Kitabı oku: «Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848», sayfa 6
He went on; he spoke (so it appears) with a peculiar eloquence, which was natural to him. He declared that he knew he was about to do a violent deed, but could not think it wrong. He appealed to the conscience of his four-and-twenty listeners. He was placed in a cruel extremity; the necessity of doing justice to himself was a strait into which every man found himself driven at one time or other; he could not, in truth, take the director's life without giving his own for it; but it was right to give his life for a just end. He had thought deeply on the matter, and that alone, for two months; he believed he was not carried away by passion, but if it were so, he trusted they would warn him. He honestly submitted his reasons to the just men whom he addressed. He was about to kill Mr. Flint; but if any one had any objection to make, he was ready to hear it.
One voice alone was raised to say, that before killing the director, Sam ought to make one last attempt to soften him.
"It is fair," said Sam. "I will do so."
The great clock struck the hour – it was eight. The director would make his appearance at nine.
No sooner had this extraordinary court of appeal ratified the sentence he had submitted to it, than Sam resumed his former serenity. He placed upon the table all the linen and garments he possessed – the scanty property of a prisoner – and calling to him, one after the other, those of his companions whom he loved best after Heartall, he divided all amongst them. He only kept the little pair of scissors. Then he embraced them all. Some of them wept – upon these he smiled.
There were moments in this last hour, when he chatted with so much tranquillity, and even gayety, that many of his comrades inwardly hoped, as they afterward declared, that he might perhaps abandon his resolution.
He perceived a young convict who was pale, who was gazing upon him with fixed eyes, and trembling doubtless from expectation of what he was about to witness. "Come, courage, young man," said Sam to him, softly, "it will be only the work of a moment."
When he had distributed all his goods, made all his adieux, pressed all their hands, he interrupted the restless whisperings which were heard here and there in the dim corners of the work-room, and commanded that they should return to their labor. All obeyed him in silence.
The apartment in which this passed was an oblong hall, a parallelogram, lighted with windows on its two longer sides, and with two doors opposite each other at the two ends of the room. The working-frames were ranged on each side near the windows, the benches touching the wall at right angles, and the space left free between the two rows of frames formed a sort of avenue, which went straight from one door to the other, crossing the hall entirely. It was this which the director traversed in making his inspection; he was to enter at the south door, and go out by the north, after having looked at the workmen on the right and left. Commonly he passed through quickly and without stopping.
Sam Needy had reseated himself on his bench, and had betaken himself to his work. All were in expectation – the moment approached; on a sudden they heard the clock strike. Sam said, "It is the last quarter." Then he rose, crossed gravely a part of the hall, and placed himself, leaning on his elbow, on the first frame on the left hand side, close to the door of entrance; his countenance was perfectly calm and benign.
Nine o'clock struck – the door opened – the director came in.
At that moment the silence of the work-room was as of a chamber full of statues.
The director was alone as usual; he entered with his jovial, self-satisfied, and stubborn air, without noticing Sam, who was standing at the left side of the door, his right hand hidden in his trowsers, and passed rapidly by the first frames, tossing his head, mumbling his words, and casting his glance, which was law, here and there, not perceiving that the eyes of all who surrounded him were fixed upon him as upon a fearful phantom. On a sudden he turned sharply round, surprised to hear a step behind him.
It was Sam Needy, who for some instants followed him in silence.
"What are you about there?" said the director. "Why are you not in your place?"
Sam Needy answered respectfully, "Because I have something to say to you, Mr. Flint."
"What about?"
"Concerning Heartall."
"Still Heartall!" exclaimed the director.
"Always," replied Sam.
"Be quiet," said the director, walking on again. "You are not content, then, with your four-and-twenty hours of solitary confinement?"
Sam followed him – "Mr. Flint, give me back my comrade."
"Impossible!"
"Sir," said Sam, in a tone which might have softened the heart of a fiend, "I entreat you, restore Heartall to me. You shall see how well I will work. To you who are free, it is no matter – you do not know what the worth of a friend is; but I have only the four walls of my prison. You can come and go, I have nothing but Heartall – give him back to me. Heartall fed me – you know it well. It will only cost you the trouble of saying yes. What can it be to you that there should be in the same room one man called Sam Needy, another called Heartall? – for the thing is simply that, Mr. Flint; good Mr. Flint, I beseech you earnestly, for Heaven's sake!"
Sam had probably never before said so much at one time to a jailer; exhausted with the effort, he paused. The director replied, with an impatient gesture,
"Impossible – I have said it; speak to me no more about it, you wear me out."
Then, as if in a hurry, he stepped on more quickly, Sam following. Thus speaking, they had reached the door of exit; the prisoners looked after them, and listened breathlessly.
Sam gently touched the director's arm. "At least let me know why I am condemned to death – tell me why you have separated him from me?"
"I have told you," answered the director; "it is my will."
He turned his back upon Sam, and was about to take hold of the latch of the door.
On this answer Sam had retreated a step; the assembled statues who were there saw him bring out his right hand, and the hatchet with it; it was raised, and ere the victim could utter one cry, three blows, one upon the other, had cleft his skull. At the moment, when he fell back, a fourth blow laid his face open; then, as if his frenzy, once let loose, could not stop, Sam struck a fifth blow; it was useless – he was dead.
"Now for the other!" cried the murderer, and threw away the hatchet. That other was himself. They saw him draw from his bosom the small pair of scissors, and before any one could attempt to hinder him, bury them in his breast. The blade was too short to penetrate. He struck them in again and again, so many as twenty times. "Accursed heart! cannot I then reach you?" and finally fell in a dead swoon, bathed in his blood.
Which of these men was the victim of the other?
When Sam returned to consciousness, he was in bed, well attended, his wounds carefully bandaged; a humane nurse was about his pillow, and more than one magistrate, who asked him, with the appearance of great interest, "Are you better?"
He had lost a great quantity of blood, but the scissors with which he had wounded himself, had done their duty ill – none of the wounds were dangerous.
The examinations commenced. They asked him if it were he who had killed the director of the work-rooms. He replied, "It was." They asked him why he had done it. He answered —it was his will.
After this the wounds festered. He was seized with a severe fever, of which he only did not die. November, December, January, and February, went over in recovering him and preparing for his trial; physicians and judges alike made him the object of their care – the former healed his wounds, the latter made ready his scaffold. To be brief, on the 5th of April, 1834, he appeared, being perfectly cured, before the Court of Sessions.
Sam made a good appearance before the court; he had been carefully shaved, his head was bare; he was dressed in the sad prison livery of two shades of gray.
When the trial was entered upon, a singular difficulty presented itself. Not any of the witnesses of the events of the 10th of November, would make a deposition against Sam. The presiding judge threatened them with his discretionary power in vain. Sam then commanded them to give evidence. All their tongues were loosed. They related what they had seen.
Sam Needy listened with profound attention. When one of them, out of forgetfulness, or affection for him, omitted some of the circumstances chargeable upon the accused, Sam supplied them. By this means the chain of facts which has been related was unfolded before the court.
There was one moment when some of the females present wept. The clerk of the court summoned the convict, Heartall. It was his turn to come forward. He entered, staggering with emotion – he wept. The police could not prevent his falling into the arms of Sam. Sam raised him, and said with a smile to the attorney-general, "Here is a villain who shares his bread with those who are hungry." Then he kissed Heartall's hand.
The list of witnesses having been gone through, the attorney-general rose and spoke in these words: "Gentlemen of the jury, society would be shaken to its foundation if public vengeance did not overtake such great criminals as this man, who, etc., etc."
After this memorable discourse, Sam's advocate spoke. The pleader against, and the pleader for, made each in due order, the evolutions which they are accustomed to make in the arena which is called a criminal court.
Sam did not think that all was said that might be said. He arose in his turn. He spoke in a manner which must have amazed all the intelligent persons present on the occasion. It appeared as if there were more of the orator than the murderer in this poor artisan. He spoke in an upright attitude, with a penetrating and well-managed voice; with an open, sincere, and steadfast gaze, with a gesture almost always the same, but full of command. There were moments in which his genuine, lofty eloquence stirred the crowd to a murmur, during which Sam took breath, casting a bold gaze upon the bystanders. Then again, this man, who could not read, was as gentle, polished, select in his language, as a well-informed person – at other moments modest, measured, attentive, going step by step over the irritating parts of the argument, courteous to his judges. Once only he gave way to a burst of passion. The attorney-general had proved in his speech that Sam Needy had assassinated the director without any violence on his part, and consequently without provocation.
"What!" exclaimed Sam Needy, "I have not been provoked! Ay – it is very true – I understand you. A drunken man strikes me with his dagger – I kill him, I have been provoked; you show mercy to me, you send me to Botany Bay. But a man who is not drunk, who has the perfect use of his reason, wrings my heart for four years, humbles me for four years, pierces me with a weapon every day, every hour, every minute, in some unexpected point for four years. I had a wife, for whose sake I became a thief – he tortures me through that wife; a child for whom I stole – he tortures me through that child. I have not bread enough to eat – a friend gives it me; he takes away my friend and my food. I ask for my friend back – he condemns me to solitary confinement. I speak to him – him, the spy – respectfully; he answers me in dog's language. I tell him I am suffering – he tells me I wear him out. What would you, then, that I should do? I kill him. It is well – I am a monster; I have murdered this man; I have not been provoked. You take my life for it – be it so."
The debates being closed, the presiding judge made his impartial and luminous summing up. The results were these: a wicked life – a wretch in purpose. Sam Needy had begun by stealing – he then murdered. All this was true.
When the jury were about being conducted to their apartment, the judge asked the accused if he had any thing to say upon the questions before them.
"Little," replied Sam, "only this; I am a thief and an assassin. I have stolen, and have slain a man. But why have I stolen? Why have I murdered? Add these two questions to the rest, gentleman of the jury."
After a quarter of an hour's deliberation on the part of the twelve individuals whom he had addressed as gentlemen of the jury, Sam Needy was condemned to death.
Their decision was read to Sam, who contented himself with saying, "It is well – but why has this man stolen? Why has this man murdered? These are questions to which they make no answer."
He was carried back to prison – he supped almost gayly.
He had no wish to make an appeal against his sentence. The old woman who had nursed him entreated him with tears to do so. He complied out of kindness to her. It would appear as if he had resisted till the very last moment, for when he signed his petition in the register, the legal delay of three days had expired some minutes before. The benevolent old nurse gave him a crown. He accepted the money and thanked her.
While his appeal was pending, offers of escape were made him. There was thrown, one after the other, in his dungeon, through its air-hole, a nail, a bit of iron file, and the handle of a bucket. Any of these three tools would have been sufficient to so skillful a man as Sam Needy to cut through his irons. He gave up the nail, the file, and the handle to the turnkey.
On the 10th of June, 1834, seven months after the deed, its expiation arrived. That day, at seven o'clock in the morning, the recorder of the tribunal entered Sam Needy's dungeon, and announced to him that he had not more than an hour to live. His petition was rejected.
"Come," said Sam, coldly, "I have this night slept well, without troubling myself that I should sleep still better the next."
It would appear as if the words of strong men always receive a certain dignity from approaching death.
The chaplain arrived – then the executioner. He was humble to the one, gentle to the other.
He maintained a perfect ease of spirit. He listened to the chaplain with extreme attention, accusing himself of many things, and regretting that he had not been instructed in religion.
At his request they had given him back the scissors with which he had wounded himself. One blade, which had been broken in his breast, was wanting. He entreated the jailor to have these scissors taken to Heartall as from himself.
He besought those who bound his hands to place in his right hand the crown-piece which the good nurse had given him – the only thing which was now remaining to him.
At a quarter to eight he was led out of his prison, with the customary mournful procession which attends the condemned. He was pale; his eyes were fixed on the chaplain – but he walked with a firm step.
He ascended the scaffold gravely. He shook hands with the chaplain first, then the executioner, thanking the one, forgiving the other. The executioner pushed him back gently, says one account. At the moment when the assistant put the hideous rope round his neck, he made a sign to the chaplain to take the crown-piece which he had in his right hand, and said to him, "For the poor." At that moment the clock was striking eight, the sound from the steeple drowned his voice, and the chaplain answered that he could not hear him. Sam waited for an interval between two of the strokes, and repeated with gentleness, "For the poor."
The eighth stroke had scarcely sounded when this noble and intelligent criminal was launched into eternity.
THE ANGEL OF THE SOUL
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR
Una stella, una notte, ed una croce. Antonio Bisazza
Silence hath conquered thee, imperial Night!
Thou sit'st alone within her void, cold halls,
Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soul
Paining the space with dumb and mighty thought.
The dreary wind ebbs, voiceless, round thy form,
Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stir
In the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold.
Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aisles
Go shapes of good, and beckoning ghosts of crime,
And dreams of maddening beauty – hopes, that shine
To darken, and in cloudy height sublime,
The spectral march of some approaching Doom!
Nor these alone, oh! Mother of the world,
People thy chambers, echoless and vast;
Their dewy freshness like ambrosial cools
Life's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soul
Their porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleams
Of shining wonder dazzle through the void,
Like those bright marvels which the travele'rs torch
Wakes from the darkness of three thousand years,
In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings.
Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glow
Reflect the twilight of celestial dawns,
And bards, transfigured in immortal song,
Like eager children, kneeling at thy feet,
Unclasp the awful volume of thy lore.
My soul goes down thy far, untrodden paths,
To the dim verge of being. There its step
Touches the threshold of sublimer life,
And through the boundless empyrean leaps
Its prayer, borne like a faint, expiring cry,
To angel-warders, listening as they pace
The crystal walls of Heaven. Down the blue fields
Of the untraveled Infinite, they come:
Beneath their wings one sweet, dilating wave
Thrills the pure deep, and bears my soul aloft,
To walk amid their shining groups, and call
Its guardian spirit, as an orphan calls
His vanished brother, taken in childhood home:
"White through my cradled dreams thy pinions waved,
Lost Angel of the Soul! thy presence led
The babe's faint gropings through the glimmering dark
And into Being's conscious dawn. Thy hand
Held mine in childhood, and thy beaming cheek
Lay close, like some fond playmate's, to mine own.
Up to that boundary, whence the heart leaps forth
To life, like some wild torrent, when the rains
Pour dark and full upon the cloudy hills,
Thy gentle footsteps wandered near to mine.
Be with me now! Oh, in the starry hush
Of the deep night, that holds the earthly down
In all my nature, bring to me again
The early purity, which kept thy hand
From the entrancing harp it held in Heaven!
Through the warm starting of my hoarded tears,
Let me behold thine eyes divine, as stars
Gleam through the twilight vapors of the sea!
"Not yet hast thou forsaken me. The prayer
Whose crowning fervor lifts my nature up
Midway to God, may still evoke thy form.
Thou hast been with me, when the midnight dew
Clung damp upon my brow, and the broad fields
Stretched far and dim beneath the ghostly moon;
When the dark, awful woods were silent near,
And with imploring hands toward the stars
Clasped in mute yearning, I have questioned Heaven
For the lost language of the book of Life.
Oh, then thy face was glorious, and thy hair
On the white moonbeam floating, veiled thy brow,
But in the holy sadness of thine eye
Which held my spirit, tremblingly I saw,
Through rushing tears, the sign of angel-grief
O'er the false promise of diviner years.
From the far glide of some descending strain
Of tenderest music I have heard thy voice;
And thou hast called amid the stormy rush
Of grand orchestral triumph, with a sound
Resistless in its power. I feel the light,
Which is thine atmosphere, around my soul,
When a great sorrow gulfs it from the world.
"Come back! come back! my heart grows faint, to know
How thy withdrawing radiance leaves more dim
The twilight borders of the night of Earth.
Now when the bitter truth is learned; when all
That seemed so high and good but mocks its seeming —
When the warm dreams of youth come shivering back,
In the cold chambers of the heart to die —
When, with the wrestling years, familiar grows
The merciless hand of pain, desert me not!
Come with the true heart of the faithful Night,
When I have cast away the masquing garb
Of hollow Day, and lain my soul to rest
On her consoling bosom! From the founts
Of thine exhaustless light, make clear the road
Through toil and darkness, into God's repose!"
SCOUTING NEAR VERA CRUZ
A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN
BY ECOLIER
Hours before day, Lieutenant Rolfe and his party were threading the mazes of the chapparal. The moon glistened upon their bayonets and bright barrels. Their path lay in a southwesterly direction, near the old road to Orizava. Here it passed through a glade or opening, where the moonbeams fell upon a profusion of flowers, there it reëntered dark alleys among the clustering trees, where the "trail arms" was given in a half whisper. The boughs met and locked overhead, and the thick foliage hid the moon from sight. Now a bright beam escaping through some chance opening in the leaves, quivered along the path, and scared the wolf in his midnight wanderings. Out again upon the open track through the soft grass, and winding around the wild maguey, or under the claw-shaped thorns of the musquit. A deer sprung from his lair among the soft flowers – looked back for a moment at the strange intruders, and frightened at the gleaming steel, dashed off into the thicket. The woods are not silent by night, as in the colder regions of the north. The southern forest has its voices, moonlit or dark. All through the livelong night sings the mock-bird – screams the "loreto." From dark till dawn, you hear the hoarse baying of the "coyote," and the dismal howl of the gaunt gray wolf. The cicada fills the air with its monotonous and melancholy notes. In all these sounds there is a breathing, a wild voluptuousness that tells you you are wandering in the clime of the sun – amidst scenes like those rendered classical by the pen of St. Pierre. They who have read the sweet French romance, will recognize his faithful painting of tropical pictures. The sunny glades – and shady arbors – the broad green and yellow leaves – the tall palm-trees, with their long, lazy feathers and clustering fruits waving to the slightest breeze, and looking the same as in that sea island where they flung their changing shadows over the loves of Paul and Virginia. Scouting at night, and to strangers (as were Rolfe and his men) in the land, was not without its perils. Objects of alarm were near and around. The nopal rose before you like the picket of an enemy. Its dark column gleaming under the false light of the moon is certainly some sentinel on the outpost. A halt is the consequence, and silent and cat-like one of the party, on his hands and knees, steals nearer and nearer, through the thorny brambles, until the true nature of the apparition betrays itself, in the shape of a huge column of prickly pear. He then returns to his comrades, and the obstacle is passed, some one as he passes, with a muttered curse, slashing his sabre through the soft trunk of the harmless vegetable.
The wild maguey grasps you by the leg, as though some hideous monster had sprung from the bushes. You start and rush forward, only to be dragged back among the elastic leaves. It is useless to struggle. You must either return and unwind yourself by gentle means, or leave the better part of your cloth inexpressibles in the ruthless fangs of the plant. The ranchero fences his limbs with leather, or with leggings of tiger-skin. It is not fancy or choice to wear leather breeches in Mexico. Necessity has something to say in fixing the fashion of your small clothes.
When day broke, Rolfe and his party were ten miles from camp – ten miles from the nearest American picket, and with only thirty men! They were concealed in a thicket of aloes and musquit. This thicket crowned the only eminence for miles in any direction. It commanded a view of the whole country southward to the Alvarado.
As the sun rose the forest echoed with sounds and song. The leaves moved with life, as a thousand bright-plumed birds flashed from tree to tree. The green parrot screamed after his mate, uttering his wild notes of endearment. They are seen in pairs flying high up in the heavens. The troupiale flashed through the dark foliage like a ray of yellow light. Birds seemed to vie with each other in their songs of love. Amidst these sounds of the forest, the ear of Rolfe caught the frequent crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, and the other well-known sounds of the settlement. These were heard upon all sides. It was plain that the country was thickly settled, though not a house was visible above the tree-tops. The thin column of blue smoke as it rose above the green foliage proved the existence of dwellings.
At some distance, westward, an open plain lay like an emerald lake. The woods that bordered it were of a darker hue than the meadow-grass upon its bosom. In this plain were horses feeding, and Rolfe saw at a glance that they were picketed. Some of them had dragged their laryettes and were straying from the group. There appeared to be in all about an hundred horses. It was plain that their owners were not far off. A thin blue smoke that hung over the trees on one side of the meadow gave evidence of a camp. The baying of dogs came from this direction, mingled with the sounds of human voices. It was evidently a camp of the "Jarochos," (guerilleros.)
Suddenly a bugle sounded, wild and clear above the voices of the singing-birds, a few notes somewhat resembling the dragoon stable-call. The horses flung up their heads and neighed fiercely, looking toward the encampment. Presently a crowd of men were seen running from the woods, each carrying a saddle. The few strays that had drawn their pickets during the night, came running in at the well-known voices of their masters. The saddles were flung on and tightly girthed – the bits adjusted and the laryettes coiled and hung to the saddle-horns, in less time than an ordinary horseman would have put on a bridle. Another flourish of the bugle, and the troop were in their saddles and galloping away over the greensward of the meadow in a southerly direction. The whole transaction did not occupy five minutes, and it seemed to Rolfe and his party, who witnessed it, more like a dream than a reality. The Jarochos were just out of musket range. A long shot might have reached them, but even had Rolfe ventured this, it would have been with doubtful propriety. Rumor had fixed the existence of a large force of the enemy in this neighborhood. It was supposed that at least a thousand men were on the Alvarado road, with the intention of penetrating our lines, with beeves for the besieged Veracruzanos.
"They got off in good time, sergeant," muttered Rolfe, "had they but waited half an hour longer – Oh! for a score of Harney's horses!"
"Lieutenant, may I offer an opinion?" asked the sergeant, who had raised himself and stood peering through the leafy branches of a cacuchou-tree.
"Certainly, Heiss, any suggestion – "
"Wal, then – thar's a town," the sergeant lifted one of the leafy boughs and pointed toward the south-east – a spire and cross – a white wall and the roofs of some cottages were seen over the trees. "Raoul here, who's French, and knows the place, says it's Madalin – he's been to it – and there's no good road for horses direct from here – but the road from Vera Cruz crosses that meadow far up – now, lieutenant, it's my opinion them thieving Mexicans is bound for that 'ere place – Raoul says it's a good sweep round – if we could git acrosst this yere strip we'd head 'em sure."
The backwoodsman swept his broad hand toward the south, to indicate the strip of woods that he desired to cross. The plan seemed feasible enough. The town, although seemingly near, was over five miles distant. The road by which the guerrilleros had to reach it was much farther. Could Rolfe and his party meet them on this road, by an ambuscade, they would gain an easy victory, although with inferior numbers, and Rolfe wished to carry back to camp a Mexican prisoner. This was the object of the scout, to gain information of the force supposed to be in the rear of our lines. The men, too, were eager for the wild excitement of a fight. For what came they there?
"Raoul," said Rolfe, "is there any path through these woods?"
"Zar is, von road I have believe – oui – Monsieur Lieutenant."
Raoul was a dapper little Frenchman, who had joined the army at Vera Cruz, where we found him. He had been a sort of market-gardener for the plaza, and knew the back country perfectly. He had fallen into bad odor with the rancheros of the Tierra Caliente, and owed them no good-will. The coming of the American army had been a perfect godsend to Raoul, who was now an American volunteer, and, as circumstances afterward proved, worthy of the title.
"Close teecket, monsieur," continued the Frenchman, "but there be von road, I make ver sure, by that tree, vot you call him, big tree."
Raoul pointed to some live-oaks that formed a dark belt across the woods.
"Take the lead, Raoul."
The little Frenchman sprung out in front and commenced descending into the dark woods beneath. The party was soon winding through the shadowy aisles of a live-oak forest. The woods were at first open and easy. After a short march they came to a small stream, bright and silvery. But what was the surprise of Rolfe to find that the path here gave out, and on the opposite bank of the rivulet the trees grew closer together, and the woods were almost woven into a solid mass, by the lianas and other creeping plants. These were covered with blossoms. In some places a wall of snow-white flowers rose up before you. Pyramidal forms of foliage, green and yellow, over which hung myriads of vine-blossoms, like a scarlet mantle. Still there was no path – at least to be trodden by human foot. Birds flew around, scared in their solitary haunts. The armadilla and the wolf stood at a distance with glaring eyes. The fearful-looking guana scampered off upon the decaying limbs of the live-oak, or the still more fearful cobra di capella glided almost noiselessly over the dry leaves and brambles.
Raoul confessed that he had been deceived. He had never traveled this belt of timber. The path was lost.
This was strange. A path had conducted them thus far, but on reaching the stream had suddenly stopped. Soldiers went up and down the water-course, and peeped through the trellis of vines, but to no purpose. In all directions they were met by an impenetrable chapparal.
