CHAPTER VII.
“And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there—while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!”
In the environs of Albany, at the period of which we
are writing, stood an ancient looking tenement, originally
designed, as its general appearance indicated,
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for a common farm house; though the grounds
around it seemed lately to have been left almost wholly
uncultivated; while dilapidated fences, and an unchecked
growth of rank weeds, springing up every
where about the premises, told any thing but of good
husbandry in the occupant. Indeed, there was an
air of solitude and decay about the place, which
might reasonably have been taken by all as an evidence
of a corresponding decay in the circumstances
of the owner, but for the fact known to many,
that he had brought large sums of money, which he
must have increased, as he had ever lived on an economical
scale, and husbanded his treasures with the
most miserly care,—ever speculating upon the necessities
of others, and loaning his money at exhorbitant
usury. Since the commencement of the unsettled
times of the revolution, however, he had been
busily engaged in drawing in his funds, while he began
to talk of pretended losses, and to feign the appearance
of approaching poverty, by suffering his
farm to run to waste, as if through inability to bestow
upon it a proper cultivation. This was attributed
by many to actual impoverishment; but those
who knew more of his affairs, set it down at once to
his unwillingness to trust out his property in such
fluctuating times, and his fears of being compelled
to loan, or otherwise part with it, for maintaining the
American cause, to which, it was suspected, he was
not over friendly. He had ever been a man of few
friends, and still fewer confidants. And for the last
year or two, he had almost wholly withdrawn himself
from society; while, as was noticed by those
who occasionally saw him, his health appeared to
be gradually undermining, and his countenance wore
an air of deep dejection, arising, it was surmised, as
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he had no visible grounds of sorrow, from remorse
of conscience, or other mental inquietudes, the causes
of which he had never divulged.
To this cheerless spot we would now invite the
reader for the purpose of introducing one to whom
allusion has been several times made, the father of
Jacob Sherwood. The unhappy old man had been
for several weeks rapidly failing, and he now lay
stretched on the bed of sickness, with the full consciousness,
that the end of his earthly career was
fast approaching; while a retrospect of his life began
to fill his mind with terror and alarm, in view of
the retribution which his guilt-stricken conscience
told him was at hand. Although, by the constant
exercise of that peculiar cunning and cautiousness,
which were leading traits in his character, he had
always contrived to stear clear of the penalties of the
law, yet there had been certain secret passages in
his life, the memory of which now turned his dying
bed into a couch of thorns, and drove him to think
of making some atonement for the injuries he had inflicted
before he dare go to his final account.
With this, among other views, he had, the week
previous, sent a special messenger for his son, and
he was now anxiously looking for his arrival. But
the lingering days passed on, and he came not, till
the wretched invalid, warned by his failing strength,
that he could hold out but a few days longer, dared
no more delay the act of justice, which his guilty
fears had urged him to perform, to those who had
been the victims of secret villanies. But let us
now enter his gloomy abode, and proceed to his bed-side.
He had been lying about an hour in a troubled
sleep, from which he had several times suddenly
started up, with a wild, apprehensive glare, and a
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few incoherent mutterings, that gradually died away
on his working lips, as he relapsed into his uneasy
slumbers. He now, however, became thoroughly
awakened, and, turning his face to the nurse in attendance,
a wrinkled old crone, who, with an ignorant,
clownish looking boy, made up the rest of the
family at the present time, he eagerly enquired if his
son had arrived. And being answered in the negative,
he sunk back on his pillow with a look of blended
wo and disappointment, which told the utter
wretchedness of his feelings.
`O, when will he come! when will he come!' at
length muttered to himself the hapless old man. `I
shall die before he arrives! no, no, I must not die, I
cannot die, till I see him—till he promises. But if
he should not come! Or if he come and would
not promise, or promising, would not perform, where
would be the reparation? I fear—I fear him, with
so much interest at stake! Oh! why have I delayed
this so long! Why have I carried this dreadful
weight till now! If I had but strength to write it!—
perhaps I have—I will try—I will! Nabby?' he
continued, calling to the deaf old woman, `I say,
Nabby! bring me here pen and paper.'
`Eh? O, ay!' replied the crone, bringing the required
implements.
`Now bolster me up on the bed, and lay that old
ledger open on the bed-clothes before me. There!
that will do.'
Having been a ready penman, and deriving a temporary
strength from the excitement of his sudden
resolution, the invalid succeeded in writing out a
brief statement, or confession, of the misdeeds which
laid heaviest on his troubled conscience.
`There! there!' he exclaimed in a sort of
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unnatural glee, `it is on paper! it is down—thank God
it is down! I feel easier now—relieved—some of
the poison has passed from my heart to the paper;'
and he read over, and continued looking some time
upon the lines, with a wild, exulting satisfaction,
muttering at intervals, `yes, thank God, it is down!'
He then, having again called the nurse, and directed
her to seal the paper securely, superscribed it to
Captain James Hendee, giving the woman strict orders
to give it to his son when he arrived, or to some
other person, who would promise to deliver it to the
person to whom it was addressed. After this, he
fell back exhausted, and lay some time in silent meditation.
`Yes, that is something,' he said, at length, resuming
his soliloquy; `but will it bring back the lost,
or dead? No! Will it restore the property I took
from them? No, not a shilling without a suit, and
then Jake will find some way to defeat it—and then
the letter may be lost—he may mistrust what I have
written and destroy it. It won't do—I must make
a will and place it out of his hands—I must, O, I
must—and I will do it—I will do it, now. Ezra!
Ezra!' he continued, speaking with nervous rapidity.
`Nabby! tell Ezra to come here in a minute!'
The ill-clothed, and more ill-favored, boy soon
made his appearance.
`Ezra, you go over to Esquire Vanderpools, and
tell him I want he should come here as quick as possible—
run! run!'
The man, who was thus summoned, and who was
an attorney, whom the old gentleman had sometimes
employed, and consulted, on account of the
prudence and secrecy with which he conducted all
matters submitted to his charge, in a short time
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entered the apartment, and quietly seated himself by
the bed-side of the sick man. The old nurse was
then ordered to leave the room.
`I am going to die, Squire,' said the old man feebly.
`I hope not,' replied the attorney, casting a scrutinizing
glance at the pallid face of the other, but
without betraying the least emotion.
`I know best, and I have thoughts of making a
will—can you draw one that will hold?'
`None of my making have ever yet failed.'
`So I suppose, and I believe you honest, and to
have a mind of your own, or I should not have sent
for you. But can it all be kept secret till the will is
proved in court?'
`Who is to be executor?'
`I have been thinking of that. So much money
is a great trust, but if you are not honest, who is? I
must have you.'
`All can be managed, then.'
`Yes, but will it be done? will you promise? I
have reasons—you know Jacob—will you not let
him buy you up?'
`Never!'
`Write me a will then; and be quick,—quick—
bequeathing a thousand pounds to Captain James
Hendee of the New Hampshire Grants, and all he
now owes me—another thousand to his daughter.
That will make them good for what I'—
`That is right! make a clean breast of it, Mr.
Sherwood,' observed the attorney, encouragingly.
`I will—God forgive me for taking that amount
from the property left with me to manage. Put it
down in the will “reparation.”
`I will. But the rest of the property?'
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`All to my son—write on—be quick.'
`The attorney, with an acquiescing nod, proceeded
diligently with his task, while the restless invalid
again muttered to himself,
`It will be an inducement for Jake to marry the
girl, which I fear he means to avoid. But he probably
will do it now, and then nothing will be lost by
this; and if he don't, why, he has enough without
it. Yes, this will do. I shall feel better—better.'
The will was very soon completed, witnesses were
called, all the requisite formalities passed through;
when, after receiving from the testator many additional
injunctions, the attorney departed with the
important instrument in his pocket.
As soon as this business, for which the sick man
had summoned all his failing energies, was accomplished,
he again became as helpless as an infant,
and lay several hours in a state of exhaustion and
stupor. At length his malady began to assume a
different and more threatening aspect. The pains
of approaching dissolution set in, attended with mental
anguish, even more fearful in appearance than
his bodily agony; and to the wretched old man a
night of horrors succeeded. While his limbs were
writhing with pain, and he seemed to be grappling
in bodily effort with the king of terrors, the most
fearful images appeared to rise continually before
his distracted mind, to complete the horrors of his
situation. At one time he seemed to be contending
with desperate fierceness against troops of fiends,
that stood palpably before him, reaching out their
long, skinless claws to drag him from his bed, while,
“keep them off! Oh, keep them off,” would burst
in the accents of despair from his lips. At another
time, the images of those he had injured appeared
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to rise upon his troubled fancy, and stand before
him, giving, even by their quiet presence, unspeakable
tortures to his feelings.
`Leave me, Brother Hendee, O, leave me!' he
would piteously exclaim, waving his hand for the
other, whom he fancied to be standing by his bed-side,
to depart. `Away! away! I cannot look on you.
You forgive me? what is that to me, so long as that
great burning eye is looking down so fiercely upon
me? Oh! don't smile upon me! don't, Brother
Hendee! It stings—it kills me! There! that is
right—kind. He is gone now. But what is that
coming? Oh! what is that?' he continued, starting
up with a look replete with horror and distress:
`see, how he reaches out his little hands as they carry
him off into the woods, crying uncle, save me,
uncle, from the Indians! It is a lie! I say I am
not your uncle! You are an imp!—a fiend, come to torment
me! There! I told you so—I knew it—see!
see, there! he is sending that troop of devils to drag
me down into that dreadful black gulph! Oh! God!
they have seized me! I won't! I won't go! help!
murder! Oh! help! help!' and with the expiring
efforts of his delirious energies, he rose up in his
bed, and throwing his arms wildly above him, and
uttering a fearful screech, he fell down on his face,
and the next moment was a livid corpse!
Such was the fearful end of John Sherwood, who,
with no penitence that could be acceptable in the
sight of Heaven, thus thought to conpound with his
conscience, and atone for his misdeeds by offering
up a portion of that wealth which he had made the
only idol of his worship through life—a life marked,
indeed, with many acts of specious kindness, performed
towards those he had wronged, but always
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performed on the principle we have mentioned, or
to veil the secret injuries he had inflicted, from the
eyes of his victims, and blind the public to his true
character.
On the second day after the event just dercribed,
and but a few hours before the time appointed for
the funeral ceremonies, Jacob Sherwood rode into
the yard, and without any previous intimation of his
father's death, entered the house.
`How is the old gentleman, Nabby?' he asked,
approaching and putting his mouth close to the ear
of the deaf old domestic.
`Eh? O,—why, don't ye know? Han't they told
you how he is dead?'
`No! shocking!—Why, when did he die?'
`Yester night—jest fore day. Desput sick, the old
gentleman was that night. And he was in a terrible
taking to see you, Mister Jacob, fore he died.'
`What did he wish to see me for in particular, do
you know?'
`No—not sartainly. But he was under some consarn
of mind, I reckon. It was malagantly to hear
him take on, and see him act. O, 'twas dreadful
times with us that night: I, and Ezra sot up. I hope
the old gentleman never done any thing that was
wrong.'
`Ezra, what did he say?' asked Sherwood, eagerly
turning to the boy, who was present.
`O, he talked drefful bad and scary bout somfing
carrying him off. I'se mortal feared, and went behind
the door.'
`Nabby—say Nabby!' said the former, again addressing
the old woman, `who has been here since
father was taken sick, besides the doctor?'
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`Doctor! he wouldn't have no doctor—he took
his own physics.'
`Who, then, has been here?'
`Why, none but old Mrs. Chandler, to tell me
about fixing his gruel and things, except the folks
that come to lay him out, and Squire Vanderpool,
the day fore he died, and then the next morning, to
carry off the papers and chests.'
`Vanderpool! papers and chests! what can all
that mean?' said Sherwood, in an undertone, and
with an air of concern. `But, say, old woman,
what did Squire Vanderpool and father do, when
they were together?'
`Don't know nothing no way about it; cause
they sent me out—may be about some writings. La!
now, I forgot the letter,' added the woman, jumping
up and bringing the letter the deceased had entrusted
to her charge: `there, he told me to make you
promise to give this to Captain Hendee.'
`Certainly—I promise,' said Sherwood, seizing
the letter and putting it in his pocket.
After a few more enquiries, Sherwood retired to
another room, when, taking out the letter and carefully
breaking it open, so that it might be re-sealed,
if he saw fit to suffer it to go to its destination, he proceeded
to read it; after which he rose, took out a
pocket pistol, drew the charge, went to the fire place,
and flashed the priming against the letter, which
he held between his thumb and finger till it was entirely
consumed.
`Well,' said he to himself, as he replaced his pistol,
that piece of evidence is at rest, I think, and if
all other matters can be managed as easily, all will
be well. But it is very evident that the old man has
been making a will; and Vanderpool, who must be
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executor, I imagine, by his presuming to carry off
the papers and money, is a hard customer to manage,
I confess; though it must be done by some means
or other,—that is, if the old man's weakness and silly
fears have led him to make any serious inroad on
my prospects. And who knows how far he may
have gone—devil! if he has been willing away my
property! But that he could not do. He could only
dispose of his own, the lesser half I think it must
be. Well, that is mine, too; and I won't go
it. So, if he has been willing it away, curse me,
if I don't find a way to suppress or break the
will. Let's see,—Vanderpool is rather poor. That
is lucky; for a cool hundred is something of a tempter.
But if that fails, then here are the deaf old
haddock of a woman and the doltish boy, ready
with their humbug stories to swear the old man insane
at the time. Good! I'll make it traverse some
how. But the first thing is to see Vanderpool; and
I may as well do it now. No, I forgot,—the time
of the funeral is at hand, and I must be rigging up,
and putting on a sorrowful face—sorrowful! as if it
was a matter of special grief to come into possession
of a clear ten thousand!'
Thus soliloquizing, and settling his plans for repairing
the rent which he feared his father had made
in his fortunes, the heartless heir dressed himself,
and joined the domestics and others, who had now
come in to assist in making arrangements for the approaching
obliquies. These being made, and the
hour appointed for the funeral, now arriving, the ceremonies
were performed by a small train of the
nearest neighbors, including his executor, and one
or two other individuals from the city, who had sustained
some connection with the deceased in
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business transactions. Though the demeanour of all
present was marked with the decency and sobriety
natural on the occasion, yet none of that emotion,
which the ties of heartfelt friendship, severed by
death, usually produces at such times, was visible
among the company. Not a sigh was heard, not a
tear was seen to bedew a single cheek, as they followed
the old man, who had never exhibited any
feelings in common with them, unwept and unhonored,
to his long home.
That evening, and as early as he thought decency
would permit, after his father's remains were consigned
to the earth, Sherwood repaired to Vanderpool's
office. And, after what he deemed would be
considered some suitable observations upon his recent
bereavement, he carelessly remarked,
`My father made a will in his last sickness, I understand.
'
`Well, the old gentleman undoubtedly had property
to dispose of, I think,' replied the attorney, evasively.
`You drew it, I am told,' observed the other, cautiously
approaching the point at which he was aiming.
`Drafting instruments of that kind is part of my
trade, you are aware,' remarked Vanderpool, still
evading any direct answer to the question implied by
the other's observation.
`You will not deem it improper, I presume,' said
Sherwood, `for me to enquire what are the provisions
of the instrument, since I am the person most
interested?'
`Why, sir,' coolly remarked Vanderpool, `whether
you are the most interested, I should think must depend
entirely upon the will, whose provisions you
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seek to know. And as regards the propriety of your
making enquiries respecting those provisions, I am
not aware of any impropriety in your asking, but
whether, in the case you assume, it would be proper
for me to answer, for the present, would depend
solely on the conditions imposed on me, and the instructions
I have received.'
`O, certainly, certainly, Mr. Vanderpool,' rejoined
the other obsequiously, though he was evidently
not a little startled at the ominous import of some of
the attorney's remarks; `but what possible motive
could my father have for enjoining secrecy in such a
case?'
`Why, that, Mr. Sherwood, is undoubtedly a
question that the interrogator is no less competent of
answering than the interrogatee,' replied the impurturbable
attorney.
`Why, surely, Mr. Vanderpool,' said the baffled
heir in a tone of expostulation. `You do not think
I wish you to do any thing wrong, I trust. But if
the will be a just one, there can be no good reason
for keeping its provisions a secret the short time
that intervenes before it must be openly proved; and
on the other hand if it be an unjust one, a delay can
be of no benefit to the legatees of a will which can
be so easily broken.'
`Broken! how?'
`Why, I suppose you must be aware, sir, that my
father was not in his right mind when he executed
this pretended will, as can be proved by the family.'
Being a little nettled at the imputation involved
in the last remark, that he had assisted in the making
of a will when he knew the testator to be incompetent,
the conscientious attorney with considerable
spirit replied,
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`Whose testimony, think you, sir, would weigh
the most in such case, two good, honest, intelligent
witnesses, (to say nothing of myself,) who were present
and heard the testator converse, or a stupid old
woman, so deaf as not to hear one word in ten of an
ordinary conversation, and a more stupid boy, who
was rarely in his presence?'
`O, I am no lawyer, sir,' rejoined Sherwood, with
affected complaisance: `that must be left to gentlemen
of your profession to decide. I merely repeated
what was told me. And the only motive I have
in making these enquiries is, to obtain such knowledge
of the will as shall enable me to make my arrangements
for the future; since I am compelled to
return immediately to my post in the Grants. And
now,' he continued, cautiously veering round on
another track, `I really don't see how I can go without
knowing something about the disposition of this
property. It is a going to be such a disadvantage
to me! Why, I would not begrudge a hundred
pounds. Indeed, in my peculiar situation at this
time, it might make more than that difference in my
circumstances'—
`Ah! indeed?' observed Vanderpool, beginning
to suspect the drift of the other, but wishing to see
how far he would venture to go, if encouraged a little.
`Yes, that is really the case, Squire,' said Sherwood,
thinking he had now hit upon a right course;
`and if there are some nice rules among your profession
to prevent your showing this will yourself in
obedience to such very singular instructions, why,
that can easily be got along with. The will can be
left, for instance, on yonder shelf, or somewhere, so
that should I come in to-morrow to write a letter, or
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the like, it might be glanced at, and still no blame
could fall on you—even if the instrument should be
afterwards missing. All would come right between
you and I, Squire, depend upon it. Now, I should
suppose, that one live client, with my means, and
with my friendship, would be worth a dozen dead
ones, shouldn't you, Squire?'
`Why, that might depend,' gravely replied the attorney,
willing to alarm the other by way of punishing
him for his insulting proposals, `that would depend,
I should think, somewhat on the question
whether the live client had means enough left him
by the dead one to make good his promises.'
`What mean you, sir?' hastily asked Sherwood,
turning pale at the intimation.
`O, I am merely making suppositions by way of
answering your enquiries—you must put your own
constructions upon them,' replied Vanderpool, with
a look so equivocal as still to leave the would be
tempter in doubt how to proceed.
`Well, sir,' said Sherwood, after a hesitating
pause, `what am I to understand you are willing to
do in this business? Really a hard case for me,
Squire—what do you say upon the whole?'
`Upon the whole, then,' replied the indignant attorney,
looking the other sternly in the face, `I say,
sir, that it does not follow, that I am a villain and
unworthy the trust reposed on me, because others
may think they can make me so. I am sole executor
on your father's estate, the real estate;—which is
but a small portion of the property, you can take
possession of as soon as you please, as to the rest, I
shall take, and keep charge of it for the present. I
know my duty, both towards you, and others
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concerned, and you may depend I shall do it. My supper
waits. Good evening, sir.'
So saying, and taking his hat, the independent and
incorruptible attorney turned his back on the other,
and immediately left the office.
Vexed and discomfited at the failure of his attempt,
and alarmed at the startling intimations which
had fallen from Vanderpool, Sherwood turned his
steps homeward. Reasoning from his own principles
and feelings, he supposed that the attorney would
never have withstood the different temptations which
had thus been placed before him, unless he knew
that the property was about to pass into the hands
of others, whom it was now more his interest to
serve. And joining this argument, unanswerable to
one who could scarcely conceive of actions not
prompted by interested and selfish motives, with the
contemptuous bearing of the attorney, and the intimations
he had dropped, the partially deceived,
though justly punished heir arrived at the maddening
conclusion, that his father must have bequeathed
the greatest portion of his property to others;
and in all probability to the Hendee family, to whom,
besides being his only near relatives now left, his
penitent and remorseful feelings would naturally direct
his mind. And in addition to this, he was not
without strong apprehensions, that his father had
imparted to Vanderpool the secret which was contained
in the letter directed to Captain Hendee, and
which, in case the son of the latter was alive, would
greatly multiply the chances of losing the other part
of the property, also. And no sooner had he become
confirmed in these conclusions, than he made
up his mind in regard to the only alternative which
he believed was now left him for securing the
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property. Accordingly, after making a few brief arrangements
with a neighbor for managing the farm,
he started that very night, and proceeded with all
possible expedition to the New Hampshire Grants,
where we will endeavor to meet him in another chapter.
Thompson, Daniel P. (Daniel Pierce), 1795-1868 [1839], The green mountain boys: a historical tale of the early settlement of Vermont, volume 2 (E. P. Walton & Sons, Montpelier) [word count] [eaf390v2].
