.
“Cromwell,” said he, “let us understand
one another.”
Cromwell turned with surprise pictured on
his face, the countenance of his father was
fraught with a meaning which he could not
analyze.
“In the first place,” said the Merchant,
“Read this.”
He handed his son a copy of the New York
Herald dated the day previous. The finger of
Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks pointed a paragraph
embodied in a letter from Cape May. Cromwell
read in silence, his face displaying every
change of incredulity succeeded by surprise.
“By the bye you have heard that a distinguished
scion of the British Aristocracy, who passes under the
title of Sir Charles Wriothelsy has been figuring rather
extensively at this place. The Baronet is a gallant
gentleman, with a pale mouse colored mustache and
aristocratic air.—He has excited quite a sensation. He
is altogether a man of ton—elegant and fascinating,
so much so, that yesterday the young wife of one of our
old Philadelphia merchants was detected in a rather
embarrassing situation with the gallant Briton, and
worst of all, the discoverer was her venerable spouse.
The affair has created a great talk. To-morrow I will
send you full particulars.”
“Well — what of this?” said Cromwell,
looking into his father's face.
“Nothing much. Only that young wife of
an old merchant, was your mother. I married
her at sixteen; married her out of regard
for her family, and have lived with her these
nineteen years. She is now about thirty-four,
but as young and lively as ever. The day-before
yesterday she disgraced me at Cape May,
and strengthened a resolve which I have long
indulged, to wit, to cast her and her son to the
winds, or the d—l. You comprehend,
Cromwell! You are not my son. The conduct
of your mother breaks all ties between us.
(By the bye I may remark that yesterday she
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eloped with her Baronet.) For nineteen years
I have supported you. You can gamble, drink
and act the gentleman in every way. Your
education is complete. My advice to you, is,
to follow your mother, who yesterday eloped
with her British Baronet. From me, from this
hour, you can expect nothing. Beg, starve or
steal — as you please — do it in a gentlemanly
way if you like — but from me you shall
never receive one cent. We understand one
another. Good day Sir.”
With these words the old man turned away,
leaving Cromwell pale and thunderstricken on
the threshold. The thunderbolt which had
fallen upon him, deprived him for the time of
all control over his reason.
At last, still holding the New York Herald
in his hand, he took his way from the store of
his late father. As he passed along the alley
into Front street, he tried — for a long time
without success — to realize his situation.
His mother a disgraced woman — himself pronounced
an illegitimate by the man whom he
had always known as his father — he could
not believe it. But the New York Herald was
in his hands, the words of the old Merchant
still rang in his ears. Then, when he contrasted
the youth of his mother with the age
of her husband, her fondness for admiration
and show with the sedate and rather old fashioned
habits of the Merchant, the story appeared
more reasonable. A thousand things
came to the memory of Cromwell, which seemed
to confirm the story of Mr. Jacob Hicks.
Suffice it to say, that after an hour's walk up
and down the street, Cromwell found himself
at the corner of Second and Walnut street, with
three facts impressed rather vividly upon his
mind; He was without a father; his mother
had eloped with a mustache (appended to a
British Baronet;) and he, Cromwell Hicks,
late of Yale College, was without a cent in
the world.
PART III. THE LETTER OF THE DISHONORED WIFE.
Here let us leave the son for a few hours,
while we attend to his father. After Mr. Jacob
D. Z. Hicks had delivered his mind to
Cromwell, his supposed son, he turned from
the door and retreated within the white pine
railing of his counting room.
“Mr. Grimly,” he said to his head clerk,
“to-night we will receive by the Southern mail
from five to six thousand dollars, in sight drafts
upon New York. You will open the letters
and attend to these drafts if you please. We
are rather hard up for cash now, and will need
all the money we can rake and scrape to meet
our engagements.”
Mr. Grimly said a few words in acquiescence,
and then retired, leaving the Merchant
alone in the counting room.
That gentleman seated himself on the high
stool with his back against the wall — folded
his arms — projected his nether lip — and for
an instant seemed wrapt in a brown study.
A few words may throw some light upon
the character of Mr. Hicks. He was not a
bad man. He was not a Merchant, nor a
Banker, nor a Broker; he was a combination
of the three. He was that embodiment of inimitable
energy, and grasping meanness, which
in modern days is called a “business man.”
Mr. Hicks was by birth a Quaker, and yet he
was also a nominal member of the Episcopal
church. Not that he particularly believed in
that church, or held much faith in any church.
Possibly, after this “business world” there
might be a hereafter; and Mr. Hicks thought
it no harm to be on the safe side.
The great object of Mr. Hicks was to make
money. The religion of his life was to increase
his power among men of money.
Did he spend this money in the gratification
of his appetites? We cannot tell.
No one knew how much Mr. Hicks was
worth. His father had been very rich: his
wealth — such was the popular rumor — had
been acquired in the slave trade at a time when
the slave trade was as legal, moral and religious,
as stock gambling at the present day.
Although no one knew how much Mr. Hicks
was worth, his wealth was never rated below
$200,000 in real estate. Then he had an interest
in two or three country banks; he was
largely concerned in the stock market; he was
also something of a politician.
Now, as Mr. Hicks sat alone in his counting
room, his thoughts mingled the sweet with
the bitter, in almost equal quantities.
“I don't care about her intimacy with the
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[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]
Baronet. The publicity of the thing galls me.
For that matter, I've known her real character
since the day when I married her to hide her
shame, and have winked at her frequent partialities
for gentlemen with mustaches — musical
gentlemen and gentlemen of the stage. I
hate the talk and fuss which will be made all
over town about this matter, but at the same
I'm glad she's gone. And then her beautiful
boy is off my hands. That's some comfort.
I am now alone in the world, and will only
have to `look out' for myself.”
Mr Hicks drew from a side pocket a letter
which he had that day received from his unfaithful
spouse. He had broken the seal but
had not read it.
“Sentiment, I 'spose — chock full of sentiment,”
he muttered, as he opened the letter and
held it toward the window — “Romantic talk
about the `bruised heart,' the `disparity of
age,' and what not. It's full of such stuff I
'spose.”
But somewhat to his surprise the letter was
altogether of a different character. The reader
may glean some ideas of the fugitive lady from
the epistle which follows:
Hicks:
There's no use of any nonsense between us.
You know why you married me nearly nineteen years
ago. You know what kind of a life we have led together—
you pursuing your own way, and I mine,
these eighteen years. However, as I have something
important to communicate to you, you will suffer me to
recapitulate.
At the time when we first met, I had just turned sixteen.
I was the daughter of one of the oldest and
wealthiest families in Philadelphia — you know that I
was good looking — and was therefore caressed, flattered,
idolized. Among the gentlemen who came to my
father's house were yourself, a very plain business sort
of man; and a very handsome foreigner, who was connected
with the French Embassy at Washington, and
who carried the word “Count” before his name. You
wished to marry me because I was rich, and because
yourself (although reputed to be rich) were on the verge
of bankruptcy, notwithstanding the reputed fortune left
you by your father. The Count could not marry me
because he had a wife living in France; but this did
not prevent me from becoming very painfully involved
with that gentleman. My father discovered my situation
soon after the Count had suddenly left for France.
And my father, who knew of your embarrassments,
proposed the match between you and I — stating all
the circumstances to you — and you gladly consented.
We were married. We immediately left the country,
in order to spend the first months of our marriage in
Paris. Here my Cromwell was born: he passed in
the eyes of the world as your son; while both of us
knew the real facts of the case. So conscious was you
that he was a sort of usurper on the rights of your future
children that you named him “Cromwell.” A
few months after his birth we returned to Philadelphia;
and almost a year afterward your son was born. This
occurred while you were absent from the city — absent
in the West on a business tour. When you returned,
myself and the doctor informed you that the second
child (that is yours) had died a few moments after its
birth. You were shown its coffin in the family vault.
Now I've a sort of confession to make to you, which
I don't make from any sentimental idea of repentance
and all that sort of thing, but because I really wish to
do you a service. That second child did not die. He
is now living. For eighteen years or so I have secretly
contributed to his support. “For the facts of the case”
(as the newspapers say) listen.
The second child, soon after its birth, was entrusted
to the care of a friend of the nurse, who brought it up
as her own, and who has received from me, for these
eighteen years, the quarterly sum of sixty dollars.
This friend of the nurse goes by the name of Mrs.
Watson; she is the wife of a drunken fellow; and
lives in Runnel's Court, in the neighborhood of Sixth
and South streets. Your son was living under her roof
three months ago, when I paid the last quarterly instalment.
I don't know — have never desired to know his
name. To-morrow the quarterly instalment should
again be paid. Mrs. Watson will expect it. Had you
not better attend to it?
You will doubtless enquire my motive for having
your own child taken out of sight, while I brought up
mine in its place, in your house, as your son. I knew
very well, that your child would have been petted and
favored, while mine would have been insulted and neglected.
You could not have borne Cromwell before
your sight, while your own child was in the house.
The course which I pursued relieved me from a great
deal of trouble, and spared you the pain of making an
eternal comparison between the first child who has noble
blood in his veins, and the second child, who is only
a — Hicks.
Now, I well know that you will not dare to cast off
Cromwell; fear of the world's talk will prevent you
from doing such a foolish thing. At the same time, I
tell you all about your own child, and advise you to see
Mrs. Watson, without delay. You will receive this at
the time when Sir Charles and myself will be on our
way to Montreal, where we intend to spend the summer
and fall. I ask nothing from you, for myself, as
my father before his death secured a very pretty fortune
to me, in my own name.
Hicks, adieu,
Julia Cornelia Hicks.
Mr. Hicks read the letter and his face displayed
all the changes of the kaleidescope,
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He was not much given to a display of his
feelings, but when he came to the line which
announced the existence of his own child, he
turned pale as death, and felt his heart contract
within him, as though suddenly compressed
with the jaws of a vice. After he had
finished the epistle from his profligate wife, he
sat for at least five minutes, gazing upon the
letter with a vacant stare. Could Cromwell
have seen him at this moment, he would have
been amply revenged for the scene of an hour
previous. At length, in some measure recovering
his presence of mind, Hicks slid from
his seat, and hurrying through the store, confronted
Mr. Grimly, who had just returned
from the post office.
“Tom has not returned from the post
office,” said Mr. Grimly — “I have just been
down there, and cannot see any letters in the
box. Tom has been gone a good while —
what can it mean?”
At any other time these words would have
arrested the attention of Mr. Hicks, but now
brushing past his head clerk, with an “I'm
in a hurry, Grimly,” he made his way along
the alley towards Front street.
“I'll see this Mrs. Watson,” he muttered—
“See her at once—to-night—and see for
myself what kind of boy this is. I can acknowledge
him for my own or not, just as I
please.”
The letter of the abandoned wife had raised
something like the feeling of paternity in the
heart of the Merchant. Hurrying down
Front street, he turned up South, and after
much enquiry succeeded in finding “Runnel's
Court.”
PART IV. RUNNEL'S COURT.
Runnel's Court was one of those blots upon
the civilization of the Nineteenth Century,
which exist in the city and districts of Philadelphia,
under the name of Courts. It extended
between two narrow streets, and was
composed of six three story brick houses built
upon an area of ground scarcely sufficient for
the foundation of one comfortable dwelling.
Each of these houses comprised three rooms
and a cellar. The cellar and each of the
rooms was the abode of a family. And thus,
packed within that narrow space, twenty-four
families managed to exist, or rather to die by a
slow torture, within the six houses of Runnel's
Court. Whites and blacks, old and young,
rumsellers and their customers, were packed
together there, amid noxious smells, rags and
filth, as thick and foul as insects in a decaying
carcase.
As Mr. Hicks entered the narrow pathway
between the houses, (three of which facing the
other three formed the court) he was nearly
stifled by the hot and pestilential odors which
accumulated in that wretched place.
“Where does Mrs. Watson live?” he
asked; and was answered by a slatternly woman,
who stood leaning against the door-post
of a “groggery.” (Understand, a groggery
in a court is a kind of hell within a hell. The
“court” itself is bad and foul enough, but the
groggery completes the hideous scene, and
makes it fit for the approbation of the Devil
himself.)
“On the third flure,” said the woman, pointing
upwards, as she surveyed the dress of Mr.
Hicks with a leer of drunken surprise. “She's
a widdy now. Her husband fell off a buildin'
about three months ago an' was kilt dead.”
Mr. Hicks entered the house designated by
the woman. Passing through the first and
second rooms, (and through scenes of squalor
and drunkenness that we have no wish to describe)
he ascended into the room on the third
floor. In a room about ten fect square, furnished
with one table and two chairs, and
lighted by two windows, one of which caught
a gleam of the setting sun, sat a woman who
might have been no more than forty years of
age, though she looked sixty. Dressed in a
gown of faded calico, her thin and “scrawny”
neck surmounted by a face which looked haggard
with premature age, if not with vice or
hardship, this woman turned her dull eyeballs
toward Mr. Hicks, as he entered her room,
with a vague and almost idiotic stare.
“I can't pay it to-day,” she mumbled,
“Haint got the tin.”
“My good woman,” said Mr. Hicks, as he
advanced with a bland smile—“You owe me
nothing. I have merely called on a friendly
visit. Allow me to ask, is your name Mrs.
Watson?”
“It aint anything else, hoss,” was the rather
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classic reply of the lady, who clutched in her
colorless fingers a half-filled vial, on which
Mr. Hicks read the word “Laudanum.”
“You have children?” asked Mr. Hicks,
depositing himself on the unoccupied chair.
The woman looked at him with a glance in
which stupidity seemed to struggle wtth suspicion.
“What's that your business?” she replied,
and pulled her faded cap over a dingy brown
wig, which but illy concealed her gray hair.
“Let me come to the point at once,” resumed
Mr. Hicks, “You have received for
some years back the sum of sixty dollars per
quarter?”
“I have that,” and a light suddenly flashed
in her leaden eyeballs.
“Do you know who it was that sent you
this sum?”
“Blast me if I do. I only knew that it was
due yesterday, and that it did not come.”
“How was this sum usually sent to you?”
“I mostly got it through the post office—
sometimes it was fetched to me by a person I
did not know—” and she straightened herself
in her chair, and began to look sternly into
the merchant's face. “What do you know
about it?”
“Just this. If you answer my questions
satisfactorily, I will see myself that the same
sum is paid to you in future, to wit, sixty dollars
per quarter. The person who has been
sending it to you died last night.”
“Eh? You don't say! Well now! We're
all but poor mortal creturs after all. Aint we?”
“How many children have you?”
“Kate and 'Lijah,” sharply responded Mrs.
Watson.
“How old is Kate, and what does she do?”
asked Mr. Hicks, rubbing the perspiration
from his glowing face, with a red bandanna.
“Kate is fourteen, and works in the Factory.”
“And Elijah?” said Mr. Hicks rubbing his
bald crown, with a great deal of zeal.
“'Lijah must be somethin' 'twixt eighteen
and nineteen. But look here—what have
you got to do with this business?”
“Where does Elijah work?”
“He was makin' shoes at the last accounts,”
said Mrs. Watson turning her face from the
light.
“You have'nt seen him lately then. But
where does he work?”
The woman seemed to hesitate. Her pallid
lip trembled, while her eyes grew animated,
almost brilliant.
“What's it your business?” she replied,
turning her face to the wall.
“Why my good woman, I know that Elijah
is not your son. I know that you received
him some nineteen—perchance only eighteen
years ago—from the hands of a Nurse, who
kept secret the name of his mother. And further,
I know that on your answers to my inquiries,
depends your allowance of sixty dollars
per quarter. Answer me plainly, is Elijah
Watson dead?”
The woman turned her face toward the merchant.
Her haggard features worked convulsively.
Something like a tear struggled over
her sallow cheeks.
“Lijah aint my son—that's true—but I've
brought him up as mine, and like him just as
well as Kate.”
“But where is he?” asked Mr. Hicks, continuing
the manual exercise of the handkerchief
with great vigor.
The woman looked at him steadily, said one
word, and burst into tears.
“In the Penitentiary,” she said, and
pointed with her colorless fingers to the north-west.
The Merchant recoiled as if appalled by the
sight of an Apparition.
It was some time before he could resume
the conversation. But when, in a tremulous
voice, he again questioned the woman, he assured
himself of the truth of two things. 1.
That Elijah Watson was indeed his son. 2.
That Elijah Watson was a convict in the
eastern penitentiary.
It was quite dark when he left the house of
Mrs. Watson in Runnell's Court. He went
directly home to his mansion in Walnut street,
passed through those splendid rooms in which
was neither wife nor child to welcome him,
and locking himself in his chamber, thought
all night of Elijah Watson and the Eastern
Penitentiary.
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PART V. MR. WHITELY THE BROKER.
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
While Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks tosses on his
bed, and sees “Penitentiary” written on the
black cloud of every dream, let us turn back
in our narrative and take up the adventures of
Cromwell.
We left him at the moment when, desolate
and penniless, he stood in Walnut street, in the
light of a declining summer day, pondering
very seriously over the prospects of his future.
“I should be in New York to-night, and I
haven't a fip to buy a cigar, much less four
dollars to pay my passage.”
He cast a glance over his apparel. Blue coat,
plaid pants and buff vest looked remarkably
dusty and travel-worn. He felt his pockets.
They were deplorably empty. He looked up
and down Walnut street, as the day began to
decline over the town, and brought himself to
the conclusion expressed in these words, muttered
through his set teeth—“Without father
or mother, friend or dollar, my chance of a bed
and supper to-night gets dim and dimmer.”
Again the thought then came over him, that
he had promised to meet Don Jorge at Love-joy's
in New York on the third day from the
period when they left New Haven together.
This was the third day. How should he keep
his appointment? He had not a dollar in the
world to pay his fare to New York.
“And even if I can make out to get to New
York to-night, nothing remains for me but to
accept that cursed proposition.”
In this mood he took his way toward the Exchange.
He was roused from a reverie by a
hand laid on his arm, and by the words, “How
d'ye do, Mister Crom?”
Starting from his gloomy reverie, Cromwell
beheld a youth of some fourteen years, whose
turn-up nose and closely cut hair, together
with corduroy pants and brown linen jacket,
brought home to him the fact, that he beheld
no less a personage than Mr. Tom Miller, who
was employed in a double capacity—half as
errand boy and half as under cleik—in his
father's store. Tom was delighted to see
Cromwell—asked him when he had arrived
in the city—how long he intended to stay—
with other questions quite as interesting. As
for Cromwell, quietly keeping his eye upon
the youth, who held a package in his right
hand, he said:
“Give me the letters, Tom. I'll take them
down to the store. As for you, father wants
you to go up to the Baltimore Depot, and bring
down a box that is there, addressed to him.
Just tell the agent that father sent you, and he'll
give you the box. Mind that you hurry back.”
Without a word the red-haired youth handed
the letters to young Hicks, and hurried up
Walnut street, on his way to Eleventh and
Market. Cromwell slipped the letters into his
pocket, gazed for a moment after the form of
the errand boy, and then hurrying down Walnut
street, turned into a “pot house,” whose
sign displayed tempting inducements to “sailors
and emigrants.” It was a miserable place,
with one chair, a box, and a little man with a
dirty face and one eye.
“What'll yes pleze to have, sur?”
Cromwell called for a glass of whiskey, and
turning his back to the landlord, drew the
package from his pocket, and proceeded to
count the letters he had received from Tom.
There were ten in all; one was particularly
heavy; and all of them were carefully sealed.
Did one, or did all of them contain money?
This was an important question, but Cromwell
did not choose to solve it in the pot house.
But how shall he pay for the glass of whiskey?
He had not a penny in the world. This placed
him in a decidedly bad predicament. Waiting
until the landlord had turned his back for a moment,
Cromwell passed quietly from the place,
and hurried up Walnut street, turned into Dock,
and in a few moments was in Third street in
the vicinity of Chesnut.
He had decided upon a difficult step. The
letters which he held, bore the post-marks of
distant parts of the Union, and very possibly
they contained drafts upon houses in New York.
It was his resolution to ascertain this fact in
the first place, and in the second to get these
drafts cashed. It was after bank hours, and
only two broker's offices in the vicinity remained
open. Cromwell's brain was in a whirl;
conscious that whatever he did must be done
without delay, he stood on the sidewalk, with
his finger raised to his forehead, anxiously engaged
in cogitating some scheme which might
enable him to cash the drafts in the letters—
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[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
that is, if said letters happened to contain drafts,
or money in any shape.
But was this the case? Cromwell turned
into an alley and with a trembling hand broke
the seals of the letters. His hair reeled as their
contents were disclosed to his gloating eyes.
For those letters did contain drafts at one, two
and three days sight, drawn upon certain firms
in New York, and amounting altogether to five
thousand and sixty dollars. Crumbling the
letters, drafts and all into his pocket, Cromwell,
staggered from the alley like a drunken man.
He had resolved upon his course of action.
Entering a small periodical agency, he called
for pen and paper, and (while the boy in attendance
was waiting upon a customer) our hero
proceeded in quite a business-like manner to
sign the name of “Jacob D. Z. Hicks” upon
each of those talismanic slips of paper. Habit
had made him familiar with his late father's
signature; he wrote with ease and facility; in
a few moments the work was done. He carefully
sanded the signatures, and then made the
best of his way to the office of a celebrated broker
with whom his father had dealt for many
years. On the threshold he paused; his heart
beat like the pendulum of a clock; gazing
through the glass door he beheld the familiar
face of the Broker, bald head, high shirt collar,
gold spectacles and all. For a moment the
young gentleman hesitated; at length commanding
all the force of his nerves, he entered,
and opening the magic slips of paper upon the
counter, said with great self-possession—“Mister
Whitely, father starts for Niagara early in
the morning. He would like it as a favor, if
you would cash these drafts to-night.”
The broker recognized young Hicks, addressed
him by name, and after a word or two
as to his father's health, examined the draft—
first one side and then the other. This done,
he paused, and surveyed Cromwell through
his gold spectacles. Cromwell never forgot
that scrutinizing gaze. “He suspects something,”
he muttered to himself, while in fact
the worthy Broker, who was somewhat
absent-minded, was cogitating whether or no he
should ask as to the truth of that story about
the Briton.
“Five thousand and sixty dollars,” said
the Broker.
“Can you do it?” gasped Cromwell, much
agitated, but endeavoring to look as calm as
possible.
“Certainly,” was the answer—“would
your father like city or New York funds?”
“As you please,” faltered Cromwell. “Only
he wanted a thousand in twenties.”
The Broker unlocked his iron safe and
counted out five thousand and sixty dollars—
forty $100 dollar bills and the balance in $20
notes—Cromwell watching him all the while
with a feverish eye.
Young Hicks extended his hand, and could
scarce believe the evidence of his senses when
he felt the silken slips of paper between his
fingers. He thrust them into his breast pocket
and hurried to the door.
“Ah—come back, young man,” he heard
the voice of the broker.
It was the first impulse of the hopeful youth
to put to his heels, but turning, with a pallid
face, he again confronted the spectacled broker.
“Young man, that is, Mr. Hicks,” began
the Broker, “If it's not impolite I'd like to ask
you one question.”
Cromwell shook in “his boots” but managed
to falter out the monosyllable, “Well?”
“Is there any truth in that story, eh—eh—
about the Brit-British Baronet—and—”
he paused.
Cromwell raised his handkerchief to his
eyes, and in a voice broken by emotion, faltered—
“Mr. Whitely, a son should never speak of
his mother's faults—” and as if overcome by
his feelings hastened from the Broker's store.
Making the best of his way down Third, he
struck into Dock street, and then turned down
Walnut street. As he approached the corner
of Front and Walnut streets, he heard the ringing
of a bell. Utterly bewildered by the incidents
of the last hour, he was hurrying at random—
he knew not whither—when the ringing
of the bell decided him, as to his future
course.
“It's the New York bell!” he muttered,
and in five minutes had purchased his ticket,
and was on board the steamboat on his way to
New York.
That night at ten he landed at the foot of
Courtlandt street. Without pausing to eat or
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[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
sleep, he proceeded to a Barber shop, and had
his face cleanly shaved. Then, in an hour's
ramble, he provided himself with a large trunk,
a black wig, a pair of false whiskers, and two
suits of clothes. He assumed the wig and
whiskers in the street; put on a single-breasted
frock coat, buttoning to the neck, in a tailor's
store; covered his forehead with a glazed cap,
and then calling a cab directed the driver to
take his trunk to Lovejoy's Hotel.
PART VI. CROMWELL. , DON JORGE AND THE POLICE OFFICER.
He entered his name on the books in a bold
dashing hand —
“Auguste Belair, Montreal.”
Then seating himself in an arm chair, amid
the noise and smoke of the reading room, heat
once contemplated his black hair and whiskers,
through the medium of a mirror, and endeavored
to frame some plan, by which he might
be enabled to decline both of Don Jorge's propositions.
He had no desire to take the very
honorable position of first mate on board of
the Sara Jane. He was not decidedly anxious
to fight his friend, either at fisticuffs or coffee
and pistols. What should he do? With five
thousand dollars in his pocket there came over
the young gentleman's soul, a glorious and entrancing
vision of Paris. Paris by day and by
gaslight, Paris above ground and below!
“Yes, I'll cut the Sara Jane, and strike for
Paris!” he said, half aloud — “At the age of
nineteen and with five thousand in the pocket
Paris will be interesting — most undoubtedly.
Then I may chance to come across my “Ma”
and her Baronet. Certainly I'll cut the Sara
Jane.”
But the young gentleman was not yet on
board the Steamship, and there's many a slip
between young gentlemen who sign other
folk's names and the deck of a steamer.
A slim, dapper formed, dark whiskered gentleman
passed between Cromwell and the mirror.
It was Don Jorge. He did not recognize
his friend. But it was no part of Cromwell's
plan to avoid the young Cuban. So
springing from his chair he greeted him with a
familiar slap on the back, and said gaily — “I
am true to my appointment. How are you,
Don!”
It was some moments before Don Jorge
could recognize his friend in the metamorphosed
individual before him. At length the
recognition was complete, and drawing their
chairs into an obscure corner of the room, the
friends began to compare notes. Don Jorge
summed up the case for himself in a few
words:
“I saw my father, spoke to him, and he
would'nt even so much as recognize me. Here
is nothing before me but the Sara Jane, and a
trip from you know where to Brazil or Cuba.”
What was his surprise, when Cromwell
communicated the details of his last exploit!
The eyes of the Cuban fairly danced with excitement.
Cromwell had no reserves, and so
he told him the entire story concluding with
these words —
“So, with five thousand in my pocket,
Georgy, there's no use of my having anything
to do with the Sara Jane. The Steamer sails
to-morrow; come along my boy. What say
you? A trip to Paris?”
The head of the Spaniard dropped moodily
upon his breast, and he shaded his eyes with
his hand. Whether the sudden possession of
five thousand disconcerted his plans, or not,
we cannot tell, but after a few moments he
spoke in a low, earnest voice, and compared
the chances of Cromwell's arrest — did he
once take passage on board the steamer —
with the certainty of success and fortune, in
case he linked his destiny with Don Jorge and
the Sara Jane.
“Come! She lies anchored in the East
River. I saw the owners not two hours ago
and we must be off. Our baggage has been
forwarded from New Haven, and you've only
to say the word, and we'll move. Come.”
He rose from his chair, and moved a step
toward the door.
But Cromwell did not rise.
“No, S-i-r,” he answered, cooly placing his
feet upon the table, “You don't catch `this
child' in any scrape of that kind, while he
has five thousand in his pocket —”
“Fool!” responded Don Jorge — “Why
the very bank notes which you have about you
will betray you. They will be advertised.
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[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
You can't get them changed for gold or for
English funds without the certainty of arrest.”
Cromwell started from his chair, quietly buttoning
his frock coat.
“I think you called me — fool?” he said,
advancing to Don Jorge with a threatening air.
But ere Don Jorge could reply, a short personage
who had been attentively reading a paper
for some minutes past — at a distance of
at least two yards from our worthies — suddenly
turned, and tapping Cromwell on the
shoulder — addressed him with the words —
“You are my prisoner!”
Cromwell felt a shudder pervade him, as he
surveyed the short personage, whose hat drawn
low over the brow — and a “shocking bad hat”
it was — did not altogether conceal a hangdog
visage.
“Your prisoner!” echoed the hopeful youth,
while Don Jorge stood regarding the two with
calm satisfaction.
“I have watched you since you landed at
Courtlandt street. That 'ere false wig and
them false whiskers belong, in my humble
opinion, to a suspicious character. You'd better
come along. The Ma'or, or the chief o'
poleese, 'ud be very much pleased to see you.”
Cromwell lost color and nerve. Once before
the Mayor, he would be searched — detained—
and Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks would
have time to come on from Philadelphia, and
regain his money.
“Come, Mister,” said the personage (who
may have been a police officer, or a pickpocket,
for all we know) when Don Jorge stepped
between the pair.
“If I get you out of this scrape will you
consent?” he whispered — “Say it quick, yes
or no —”
Cromwell surveyed the ill-looking personage,
and then faltered, “Yes!”
“Step this way, sir,” he said, and the gentleman
obeyed, still keeping his eye upon Cromwell—
“Now, mark me, I know that you are
an impostor, but for reasons of my own I
choose to humor you. What do you charge
for your impertinence? Name a reasonable
sum, and let my friend go, and I'll pay it
down —”
The fellow hesitated, and then with a leer
meant to be very knowing, said —“Twenty
dollars 'ill do it.”
Don Jorge borrowed the twenty of Cromwell,
paid it, and bade the fellow begone, with
these words, which he uttered in a whisper —
“Go! And if I see your face again I'll point
you out to the police.”
The personage seemed to understand, for he
left the reading room in a hurry, while Cromwell
stood silent and confused, a wondering
spectator of the scene.
“We've no time to lose,” said Don Jorge —
“We must move right off. That fellow may
be back in five minutes. Come, Crom. Hurrah
for the Sara Jane, and — you know
where!”
Crom, submitted like a child. Their trunks
lashed behind a hack, and themselves seated
within, they were whirling down Broadway in
five minutes, at a speed which hackney coaches
never attained before. In fifteen minutes they
were at the Battery, where a boat was waiting
for them. They entered, and through the
clear starlight were rowed towards a bright light,
which shone vividly at the distance of perchance
five hundred yards. Up the deck of
the Sara Jane, and into a luxuriantly furnished
cabin — it was the work of five minutes more.
And seated in chairs which were arranged beside
a well furnished board, Cromwell and
Don Jorge looked into each other's faces —
the former silent and wondering, the latter gay
and triumphant.
“Is it not a dream?” began Cromwell.
“Carlos,” cried Don Jorge, and in answer
a mulatto boy, dressed in livery, appeared.
“Pen and paper,” continued Don Jorge. The
boy obeyed.
“Now, before we discuss our prospects over
a bottle of this wine, I want you, Crom, to
write a letter to your father at my dictation.”
The letter was written; sent on shore; and
while Cromwell and Don Jorge discussed their
wine, the Sara Jane was gliding over the bay,
in the direction of the Narrows.
The letter which Cromwell signed we shall
see after a while.
PART VII. THE PEEP THROUGH THE WALL OF THE PENITENTIARY.
Once more our narrative returns to the supposed
father.
The next morning, between the hours of
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ten and eleven, a hackney coach deposited Mr.
Hicks at the portal of the Eastern Penitentiary.
It was a bright and beautiful summer morning,
and a clear blue sky smiled above the
gloomy fabric, whose massive walls and sullen
gate and ponderous towers present an imposing
image of the feudal castle of the dark
ages.
Situated on one of the most elevated sites
in the county of Philadelphia—half way between
Girard College and the Fairmount Basin—
the Eastern Penitentiary is built of grayish
granite, and covers about ten acres of
ground. It stands almost alone, in the midst
of desolate commons, with a Hospital near its
front, the Dead House in its rear, and Potter's
Field not far away in the north-east. The
corner-stone of this edifice was laid on the 22d
of May, 1823: it was completed after nearly
or quite ten years, at an expense which has
never been clearly stated to the public. Perchance
two millions of dollars were spent in
its completion.
Within those gloomy walls, for years past,
has been going on a solution of the question—
“Is Solitary Confinement, attended with
Labor, beneficial at once to the Commonwealth
and the Criminal?”
We cannot say that the question has been
satisfactorily answered in the affirmative.
For within the walls of this Bastile, and in
years not very long ago — outrages have been
committed upon Humanity which would have
been a disgrace to the Bastile or the dungeons
of the Inquisition in their worst days.
The difference between Hanging, as a punishment,
and Solitary Confinement may be
summed up in a few words:
To hang a man when you can punish his
crime, and prevent his again violating the law,
by other methods, is at best a cruel and cowardly
punishment. Hanging is a quick, horrible
and unnecessary death.
Hanging, however, bad as it is, and as much
opposed as it is to the Law of Christ and Humanity,
is only a murder of the Body.
Solitary Confinement is a murder of Body
and Soul.
It is one of those punishments which man
has no right to inflict upon man. It is the
cruelty of the most barbarous age, sharpened
and refined by the light and civilization of the
nineteenth century. It is a slow death — a
death of body and soul — a mouldering away
of the soul within a withering body.
“Would you then,” exclaims some friend of
the system, which, often called Philanthropic,
is truly and thoroughly Infernal — “Would
you then do away at once with Hanging and
with Solitary Confinement?”
Yes. By preventing instead of punishing
crime. By spending the money which you
now lavish upon gibbets, almshouses and jails
upon a broad system of education, which shall
embrace all classes of society. By destroying
those unjust laws which, by enriching one
class continually tempt a portion of the other.
and the largest class, to commit crime — crime
sometimes committed to regain their own.
But, in any case, and in the face of all emergencies,
any punishment is better than Hanging
or Solitary Confinement.
Mr. Jacob Hicks, properly and neatly
dressed, with all the evidences of respectability
about him, soon found entrance into the
Penitentiary, where, presenting his permit, he
asked to see “Elijah Watson, who has lately
been convicted of a felony, and sentenced to
some years in the Eastren Penitentiary.”
And in answer, Mr. Hicks was consigned to
the care of an attendant, or under-keeper, who
conducted him to the great central court yard,
from which the various corridors of the Penitentiary
diverge. They entered together one
of those vast corridors which traverse the Bastile.
“Do wish merely to see the Prisoner, that
is number Fifty-One?”
(When a man enters the Bastile he leaves
his Name at the door. He becomes a Number.)
“That is all,” answered Hicks in a low
voice. “I only wish to peep at him.”
The under-keeper opened a small aperture
in the wall — used for the purpose of inspecting
the prisoners — and through this aperture,
Mr. Hicks gazed in silence, and beheld the
prisoner.
It was a vaulted cell about twelve feet long,
six feet wide, and the highest part of the ceiling
was sixteen feet from the floor. Light was
communicated by a large circular glass, fixed
in the crown of the arch. This light fell upon
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the Prisoner. He was seated at a shoemaker's
bench, engaged at making shoes, and his face
upraised for a moment, received on every feature,
the full glow of the light. It was the
face of a boy of eighteen, hardened by hardship;
the cheeks pale and sunken, the dark
hair shaved closely around the forehead, and
the eyes — leaden and lustreless — sunken
deeply beneath the brows. There was a history
in that face.
Clad in the prison garb, he was there alone,
raising his dull eyes to the light, while his
Father — the Rich Man, the Banker, the Merchant—
gazed upon him, without the Convict
being aware of his presence.
“He looks like my family,” thought Mr.
Jacob D. Z. Hicks, and made a sign to the
under-keeper to close the aperture.
He then turned away, and with the attendant
retraced his steps.
“What was he convicted for?” he asked.
“Passing counterfeit money. Didn't you
see it in the papers? He passed a counterfeit
note on the Tunkunny Bank; a ten dollar
bill, I believe.”
Now the Tunkunny Bank was one of Mr.
Jacob Hick's banks, situated in an obscure
country town; the greater part of the stock
owned by himself; and although in good credit,
Mr. Hicks knew that said Bank was in reality
worth about ten cents in the dollar.
And for passing a counterfeit note on this
Bank — in itself a counterfeit and cheat — his
son was condemned to solitary confinement in
the Eastern Penitentiary. Condemned that is,
to be buried alive for the space of four years.
The Merchant made no answer to the attendant,
but was silently conducted to the gate of
the Bastile.
“How many years did you say?” he asked
of the under-keeper, as one foot beyond the
portal, he stood between the outer world, and
that Inner World, where Souls were rotting
slowly away, in withering bodies.
“Four years,” was the answer. “Judge
Tomahawk sentenced him. He's supposed to
be twenty-one, though I don't believe he's more
than eighteen. He's been in a month.”
Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks entered his carriage
and drove away from the Penitentiary, leaving
his son to his fate. He never saw him again
until four years were over.
It was not until late in the afternoon that he
went to his store.
Arrived at the counting room, he found Mr.
Grimly in communication with the Broker,
who had cashed the drafts presented by Cromwell
the night before. It only required a few
moments to put the Merchant in possession of
the facts. And while Mr. Grimly was talking,
a letter postmarked “New York” was put into
the Merchant's hands. He read it and turned
pale as ashes.
“It was all right, I 'spose,” said the Broker,
Mr. Whitely — “You told your son to
get these drafts cashed?”
Mr. Hicks reflected a moment, while the
tortures of a lost soul were at work within his
breast. He hid his face in his bandanna, and
wiped the perspiration from his brow.
“Five thousand and sixty dollars! At this
time it will almost ruin me!” the thought
flashed over him but did not escape his lips.
“The dog! the scoundrel! He has his mother's
blood in his veins, may the devil take
him!”
“Did you say it was all right!” again remarked
the Broker.
“Yes, yes — all right,” replied the Merchant—
“Those drafts were cashed at my
orders.”
— As soon as he was alone, relieved at once
from Grimly and the Broker, Mr. Hicks once
more perused the letter “postmarked” New
York, which had at first sight, excited such
violent emotion.
Dear Father:
You told me to follow my mother.
I'm after her.
Yours affectionately,
Cromwell Hicks.
P.S. That $5060 I have invested in the trade between
somewheres and the Brazil coast. Refer to your
friend Captain Velasquez.
At the name “Captain Velasquez,' the
Merchant bit his nether lip.
“Where,” he gasped, “Where did he learn
that name?”
PART VIII. THE PRIVATE DEVOTIONS OF JACOB D. Z. HICKS.
There was a room in Mr. Hicks' mansion,
which was never visited by any one, save himself.
Located in an odd out-of-the-way corner
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of the huge pile of brick and mortar which constituted
his town residence, this room was dedicated
by Mr. Hicks to the thought and meditation
of his most secret hours. Neither his
wife, nor Cromwell, had ever passed its threshold.
Mr. Hicks carried the key about him —
in his pocket or next his heart — for what we
know. Was Mr. Hicks troubled in business?
Straight he went up stairs and locked himself
in his room — his room, by way of distinction,
you understand. Had Mrs. Hicks been rather
violent in her displays of bad temper? To
his room hied Mr. Hicks without a moment's
delay. Was Mr. Grimly in a “fluster” about
some complicated matter of stocks, mortagages,
notes of hand, or copper mines? No sooner
had he opened his bosom to Mr. Hicks than
Mr. Hicks went directly home, and locked himself
up in his room. After three or four hours
Mr. Grimly would receive his answer.
It was to this room that Mr. Hicks now
hurried, with the letter of Cromwell in his
hand. He entered the mansion without speaking
to the servant — it was the heat of summer,
and his usual list of servants had diminished to
three, a cook, a waiter and a coachman — and
passing through the splendidly furnished but
silent chambers of his home, Mr. Hicks went
up stairs, and did not once pause, until he stood
before the narrow door of his room. It opened
upon a stairway, and was sunken in the depths
of a solid wall. Drawing forth the key, Mr.
Hicks went in, and locked the door after him.
He was in darkness. But familiar in every
nook and corner of the place, he soon discovered
a box of Lucifer matches, and by their
aid lighted a half-burned spermaceti candle.
The light revealed a narrow room, with unpapered
walls and uncarpeted floor. A small
table and a chair was all that the place contained
in the way of furniture. There was a
single window, without sash or glass, but with
a closed shutter, which was wood on the outside
and iron within. Through small holes,
pierced in the shutter, came the only breath of
air which modified the stifling heat of the den.
It was “fire proof;” the walls nearly four feet
thick; and the door as well as the shutter
lined with iron.
Mr. Hicks seated himself in the chair, placed
the light and his hat upon the table, and spreading
forth the letter of Cromwell, gazed at it
earnestly and long, the perspiration streaming
in bearded drops from his forehead and cheek.
“Velasquez!” he said — “how in the name
of all that's infernal did he come by that name?
The light shone over Mr. Hicks' face and
form — both respectable in point of flesh —
and showed his faultless broadcloth and cravat
and vest as white as snow. There was nothing
peculiar in Mr. Hicks' face; it was just such a
visage as you see a thousand times a day, on
Third street near Chesnut. The eyes were
grey, the forehead bold, the cheeks slightly inclined
to fullness, and the lips neither small nor
large — lips which in their compression and in
their unclosing said as plainly as lips can say
without speaking —“Three per cent a month
is very good interest. I like it.”
Understand, Mr. Hicks was no peculiar character;
it was the object of his life to make
money, and to keep up a fine appearance with
the world; he was just as good a man as hundreds
whom you meet every day, on Third
street, or in the Exchange, or in any other
Temple of Scrip and Stock; and was, withal
no better than any ninety-nine out of a hundred
convicts in the Penitentiary. Out and
out, through and through, Mr. Hicks was a
business man — a perfect business man. Could
we say more?
After pondering for a long time over the letter
in which the name of Captain Velasquez was
introduced, Mr. Hicks drew forth another
key, and unlocked the door of a small iron
safe, which stood beneath the table. It was an
ugly rusted thing, looking something like one
of those chests in which the Genii in the Arabian
Nights are imprisoned; and had to all
seeming seen many years of service. This
chest was the Ark of the Covenant in the eyes
of Mr. Hicks — it contained the Covenant
which he had made with the Devil — it contained
his God.
He unlocked the safe, and drew forth the
only thing it contained; a heavy volume, which
resembled a merchant's Ledger, only it was
bound in faded red morocco, and fastened with
rusted iron clasps.
Mr. Hicks grasped the book eagerly, and
undid the clasps, and stretched it forth upon
the table, and gave himself to the enjoyment of
its contents, like a gourmand to his feast.
In that book were entered all the “business
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[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
operations” of Mr. Hicks for the last ten, yes,
fifteen years. Not only those operations which
were told to the world, under the head of the
“stock market,” but certain operations which
Mr. Hicks and the Devil carried on for their
special benefit, having a perfectly good understanding
with each other.
For instance, here was related in Mr. Hicks'
own hand-writing, how he had procured the
charters of three banks, situated in different
parts of the country — owned and controlled
by him — and not worth three cents on the
dollar, although managed by our friend, they
had in circulation at least $300,000 in bank
notes.
Again: here was related how Mr. Hicks had
bought a field in Jersey for $600, and called it
a Copper Mine, and sold it, in $1000 shares,
to house-maids, hod-carriers, day-laborers, and
such vulgar folk) at $25 per share. Mr. Hicks
was, in fact, in his own person, the “Grand
New Jersey and Gineywoyan Copper Mining
Company.”
Here, once more, were Mr. Hicks' little
speculations in the way of Insurance Companies—
Fire, Health, and Life Insurance Companies—
in all of which Mr. Hicks himself
was the manager behind the scenes.
And here, in palpable red and black ink,
were the transactions of Mr. Hicks and Captain
Velasquez. These transactions had
built up the fortune of Mr. Hicks. They
were profitable, exceedingly profitable. They
had been continued for a series of years, and
had scarcely been interrupted by the seizure of
a vessel now and then, and they had poured
doubloons into Mr. Hicks' lap, in a sort of
hail— a golden hail.
“And this scoundrel knows the name of
Captain Velasquez!” said Mr. Hicks, after a
long examination of the Book. “How has he
gained his knowledge?”
Mr. Hicks saw danger looming from the
horizon.
Leaning back in his chair, his eyes half
closed, and the ends of his fingers placed together
across his breast, Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks
endeavored to arrange a plan for his future
course.
After a long pause — the sweat streaming in
not drops from his brow — he thus delivered
himself —
“These three Banks must break. Copper
stock, Life, Health, and Fire Insurance must
follow their example. As for Mr. Jacob D.
Z. Hicks, why heart-broken by the dissipation
of his son, and the profligacy of his wife, he
must suddenly disappear. A hat will be found
on the wharf, and the world will lament the
fall of the broken-hearted merchant, while Mr.
Jacob D. Z. Hicks is safe in Havana.
He smiled one of his pleasant smiles —
locked his own chest (having first put his God
away) and then extinguished the candle.
“I can do nothing for that boy in the Penitentiary,”
he said, when the darkness enveloped
him, “He must serve out his time.”
Mr. Hicks left the room and locked it, and
went on his way rejoicing.
But a month after this incident the three
banks failed, Insurance Companies and Copper
Mines went by the board, and the hat of Mr.
Hicks (with an affecting letter in the lining)
was found on the wharf. Who suffered by
the failure of the Banks matters not; they
were “poor devils” doubtless, that vulgar sort
of folk who work for a living. It is their
business to suffer.
Four years passed away. From 1845 to
1849 is a long step, but our Narrative leaves
its various characters for four years, and it resumes
their history in September, 1849, when
the Killers appear upon the scene.
While four years pass, the Convict, Elijah
Watson, makes shoes and educates himself in
the Eastern Penitentiary.
And Cromwell, old Mr. Hicks and Don
Jorge — where are they? Where are they?
PART IX. THE SILENT COMPOSITOR.
In the latter part of September, 1849, a
pale faced man, dressed in shabby black, came
to a printing office in the city of Philadelphia,
and obtained employment as a Compositor.
It was one of those printing offices which,
from garret to cellar, abound with the evidences
of life, bustle, and business. From the
power-presses underground, to the Compositor's
room in the sky, this establishment was
devoted to setting type, printing books, papers
and handbills, folding, stitching, binding — and
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we're not sure — but stereotyping in the bargain.
You could hand in your MSS. at one
door, and get your book, bound and lettered,
at another.
Whether this huge building was situated up
an alley, or on a public street, is a question
which, at the present moment, does not need
an answer.
Let us enter the Compositor's room on the
fourth story. The rain beats with a gloomy
patter against its many windows. It is a long
room, narrow in proportion to its width, with
“cases” stationed near each window. In front
of each case (there were eight or ten in all)
stands a compositor, working in silence at his
task; and in the centre of the room, near a
huge slab of black marble elevated on a table,
you behold the foreman, who is engaged in
making up the form.
The pale compositor in the shabby dress
is at his case in one corner, the light from the
window falling over his projecting forehead.
He does his work — goes to his meals — returns
again — and in the same quiet unobtrusive
manner.
Now among the compositors in this office
there is at least one boy compositor to every
man. The boys are employed to do men's
work, in a bungling manner, at half wages.
The men, thus thrown out of employ, may
get drunk or steal, but that is no business of
the Proprietor. He, good man, is employed
in printing tracts, books, and newspapers —
and among his greatest patrons are certain benevolent
societies, who give away tracts and
books, and print newspapers at $1.00 per year.
Thus liberal, these societies must have their
printing done at half price. The Proprietor
cannot afford to pay full wages; he employs
one half boys, and makes up the rest by cutting
down the wages of the girls in the bindery.
Thus he is enabled to print “The Gospel
Christian” (a weekly paper) together with
omnibus loads of tracts and books, at something
lower than half price. So glorious a
thing is a Benevolent or Religious (!) Society,
which gives away the life and bread of book-binder
girls and printers.
Now on the day on which we behold these
compositors, men and boys, at their work,
(while the Foreman. Mr. Snick, a wiry little
ker under his chin, is making up the form of
“The Gospel Christian”) an event, rather important
to the comprehension of our Narrative,
is fast maturing towards completion.
The hour of twelve arrives; the pale compositor
takes his hat and coat, and goes to his
dinner. The Foreman disappears into the
lower story. But the other compositors, men
and boys, gathered around the “imposing
stone,” (as the black marble slab is styled) mingle
in rapid conversation, and hold what may
be termed a Council of War.
“You don't say so?” whispers a tall compositor—
“By Jove! I thought something of
that kind was the matter!”
“I never liked his looks—” adds one of
the boys — a very promising youth, who take
a pugilistic entertainment with one of the other
boys, whenever the Foreman turns his back.
“Nor I — he has a downcast look!” adds
another:
“His eyes are too deep set!”
“He never speaks to any one, in a voice
above his breath.”
While the compositors — boys and men —
thus deliver their opinions, there is one who
does not speak until all the others have concluded.
He is a thin, slender personage —
grown pale from working late at night on a
daily paper — and with dull eyes, that seem to
have had all their life boiled out of them, over
a slow fire.
“Why don't you speak, Corny?” asks one
of the boys—“Why don't you give your
opinion about the new compositor?”
Conscious that he has an important secret in
his possession, Mr. Corny Walput folds his
arms, and looks at his companions with a wink
of his boiled eyes, and a twist of his colorless
lips.
“What's the name of the new compositor?”
he asks.
“Trottle — Job Trottle,” responds one of
the boys.
“Where did he come from?” continued Mr.
Walput.
“From Washington. He says he's been
employed in the Union office,” was the answer.
Mr. Corny Walput put his thumb to his
nose.
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Job Trottle, and he didn't come from
Washington.”
“Who is he?” the compositors cried in a
breath.
But Mr. Corny Walput was mysterious.
Winking and twisting his mouth, he bade his
companions “Wait until the Foreman comes—
wait until Snick comes. Then I'll show
you fireworks.”
They did wait until the foreman came. But
while they discussed their dinners (and most
of them brought their dinners with them) they
did not forget to also discuss the pale-faced
compositor in the shabby black coat.
At length, about one o'clock, “Mr. Job
Trottle” returned, and took his place quietly
at his case, amid the winks, nods and whispers
of the other compositors. The pugilistic youth
was particularly happy in making ugly faces;
nature had done a great deal for him, but he
assisted nature.
Next entered Mr. Snick. Complacent with
a good dinner, and twirling that bit of whisker,
under his chin, Mr. Snick resumed his place
at the imposing stone. Corny approached —
they exchanged whispers — Snick opened his
yes, and Corny pointed to the silent compostor.
Then Snick grew red in the face, and
pale again, whispering “My goodness!” three
times, in a voice of evident horror. Corny
resumed his whispers, and then Snick hurried
down stairs, and had a little private talk with
the Proprietor. When Snick came back, his
face was glowing with excitement; he stepped
over the floor with the consciousness that all
eyes were fixed upon him. He twirled that
fragmentary whisker with almost a savage air.
The compositors, boys and men, ceased their
labors — all save the silent one, who, with
downcast head, worked away in his corner.
“Eh — ah — ehem!” and Snick tapped the
silent compositor on the shoulder — “Mr.
Trottle! I think you said your name was
Trottle?'
The silent compositor had been setting upon
an article for the “Gospel Christian,” entitled
“The Gospel nature of the Gallows.” He
turned, as Mr. Snick spoke, and looked at
him, like a man who has been disturbed in the
midst of a reverie. His projecting brow, pale
cheeks, and eyes deep sunken, were half in
light and half in shadow.
“What did you say, Sir?” he said in a low
voice, and with the manner of an absent man.
“I think that you said your name was Job
Trottle?” said Mr. Snick, very slowly.
“I did, and so it is,” and the silent compositor
turned to his task again.
Mr. Snick seemed for a moment confounded
by the quiet manner of the individual. Gathering
courage, (and with Corny at his back, attended
by one boy and two men) he again
tapped “Mr. Job Trottle” on the arm.
“No, Sir,” he said, in a voice between a
bluster and a whine — “No, Sir. Your name
aint Job Trottle, but it is Elijah Watson. Do
you hear that, Sir, Elijah Watson?”
The silent compositor started, as though a
sharp pain had smote him in the heart. His
face grew red as blood. He surveyed Mr.
Snick, while his eyes seemed at once to sink
deeper in their sockets, and flash up with a
sinister glare.
“Yes,” continued Snick, gathering courage
from the compositors, who, man and boy, had
ranged themselves at his back (the pugilistic
youth making frightful faces all the while;)
“Yes, your name is Elijah Watson, and you
haven't come from Washington, but you have
come from the Eastern Penitentiary, where
you've been spendin' four years for passing
counterfeit money. Now, what do you think
of your brass, to come and pass yourself off
as an honest man? In this here office, too,
where nothing but moral, well-behaved people
are tolerated — why —”
Snick paused for breath, and the silent compositor
stood with one arm resting on his case,
while he took a hurried glance at the group
before him. His face flushed, and was pale
again; there was a straining at the muscles of
his throat, and then he turned his face toward
the window. What was passing in his heart,
God only knows.
Snick, taking this for a sign of cowardice,
resumed his elegant strain —
“To come here, in the office of the Gospel
Christian (not mentioning any quantity of tracts
and books which are published under this roof)
and pass yourself off as an honest man! Why,
I never heard of—”
“How did type settin' go out yonder?” interrupted
the pugilistic youth.
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Corny —“has a depressin' influence on the
sperrits, I'm told?”
The convict turned, and cast his eye toward
the nail where his coat was hanging. He was
deathly pale; the muscles of his face were
knit; he shook from head to foot.
“Let me pass you, if you please,” he said
in a very low voice — the tone of a man who
is endeavoring to choke down some violent
burst of passion.
Mr. Snick didn't like the expression of his
deep sunken eye, so he let him pass. And the
compositors gave way, Corny slinking in the
background, while the pugilistic youth, in the
extreme van, kept up his pantomime of frightful
faces.
The convict did not speak, but turning his
back upon them all, walked quietly across the
floor, and put on his coat, and drew his cap
over his brows. Then, still keeping his face
toward the wall, he walked across the floor
and descended the stairway, drawing his cap
deeply over his brows, as he disappeared from
view.
This silence — this struggling of the poor
wretch with his emotion — this exit made without
a word, and without even asking for the
money which was due him — was not without
its effect upon foreman and compositors.
“Come back,” cried Snick, running to the
head of the stairs — “I owe you two dollars
and a half—”
But the convict was gone beyond the reach
of his voice. One of the compositors, not
quite so virtuous as the rest (though he had tacitly
assented to the moral of this scene)
whispered to Snick — received two dollars and
a half in silver — and, without hat or coat,
rapidly descended the stairway. He passed
through press-room, bindery and ware-room,
in his eager search after the convict; and his
search being fruitless, he descended the long
dark stairway which led to the street.
Up and down the street he looked, and to
the right and left, but the convict had disappeared.
“Well,” ejaculated the compositor, as he
stood clinking the half dollars in his hands —
“The face of that fellow has left quite an impression
on me. I think it would been just as
well if Corny had kept his tongue, and Snick
had minded his own business.”
And so it would.
We shall see the “silent compositor” again.
PART X. THE SUPERNUMERARY.
In the month of October, 1849, a young
woman, who was connected with one of the
theatres in a subordinate capacity, excited considerable
attention on the part of those gentlemen
who prowl about the stage, seeking
“whom they may devour.” We allude to
that class of characters, young and old, who
insult respectable women in the street, parade
opera glasses in the pit, while the dancing is
in progress, and hang around the green room,
where the actors congregate when their presence
is not needed upon the stage.
This young woman was altogether a subordinate;
she did not appear in any leading
character, but was seen as an assistant in the
ballet, or as a part of some dramatic spectacle;
in fact she was what is generally denominated
a “supernumerary.” She was about eighteen
years of age; rather tall; with brown hair,
dark eyes, a noble bust, and a walk that would
not have disgraced an empress. She was new
to the stage. Who or what she was, no one
knew; not even the manager who paid her
thirty-seven and a half cents per night for her
services in the ballet and spectacle. She had
only been engaged a week, in October, 1849,
when her beauty made a considerable buzz
among the libertines of the pit, and the loungers
of the green room. Her modest manner,
and her evident desire to remain unobserved
and unknown, only whetted the curiosity of
these vultures, who prey upon female innocence
and beauty.
One night, however, as winding her faded
shawl about her shoulders, and drawing her
green veil over her face, she left the theatre, on
her way to her unknown home, she was followed—
at a discreet distance — by one of
those gentlemen of the character named above.
He was rather portly; wore a bangup which
concealed the lower part of his face, and carried
a large bone-headed stick. The object of
his pursuit led him a devious chase. Up one
street and down another, now passing through
narrow alleys, and now along the streets, she
hurried on, until at last she reached a small
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frame house, which stood at the extremity of
a dark court, in that district somewhat widely
known as “Moyamensing.” This court is
known in the language of the District by the
euphonious name of “Dog Alley.” A lamp
standing at the entrance of the Court emitted
a faint and dismal light. When she reached
the lamp she paused, and looked around her,
as though she was conscious or afraid that she
had been followed. The gentleman with the
big stick saw her turn, and skulked behind a
convenient corner, in time to avoid her observation.
In a moment she resumed her way
and entered the frame tenement, from the window
of which a faint light shone out upon the
pavement.
The portly gentleman stole cautiously to the
window, took one glance, and then crouched
against the door of the house. That glance,
however, had revealed to him a small room
miserably furnished, with an old woman sitting
near a smouldering fire, and a young one —
the “supernumerary” of the theatre — standing
by her side, one hand laid upon a pine table,
and the other raised as if in the act of
expostulation.
The portly gentleman did his best to overhear
the conversation which took place between
the two. Pressing his ear against the chink
of the door, and balancing himself with his
stick, as he kneeled on one knee, he managed
to hear a portion of their conversation.
“So you've come — have you?” said the
old woman, in a voice between a grunt and a
growl.
“Yes, mother. And there's my week's
salary — just three dollars.”
“Three dollars! And how's a body as is
old and has the rheumatiz to live on three dollars?”
“Mother I do all that I can, I'm sure. I'd
earn more if I could.”
“Bah! If you only know'd what's what
you might earn a heap, I tell you. Here since
your father's been dead — killed by fallin'
off a buildin' four years ago — I've had all the
keer of you and tuk in washin' when you was
goin' to school. Yes, I tuk you from the Factory
and sent you to school. And now when
you've grow'd up and kin do somethin' for
your mother, why don't you do it?”
“What can I do, mother?” said the young
woman, in a voice of entreaty.
The old woman replied with a sound between
a cough and a laugh, as she said:
“What kin you do? Why if I was young
and handsom' and had a foot and a face like
yourn — and danced at the theater, I'd show
you, what I could do. Aint there plenty of
rich gentlemen, as 'ud be glad to pay you
your weight in goold if —
The rest of the sentence was lost in a
whisper, but the gentleman in the big stick,
who listened at the door, heard the reply of
the girl, which consisted in a simple ejaculation,
uttered in a tone of reproach and shame—
“My God, Mother!”
“Yes, it is easy to say My God, Mother!”
replied the old woman mimicking her daughter,
“But if you only had the spunk of a lobster
you might roll in goold an' be a great actress
and — what not!”
The listener did not wait for another word,
but pushing open the door, entered the apartment.
The old woman looked up in surprise,
her haggard face looking almost ghastly, by
lamplight, while the daughter (who had thrown
her bonnet and shawl aside) gazed upon the
intruder in evident alarm.
“Don't mind me, my good friends, don't
mind me,” said the portly gentleman, in a
thick voice, as he approached the table. “I'm
a friend, that's all. Have seen your daughter
on the stage, and would like to make a great
actress of her. Am a theatrical manager—
just over the water — in search of American
talent. Will take charge of her tuition. That
can't be managed without money, but money's
no object to me.”
And stepping between the mother and
daughter he laid five bright gold pieces upon
the pine table.
“Here's luck!” screeched the old woman,
grasping for the money.
“What say you?” asked the portly gentleman,
addressing the daughter.
“I — don't — know — you — sir —” she
exclaimed with a proud curl of the lip, as her
bosom swelled under its shabby covering. At
the same time she wrenched the money from
her mother's grasp. “Take your money
Sir.”
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There was something queenly in the look
of the young woman, as, with her form swelling
to its full stature, she regarded the intruder
with a look of withering scorn, extending his
gold pieces in one hand and at the same time
pointing to the door.
“The very thing! That voice would do
honor to Fanny Kemble! I tell you, Miss,
that nature cut you out for an actress — a great
actress.”
“So natur' did,” exclaimed the old woman,
rising from the chair — “Take the money, gal,
and let this gentleman make a great actress of
you.”
“Either you must leave this house, or I
will,” said the girl, and dashing the gold pieces
into the face of the portly gentleman, she retreated
behind the table, her eye flashing and
her bosom swelling with anger. This action
rather disconcerted the gentleman. Retreating
backward, and bowing at the same time, he
stumbled over the threshold, and gathered himself
up in time to receive the gold pieces from
the hand of the girl. She had gathered them
from the floor in defiance of the objurgations of
her mother, who earnestly sought to retain only
a single piece.
“Now, mother,” said the girl, closing the
door and placing her hand firmly on the old
woman's shoulder, “If after this I hear one
word from your lips, like those you have spoken
to-night, we part forever.”
Her flashing eye and deep toned voice impressed
the old woman with a sensation between
rage and fear. But ere she could frame
a reply, her daughter had gone up stairs, and
the old woman heard a sound like the closing
of a bolt.
“One of her tantrums. When things don't
go right, she goes to bed without supper, and
locks herself in. Lor' how they brings up
children now-a-days!”
For a long time she sat in silence, stretching
her withered hands over the fire: at length she
took the light, and hobbling to the door, unlocked
it, and went out into the court. Bending
down, the light extended in her skinny
fingers and playing over her haggard face, she
groped in the mud and filth for the gold pieces
which her daughter had flung in the face of
the portly gentleman.
“Won,” she mumbled, seizing a bright ob
ject which sparkled in the mud, when a hand
touched her lightly on the arm, and looking up
she saw the portly gentleman at her side.
He pointed to the door of the frame house,
and led the way. She followed, and after closing
the street door and the door which opened
on the stairway, they sat down together and
conversed for a long time in whispers, the old
woman's face manifesting a feverish lust for
gain, while the portly gentleman removed his
hat and suffered his coat collar to fall on his
shoulders, until his face was visible.
It was the face of a very pleasant looking
gentleman, whose forehead was relieved by
masses of curling black hair, and beneath whose
ample chin appeared a half circle of whiskers—
glossy whiskers, well oiled and curled,
and shown in contrast with a white shirt bosom,
which sparkled with a diamond pin.
This gentleman, without the hair and whiskers,
would have been at least fifty-four years old—
but with hair and whiskers (both were false)
he looked only forty-two.
There was a bright twinkle in his eye, half
hidden in wrinkled lids, and a sort of amorous
grin upon his lips. He approached the old
woman and talked in a low oily voice.
They conversed for a long time and the end
of the conversation was in these words:—
“To-morrow night, as she is going to the
theatre,” said the gentleman.
“It is election night and the streets will be
full of bonfires and devilment. She can be
seized at the corner of the street, put in a cab
which I have ready, and kept quiet until her
temper is a little managable.”
He laid some bank notes and bright gold
pieces upon the table, which the old woman
seized with a hungry grasp, as she replied:
“Yes, and Black Andy is the man to do it.
Have everything ready and it kin be done.
You'd better see Andy; he keeps a groggery
at the corner of the court.”
“The Gentleman” rose, and bidding the
dame good night, proceeded to the “Hotel”
of a huge negro, who went by the name of
Black Andy, or the “Bulgine,” in the more
familiar dialect of Moyamensing. Picking his
way through the darkness, he presently entered
a low and narrow room, filled with stench
and smoke, with negroes — men, women, and
children huddled together in one corner, and
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a bar in the other, behind which stood the negro
himself, dealing out whiskey to a customer.
The scene was lighted by three tallow candles,
stuck in as many porter bottles. The “Bulgine”
was a huge, burly negro, black as the
ace of spades, with a mouth like a gash, a nose
that looked as if it had been trodden upon, and
fists that might have felled an ox. The customer
was a white man — rather tall and muscular—
dressed in a miserable suit of grey
rags, with his hair worn long before the ears,
and a greasy cloth cap drawn low over his
forehead.
“This 'ere whiskey burns like rale —,”
grunted the customer, concluding his sentence
with a blasphemous expression.
“Dat it does. It am de rale stripe — hot as
pepper an' brimstone.”
After these words, “the Loafer” in grey
rags stretched himself on the floor, and our
worthy gentleman approached the negro.
A few words sufficed to put the negro in
possession of the object of the gentleman's
visit. He grinned horribly, as the worthy man
bent over the counter, and communicated his
desire in a confiding whisper.
“Dars my hand on it,” he said, “For a
small matter o' fifty dollars dis Bulgine put
twenty gals in a cab.”
“To-morrow night — remember. The old
lady's agreeable and I'll have the cab at the
street corner. There's twenty-five on account.”
“Y-a-s sah, dat's de talk,” responded the
negro grasping the money.
“Who's that fellow?” whispered the Gentleman,
touching with his foot the prostrate
form of the the “Loafer,” who by this time was
snoring lustily.
“Dat — eh, dat? I raly dono his name —
but he's a Killer.”
PART XI. THE KILLERS.
This seemed perfectly satisfactory to the
Gentleman, who drew his hat over his brows,
pulled up the collar of his coat and leaving the
groggery, made the best of his way homeward.
After his visiter had gone, the Bulgine approached
the prostrate loafer, and kicked him
with his splay foot.
“Get out o' dis. Dis 'ain't no place for you,
dam white trash.”
The loafer arose grumbling, and lounged lazily
to the door, which the Black Bulgine
closed after him, with the objurgation — “De
dam Killer; dar room is better as dar company.”
No sooner, however, had the Loafer passed
from the groggery into the court, than his lazy
walk changed into a brisk stride, his head rose
on his shoulders, and he seemed to have become
in a moment altogether a new man.
He passed from the court into the street,
where a couple of ruffian-like men stood beneath
the light of the street lamp. As he approached
them, he made a sign with his right
hand, and the two ruffians followed him like
dogs obeying the whistle of a master. Along
the dark and deserted street the loafer pursued
his way, until he came to the corner of a well-known
street leading from the Delaware to the
Schuylkill; a street which, by the bye, was
lighted at every five yards by a groggery or a
beer shop. At the corner, and near the door
of every groggery, stood groups of men, or
half-grown boys — sometimes five and sometimes
six or seven in a group. The Loafer
passed them all, repeating the sign which he
had given to the first two ruffians. And at the
sign the men and half-grown boys fell in his
wake; by the time he had gone half a square,
he was followed by at least twenty persons,
who tracked his footsteps without a word. For
a quarter of an hour they walked on, the silence
only broken by the shuffling of their feet.
At length arriving before an unfinished three-story
brick house (unfinished on account of
the numerous riots which have so long kept
the District of Moyamensing in a panic) they
silently ranged themselves around the “Loafer,”
whose sign they had followed.
“All Killers?” he said, anxiously scanning the
visages of the ruffians, boys and men, who
were only dimly perceptible by the star-light.
“All Killers,” was the answer.
The “Loafer” again made a sign with his
right hand, which was answered by the others,
and then exclaimed — “Come boys — we've
work to do. Let us enter the Den of the
Killers.”
And one by one they descended into the cellar
of the unfinished house — the “Loafer”
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being the last. Indeed he remained on the
verge of the cellar door, for a few moments after
the others had disappeared. He looked
anxiously up and down the street, and placing
two fingers in his mouth, emitted a long and
piercing whistle. It was answered in a moment,
and from behind the corner of the building
came a person, whose slim form was muffled
in the thick folds of a cloak.
“All right?” said the new comer—and his
cloak falling aside for a moment, disclosed the
glare of a uniform.
“All right,” answered the “Loafer”—“The
boys are ripe for fun. Let us go up after them.—
What! You're not afraid?” he continued
as the other displayed some signs of hesitation.
“Not afraid Dick, but —you're sure of
them?” whispered the man in the cloak.
“I wish I was as sure of a safe landing in
Cuba, one month hence. Come along, my
boy! “The Killers and Cuba!” that's the
word. Come, and let me show you the Den of
the Killers!”
He grasped the hand of the stranger and
they descended into the cellar.
PART XII. A YOUNG MAN WHO DESIRES TO KNOW “THE NAME OF HIS FATHER. ”
Before we follow “the Loafer” and his uniformed
friend into “the Den of the Killers,”
we will return to the house of the old woman,
in the classic retreat of “Dog Alley.” No
sooner had “the gentleman” left her than she
was surprised by the entrance of a new visitor.
This is the way it happened.
The old woman was once more alone, sitting
beside the pine table, crumpling the notes
between her fingers, while her lips moved in a
half coherent soliloquy:
“Seems to me I've seen his face afore. I'll
bet punkins on it. If it was n't for the whiskers
and the hair, I'd think —”
“Good evening, Mother,” said a voice at
her shoulder — “How d'ye get along, anyhow?”
The speaker (who had entered unperceived
while she was wrapt in her brown study) was
a young man of not more than twenty-three
years, in fact, although he looked nearly five
years older. Dressed in a shabby black coat,
buttoned to the neck, with an old cloth cap
drawn over his forehead, he stood near the
pine table, his right hand grasping a knotted
stick. His voice was singularly hollow and
husky in its every accent. The lamplight revealed
his sunken cheeks, and deep-set eyes
as he stood there regarding the old woman with
a half mocking grin.
“Oh, it's you, is it? said the old woman
with a start — “A purty time o' night for you
to show yourself! This blessed two weeks I
have n't clapped eyes on you — and for that
matter, upon a penny o' your money nayther.”
“How should I get money, Mother?” said
the young man, in a quiet tone, but as he spoke
the grin widened over his colorless features.
“Work!” and the old woman clutched her
gold and notes, and put her hands under her
shawl.
“Work!” he echoed — “Did n't I try?
First at the printin' office, among printers, and
you know what they did — don't you? Then
as a porter at a shoemaker's shop, among shoe-makers,
and you know what they did — don't
you? Then as a porter in a store, among porters
and draymen, and you know what they
did — don't you? Can you tell me what
name I went by at all these places?”
He bent down, and drew closer to the old
woman, his eyes flashing, while he shook with
suppressed laughter.
“Did I go by the name of Job Trottle,
or by the name of Elijah Watson, Convict
`Number Fifty-One,' in the Eastern Penitentiary?”
“Kin I help it?” said the old woman, almost
savagely — “Kin I help it ef you don't
get work a-cause you was in the State's
Prison?”
Elijah did not at once reply. Throwing his
cap upon the table, he disclosed his protuberant
forehead, encircled by his dark hair, closely
cut. He came a step nearer Mrs. Watson
(for the reader doubtless recognizes our old
friend of Runnel's Court,) and folding his
arms, looked at her steadily, as he said in a
low voice —
“I don't say you can help it, but I'll tell
you what you can help. You can help keepin'
me in the dark about things I want to know,
and things that I must know.”
“What things?”
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“Don't sham stupid, old woman, for it won't
help you now. I want to know the name of
a certain gentleman, who came to see you
after I'd been a month in the Penitentiary,
and who you suspected was nobody else but
my father. Don't you remember you told me
so, when you came to see me at Cherry Hill,
soon afterwards? Yes, you told me what a
nice man he was — such a pleasant white cravat
as he wore — and how you followed him
from Runnel's Court, and found out who he
was. And how, when you'd found out his
name, you hunted up a certain old letter from
my mother, and found out that this identical
gentleman was my father, and nothin' else.
You did n't tell him that you had a letter from
my mother, or that you knew her name — you
kept that dark with me. Now, do you hear
me? Here I stand. and there you are, and
you've got to tell me that old gentleman's name,
or I'll know the reason why!”
While Elijah was speaking, Mrs. Watson
looked up, at first in wonder, and then with a
sort of mingled fear and amazement. For
violent passions were struggling upon the colorless
features of the Convict; his lips fairly
writhed as he spoke; and the veins stood out,
swollen and purpled, upon his projecting brow.
“Lije, don't make a fool of yesself. Sit
down, and cool yer dander. What's the good
o' yer knowing the man's name?”
Elijah brought his stick upon the table, with
a sound like the report of a pistol.
“That name, I say!” he shouted, in a voice
that was thick and husky with struggling passions.
“That name, afore you speak another
word, or by — I'll go to Cherry Hill for
somethin' worse than passin' counterfeit money.
Now, perhaps you understand me?”
“Lije, it won't do you no good; he's dead,”
cried Mrs. Watson, who trembled with fright.
At these words the Convict fell back a step,
while his face displaye the very distortion of
mental torture in every writhing outline.
“Dead! You aint lyin'?” he ejaculated.
“He was drowned only a little while arter
he came to see me in Runnel's Court. It
won't do you no good to know his name. As
for your mother, she died in Montreal last
year. When she heard of the old man's
death, she sent me some money, and the next
hderI” sat tesdw,awha haeea
“And so you won't tell me the name of my
father?” said Elijah, bending across the table,
until his face nearly touched the old woman's
shoulder.
“It won't do you no good, fur —”
He reached forth his brawny hand, and
clutched her by the throat — “Now,” he whispered,
as, half suffocated, she endeavored to
tear his grip from her throat — “Now, tell me
his name, or I'll choke you dead.”
Gasping for breath, the old woman managed
to murmur, “Take your hand from my throat,
and I'll tell.” Elijah at once released his
grasp. “No foolin,' old woman, you must
tell me the name an' take your Bible oath upon
it.”
“His name,” answered the old woman,
“was John Tomson, and —”
“Will you swear to that?” fiercely interrupted
the Convict. “Now, I know his name
was n't John Tomson, for about three months
arter I was in jail, the underkeeper told me
of a gentleman who came and peeped at me
through a hole in the wall. This gentleman
was exactly like the one who visited you in
Runnel's Court- I know his name, and I jist
want to see if you have truth enough in you
to tell it to me. What was the name of my
father? By the long days and nights I spent
at Cherry Hill, I wont ask you that question
again.”
The old woman was now thoroughly frightened.
It was her first impulse to raise the cry
of murder, but when she looked at the face of
the Convict — ferocious with a strange determination—
she abandoned this idea.
“The name o' the old gentleman, who came
to see me in Runnel's Court, was Hicks — Jacob
D. Z. Hicks — and he was drowned about
three months arterward. He was very rich,
or folks said that he was, but his creditors arter
he was dead had to whistle for their money.
An' he's the man I tuk to be your father —
s' 'elp me God!”
Long before she had concluded, the savage
look of the Convict had been replaced by an
expression of blank despair.
“Jacob D. Z. Hicks!” the words came
from his lips in an under tone — “That's the
the name. That's the man who looked at me
through the hole in the wall. And he's dead,
yes —” his voice rose into a shriek, as he
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clutched his stick with both hands — “He's
where I can't get at him.”
Apparently overwhelmed by the violence of
his emotions, he sank into a chair, and buried
his face in his hands. The old woman could
hear him murmur, in tones that were alternately
deep with rage, or tremulous with almost unmanly
feeling —
“That's the name. That's it. And he
looked at me through the hole in the jail, and
did not stir a hand for me. And he knew
that I had been put in, for passing a counterfeit
note on his own bank — and knew that I
was his son. He did. And now when I
come out o' jail, the word “Convict” follers
me everywhere, and shuts me out from every
hope of ever gettin' an honest livelihood —
yes, Langfeldt, who was hung last fall, was
better off than I am! I think I'd go ten years
in the Penitentiary jist for the chance o' havin'
five minutes talk with this father of mine!”
“What 'ud you do with him, Lije?”
“Talk with him”— he raised his face; there
were tears in his fiery eyes —“Talk with him,
that's all.”
For a little while they sat in silence; the
old woman “huddled up” in her shawl, and
Elijah with his face buried in his hands. At
length he rose, put on his cap, and approached
the pine table —
“Where's Kate?” he said —“I have not
seen her these two weeks.”
“Up stairs — asleep,” was the answer.
“Now look here, I'm a goin' to do somethin'
that will set me up for life, or — never
mind what. I know your disposition, and
know you'd make no more bones of sellin'
Kate to the devil, than you would of eatin'
your breakfast. If I succeed in what I'm
goin' to undertake, Kate will hear from me.
Tell her that, and she will receive from me,
what will put her out of want for life. For
though she aint my sister by blood, she is my
sister in fact; we've been brought up together,
and I think more of her than a dozen sisters
by blood. If I fail, old woman, why you'll
never hear of me again. In that case I'll be
a dead man, or a `Number' in some jail or
other. But don't you put any of your devil's
tricks to work about Kate — if you ever bring
harm to her, by the living —, I'll come back
and haunt you, though I'm dead as dead can
be. Good night, old woman.”
He moved to the door —
“Where are you goin', Lije?”
“To complete my education,” he said, turning
his head over his shoulder, with a broad
grin upon his colorless face —“You see, when
I was out at Cherry Hill, they brought me a
Bible, and set me to readin' and thinkin'—
they did. They spoke sich smooth words to
me, while they were buryin' me alive in that
stone coffin. They did. And now I'm goin'
to complete the education which they begun.
Good night, old woman.”
With these words he left the hovel, and as
the door closed on him, the old woman, still
“crumpling” the bank notes in her fingers,
muttered to herself —
“Where have I seen that gentleman afore?
I think I know him spite of his black hair and
whiskers?”
She did not allude to Elijah, but to the gentleman
with whom she had contracted the ruin
of poor Kate. She sat there alone, until the
lamp flickered its last, and then crawled up
stairs to the miserable bed, first stopping a moment
to listen at the door of her daughter's
room. All was quiet there. Poor Kate, whom
she had deliberately sold to the “English
Manager,” otherwise known as the “Gentleman,”
was sleeping the sound sleep of innocence
and toil.
PART XIII. THE DEN OF THE KILLERS.
Now we return to the Loafer and his friend
in uniform, whom we left for a short time in
part XI.
The Loafer jumped into the cellar of the
unfinished house, and was followed by his
friend, whose slim figure and bright uniform
was hidden in his cloak. Scrambling in silence
through the dark cellar, they ascended
in the darkness into the upper rooms of the
unfinished house, the Loafer leading his friend
by the hand. Arriving at the head of the
second flight of stairs, where a faint light came
through a window, the Loafer said:
“Wait here a minute, Captain. I'll go in
and see the boys. Do you hear 'em?”
“Hear them?” said the Captain, with
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something of a foreign accent —“Do you think I'm
deaf?”
He did indeed hear them, for a clamor like
Babel resounded from a room which was dirided
from the entry on the third floor by a
partition of lath and plaster. Shrouding himself
in his cloak, the Captain leaned against
the wall, and looked out of the window, while
the Loafer entered the room from which the
clamor proceeded.
It was somewhat gorgeously lighted — the
candles being of tallow, and porter bottles
serving for candlesticks. The walls, although
but newly plastered, were black with smoke,
and ornamented with the heraldic devices of
the Killers, such as
“THE KILLERS FOR EVER!”
Or again, in a more lively vein,
“GO IT KILLERS!”
Or yet once more
“DOWN WITH THE BOUNCERS!”
(The Bouncers, be it understood, are a rival
gang of desperadoes.) The room was destitute
of chairs or tables; indeed it was without
furniture of any kind. The porter bottles
containing the candles were arranged at various
distances from each other — in a sort of an
oblong circle — along the uncarpeted floor.
Around each candle, seated on the floor, was
a group of men and boys, who were drinking
bad whiskey — fingering dirty cards — smoking
pestilential segars — and swearing vigorously
in the intervals of whiskey, cards, and
cigars. These were the Killers, and this was
the Den of the Killers.
And into this foul den entered the Loafer in
his grey rags. He was hailed by a “Hurrah
for Bob Blazes, the Captain of the Killers!”
He answered the shout in as hearty a manner,
and then flinging a couple of dollars on the
floor, added, “Some more rum, boys! We
may as well make a night of it.”
Then looking beneath the front of his cap,
he silently surveyed “the Killers.” It was a
fine spectacle. They were divided into three
classes — beardless apprentice boys who, after
a hard day's work, had been turned loose upon
the street, at night, by their Masters or
“Bosses”— young men of nineteen and twenty
who, fond of excitement, had assumed their
name and joined the gang for the mere fun of
the thing, and who would either fight for a
man or knock him down, just to keep their
hand in — and fellows with countenances that
reminded you of a brute and devil, well intermingled.
These last were the smallest in the
number, but the most ferocious of the three.
These, the third class, not more than ten in
number, were the very worst specimens of the
savage of this large city. Brawny fellows,
with faces embruted by hardship, rum, and
crime, they were “just the boys” to sack a
theatre or burn a church.
It was to these that Bob Blazes, the Leader
of the Killers, addressed himself.
“Come, lieutenants, let's go into the next
room. While the boys have their fun here,
we'll cut out some fun for to-morrow. To-morrow's
'lection day.”
The eleven ruffians rose at his bidding, and
followed him into the next room, the foremost
carrying a porter bottle in his hand.
This room was larger than the first, and
along the windows which opened upon the
street, rough pieces of pine board were nailed.
Rougher pieces of old carpet were huddled in
the corners — these were the beds of the
“lieutenants” in which they slept away the
day, after a night of rum and riot — and the
mantelpiece was adorned with broken pipes
and empty bottles. The walls were quite pictorial,
being plastered over with theatre bills,
on which the names of “Jakey,” “Mose,”
and “Lize” appeared in conspicuous letters;
thus hinting at the fact in city life, that the
pit of the theatre sometimes educates Killers,
even as the box of the theatre very often produces
full fledged puppies, who carry hair on
their upper lips and opera-glasses in their
hands.
Taking his position in the centre of the
room, with the eleven ruffians around him,
Bob Blazes surveyed their hang-dog faces in
silence for a few moments, and then began:
“In a week, my boys, we'll start for Cuba.
`Cuba, gold, and Spanish women,' that's our
motto! You know that I'm in communication
with some of the heads of the Expedition;
I was told to pick out the most desperate
devils I could find in Moyamensin'. I've
done so. You've signed your names, and received
your first month's pay. In a week
you'll go on to New York with me, and then
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hurrah for `Cuba, gold, and Spanish women'”
“Hurrah for `Cuba, gold, and Spanish women!
' ”
Bob Blazes raised his cap, and displayed a
sunburnt face, encircled by sandy whiskers,
and with the scar of a frightful wound under
the left eye. There was a kind of ferocious
beauty about that countenance. It was the face
of a man of twenty-three, who has seen and
suffered much, and known life on land and sea,
in brothel and bar-room, and, perhaps, in the—
Jail.
“Wait a minute, boys, and I'll show you
something,” said Bob, and, without another
word, hurried from the room. In a moment
he returned, holding a cloaked figure by the
hand, much to the surprise and wonder of the
Killers.
“This is your Captain. Captain Jack
Jones, allow me to make you acquainted with
the very cream of the Killers. Three cheers,
my boys, for Jack Jones!”
And while the cheers shook the room, the
stranger removed his hat — disclosing a dark
complexioned and whiskered face — and flung
his cloak upon his right arm — thus revealing
a very handsome blue and gold uniform, which
fitted his slender form, like a glove to a woman's
hand. Jack Jones bowed and laid his
hand upon his heart, and said, in good English,
spiced with a Spanish accent —
“Gentlemen, I'm exceedingly proud to meet
you.” As he said this, his dark eyes twinkled
under the dark brows, and he gave a twist to
his jet black mustache. “I have a trifle here,
in the way of coin, which I'd like to see expended
on our outfit —” He scattered some
gold pieces on the floor with the air of a theatrical
King giving away theatrical money —
“And our friend, Bob Blazes, here, will explain
the rest.”
With these words he resumed his hat and
cloak and stepped to the door, while the Killers—
all save one — were scrambling for the
money. When they had accomplished this
feat, they looked around for Captain Jack
Jones, but he was gone.
“Never mind him,” cried Bob Blazes —
“He's got important business to attend to, to-night,
and can't be with us. Bring out the
whiskey, and let's have a talk.”
The whiskey was brought; and all the
Killers participated therein, save the one who
was stretched in the corner on a pile of old
carpets.
“To-morrow night is election night, and we
may as well make a raise before we go.
Thus spoke Bob Blazes, and his sentiments
were greeted with a chorus of oaths.
“To make a long story short, boys, to-morrow
night, a rich nabob of Walnut street, who
has failed for $200,000, and who carries a
great part of his money about him — for fear
of his creditors, who could lay hold of houses
or lands if he owned either — to-morrow
night, this nabob comes down to the groggery
in Dog Alley, kept by the big nigger —”
“The Bulgine! D—n him,” said ten
voices in a breath.
“He's coming there on some dirty work.
Now I move that we set a portion of our gang
to raise the devil among the niggers of Mary
street, while we watch for the nabob, and get
hold of him, and bring him to our den.”
This sentiment met with an unanimous response.
Placing the candle on the floor, Bob
squatted beside it, and motioned to the others
to follow his example. Presently a circle of
“gallows” faces surrounded the light, with the
sunburnt and scarred visage of Bob Blazes in
the centre.
As for the solitary Killer, he still reclined
on his couch of old carpets — apparently overcome
with rum or sleep.
“He carries some two or three thousand
dollars about him,” said Bob. “His name is—
never mind his name. Now follow my directions.
You, Bill, will take care and get a
police officer or two to help our gang to raise
a muss among the niggers. You, Jake, will
head half of the boys, and first raise an alarm
of fire. You, Tom, will come with me, and
hang around the groggery in Dog Alley, tomorrow
night, after dark. And as for you,
Sam, you'd better see Hickory Parchment, the
Politician, and get him to wink at our little
muss — that is if we do raise a muss. Now
let's understand one another —”
And while he laid down before this Senate
of the Killers, his plan of operations for the
Mexican Campaign of the ensuing night, the
shouts of the banqueting Killers, in the next
room, came through the partition, like the yells
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of so many Congressmen engaged in getting
up a fight on the last day of the session.
At length the matter was clearly understood.
Deep in whiskey, the ten Killers shouted hurrah!
at every other word of their leader. while
the eleventh lay upon his bed of old carpets in
one corner. His evident inattention to the
business in contemplation at length aroused
the curiosity of Bob Blazes, the Leader.
“Who's that snoring there in the corner,” he
asked.
“It's only Lije — Lije Watson, who's just
got out o' the Penitenshery,” answered one of
the eleven — “He was in for passin' counterfeit
money — you know, I told you all about
it the other day. He's a little drunk, I guess.”
“Not so drunk as you think,” answered that
peculiarly husky voice, which we have heard
before, “ `Not drunk, only reflectin',' as Judge
Tomahawk said when the Temperance Society
waited on him, to thank him for his temperance
speeches and found him drunk.”
And as he said this, Elijah arose from his
pile of carpets, and squatted down in the midst
of the Killers, directly opposite their Leader.
“Drink somethin', Lije,” cried one —
“You're pale as thunder.”
“What makes your eyes look so queer?”
said another. “Got a touch o' the man with
the poker?”
Elijah was indeed frightfully pale. His
eyes sunk deep in their sockets, had a wild and
glassy look. With his hands laid on his knees,
he turned his gaze from face to face, until it
rested upon the scarred and sunburnt visage of
Bob Blazes, the Leader.
“I've heard your story about this nabob, as
you call him, and now I'd like to ask you a
question or two,” said Elijah.
“Fire away,” responded the Leader.
“Did this nabob once live in Walnut street
near — street?”
“He did,” answered Bob.
“Did he disappear four years ago, and was
his hat found on the wharf?”
“You're too hard for me 'Lije,” was the
answer of the Leader, “I can't answer that.
Take a little whiskey, and get some color in
your face. You look like a subject on a dissecting
table.”
“Was his name Jacob D. Z. Hicks?” said
Elijah fixing his eyes earnestly upon the
Leader, and grasping him rather roughly by
the arm.
Bob Blazes dropped the bottle on the floor.
He started up and shook the hand of the Discharged
Convict from his arm, exclaiming —
“Why 'Lije has the manny poker sure enough.
Thunder! What puts such ideas into his
head? What the devil do I know of your
Zebediah Hicks?”
With these words he resumed his seat, in
the midst of the band, who assailed Elijah
with a burst of laughter, mingled with curses.
“Drink somethin' 'Lije, and drive away the
horrors,” was the end of their chorus.
Nothing daunted, 'Lije turned his corpselike
face to the light, and regarding “Bob
Blazes” with the same fixed stare, said
slowly —
“Come captain, you need'nt shove me off
in that way. It rayther sharpens a man's
senses to spend four years in Cherry Hill, and
I'm jist possessed by the idea — I don't know
why, and I don't keer why — that your rich
nabob is nobody else than Hicks the Merchant,
who disappeared four years ago. Now, you
know me boys, (surveying the other Killers)
and you know that when my blood's up, I am
always thar. I am. So if you want me to
go into your muss, with the right sperrit, tomorrow
night, Bob must answer my question.
Yes or no! Is your nabob named Jacob D.
Z. Hicks?”
“Why do you ask?” said Bob, rather cowed—
at least surprised — by the earnest manner
of the Convict — “What have you got to do
with this Hicks?”
“Nothin' much. Only I was put to jail
for passin' a note on one of his Banks, which
note happened to be counterfeit. That's all.”
“Well,” said Bob, drawing a long puff from
a cigar, which he had lighted at the candle —
“If it's any satisfaction to you to know it, I
am induced to believe, that this nabob was
once named Jacob D. Z. Hicks”
A flush of red, shot into the cheeks of the
Convict. He said nothing, but quietly reached
for the bottle, and took a long and hearty
draught. After a pause, he said in a careless
why to Bob Blazes —
“Come Blazes, you've seen somethin' of
life and so have I. Suppose we tell somethin'
of our lives to the boys. You begin.”
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
Thus addressed, Blazes stretched himself
leisurely along the floor, and punctuating his
narrative, with draughts of whiskey and
puffs of cigar smoke, told the boys some of
the events of his history. His story, interspersed
with oaths and slang, still gave some
traces in its language of a good collegiate education.
It was a stirring narrative. It spoke much
of life in Havana — of life on the coast of
Africa — of slave ships stored thick and foul
with their miserable cargo — and of the manner
in which certain mercantile houses, in the
north, made hoards of money, even at the
present day, by means of the Slave Trade.
Even the Killers turned away in involuntary
loathing, from the recital of the hellish exploits
of this man, who only known to them for a
few weeks, by the name of “Bob Blazes” had
doubtless borne a different and more significant
name, in Havana and on the coast of Africa.
After he had done, Elijah commenced.
His was a different story. How, for four
years, he had sat in his cell, night and day,
day and night, counting every throb of his
heart, and wondering whether he should ever
put his foot on free ground again. There was
something like eloquence in the manner of the
Convict. His pale face lighted up, and his
eyes shone, and his hands moved in rapid gesticulation—
he was telling to these Outcasts,
the story of his wretched Life — a brief but
harrowing story, commencing with the life of
an apprentice at the work bench, and ending
with the life of a Convict in the Eastern Penitentiary.
The Killers shuddered — even Bob Blazes,
the hero of the Slave Ship felt the tears start
to his eyelids.
“And this Jacob D. Z. Hicks was the cause
of my bein' sent to Cherry Hill” — thus he
concluded his recital—“and so if your nabob
turns out to be, Mister Jacob D. Z. Hicks,
don't you think I've got an account to settle
with him?”
The Killers rather thought he had. And
so did Bob.
PART XIV. THE RIOT NEAR “THE CALIFORNIA HOUSE. ”
The night after these scenes in the Den of
the Killers was election night—October —
1849. On that night the city and districts of
Philadelphia were alive with excitement.
Every street had its bonfire; crowds of voters
were collected around every poll; bar-room
and groggery overflowed with drunken men.
The city and the districts were astir. And
through the darkness of night, a murmur rose
at intervals like the tramp of an immense
army.
It was election night. The good citizens
were engaged in making a Sheriff who might
prove an honest man and a faithful officer, or
who might heap up wealth, by stolen fees, and
leave the county to riot and murder, while he
grew rich upon the misery of the people.
The good citizens were also engaged in electing
Members of Assembly who might go to
Harrisburg and do their duty like men, or who
might go there as the especial hirelings of
Bank speculators, paid to enact laws that give
wealth to one class, and poverty and drunkenness
to another. There was a stirring time
around the State House: the entire vicinity
ran over with patriotism and brandy. Vote
for Moggs the People's friend! Vote for
Hoggs the sterling patriot! Don't forget
Boggs the hero of Squamdog! Appeals like
these glared from the placards on the walls,
and flashed from the election lanterns, carried
in the hands of sturdy politicians. In fine,
all over the county, the boys had their bonfires,
the men their brandy and politics, the
Candidates their agonies of suspense.
There was one District, however, which
added a new feature to the excitement of election
night. It was that District, which partly
comprised in the City Proper, and partly in
in Moyamensing, swarms with hovels, courts,
groggeries — with dens of every grade of misery
and of drunkenness — festering there, thick
and rank, as insects in a tainted cheese. It
cannot be denied that hard-working and honest
people, reside in the Barbarian District.
Nor can it be denied that it is the miserable
refuge of the largest portion of the Outcast
population of Philadelphia county
This District has for two years been the
scene of perpetual outrage. Here, huddled in
rooms thick with foul air, and drunk on poison
that can be purchased for a penny a glass, you
may see white and black, young and old, man
and woman, cramped together in crowds that
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
fester with wretchedness, disease and crime.
This mass of misery and starvation affords a
profitable harvest to a certain class of “hangers
on of the law” who skulk about the offices of
Alderman, trade in licenses and do the dirty
work which prominent politicians do not care
to do for themselves.
Through this district, at an early hour on
the night of election, a furniture car, filled
with blazing tar barrels, was dragged by a number
of men and boys, who yelled like demons,
as they whirled their locomotive bonfire
through the streets. It was first taken through
a narrow street, known as St. Mary street,
and principally inhabited by negroes, and distant
about one square from the groggery of
the “Bulgine” and the home of the young
woman, mentioned in the previous pages. As
the car whirled along a shot was fired; a cry
at once arose that a white man was killed, and
the attention of the mob was directed to a
house at the corner of Sixth and St. Mary,
kept by a black fellow who (so the rumor ran)
was married to a white woman. The mob
gathered numbers every moment, and a conflict
ensued between the white mob and the
negroes who had fortified themselves within
the California House (a four story building)
and in the neighboring tenements and hovels.
The inmates after a desperate contest were
forced to fly; the bar was destroyed, and the
gas set on fire. In a moment the house was
in a blaze and the red light flashing against the
sky, was answered by the State House Bell,
which summoned the engine and hose companies
to the scene of action. The Hope, the
Good Will, the Phœnix, the Vigilant and other
engine companies arrived upon the scene —
amid the clamor of the riot, while pistol shots
broke incessantly on the air, and the flames of
burning houses ascended to the heavens, lighting
with a red glare the faces of the mob —
and attempted to save the houses, which were
yet untouched by the flames. Their efforts
were fruitless. The mob took possession of
the Franklin Engine, and ran it up St. Mary
street; as for the other companies, they were
greeted at every turn by discharges of fire-arms,
loaded with buckshot and slugs. Charles
Himmelwright, a fireman of the Good Will,
was shot through the heart, while nobly engaged
in the discharge of his duty. He was
a young and honest man. He fell dead the
moment he received the shot. Many were
wounded, and many killed. It was an infernal
scene. The faces of the mob reddened by
the glare, the houses whirling in flames, the
streets slippery with blood, and a roar like the
yells of a thousand tigers let loose upon their
prey, all combined, gave the appearance of a
sacked and ravaged town, to the District
which spreads around Sixth and St. Mary
street. The rioters and spectators in the
streets were not the only sufferers. Men and
women sheltered within their homes, were
shot by the stray missiles of the cowardly
combatants.
While these scenes were in progress around
the California House, all was quiet in Dog
Alley. The hovels of the Court were closed
or deserted; the place looked as though it had
not been occupied for a month. There were
indeed two exceptions — a light shone from
the greasy windows of the groggery, kept by
the Bulgine, and another emitted its struggling
rays from the home of Mrs. Watson and her
daughter Kate.
PART XV. THE BULGINE AND KATE.
Black Andy, alias, the Bulgine, was standing
at his door, with folded arms, the light
from within playing over one side of his face,
when footsteps were heard from the farther
extremity of the Court, and a female figure
was seen approaching through the gloom. It
was the poor girl, Kate Watson, “the supernumerary,”
on her way to the theatre. With
her shawl thrown over her shoulders, and her
veil drooping over her face, she came along
with a hesitating step, pausing every moment
as if to listen to the noise of the conflict which
was progressing at the distance of not more
than two hundred yards.
On she came; the light from the groggery
shone over her tall form; she paused, when a
hand was laid upon her mouth, and her arms
were pinioned to her side, by an arm that encircled
her with a grasp of iron. She struggled,
as if for life, but the iron arm held her
arms firmly against her sides. She attempted
to scream, but in vain. Tossing back her head
in her struggles, she beheld with a horror that
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no words can paint, the black visage of the
negro.
It may be as well to observe that the events
of the night had in some measure changed the
plan of “the Gentleman,” otherwise called
“the Manager,” and the negro. Instead of
stationing the cab at the corner of the Court,
they had placed it in a neighboring street,
which communicated with the back door of
the groggery, by means of a narrow alley.
Therefore, Black Andy bore the struggling girl
into his bar room, and from the bar room into
a room on the second story, where waited the
Gentleman, anxious to comfort his victim ere
he had her conveyed to the cab. He designed
to have her kept within this room until the
mob would reach its heighth, when the additional
confusion would serve to render his passage
to a mansion in the heart of the city at
once convenient and safe. The negro ascended
the stairs, applied a bit of rag, wet with some
pungent liquid, to the lips of the girl, and the
next moment tumbled her insensible form into
the room, where the Gentleman waited for him.
The liquid was chloroform. The Gentleman
had provided it for the fulfilment of his
plans, and given it to the Bulgine.
This accomplished, the negro descended,
hurried along the alley to see that the cab stood
there, in the street, according to the plan agreed
upon. He then returned to his bar room,
which he had entirely cleared of its usual customers
an hour before. Busying himself behind
the bar, he was surprised by the entrance
of the “Loafer” in the grey rags, whom he
had ejected the night previous. In his African
dialect, he bade the fellow quit his premises;
but the Loafer whined piteously for a glass of
whiskey, which the Bulgine at last consented
to give him.
As he poured out the liquid poison, the
Loafer leaned over the counter, one hand on a
large earthen pitcher, supposed to contain water.
“Dar yer whiskey. Take it and trabel,”
said the Bulgine, pushing the glass toward his
customer. The Loafer raised his glass slowly
to his lips, and at the same time kept one hand
upon the handle of the pitcher, but instead of
drinking the poison, he dashed it in the negro's
eyes, at the same time hurling the pitcher, with
all the force of his arm, at his head. Blinded
by the liquor, half stunned by the blow, the
Bulgine uttered a frightful howl, and attempted
to strike his antagonist across the bar. But a
second blow, administered with a “slung shot,”
which the Loafer drew from his rags, took the
negro on the forehead and laid him flat upon
the floor.
The moment that he fell, the room was filled
with “Killers,” who surrounded their Leader,
known as the “Loafer” or Bob Blazes, with
shouts and cries. They were eleven in number,
whom Bob had instructed the night before.
Drunken, furious, and brutal, they were
about to beat and mangle the prostrate negro
when Bob stopped them with a word:
“Look here, boys! The devil's delight is
up in St. Mary street, and we must be busy
while the fun lasts. Four of you go to the
end of the alley, and take care of the cab,
two of you guard the front door, and let the
rest remain outside, on the watch, while I go
up stairs. When I whistle ALL come. I'll go
up and see the old fellow and his gal.”
He was implicitly obeyed. Four of the
Killers hastened through the back door; two
remained in the bar-room, (Elijah Watson was
one of the two) and the rest went out into the
court. Pausing for a moment, ere he ascended
the dark stairway, Bob wiped from his hand
the blood which he had received in the conflict
near the California House — for he had been
in the thickest of the fight, at the moment
when Himmelwright fell. Then casting a look
toward the prostrate form of the negro stretched
behind the door, his forehead covered with
blood, Bob whispered to Elijah, who, pale and
trembling, leaned against the Bar. He then
crept up the stairs, and placed his ear against
the door at the head of the flight. All was
still within. Bob pushed open the door and
entered. By the light of a tallow candle, the
“Gentleman” with hair and whiskers well
oiled, his hat and overcoat thrown aside, was
contemplating the form of the insensible girl
who was stretched upon a miserable bed.
Her hair fell in disorder about her neck —
her eyes were closed and her lips parted; she
looked extremely beautiful, but it was a beauty
like death. And over her, his false hair looking
quite glossy in the light, stood the aged
sinner, his eyes fixed upon his unconscious
victim, and his eyes parted in a singular but
meaning smile. The noble form of the poor
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
girl was stretched before him — in his power—
in a few hours she would be safe within his
mansion in the heart of the City. Thus occupied
he had not heard the opening of the
door, nor was he aware of the presence of
Bob, until that personage laid a hand upon his
arm, saying mildly:
“How d'ye do, father.”
PART XVI. THE FATHER AND SON.
The surprise of the Gentleman may be imagined.
Turning, he beheld that stalwart figure, clad
in rags which were stained with blood. The
cap, drawn over the brows, concealed the upper
part of the whiskered face. The Gentleman
could not believe his ears. He started as
though he had received a musquet shot.
As for Bob, he removed his cap.
“Good evening, father,” he said, with a
bland smile, “How have you been these four
years? You really look much younger than
when I saw you last. Drowning seems to
agree with you. And when did you hear from
mother? Has the gay old lady departed from
this scene of sublunary care, or has she married
Sir Charles? Upon my word, you don't
seem a bit rejoiced to see your long lost son.
Come, shall we kill the fatted calf, or shall we
give each other a real French hug? What,
still silent? Well, old gentleman, I've been
told that you was dying to see me about that
five thousand which I got cashed for you.
Here I am. Now what do you want with
me?”
Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks was dumb. He
could not speak — in sober verity, he had not
the power to frame a word. (The “Gentleman,”
otherwise called the “English Manager,”
was indeed our old friend Jacob D. Z.
Hicks, who, after his death by drowning, had
been spending a few years abroad, enjoying
himself pleasantly, upon the proceeds of the
Broken Banks.) He now stood with his back
to the only window of the miserable apartment,
his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed
in a sort of stupid wonder upon the form of
the “Prodigal Son,” Bob Blazes, alias Cromwell
Hicks.
“Come, father,” said Cromwell, drawing
the back of his right hand across his scarred
face — “This really wont do. You mus
really —” Crom made great use of the word
really —“You must really kill the fatted calf
for your Prodigal Son — or stay — you have a
belt about your waist, containing some gold and
bank notes. Hand it over, if you please. I've
been in rough scenes since you kicked me out
of the store, and am apt to get cross when
people don't mind what I say. Hand it over,
I say. Strip!”
He advanced a step nearer.
Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks, crouching against
the window, unbuttoned his vest, and took
from beneath it, a leathern belt which, to all
seeming, contained a considerable amount in
specie.
“It's all I have in the world. Take that,
and I'm a beggar,” he faltered.
Cromwell coolly reached forth his hand to
take the belt, exclaiming, “The belt belongs to
me, and as for this pretty girl, whom you are
going to take to your mansion in the city, why
Don Jorge, the son of Captain Velasquez —
you mind the name? — will take care of her.
He has the key of your mansion, and is
now down stairs in the guise of a Killer.”
If the good Jacob D. Z. Hicks had turned
pale at the sight of his supposed son, he grew
livid at the very name of Captain Velasquez.
He handed the belt without a word. Cromwell
took it — glanced at the form of the unconscious
girl — and then turned to the door —
“Hallo! Don Jorge, I say! You're wanted
up here! Leave Lije in the bar room and
come up!”
This said, Cromwell opened the belt (with
the key which Mr. Hicks had handed to him)
and proceeded to ascertain the amount which
it contained. Bending toward the light, he
was thus occupied, when Mr. Jacob D. Z.
Hicks heard a step on the stairway, and saw
a form in the door. In the slim gentleman,
disguised in the rough garb of a Killer, you
will recognize our friend Don Jorge, whose
dark-hued face, black hair and whiskers, show
to advantage under his round-rimmed hat.
“The son of Velasquez!” ejaculated Hicks.
“Good evening to you, friend of my father,”
said Don Jorge, advancing, “I am glad to see
you, though you did n't exactly treat the old
man well, when, nearly five years ago, his
vessel (and yours) was seized off the Brazil
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coast. You left Velasquez to rot in jail, on
the charge of piracy, while you, safe in Philadelphia,
fingered the proceeds of his former
ventures. Velasquez has been free some years—
that is, free from the world. He was
hanged like a dog on one of the British Islands.
You had reaped a fortune from his zeal in the
slave trade, but when the hour came for you
to help him, you sat quiet in Philadelphia, and
let him hang. But his son has been on your
track. He stands before you.”
His dark eyes gleaming vengeance, he drew
near the affrighted man, who trembled in every
nerve.
“Yes, father,” said Cromwell, looking up
for a moment, as he counted the money and
laid a portion of it upon the table — “It's all
true. And at the very time when you kicked
me from the store, Don Jorge (who had been
placed at Yale College by his father) heard of
his father's death. We left college together,
and —”
“I had determined to be revenged upon you
through your son, when I first left college,”
interrupted Don Jorge — “But when I discovered
that your son was not your son, why I
opened my plans fully to him, and we sailed
together in the Sara Jane, which had been purchased
for me by friends of my dead father —
not such friends as you, by Heaven! And
now, sir, after some years of stirring adventure,
on land and on sea, we have come to this city
together, and our main object has been to see
you. By the bye, we tracked you from Paris
to Liverpool, and from Liverpool to Philadelphia.
We are here together, your son and the
son of Velasquez What have you to say for
yourself?”
“And it's what I call an agreeable coincidence,”
said Cromwell, placing the money in
the belt and locking it again, “Five thousand
dollars! This isn't enough, old man.”
Had the thousands of widows and orphans,
who had been robbed by Hicks as the Banker,
have seen him now they would have been
amply revenged.
Crouching against the window, (whose
frame he clutched with hands behind his back)
the Ex-Banker exhibited a grotesque and yet
pitiful picture of affright. His eye rolled as
he surveyed by turns, the scarred face of
Cromwell, and the swarthy visage of the Son
of Velasquez.
“Come, my friend, you must let us have
more than this,” said Cromwell advancing.
“Where do you keep all your money?”
interrupted Don Jorge also advancing — “I
searched your house in — street tonight,
searched it through and through, but
couldn't find a dollar.”
“Gentlemen,” gasped the Ex-Banker,
“have some pity upon an old man —”
“As you pitied me, when you called me
a bastard and kicked me from the store,” and
Cromwell drew a knife from beneath his rags.
“As you pitied my father when you left
him to the gallows,” and thus speaking Don
Jorge drew a “revolver” from the pocket of
his coat.
Certainly the tide had turned against Mr.
Jacob D. Z. Hicks.
“The devil's up in the city to-night, and
men have been shot, who are worth your
weight in gold,” thus spoke Cromwell —
“One man wouldn't be missed much — particularly
a man like you. What say you Don
Jorge shall we `fix him' off in this snug room,
and then take the girl to his house and cast
lots for her?”
“The girl shall go with us, at all events,
but as for him, his life depends upon a word.
Will you tell us where your money is concealed?
Yes or No?”
Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks fell on his knees,
while Don Jorge presented the pistol at his
throat. The girl, meanwhile, under the influence
of chloroform, lay quiet as death upon
the bed.
“Yes or No!”
Again Don Jorge spoke these words, and
stood over the Ex-Banker, his eyes flashing
with the long indulged lust of vengeance.
PART XVII. ELIJAH THE CONVICT AND KILLER.
But at this moment a new actor appeared
upon the scene. It was Elijah Watson, who
pale and trembling had crept up-stairs, and
now stood on the threshold, his sunken eyes
shining with a sinister light, as he surveyed
the face of the kneeling man. He did not see
the girl who was stretched insensible on the
bed nor was he aware that the victim of the
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intended outrage was his almost sister,his sister
in everything, but the tie of blood — Kate
Watson.
Without seeming to notice either Cromwell
or Don Jorge, Elijah advanced, his shabby
apparel shown in the candle light, as he
clenched a “slung shot” in his right hand.
Hicks saw his face, but did not at first recognize
in that visage, distorted by despair, the
countenance of Elijah Watson, which he had
seen four years before through the aperture in
the Penitentiary wall.
Elijah advanced, his steps making scarcely
an audible sound, until beside Don Jorge he
confronted the kneeling man. His breath
came hot and gasping through his clenched
teeth. The effects of the liquor with which
he had deadened his senses, passed away like
a flash, as soon as he found himself in the
presence of Jacob D. Z. Hicks — HIS FATHER.
“Is this Jacob Hicks?” he said in a voice
whose unnatural emphasis made Don Jorge
start, and caused something like a chill to run
through Cromwell's veins.
“It is the man, but why don't you keep
watch down stairs?” said Cromwell.
“The black fellow may revive — you should
be on the watch,” added Don Jorge. (Be it
observed that the figure of Cromwell, cast a
broad shadow over the form of the insensible
girl.)
“Is your name Jacob Hicks? Jacob D. Z.
Hicks?” asked Elijah bending down, until the
Ex-Banker felt his breath upon his cheek.
“It is — that is — ah” — faltered Hicks, endeavoring
in vain to call to mind the place and
the time, in which he had seen that face before.
“And you came and peeped at me through
the hole in the Penitentiary wall,” gasped
Elijah — “You did, and went away again,
knowin' that I was your son. You looked
at me and left me to four years of days and
nights in that stone coffin” —
He raised the slung shot, as though he would
crush the skull of the kneeling man, while Don
Jorge and Cromwell stood vacant-eyed and
wonder-stricken at his words, but even as the
blow was about to fall, Hicks shrieked, in a
voice whose accent of pitiful fright was painful
to hear —
“It is Elijah! It is my son! Elijah I
saw you, four years ago, but could not relieve
you. hear me, and then — if you can — kill
your father. There, at your shoulder, stands
the man who has for twenty-three years
cheated you out of the rights of a son, while
you were cast an outcast on the world. That
man's mother, also your mother and my wife,
gave you birth twenty-three years ago, and
sent you out into the world without father or
name, while her bastard occupied your place
by my hearthstone. You, the real son, was
condemned to poverty and want, while he, the
child of adultery, took your place, and from
the petted boy became the profligate man.
Listen, Elijah — listen — you must hear me.”
And Jacob D. Z. Hicks clutched the Convict
by the knees, and told him, in rapid and
broken tones, the real story of his parentage.
Cromwell's face displayed all the changes of
wonder and hatred — wonder at the revelation,
and hatred equally divided between Hicks and
Elijah. As for Don Jorge, he listened and
burst into a roar of laughter —
“I vow,” he cried, with a Spanish oath,
“It's as good as a play. If they'd only sing
it, we should have an Opera on the spot!”
“Well met, father and son,” — and Cromwell
advanced, his scarred face swollen with
rage —“The father, a bankrupt merchant, a
man who is ashamed to bear his own name —
the son, a `number' from the Penitentiary!
Embrace your daddy, Lije! You're welcome
to him!”
“You hear him — you will protect me?”
cried Hicks, clutching the knees of the Convict.
Elijah was silent. His lips writhed over
his set teeth; there was a swelling of the
chords of his throat; the slung-shot fell with
his right hand to his side.
“And yet you could look through the wall—
and see me sittin' in the cell — and know
that I was put there for passin' a counterfeit
on one of your banks — and go away and
leave me! You could!”
Was it a tear that rolled down his sunken
cheek?
“He did — he saw you there, and left you,”
cried Cromwell, now anxious to inflame the
Convict against Hicks —“He made a Convict
of you, and that's a fact!”
Elijah turned and looked steadily upon the
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[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
form of his “false” Brother. He surveyed
him from head to foot, while his eyes seemed
to sink deeper into their sockets, and his lips
parted in a spasmodic grimace —
“Bah! I'd sooner herd with all the Convicts
of the Eastern Penitentiary, than to own
a man like you for brother, or a thing like that
for father. Go at one another — come! He's
a swindlin' bank director, and you're a slave
pirate — you'll just suit. I'm only a Convict.
I'm not good enough company for you two.”
At these words Don Jorge burst into a fresh
peal of laughter; Cromwell grew red with
rage; the ex-merchant did not relax his hold
upon the Convict's knees.
“You miserable felon, do you dare to use
such language to me? To me?”
Thus speaking, Cromwell advanced with
the knife; Elijah folded his arms, and regarded
him with a broad grin upon his pale face. The
composed attitude of the Convict — his head,
with its short black hair and protuberant forehead,
set firmly on his shoulders — seemed to
disconcert the “Slaver,” otherwise known as
the Leader of the Killers.
“Why don't you strike? Do you think
that a man who has stood four years in a stone
coffin is afraid of a thing like you? You can
play the devil with niggers — I don't doubt
that. But you daresent strike me!”
Cromwell did strike — it was a swift and
terrible blow — but the Convict knocked up
his arm, and forced him back upon the bed,
his hand clutching the throat of his “false” brother,
until that brother's face grew livid as the
visage of a dying man. Then, as he held him
writhing on the bed, he for the first time beheld
the motionless form and death-like face of
Kate.
“It's Kate!” he shouted, and pressed her
hands. They were cold. Her eyes were
shut. There was no breath in her nostrils —
no motion in her pulseless bosom. With her
flowing brown hair, and magnificent form, she
looked very beautiful, but her beauty was the
beauty of death.
“Who's done this?” cried Elijah, rushing
to Don Jorge, then to Hicks, and last of all to
Cromwell, who stood gasping for breath, the
print of the Convict's fingers yet fresh upon
his throat —“Who, I say? Who's killed that
girl? We aint brother and sister by blood, but
we are brother and sister by the years of
poverty and starvation we've passed together.
Feel her hands — they're like ice. Look at
her — I swear she's dead and one of you has
killed her.”
At these words, uttered with every accent of
an agony that was like madness, the three listeners
could not repress an ejaculation of horror.
Cromwell rushed to the bed — “She is
dead, by —!” he cried with an oath. Don
Jorge followed him, and even Hicks, pale and
shaking, drew near the miserable couch
whereon she was stretched in her deathly loveliness.
“Dead!” cried Jorge — and felt her cold
hands.
Hicks could only ejaculate the word “Chloroform.”
Hicks could not frame a word, but sank
helplessly upon the bed, not from remorse so
much, as from a terror of the results of this
scene.
The convict now presented a terrible picture
Tearing away the coat from his neck, as though
it choked him, he clutched the slung shot, and
looked into every face — his limbs trembling
as with the impulse of a madman's strength.
“Who did this?” he said, in a voice that
resembled the cry of a drowning man.
“This man — with Chloroform,” answered
Cromwell, retreating from the mad stare of the
convict — “He hired the nigger to bring her
up here, and the nigger poisoned her with
Chloroform. I overheard them talking about
their plans last night —”
Elijah took the candle, and bent over the
bed, surveying the face of the dead girl. Her
eyelashes rested dark and distinct upon her
colorless cheeks — her lips were parted disclosing
her clear white teeth — her noble bust
from which the shawl had been tossed aside
was motionless in death. How the convict
bent over her and crushed her hands in his
rough fingers, and spoke to her by name — how
he raised her from the bed, only to see her fall
back, motionless and dead again — how he, in
his mad way, endeavored to call her back to
life by reminding her of the years of want and
suffering they had passed together — we need
not picture it.
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While he was thus engaged Cromwell
buckled the money belt about his waist, and
beckoned to Don Jorge. They passed with
noiseless step to the door, and Cromwell took
the key from the lock. In a moment they had
passed the threshold, and Cromwell having
placed the key in the lock, in the outside, was
about closing the door, when Hicks — his wig
cast aside — darted forward and endeavored to
have the room.
Cromwell said nothing, but as the Ex-broker
came he planted a blow on his forehead, which
sent him spinning back into the room. This
done, he closed the door and locked it on the
outside, remarking to his comrade in a whisper—
“We'll leave 'em there together. The
room has but one window and the shutters are
nailed fast, and as for the door I've got the key
in my pocket. Come — let us go down stairs,
and give the Killers the slip, while we go up
and search Hicks' house in the city. We'll
search it once more. His money is there.
I'm sure of it. By the bye, they'll have a
good time of it in there, the father, the son and
the dead girl!”
He spoke as they stood in the darkness at
the head of the stairs, which led down into the
bar room. They could see the light from the
bar room, shining upon the foot of the stairs.
“Still it's bad about that girl,” said Don
Jorge in a voice that was agitated by a
tremor.
They descended the narrow stairway,
Cromwell going first.
“Yes, we'll leave 'em up there together,
while we go and search the old man's house,”
he said as they reached the foot of the stairs—
“Then when we have all his money, why
hurrah for Cuba! I say Don Jorge —”
Half turning toward his companion, who
was still in the dark, Cromwell with one side
of his face touched by the light, placed his foot
upon the threshold. At that moment, a cry
was heard, and an hand striking from the bar
room, descended upon Cromwell's breast. Don
Jorge saw the blow, and thought he saw the
flash of a knife; the next thing that he saw
was the body of Cromwell falling forward into
the bar room, with a heavy sound.
It was but a step to the door — Don Jorge
rushed forward — and as his way was blocked
by the quivering body of his friend — he saw
the giant negro standing in the bar room, not a
foot from the head of Cromwell, his hideous
face overspread with a grin of triumph, and a
huge knife glittering in his uplifted hand. That
knife glittered with the life blood of Cromwell.
The negro, during the absence of the Killers,
had recovered from the effects of the blow —
had procured the knife — and waited behind
the door, as he heard the steps of Cromwell
upon the stairs. He had struck but once; the
blow was sufficient. Prostrate on his face, the
blood from the wound trickling over the boards
of the floor, Cromwell quivered for a moment
like a man suspended on a gibbet — made a
grasp at the floor with his hands — and then
was quiet and motionless. He never spoke
again.
And over him, triumphant and chuckling
stood the negro, “Bulgine” — the knife which
he shook, dripping its red drops, upon his
black and brawny arm.
“Come on you dam Killer,” he shouted —
“I gib you some more ob de same sort. Hah,
yah, y-a-h! You strike a nigger do you?
Come on!”
In his rage, he planted his foot upon the
back of the dead man's head, and showing his
broad black chest, awaited the approach of
Don Jorge. The Cuban had seen much of
blood in his time, but this scene horrified him
in every nerve. He felt for his revolver — it
was not in its usual place, under his vest — he
had left it in the room above. Unarmed, defenceless,
he was at the mercy of the giant,
whose brute strength, was sufficient to grind
him to powder, Could he rush past the Bulgine
and gain the den which led into the alley?
Or should he endeavor to escape by the back
way, and make good his retreat, into the next
street?
Not much time was allowed him for thought.
Seeing that he did not advance, and reasoning
from his hesitation that he was either afraid or
unarmed, the Negro sprang toward him, trampling
the body of Cromwell beneath his feet.
“Come to me, if you dar, you dam Killer
tief!” he cried — Don Jorge saw the knife —
sprang backward, and felt a door give way behind
him. He gathered himself up, and in an
instant was out of the back door, and pursuing
his way through the narrow alley which
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led into the public street. The negro did not
follow him. And thus leaving Cromwell to
his fate, Don Jorge passed into the street,
avoided the crowd, and made the best of his
way to the mansion of Mr. Hicks, in the city.
He did not recognize a single Killer in the
crowds which he encountered; they had been
attracted from their watch at the end of the
alley by other and more stirring scenes.
As for the Killers who had been stationed in
front of the groggery in Dog Alley, they had
been led from their posts, soon after Cromwell
went up stairs. The riot had rolled its waves
of tumult and blood from the California House
to Dog Alley. While Cromwell lay dead in
the bar room, it had reached its heighth. Firemen,
Negroes, and Killers were mingled together
in the dense crowd which now blocked
up the wide street at the end of Dog Alley —
their faces reddened by the glare which came
from a burning house. Pistol shots were heard,
mingled with the yell of riot and the short
quick cry of dying men. While the Negroes
and the Killers, penned up in the dense crowd,
maintained their conflict, the firemen nobly endeavored
to do their duty and extinguish the
flames of the burning house. They were attacked
by portions of the mob, and the riot
only grew more desperate and bloody. It
was a battle in all its bloodshed — a battle
stripped of the glare of military glory — a
mere vulgar affair of butchery and murder,
carried on by men whom rum and blood had
transformed into devils.
PART XVIII. THE BULGINE AT BAY.
When the riot in the street was at its highest,
a small body of the rioters separated from the
scene, and plunged into Dog Alley, which, so
near the scene of uproar, was all quiet and
dark.
“Let's git Bob Blazes and go at 'em again!”
cried the foremost of these rioters, and, ten in
number, they hastened to the groggery and
poured into its door.
“Come on, you dam Killers!”—a voice saluted
them — “Come on, you dam tief!”—
and they beheld the Bulgine, half naked,
standing in one corner, the knife in his hand
and his foot upon the dead body of Cromwell.
Furious with liquor and riot, the comrades
of Cromwell (known to them as Bob Blazes)
recoiled in horror at the sight.
Cromwell's face was upturned, the eyes glaring
and the lips distorted.
The Killers raised a shout, rushed forward,
but the negro was ready for them. Bracing
himself in the corner, his foot planted on the
breast of the dead man, he answered their
shout as they came on, and described a terrible
circle before his breast with the blade of
his bloody knife.
“Git some powder and lead!” — cried one
of the band —“I'd like to wing him as he
stands there: go, Bill, and be quick about it—”
But another of the band made a suggestion
in a whisper, which was received with great
satisfaction. This suggestion made, the Killers
retired in a body, leaving the negro alone with
the dead man. A portion of their number attained
the rear of the groggery, and effectually
closed and fastened the back door, while the
others nailed and secured the door and window
which opened on Dog Alley.
In a few moments the groggery was in
flames.
How it was done it is not necessary to relate;
but as the flames burst upon the darkness
of the alley, the conflict in the neighboring
street came like a wave of fists and clubs, and
faces stamped with frenzy, to the very door of
the burning hovel. Chased like dogs before
the hounds into the alley, a number of negroes
beheld themselves between the clubs and pistols
of the Killers and the fury of the flames.
The combat was renewed; negroes and whites
were fighting in the narrow court, and the
flames, mounting to the roof, began to communicate
with the adjoining hovels — yes, with
the flames which ascended from the house
which stood in the next street.
At this period a sound was heard which
chilled a thousand hearts with involuntary
terror.
That sound resounded from the midst of the
flames. It was like the howl of a wild beast at
bay.
“There's a man in that house!” roared a
number of voices in chorus.
“Let him burn!” answered one of the Killers,
as his face, streaked with dirt and blood,
was reddened by the flames.
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The sound was heard again, and as a thousand
eyes were uplifted, there appeared on the
roof of the groggery a huge dark form, environed
by flames, and bearing the form of a
woman in his arms. She was insensible, perchance
dead — her dress fluttered in a puff of
air as he held her aloft in his brawny arms —
and his black face, reddened by the flames, was
seen beneath the form which he held on high.
Seen for a moment only, for a cloud of smoke
rolled over him, and he disappeared.
Then a cry rose from the crowd — negroes
and whites, firemen and Killers — spectators at
distant windows — that you would not have
forgotten in a life-time.
The cloud of smoke had rolled away, and —
There, on the very edge of the roof, stood
the negro, his half-naked frame raised to its full
height, as he raised the body of the girl above
his head, straining his arms as though he was
about to dash himself and his burden upon the
heads of the multitude
“Save the gal!”
“Bring a ladder!”
“Go into the next house and get on the
roof — you may help her thar!”
“Go it, Killers!”
“Down with the niggers!”
Cries like these were heard amid the tumult
of the crowd, and then a black cloud swept
the negro and his burden suddenly from the
sight. The next instant a rumor spread among
the Killers — originated we cannot tell how —
that Elijah Watson was shut up in the burning
house. Neither can we tell why the fact had
not been thought of before; possibly the rioters
had been so much engaged in their arduous
duties that they had not time to think of him.
“Save Lije!” cried one of the band, “we
can get on to the roof of the next house, and
catch hold of him somehow. Boys! Hurray
for Lije!”
The roof of the adjoining house — we mean
the one on the left, as yet untouched by flames—
was some feet higher than the roof of the
groggery.
PART XIX. HICKS, ELIJAH AND KATE.
Leaving the scene of clamor and excitement,
we will go back in our narrative to the mo
ment when Cromwell locked the door, thus
imprisoning Elijah and Hicks, and shutting
them up within thick walls with the body of
the dead girl.
Elijah was endeavoring, in his rude way, to
restore the insensible girl to life — chafing her
hands and calling her by name — when the
harsh sound of the key turning in the lock
struck on his ear. Raising his head, he saw
the door fast closed, and poor Hicks in a half
prostrate position, his bald head visible, and
his glossy wig dangling from one ear. Confused
by the blow administered by Cromwell,
just before he locked the door, Hicks was engaged
in raising himself to his feet, meanwhile
rubbing his forehead with his right hand.
Hicks was by no means the smooth and smiling
gentleman we beheld last night, with well-oiled
wig and whiskers, spotless shirt bosom
and diamond pin. His whiskers had shared
the fate of his wig; the diamond pin had fallen;
and a spot of blood from his forehead stained
the spotless white of his shirt bosom. Certainly,
Mr. Hicks looked the very picture of a
defeated candidate the day after election.
“What's the matter with you, old man?”
said Elijah, taking some pity upon the disconsolate
condition of Mr. Hicks.
“They're gone —” began Hicks.
“Who keers?” quoth Elijah.
“But they've locked the door, and —” he
cast his eyes toward the dead body of Kate
Watson.
“Left me and you together, alone with the
corpse,” answered Elijah, with a frightful grin,
“Look at the winder, Hicks — it's nailed shut.
Try the door — the panels are thick, and you
can't get it open for your life. Do you think
I'd open it for you? No, Hicks, you must
come here, and sit one side o' the corpse while
I sit on the other, and tell me what you think
o' yourself. Come. What! you won't?”
With a scowl and an oath, Elijah advanced
upon the kneeling man, and dragged him to the
bed. He forced him down upon it, and then
seated himself — the body of Kate between
them — and the candle-light showing the three
faces — Elijah's pale and malignant, Hicks'
pale and ashy with terror — the dead girl's pale
and very beautiful.
“Jist feel her hands” — he forced the ex
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banker to take the hand of the dead girl within
his own —“how could you do it?”
It was a singular scene. That lone room in
a den of pollution — door locked and window
nailed — the body of the dead girl upon the
bed, and the Convict Son accusing the Rich
Father of the Murder. Hicks was terribly
agitated, not only on account of the sudden
death of Kate Watson, but by reason of the
strange light which flashed from the eye of his
Felon Son.
`I didn't mean to do it,” he faltered, “I told
the black fellow to put the wet rag to her lips,
so as to render her insensible for a few moments—”
“And what did you intend to do with her?”
was the next question. It was a puzzling
question, but Hicks endeavored to meet it.
“To do her a service — to — to — bring her
out upon the stage. Since my failure I have
been on the best terms with the English Managers—
I could have made her fortune —”
“Father, you lie!” was the response of Elijah,
“You know what you intended to make
of her; and after all you'd a-left her to die in
the streets, as you left me to die in the Penitentiary.
Why, when I see you there, and see
this poor dead girl stretched between us, and
hear you lyin' in that way, I wish myself back
again in jail. You're enough to make a whole
State's Prison blush.”
As he said this, Hicks turned his eyes aside—
he could not meet that steady gaze.
“I've half a notion to kick open that den and
hand you to the police, and see how you like
a few years in Cherry Hill. Then I'd come,
ha, ha, ha — hee! I'd come and have a peep
at you — jist a p-e-e-p through the hole in the
wall!”
In a voice perfectly cold with fright, Hicks
begged for mercy. He reminded Elijah that
it was not his fault, that he had been condemned
to a life of misery and degradation. He
spoke of his wealth — wealth hidden in his city
mansion — and offered to share it with his
convict son.
“Only get me out of this difficulty — release
me from this room — let us go together — if I
don't keep my word, why then deliver me to
the police for — for — murder!
Elijah reflected.
He played absently with the hand of the
deceased girl.
He parted the glossy brown hair aside from
her white forehead.
“You consent?” whispered Hicks.
“How much money have you got?”asked
Elijah meditatively.
“Twenty thousand in gold — it's hid in my
house — no one knows of it but myself — you
know I'm in the city under an assumed name—
and if you consent we'll leave it to-morrow—
leave it together, and —”
“What of her?”—Elijah laid his hand over
the face of the dead girl. Hicks' visage fell.
“What of her?”— There was no answering
that.
Elijah rose and stalked up and down the
floor, his hands behind his back and his head
on his breast, while Hicks, shuddering and cold
removed himself as far as possible from the
corse, without actually falling off the bed.
“Where is the money?” said Elijah, turning
abruptly in his walk.
Hicks answered in a quiet whisper, and
described the location of the house and of the
money.
“Give me the key?”
With a shaking hand Hicks drew a key
from his vest pocket. Elijah buried it in the
pocket of his shabby coat, and then gently
lifting Kate's body tore the ragged quilt from
the bed, and proceeded with the aid of a clasp
knife to divide it into slips.
“Put your hands behind your back —”
and Elijah fixed his eye upon the trembling
sinner.
Hicks consented like a child. Elijah bound
his hands firmly, with two of the strips.
“Stick out your feet.” Hicks complied
and in a moment his ankles were bound.
“Now it will take me just half an hour to go
to your house and back. You can remain
quiet here alongside o' Kate, as your intentions
were good — and you need not be afraid of the
body you know? I'll come back in half an
hour, and then if you have told me a lie, I'll —”
Hicks waits with much anxiety for the conclusion
of the sentence.
“Then I'll tell you what I'll do.”
“You are not going to leave me here, in this
condition?” cried the ex-broker, the cold sweat
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glistening on his forehead — “O for mercy
sake I beg — I beg —”
Elijah seized a fragment of an old chair, and
with one blow demolished the sash of the window;
it was the work of a few moments to
make an opening in the boards without. Sturdily
brandishing the chair leg, he knocked
away the lower boards and looked out. “Opens
on a shed! Good!” He placed his hand on
the window sill, and looked over his shoulder
“Keep cool, Hicks,” he said, and again that
rightful grimace came over his face. The
next moment he was gone. His foot-steps
were heard upon the boards of the shed —
there was a sound like a man leaping down
upon the solid earth — and then all was quiet.
Hicks found himself alone with the dead.
Could he have moved his arms or limbs, he
would have placed as great a distance as might
be, between himself and the bed, but there he
was, pinioned like a “sheep for the slaughter,”
the body of Kate by his side — nay one of her
hands touched his knee. He could just stir,
but he could not remove himself from the bed.
The candle stood on the floor, flinging its
smoky light over the naked walls, and upward
into his face. He looked over his right shoulder—
the pale face of Kate was there, hair
treaming to the shoulders, and the cold beauty
of death upon every lineament. The candle
begins to sputter in the socket. What if it
goes out and leaves him in darkness, and with
the dead hand upon his knee? Hark! There
are shouts in the room below. Some one is
coming to his rescue. He cares not who it is,
only so that he is relieved from his horrible
position. The sound of a scuffle is heard —
they are coming — they are coming! Still no
hand unlocks the door. Half dead with terror—
Hicks hears voices in the yard —
“Bar the doors, and let's burn the nigger in
his den!”
Hicks utters a frightful howl, and then the
candle goes out. No! It flashes up again,
and flings a horrible light over the room, and
upon the face of the dead. Then the candle
does indeed go out and all is darkness.
“Help! Help! Murder! Murder!”
But no one hears him. There is the trambling
of feet in the yard, and shouts as of a
thousand men in the alley — his voice is
drowned. Still he shouts and screams until he
is hoarse, and his voice can only raise into a
half coherent murmur.
The dead body is still by his side. He
cannot see it, but he feels the hand upon his
knee.
Now a new fear assails him. There is the
smell of fire, and the room seems rapidly filling
with smoke. He breathes with difficulty.
The noise of flames, now mingles with the
tramp of feet and the yell of the mob.
Suddenly a red light flashes in the window.
The rioters have fired the shed — it burns —
it burns — and the smoke whirls in, through
the aperture in the boards. The boards catch
next and with a desperate effort, the wretched
man starts to his feet, only to fall, at full length
upon the floor.
At this instant a noise is heard — it is in
the room — it completes the terrors of the
miserable man —
“O! the bell has rung for the first act, and
I am late” —
It is the voice of the poor supernumerary, who
reviving from the death-like stupor engendered
by Chloroform, now imagines herself once
more in the Theatre. She is not dead, for the
Chloroform, well nigh fatal, only produced for
a while the appearance of death. But Hicks
prostrate on his face, does not think of her as
living — he is sure that he hears the voice of
a ghost. Alas, poor Hicks! Was ever fraudulent
Bank Director so horribly visited as you
are now?
“Is it a dream?” cries Kate, as she awakes
from the delicious frenzy of Chloroform and
finds herself environed by flames — the roaring
in her ears — the red light in her face —
“Has the Theatre taken fire?”
She bounds from the bed — and sees the
prostrate form — at the sight, she remembers
how the hand of the Negro was fixed upon
her mouth, and how he bore her up stairs in
the darkness.
“Are you living?” she shrieks — “Speak?
What does this mean? Am I to be burned
alive?”
To which the unfortunate Hicks, responds
as he rubs his face over the floor:
“Cut my feet!” (That is, cut the cords
which bind my feet, but under these circumstances,
one does not look for style.)
“There is a knife somewhere — cut my
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feet! Cut my feet! Cut — cut — cut —” and
at every “cut,” Hicks, in his efforts to rise,
rubs his face against the boards.
She remembers the voice; it is the English
Manager. Has this scene been the result of
some plot of his contriving? She does not
pause to argue the question but hunts eagerly
for the knife. After a hurried search she finds
it, and hacks away at the strips which bind
the wrists and ankles of the unhappy “Manager”
alias “Ex-Bank Director.”
At length his feet and hands are free; he
rises heavily, and finds himself confronted by
this beautiful girl, whose hair sweeps in waves,
over her breast and shoulders.
“What does this mean?” she cries — her
eyes wild with terror.
Stupified by the smoke and heat, Hicks
cannot answer, he can only stare at the pale
face of Kate, which every other moment is
reddened by flashes of light. She seizes him,
and shakes him by the arm — “Is there no
way of escape? Must we be burned alive?”
He tears himself from her, and rushes to the
window, but the smoke and flame drives him
back. To the door, uttering horrible cries,
but the door is locked, and he only hurts his
feet by kicking the thick panels. And then,
utterly overcome — scorched by heat and
choked by smoke — Hicks falls upon the floor
and lays there, like a bundle of “forgotten
goods.”
Poor Kate! Scarce knowing what to make
of all this, she stands there, with the crimson
light upon her face, and in the folds of her
waving hair — she presses her hands to her
bosom as she gasps for breath — she is conscious
that she cannot live, in that horrible
place, but a few moments longer.
With toil and poverty life is sweet to her;
and she is struggling for it now, with every
gasp of her hard-drawn breath.
But hark! Heavy steps upon the stair —
a heavier sound against the door — it yields —
and falls upon the body of the miserable Hicks.
But what horrible apparition appears in the
doorway?
Kate screams with terror; it is the Negro,
who placed his hand to her mouth — he stands
there, black and hideous, his white eyeballs
rolling in his jetty face.
“Dey burn dis darkey alive? Yah — hah!
Guess not! Dis darkey good for to stan' fire.
Say! You dar Missus?”
And with a bound he is at her side — his
brawny arm is about her waist.
“Come now! Don't you kick and scream—
up stairs is de garret — tote along, Missus!”
With these words he bears her from the
room, up the narrow stairs; up a narrower
stairway, and then from a trap door, out upon
a roof in flames.
Bulgine instinctively determines to save
her — but when he finds himself on the hot
roof, surrounded by flames — he gives up all
for lost, and howling upon the Mob, who yell
below, prepares to dash her down, and at the
same time beat his brains out, against the
pavement.
PART XX. THE POPLAR BOX.
When Elijah left his father, bound and helpless
in the upper room of the den kept by the
Bulgine, he made the best of his way into the
heart of the city. Hurrying from the scene
of the riot, he soon approached the house
which, for a month or more, had been quietly
occupied by Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks. It was
an old three story brick, with its gable fronting
on the street, from which it was separated by
a small yard. Elijah's blood was in a tumult
as he opened the gate and approached the door.
The shutters of the house were closed from
cellar to garret, and it was cast into shadow
by the neighboring mansions.
“Now, we'll see whether the old man lied
or not,” said Elijah, as he opened the door
with the key furnished him by Mr. Hicks.
He entered the house. All was desolate and
still. He made his way straight to the room
designated by his father, where stood the iron
safe containing all the wealth of the old man.
This room was on the third story, and in the
back part of the house. Elijah ascended the
stairs, and was astonished to find a lighted
lamp placed on the floor of the entry in the
third story. The door of the back room was
opened, and a sound like the rustling of papers
struck on his ear.
“Who can it be?” the thought flashed over
him. He quietly took off his boots, and,
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passing the lamp, approached the door and looked
within.
A man was standing near an iron safe, on
which a lamp was placed. His back was toward
Elijah, and he was engaged in examining
the papers which he had taken from the safe.
On a chair by his side was scattered a mass of
gold and silver, mingled with bank notes.
“At last I've found the old scoundrel's
Ark”— said the man, by way of soliloquy,
and Elijah recognized the voice of Don Jorge.
It was Don Jorge, attired in the guise of a
Killer. Elijah stood in a position which enabled
him to watch all the movements of the
Cuban, without being himself observed; and
Elijah's heart beat quick and his eyes glistened
at the sight of the money which laid on
the chair.
“I'll let him rob the chest,”— such was his
thought, “and as he comes out of the room I'll
force him to surrender.”
At this moment he caught a side-view of
the Cuban's face. It was stamped with a look
of ineffable triumph, which displayed his
white teeth under his dark mustache, and gave
fresh brilliancy to his dark eyes.
“The money is good enough,” he soliloquised,
“these thousands will enable me to
keep afloat for a year, at least, in Paris, or in
some other continental city. As for the Cuban
speculation, undertaken by some of my
hot-headed compatriots — it's a humbug, and
I'll have nothing more to do with it. They
talk of love for their native land. Pshaw!
Give me money, and I'll make my native land
wherever wine and women are to be bought or
sold.”
With this remark he took the light from the
top of the safe, and, sinking on his knees, he
began to examine the interior. “There is a
particular box which I must have”—he exclaimed—
“It contains all the transactions between
my father and Hicks — for that matter,
between my father and more than five merchants
of this good city, who have made fortunes
by the slave trade. When I have the
box in my hands I will hold a rod over their
heads —”
Peering into the safe, he presently drew
forth the object of his search — a box of unpainted
poplar, not more than a foot long and
six inches deep, which opened with a sliding
lid.
“I can see no lock, and yet this slide is
difficult to draw. Ah! It gives way —”
He began to draw the lid, which moved
slowly as he passed his thumb in the crevice
at one end, at the same time holding the box
tightly against his breast.
Elijah was watching him all the while —
panting for breath, and sinking his nails into
the frame of the door, as he endeavored to
subdue his excitement.
“Now we shall read the transactions of
Captain Velasquez and Mr. Jacob Hicks,”
exclaimed Don Jorge — and it was the last
word he ever spoke. The report of a pistol
was heard. He sank backward on the floor,
the box scattered into fragments over the room,
while the lamp was momentarily obscured, by
a veil of blueish smoke.
Elijah, stupified by the sudden report, rushed
into the room, and took hold of the prostrate
man. His face was blue with the death agony.
Once his lips moved — his eyes rolled in
their sockets — and then his lips were motionless
and his eyes fixed in death. The blood
oozed slowly from a wound near his heart.
His knees bent, and his legs doubled under
him, he lay dead upon the floor, his arms
thrown out, on either hand, the fingers stiff
and cramped.
Mr. Hicks for reasons of his own, had concealed
a loaded pistol in the poplar box, which
was connected with the sliding lid, by a complication
of clock work machinery. The pistol
was so arranged that the drawing of the lid
pulled the trigger. And the lid could not be
drawn, unless the box was placed against the
breast, in such a manner, that the muzzle of
the concealed pistol, would rest within ten
inches of the heart of the man, who might
attempt to open it.
Don Jorge had drawn the sliding lid, and
paid for that trifling deed with his life.
He lay dead upon the floor; as dead indeed,
as any Negro that he had ever pitched from
the deck of his Slaver, in the midst of the
broad Ocean.
Elijah wasted no time in useless efforts to
restore the dead man to life. Gathering up
the gold and silver, which laid upon the chair,
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
he poured it into his pockets, together with a
goodly store of bank notes. Then without a
word, he quietly left the room, and descended
the stairs. Before five minutes were gone, he
had left the house, carefully locking the front
door behind him.
“The old man did not lie — there was
money there,' he soliloquized, as he hurried
back to the scene of the Riot,” “wonder if he
intended that box for me?”
He lost no time, but made the best of his
way toward the Den of the Bulgine, and approached
it by the alley, which communicated
with the back door. Emerging from the darkness
of the alley, he heard at once the roar of
the mob, and the roar of the flames. The yard
was deserted. The flames ascended from the
shed to the roof. Elijah heard the shout of
the multitude, who were packed together in
front of the house, in Dog Alley, and at once remembered
the condition in which he had left
his father. How should he save him? Jumping
upon the fence, he saw at a glance that he might
ascend to the roof of the next house, (which
was deserted) by placing a board upon the shed
which rose from the ground to its second story
window. It was the work of a few moments
to tear a board from the fence — climb upon the
shed, drawing the board after him — and then
rest one end of the board upon the shed, while
the other reached the edge of the low roof.
Crawling cat-like on hands and knees, Elijah
began the ascent. Half-way up, the board began
to slip, but Elijah kept on, and mounted
the roof, at the same moment that the board
fell beneath him. Once on the roof, he ascended
to the ridge, and saw at the first glance, a
sight which quickened his blood. The faces
of the mob — the Den of the Bulgine in flames—
and the Bulgine himself standing black and
gigantic, in the centre of the flames — standing
upon the roof, and near the very edge — with
the body of a woman in his arms.
“It's Kate!” cried Elijah, and with an incoherent
yell, he sprang upon the burning roof.
The multitude beheld him, and answered his
yell with shouts of horror and ejaculations of
feverish suspense. They saw him wrapped in
smoke and flame, and in an instant, saw him
emerge from the cloud and reach the Negro's
side. And then the shouts of the spectators,
as they beheld the figures on the roof, now re
vealed in light, and now lost in smoke, ascended
tumultuously upon the air.
“The nigger won't give him the gal!” cried
one.
“They're fightin!” shouted another.
“It's 'Lije — hurry and pitch him over!”
was the address of one of the most prominent
among the Killers.
But the Bulgine, Elijah and the insensible
girl were lost to view in the thick cloud which
swept over the roof of the burning house. The
suspense of the spectators did not long continue.
A dull, deafening crash was heard —
“the roof has fallen in!” rang from a thousand
throats, and for a while the blackness of mid-night
descended upon the scene. Then, up
from the house, and through the thick blackness
which covered it, shot a column of blazing
cinders, brightening up once more the faces of
the spectators, and throwing a livid glare into
the heavens.
By that light, the riot began once more. The
Bulgine, the girl and the convict had been engulfed
in the flames; and the Killers and their
confederate rioters seeing nothing especial to
occupy their attention, now that the crisis of
the scene was over, went to work again, and
carried the `terror of their arms' into the heart
of the `negro camp.' How they rioted at intervals
through the whole night — how by
morning-light the military came hurrying to the
scene, their duty being to make up by ball and
buckshot for the cowardice and misconduct of
the civil authorities — all this may be read in
the daily papers of October 1849.
The second day after the riot, two bodies
were found in the cellar of the burnt hovel, their
charred features, covered by wet and smouldering
embers. Which was the body of Bulgine,
and which the body of Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks,
none of the spectators could tell; an old woman
who stood in the midst of the assembled throng
declared that one of the bodies, was that of her
son, Elijah Watson.
“But my child—poor Kate, my child!
Where's her body gone to? Can't nobody
tell? What was she doin' in that nigger's hut,
when it was set afire? Can't nobody tell?”
In vain did Mrs. Watson utter these questions
with all the emphasis of her shrill voice.
Nobody could tell, except indeed the old lady
herself, and she wisely held her peace.
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Further search into the smouldering embers
disclosed the remains of another body, so horribly
burnt and disfigured as to be utterly undistinguishable.
Was it the body of Cromwell,
Elijah, or Kate?
PART XXI. CONCLUSION.
In the Trials of the Rioters, which took
place within a month after the Riots, no one
will be able to discover the name of Elijah
Watson. Nor has Kate ever been seen, since
the n'ght of the Riots, among the supernumeraries
of the theatre. Whatever became of
them — whether they escaped from the burning
roof, just before it fell, or whether they
were engulfed in the ruins — cannot be distinctly
stated. One incident will bring this
narrative to a close. A Philadelphia merchant,
who had been connected with Mr. Hicks in
his palmiest days, was observed to be in a
great tremor, soon after the riots. He had become
aware of the suicide of Don Jorge in
the house of Mr. Hicks; in fact, he had
visited that house, the day after the riot, seeking
Mr. Hicks on business connected with the
African trade, and had found only the dead
body of Don Jorge. Our merchant did not
waste much time in the house, but hurried
away to his own residence, where he was
confronted by a young lady, who spake of
matters which drove the very life-blood from
his cheek.
The young lady — to the merchant unknown—
had in some manner come into possession
of those papers of the deceased Hicks, which
implicated some four or five respectable houses
in the profitable transactions of the African
Slave Trade. Our merchant was among the
number.
And in a clear voice the young woman demanded
a certain favor as the price of her secrecy.
She was not to be frightened; the
goodly man of business tried in vain to terrify
her with the threat of a prosecution for “Conspiracy
to extort money.” She replied by
stating every little fact embraced in the papers
aforesaid, copies of which she placed in the
hands of the respectable man. And he grew
paler and trembled more violently as she continued
her narrative. She was a very beautiful,
and yet a very determined young woman.
He took counsel with the other parties implicated,
and agreed to grant her request.[1]
This request granted, the young lady disappeared,
and was not again heard from, until
the commencement of December, when our
Merchant and his confederates — all Respectable
Killers — received a large pacquet, which
had been brought from Charges by the steamer
Empire City. It was dated “Panama, Nov.
2nd, 1849 — and contained all the documents
about the slave trade, together with the following
letter, which we transcribe, and which
brings this Narrative to a close.
Panama, Nov. 2, 1849.
To — —, Esq., Philadelphia.
Sir:—You and your friends have fulfilled your promise,
to secure for Elijah and myself an unmolested
departure from your city, and a safe passage to Panama.
And I now fulfil mine by transmitting to you the accompanying
papers which you will understand. Elijah
and myself start for San Francisco to-morrow, where
some day or other we may be heard from by other
names, and under better circumstances than those which
surrounded us in Philadelphia.
Yours, &c.,
Kate Watson.
THE END.
eaf257.n1[1] As a note to the above we append the following
paragraph, which we extract from the Message of President
Taylor transmitted to Congress, on the 24th of
December, 1849.
“Your attention is earnestly invited to an amendment
of our existing laws relating to the African slave
trade, with a view to the effectual suppression of that
barbarous traffic. It is not to be denied, that this trade
is still, in part, carried on by means of vessels built in
the United States, and owned or navigated by some of
our citizens. The correspondence between the Department
of State and the Minister and Consul of the United
States at Rio de Janeiro, which has from time to
time been laid before Congress, represents that it is a
customary device to evade the penalties of our laws by
means of sea letters. Vessels sold in Brazil, when provided
with such papers by the Consul, instead of returning
to the United States for a new register, proceed,
at once, to the coast of Africa, for the purpose of obtaining
cargoes of slaves. Much additional information
of the same character, has recently been transmitted to
the Department of State.”
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