“Tu Konk, the Great oneTu Konk, I thank theeBack comes black bloodNo longer childlessTu Konk, I praise thee.”
“Tu Konk, the Great oneTu Konk, I thank theeBack comes black bloodNo longer childlessTu Konk, I praise thee.”
“Tu Konk, the Great one
Tu Konk, I thank thee
Back comes black blood
No longer childless
Tu Konk, I praise thee.”
Mr. Dunlap was aroused at daylight by a messenger wearing the naval uniform of the United States, who waited below with an important communication from Lieutenant Maxon.
Two hours before Mr. Dunlap heard the rap on his bedroom door, a pale and trembling figure, clothed in a dilapidated evening suit, had slunk stealthily past his chamber and entered the apartments occupied by the husband of the Dunlap heiress.
“Dear Mr. Dunlap.—I am instructed by Admiral Snave to inform you that an uprising ofthe blacks is imminent; that it will be impossible to protect you in your exposed position should such an event take place. The admiral suggests that you remove your family at once to the American Consulate, where protection will be furnished all Americans. Very respectfully,Thomas Maxon, Lieut. U.S.N.”“P.S.—Please adopt the Admiral’s suggestion. I think you had better let Jack know about this.T.M.”
“Dear Mr. Dunlap.—I am instructed by Admiral Snave to inform you that an uprising ofthe blacks is imminent; that it will be impossible to protect you in your exposed position should such an event take place. The admiral suggests that you remove your family at once to the American Consulate, where protection will be furnished all Americans. Very respectfully,
Thomas Maxon, Lieut. U.S.N.”
“P.S.—Please adopt the Admiral’s suggestion. I think you had better let Jack know about this.
T.M.”
Such were the contents of the letter of which the U.S. marine was bearer and it was answered as follows:
“Dear Mr. Maxon.—Express my gratitude to Admiral Snave for the suggestion, but be good enough to add that the health of my niece demands absolute quiet and that I shall remain here instead of going to the crowded Consulate; that I deem any disturbance as exceedingly improbable from my intimate acquaintance with the character of the natives of this island.Very respectfully,J. Dunlap.P.S.—Will notify Jack to bring a man or two from his ship to guard premises for a night or so.”
“Dear Mr. Maxon.—Express my gratitude to Admiral Snave for the suggestion, but be good enough to add that the health of my niece demands absolute quiet and that I shall remain here instead of going to the crowded Consulate; that I deem any disturbance as exceedingly improbable from my intimate acquaintance with the character of the natives of this island.
Very respectfully,
J. Dunlap.
P.S.—Will notify Jack to bring a man or two from his ship to guard premises for a night or so.”
In the evening, as the shadows of night fell upon the house of Mr. John Dunlap and the owls began to flutter from their roosts and hoot, Mr. Brice, first officer, and McLeod, the big, bony carpenter of the “Adams” were seated on the steps of the piazza in quiet contentment, puffing the good cigars furnished by Mr. Dunlap after, what seemed to them, a sumptuous banquet.
“I declare, Jack, were it not that the consequences might be serious, I should rather enjoy seeing long-limbed Brice and that wild, red-haired Scotchman of yours, led by you, charging an angry mob of blacks, armed with those antiquated cutlasses that your fellows brought from the ship. The blacks would surely run in pure fright at the supposed resurrection of the ancient buccaneers. No scene in a comic opera could compare with what you and your men would present,” said Mr. Dunlap in an amused tone, as he rocked back and forth in an easy chair on the veranda, and chatted with his namesake, Jack.
“It might be amusing to you, sir,” replied Jack laughing, “but it would be death to any black who came within the swing of either of the cutlasses carried by Brice and McLeod. I picked up a half dozen of those old swords at a sale in Manila, and decorated my cabin with them. When I told the men that there might be a fight they could find no other weapons on board ship so denuded my cabin of its decorations and brought them along. Of course I have a revolver but in a rush those old cutlasses could do fearful execution. They are heavy and as sharp as razors.”
“While I am unwilling to take even a remote risk with Lucy and your mother in the house, still in my opinion there is not one chance in a million that anything but bluff and bluster will come of this muttering. Admiral Snave is always anxious for a fight, and the wish is father of the thought in this alarm,” said the old gentleman.
“Why isn’t Burton here?” asked Jack almost angrily.
“He is up stairs. He has been feeling ill all day and asked not to be disturbed unless he beneeded. I shall let him rest. However, he has a revolver and is an excellent shot and will prove a valuable aid to us should the fools attempt to molest the premises.”
For an hour or two Brice and McLeod exchanged an occasional word or two but gradually these brief speeches became less frequent and finally ceased altogether. Mr. Dunlap and Jack carried on a desultory conversation for some time, but had sat in silent communion with their own thoughts for possibly an hour when, under the somnific influence of the night songsters, the Scotch ship-carpenter yawned, rose to his feet and stretched his long, hairy arms. He paused in the act and thrust forward his head to catch some indistinct sound, then growled,
“I hear murmuring like surf on a lee-shore.”
Brice arose and listened for a minute then called out,
“Captain, I hear the sound of bare feet pattering on the highway.”
Jack was on his feet in an instant and ran down the walk to the gate in the high brick wall that surrounded the premises. He came running backalmost immediately and said in low voice as he reached the piazza.
“There is a mob coming toward the house, along the road leading from the mountains. They carry torches and may mean mischief. Cousin John, will you have Burton called and will you please remain here to look after the women. Brice you and McLeod get cutlasses and bring me one also. We will meet the mob at the gate.”
“Oh! It is nothing Jack, maybe a negro frolic. No use arousing Burton,” said the elder Dunlap.
“If you please, sir, do as I ask. I will be prepared in any event,” said Jack Dunlap tersely.
“All right, Commander, the laugh will be at your expense,” cried the amused old gentleman as he ordered a servant to call Burton.
Jack and his two stalwart supporters had barely reached the gate when the advance guard of the savage horde of black mountaineers appeared before it. Instantly it flashed upon the mind of the skipper that if he barred the gate, that then part of the mob might go around and break over the wall in the rear of the house and attack the defenceless women.
“Throw open the gate, McLeod, we will meet them here,” commanded Captain Dunlap, and turning as some one touched his shoulder, he found Burton at his side, very pale and but half clad, with a revolver in his hand.
“Glad you are here, Burton.”
“I did not have time to put on my shoes.” said Burton.
The main body of the mob now came up and gathered about the open gate. The men were armed with clubs and knives and some few, who were evidently woodsmen, carried axes. Many torches shed their light over the black and brutal faces, making them appear more ebony by the white and angry eyes that glared at the men who stood ready to do battle just within the gateway.
“I wish you people to understand that if you attempt to enter this gate many of you will be killed.”
Young Dunlap spoke in a quiet voice, as he stood between the pillars of the gate, but there was such an unmistakable menace in the steady tone that even the ignorant barbarians understood what he meant.
For the space of a minute of time the mob hesitated. Suddenly a tall woodsman struck a sweeping, chopping blow with his ax. The skipper sprang aside just in time, and as quick as a flash of lightning a stream of flame poured out of the pistol he held in his hand, and that woodsman would never chop wood again.
Brice and McLeod had cast aside their coats, and with their long, sinewy arms bared to the elbows, cutlasses grasped in their strong hands, they were by Jack’s side in a second.
As the pistol shot rang out it seemed to give the signal for an assault. With a howl, like wild and enraged animals, the mob rushed upon the men at the gate. The rush was met by the rapid discharge of the revolvers held by Dunlap and Burton; for a moment it was checked, then a shrill voice was heard screaming high above the howling of the savages,
“Kill the white cow! She has stolen our son from us! Kill the Yankee robbers! Spare my black goat!”
Sybella could be heard though concealed by the tall black men of the mountains who again hurledthemselves on the white men who guarded the gateway.
The revolvers were empty. Jack sent his flying into a black face as he gripped the hilt of his cutlass and joined old Brice and the carpenter in the deadly reaping they were doing. Burton having no other weapon than the revolver, threw it aside and seized a club that had dropped from the hands of one of the slain blacks.
The sweep of those old cutlasses in the powerful hands that held them was awful, magnificent; no matter what may have been the history of those old blades they had never been wielded as now. But numbers began to tell and the infuriated negroes fought like fiends, urged on by the old siren Sybella who shrieked out a kind of battle song of the blacks.
How long the four held back the hundreds none can tell, but it seemed an age to the fast wearying men who held the gate. A blow from an ax split McLeod’s head and he fell dead without even a groan. Brice turned as he heard his shipmate fall and received a stunning smash on the temple from a club that felled him like an ox in the shambles.
“He recklessly rushed in front of Burton.”Page 286
“He recklessly rushed in front of Burton.”
Page 286
Jack saw Burton, who was fighting furiously, beset by two savage blacks armed with axes stuck on long poles. In that supreme moment of peril the thought of Lucy’s sorrow at loss of her husband, should she be restored to reason, came to the mind of the great hearted sailor. He recklessly rushed in front of Burton, severed at a stroke of his sword the arm of one of Burton’s assailants, and caught the descending ax of the other when within an inch of the head of the man who had taken the place in Lucy’s love that he had hoped for.
Jack Dunlap’s cutlass warded off the blow from Burton but the sharp ax glanced along the blade and was buried in the broad breast of Lucy’s knight, and he fell across the bodies of his faithful followers, Brice and McLeod; Jack’s fast deafening ears caught sound of—
“Follow me, lads, give them cold steel. Don’t shoot. You may hit friends! Charge!”
Tom Maxon’s voice was far from jolly now. There was death in every note of it as, at the head of a body of United States Blue-jackets, he dashed in among the black barbarians. When he caught sight of the prostrate, bleeding formof his old school-fellow he raged like a wounded lion among Sybella’s savage followers.
As the lieutenant saw that the range of fire was free from his friends, he cried out, hoarse with passion,
“Fire at will. Give them hell!” and he emptied his own revolver into the huddled crowd of mountaineers, who still stood, brave to recklessness, hesitating about what to do against the new adversaries.
The repeating rifles of the Americans soon covered the roadway with dark corpses. Long lanes were cut by the rapid fire through the black mass. With howls and yells of mingled terror, rage and disappointment the mob broke and taking to the jungle disappeared in the darkness of the adjacent forest.
A sailor kicked aside what he thought was a bundle of rags, and started back as the torch that he bore revealed the open, fangless mouth and snake-like, glaring eyes of an old crone of a woman who in death seemed even more horrible than in life.
A rifle ball, at close range, had shattered Mother Sybella’s skull.
All established rules of the house of “J. Dunlap” were as the laws of the Medes and Persians to David Chapman, inviolable. When the hour of twelve struck and neither Mr. John Dunlap nor Mr. Burton appeared at the office, the Superintendent immediately proceeded to the residence of Mr. Dunlap.
“I am sorry, Chapman, to have given you the trouble of coming out here, but the fact is I am not so strong as formerly, and I expected that Burton would be at the office and thought a day of repose might benefit me,” remarked Mr. John Dunlap as Chapman entered his library carrying a bundle of papers this March afternoon.
“Mr. Burton has only been at the office once within the past week and not more than a dozen times since you all returned from Haiti some two months ago,” replied the Superintendent, methodically arranging the various memoranda on the large library table.
“First in order of date is as follows: Douglass and McPherson, the solicitors at Glasgow, write that they have purchased the annuity for old Mrs. McLeod and that the income secured to her is far larger than any possible comfort or even luxury can require; they also say that the lot in the graveyard has been secured and that the mother of the dead ship carpenter is filled with gratitude for the granite stone you have provided to mark her son’s grave and that no nobler epitaph for any Scotsman could be carved than the one suggested by you to be cut on the stone, ‘Died defending innocent women;’ they expect the body to arrive within a few days and will follow instructions concerning the reinterment of the remains of gallant McLeod; they add that beyond all expenditures ordered they will hold a balance to our credit and ask what is your pleasure concerning same, that the four thousand pounds remitted by you was far too large a sum.”
“Far too small! Tell them to buy a cottage for McLeod’s mother and draw at sight for more money, that the cottage may be a good one. Why! Chapman, McLeod was a hero; but theywere all of them that. He, however, gave his life in our defense and there is no money value that can repay that debt to him and his,” exclaimed Mr. Dunlap earnestly, and leaning forward in the excitement that the recollection of the past recalled, continued:
“David, the dead were heaped about the spot where McLeod, Brice and Jack fell like corded fire-wood. When I could leave the women, Lieutenant Maxon and his men had dispersed the blacks, I fairly waded in blood to reach the place where Maxon and Burton were bending over Jack. It was a fearful sight. It had been an awful struggle, but it was all awful that night. I dared not leave the women, yet I knew that even my weak help was needed at the gate. Had my messenger not met Maxon on the road, to whom notice of the intended attack had been given by a friendly black, we had all been killed.”
The excited old gentleman paused to regain his breath and resumed the story of that dreadful experience.
“Martha Dunlap is the kind of woman to be mother of a hero. She was as calm and braveas her son and helped me like a real heroine in keeping the others quiet. We told Lucy it was only a jubilee among the natives and that they were shouting and shooting off firearms in their sport along the highway. God forgive me for the falsehood, but it served to keep our poor girl perfectly calm and she does not even now know to the contrary.” Mr. Dunlap reverently inclined his head when he spoke of that most excusable lie that he had told.
“Jack does not get all of his nerve and courage from the Dunlap blood, that is sure! When the surgeon was examining the great gash in his breast, Martha stood at his side and held the basin; her hand never trembled though her tearless face was as white as snow. All the others of us, I fear, were blubbering like babies, I know, anyhow Tom Maxon was whimpering more like a lass than the brave and terrible fighter that he is. When the surgeon gave us the joyful news that the blow of the ax had been stopped by the strong breast bone over our boy’s brave heart, we were all ready to shout with gladness, but Martha then, woman like, broke down and began weeping.”
There was rather a suspicious moisture in the eyes of the relator of the scene, as he thought over the occurrences of that night in Haiti. Even though all danger was past and his beloved namesake, Jack Dunlap, was now so far recovered as to be able to walk about, true somewhat paler in complexion and with one arm bound across his breast, but entirely beyond danger from the blow of the desperate Haitian axman.
“That fighting devil of an American admiral soon cleared Port au Prince of the insurgents and wished me to take up my residence at the consulate, but I had enough of Haiti, for awhile anyway. So as soon as Jack could safely be moved, and old Brice, whose skull must be made of iron, had come around sufficiently after that smashing blow in the head, to take command of the ‘Adams’ and navigate her to Boston, I bundled everybody belonging to me aboard and sailed for home.” The word home came with a sigh of relief from Mr. Dunlap’s lips as he settled back in his chair.
“When we heard of your frightful experience, I had some faint hope that the shock might haverestored Mrs. Burton to her normal condition of mind,” said Chapman.
“Well, in the first place Lucy learned nothing concerning the affair, and was simply told when she called for Jack that he was not well and would be absent from her for a short time. But even had she received a nervous shock from the harrowing events of that night, the experts in mental disorders inform me that it is most unlikely that any good result could have been produced; that as the primary cause of her dementia is disappointed hope, expectation, and the recoil of the purest and best outpouring of her heart, that the only shock at all probable to bring about the desired change must come from a similar source,” answered Mr. Dunlap.
“To proceed with my report,” said the Superintendent glancing over some papers.
“Lieutenant Maxon is not wealthy, in fact, has only his pay from the United States, and while his family is one of the oldest and most highly respected in Massachusetts all the members of it are far from rich. The watch ordered made in New York will be finished by the time the U.S.Ship Delaware arrives, which will not be before next month.”
“That all being as you have ascertained, I am going to make a requisition upon your ingenuity, David. You must secure the placing in Maxon’s hands of twenty one-thousand dollar bills with no other explanation than that it is from ‘an admirer.’ The handsome, gay fellow may think some doting old dowager sent it to him. The watch I will present as a slight token of my friendship when I have him here to dine with me, and he can never suspect me in the money matter.” Mr. Dunlap chuckled at the deep cunning of the diabolical scheme.
Chapman evidently was accustomed to the unstinted munificence of the house of Dunlap, for he accepted the instruction quite as a mere detail of the business, made a few notes and with his pen held between his teeth as he folded the paper, mumbled:
“I’ll see that he gets the money all right, sir, without knowing where it comes from.”
“Here are several things that Mr. Burton, who is familiar with the preceding transactions,should pass upon, but as he is so seldom at the office, I have had no opportunity to lay them before him,” continued the ever vigilant Chapman, turning over a number of documents.
“I know even less than you do about Burton’s department, so make out the best way that you can under the circumstances.”
“Is Mr. Burton ill, sir, or what is the reason why he is absent from the office so much?” asked Chapman, to whom it seemed that the greatest deprivation in life must be loss of ability to be present daily in the office of J. Dunlap.
“I am utterly at a loss to explain Burton’s conduct, especially since our return from Haiti. He is morbid, melancholy, and seems to avoid the society of all those who formerly were his chosen associates and companions. He calls or sends here daily with religious regularity to ascertain the condition of Lucy’s health, and occasionally asks Jack to accompany him on a ride behind his fine team. You know that he is aware that Jack saved his life by taking the blow on his own breast that was aimed at Burton’s head. He was devoted to Jack on the voyage home andhere, until Jack’s recovery was assured beyond a doubt, but now he acts so peculiarly that I don’t know what to make of him,” replied the perplexed old gentleman.
“Humph! Humph!” grunted Chapman, in a disparaging tone, and resumed the examination of the sheets of paper before him. Selecting one, he said:
“I find Malloy, the father of the girl, who was the victim of that nameless crime and afterward murdered, to be a respectable, worthy man, poor, but in need of no assistance. He is a porter at Brown Brothers. It appears that the girl, who was only fifteen years of age, was one of the nursery maids in the Greenleaf family, and had obtained permission to visit her father’s home on the night of the crime and was on her way there when she was assaulted.”
“What has been done by the Police Department?” asked Mr. Dunlap eagerly.
“To tell the truth, very little. The detectives seem mystified by a crime of so rare occurrence in our section that it has shocked the whole of New England. However, I know what wouldhave happened had the crowd assembled around Malloy’s house when the body was brought home, been able to lay hands on the perpetrator of the deed, the whole police force of Boston notwithstanding.”
“What do you mean, David?”
“I mean that the wretch would have been lynched,” exclaimed Chapman.
“That had been a disgrace to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” said the old gentleman warmly.
“That may or may not be, sir. Malloy and his friends are all peaceable, law-abiding citizens. Malloy was almost a maniac, not at the death of his child but the rest of the crime, and the agony of the heartbroken father was too much for the human nature of his neighbors, and human nature is the same in New England as elsewhere in our land.”
“But the law will punish crime and must be respected no matter what may be the provocation to ignore its regular administration of justice,” said Mr. Dunlap with a judicial air.
“Truth is, sir, that one can hardly comprehenda father’s feelings under such circumstances, and I don’t imagine there is a great difference between the paternal heart in Massachusetts and in Mississippi. Human nature is much alike in the same race in every clime. Men of the North may occasionally be slower to wrath but are fearfully in earnest when aroused by an outrage,” rejoined Chapman.
“I frankly confess, David, that I recognize that it is one thing for me to sit here calmly in my library and coolly discuss a crime in which I have no direct personal interest, and announce that justice according to written law only should be administered, but it would be quite a different state of mind with which I should regard this crime if one of my own family were the victim of the brute’s attack. I fear then I should forget about my calm theory of allowing the regular execution of justice and everything else, even my age and hoary head, and be foremost in seeking quick revenge on the wretch,” said the old New Englander hotly.
“Knowing you and your family as I do, sir, I’ll make oath that you would head the mob of lynchers.”
“My brother James, who was the soul of honor and a citizen of whom the Commonwealth was justly proud, was very liberal in his opinion of lynching for this crime. It was the single criminal act for which his noble, charitable heart could find no excuse. I think even my brother James, model citizen though he was, would have been a law-forgetting man under such circumstances.”
Old John Dunlap’s voice grew soft and tender when he mentioned the name of his beloved brother, and either Chapman became extraordinarily near-sighted or the papers in his hand required close scrutiny.
“I have published the notice of the reward of one thousand dollars offered by our house for the capture of the perpetrator of the crime,” said the Superintendent rather huskily, changing the subject from that of the character of his old master.
“That is well, we are the oldest business house in Boston, and none can think it presumptuous that we should be anxious to erase this stain from the escutcheon of our Commonwealth. I wish every inducement offered that may lead tothe apprehension of the criminal.” Mr. Dunlap stopped short as if suddenly some new idea had occurred to his mind, and then exclaimed:
“David, you possess a wonderful faculty for fathoming deep and complex mysteries. Why don’t you seek to discover the perpetrator of this horrible crime?”
David Chapman was not in the habit of blushing, but certainly his cheeks took on an unusually bright crimson hue, as Mr. Dunlap asked the question, and he answered in a somewhat abashed manner, as though detected in some act of youthful folly.
“I confess, sir, that I am making a little investigation in my own way. There are a few trifling circumstances and fragments of evidence left by the criminal that were considered unworthy of attention by the police that I am tracing up, like an amateur Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good for you, David! May you succeed in unearthing the brutal villain! You have carte-blanche to draw on the house for any expense that your search may entail. Go ahead! I will stand by you!” cried John Dunlap enthusiastically.
“The abysmal depth of degradation has now been reached; I no longer, even in my moments of affected refinement, attempt to conceal the fact from myself, the gauzy veil of acquisition no longer deceives even me, it long since failed to deceive others.”
What evil genii of metamorphosis had transformed the debonair Walter Burton into the wretched, slovenly, brutalized being who, grunting, gave utterance to such sentiments, while stretched, in unkempt abandonment, on a disordered couch in the center of the unswept and neglected music-room in the ‘Eyrie’ early on this March morning?
Even the linen of the once fastidious model of masculine cleanliness was soiled, and the delights of the bath seemed quite unknown to the heavy-eyed, listless lounger on the couch.
“I have abandoned useless effort to rehabilitatemyself in the misfit garments of a civilization and culture for which the configuration of my mental structure, by nature, renders me unsuited. My child indicated the off-springs natural to me. My emotion and actions in the forest of Haiti gave evidence of the degree of the pure spirit of religion to be found in my inmost soul, and my conduct, following natural inclinations, since my return to Boston, has demonstrated how little control civilization, morality, or pity have over my inherent savage nature.”
The man seemed in a peculiar way to derive some satisfaction from rehearsing the story of his hopeless condition, and in the fact that he had reached the limit of descent.
“I should have fled to the mountains of Haiti, had I not been led to fight against my own kinsmen. For the moment I was blinded by the thread-bare thought that I was of the white instead of black race, and when I had time to free my mind from that old misleading idea, my hands were stained with the blood of my own race. I was obliged to leave Haiti or suffer the fate that ever overtakes a traitor to his race.”
“There is no hope of the restoration of my wife’s mental faculties, and even should there be that is all the more reason for my fleeing from Boston and forever disappearing, I retain enough of the borrowed refinement of the whites in my recollection to know that as I am now I should be loathesome to her.”
“Here, I must shun the sight of those who know me, realizing that I can no longer appear in the assumed character that I formerly did. Here, I skulk the streets at night in the apparel of a tramp seeking gratification of proclivities that are natural to me.”
“I know that I must leave this city and country as quickly as possible. The long repressed desires natural to me break forth with a fury that renders me oblivious to consequences and my own safety. Repression by civilization and culture foreign to a race but serves to increase the violence of the outburst when the barrier once is broken.”
“I will go to the office today, secure some private documents and notify Mr. Dunlap that I desire to withdraw at once from the firm of J.Dunlap. I will nerve myself for one more act in the farce. I will don the costume in which I paraded the stage so long for one more occasion.”
Burton arose slowly from his recumbent position as if reluctant to resume even for a day a character that had become tiresome and obnoxious to his negro nature.
David Chapman had on several occasions made suggestions to the head of the Police Department in Boston that had resulted in the detection and apprehension of elusive criminals. Unlike many professional detectives, Chief O’Brien welcomed the aid of amateurs and listened respectfully to theories, sometimes ridiculous, but occasionally suggestive of the correct solution of an apparently incomprehensible crime.
The deductive method of solving the problem of a mysterious crime employed by Chapman was not alone interesting to the Chief of Detectives, but appeared wonderful in the correctness of the conclusions obtained. He therefore gave eager attention to what Chapman communicated to himwhile seated in the Chief’s private office on the evening of the day that Burton visited the office of J. Dunlap to secure his private correspondence and documents.
“In the first place, Chief, as soon as I learned the details of this Malloy crime, I decided that the perpetrator of it was of the negro race,” said Chapman, methodically arranging a number of slips of paper on the Chief’s desk, at which he sat confronting O’Brien on the opposite side.
“How did you arrive at that decision?” said the detective.
“Well, as you are aware, for you laughed at me often enough when you ran across me with my black associates, I ‘slummed’ among the negroes for months to gain some knowledge of the negro nature”.
“Yes, I know that and often wondered at your persistent prosecution of such a disagreeable undertaking,” said O’Brien.
“I learned in that investigation that beneath the surface of careless, thoughtless gaiety and good nature there lies a tremendous amount of cruelty and brutal savagery in the negro nature;that dire results have been caused by a misconception of the negro character on this point to those associated with them; that while sensual satiety produces lassitude in other races, in the negro race it engenders a lust for blood that almost invariably results in the murder of the victim of a brutal attack. I checked the correctness of my conclusions by an examination of all obtainable records and completely verified the accuracy of my deduction.”
“That had not occurred to me before,” said the Chief frankly; “now that you mention it, I think from the record of that crime, as it recurs to me at this moment, that your statement is true.”
“The next step was to look for the particular individual of the negro race who could fit in with the trifling evidence in your possession, which you so readily submitted to me. From the mold taken by your men of the criminal’s foot-prints it is evident that his feet were small and clad in expensive shoes. In the shape of the imprints I find corroboration of my premise that the author of the crime was of the negro race. The fragment of finger nail embedded in the girl’s throat,under a microscope reveals the fact that, while the nail was not free from dirt, it had recently been under the manipulation of a manicure and was not of thick, coarse grain like a manual laborer’s nails,” said the amateur detective glancing at his notes.
“Yes, I agree in all that, Mr. Chapman. Go ahead; what follows?” remarked O’Brien.
“We have then a negro, but one not engaged in the usual employment of the negro residents in Boston, to look for; next you found clutched in the fingers of the dead girl two threads of brownish color and coarse material, together with a fragment of paper like a part of an envelope on which was written a few notes of music.”
“Yes, and I defy the devil to make anything result from such infinitesimal particles of evidence,” exclaimed the professional detective.
“Well, I’m not the devil.” said Chapman, quietly proceeding to recapitulate the process adopted by him.
“From the few notes—you know that I am something of a musician—I began,poco a poco, as they say in music, to reconstruct the tune ofwhich the few notes were a part. As I proceeded, going over the notes time and again on my violoncello, I became convinced that I had heard that wild tune before, and am now able to say where and when.”
“Wonderful, perfectly wonderful if you can, Chapman,” cried the thoroughly interested Chief.
“What next?” O’Brien asked, impatient at the calmness of the man on the opposite side of the desk.
“To-day I saw the finger that the fragment of nail found in the girl’s neck would fit, and one finger-nail had been broken and was gone,” continued Chapman, by great effort restraining the evidence of the exultation that he felt.
“Where, man, where? And whose was the hand?” gasped O’Brien.
“Wait a moment! Upon reflection I realized that the only part of a man’s apparel likely to give way in a desperate struggle would be a coat pocket; that the hand of the girl had grasped the edge of the pocket and in so doing had closed upon an old envelope in the pocket, which was torn and remained in her hand with a couple ofthreads from the cloth of the coat when the murderer finally wrenched the coat out of her lifeless fingers.”
“Quite likely,” exclaimed the Chief impatiently.
“But hurry along, man,” urged the officer.
“This afternoon I examined under the most powerful microscope procurable in Boston the threads that your assistant has in safe keeping. I recognized the color and material of which those threads are made. I know the coat whence the threads came, and the owner of the coat,” declared Chapman emphatically.
“His name,” almost yelled the astonished detective.
“David Chapman,” was the cool and triumphant reply.
The Chief glared at the exultant amateur with wonder, in which a doubt of the man’s sanity was mingled.
“It is the coat of the suit I wore while ‘slumming’ in my investigations concerning the negro race. It has hung in my private closet in the office until some time within the last two months,when it was abstracted by some one having keys to the private offices of J. Dunlap. Mr. Dunlap, Walter Burton and I alone possess such keys. Burton, like me, is tall and slim, the suit will fit him; Burton is of the negro race; I heard Burton play the tune of which the few notes are part when I went to his house on the only occasion that I ever visited the ‘Eyrie;’ Burton’s shoes—I tried an old one today which was left at the office some months ago—exactly fit the tracks left by the murderer. Burton having no suit that he could wear as a disguise while rambling the streets in search of adventure, found and appropriated my old ‘slumming’ suit. You will find that suit, blood-stained, the coat pocket torn, now hidden somewhere in the ‘Eyrie’ if it be not destroyed. Walter Burton is guilty of the Malloy assault and murder!” Chapman had risen from his chair, his face was aflame with vindictiveness and passion, his small eyes blazing with satisfied hatred as he almost yelled, in his excitement, the denunciation of Burton.
“Great God! man, it can’t be,” gasped the Chief of Detectives, saying as he regained his breath,
“Burton and the Dunlaps are not people to make mistakes with in such a horrible case as this.”
“Burton has withdrawn from our firm. He has provided himself with a large sum of currency. He is leaving the country. Tomorrow night he dines with Mr. Dunlap to complete the arrangements for the severance of his relations with the house of J. Dunlap. Captain Jack Dunlap will dine with Mr. Dunlap on that occasion, and I shall be there to draw up any papers required. The coast will be clear at the ‘Eyrie;’ go there upon the pretext of arresting Victor, Burton’s valet, on the charge of larceny; search throughout the premises; if you find the garments, and the coat is in the condition I describe, come at once to the Dunlap mansion and arrest the murderer, or it will be too late, the bird will have flown.” The veins in Chapman’s brow and neck were fairly bursting through the skin, so intense were the passion and vehemence of the man who, straining forward, shouted out directions to the detective.
O’Brien sat for several minutes in silence, buriedin deep meditation, glancing ever and anon at Chapman, who, chafing with impatience, fairly danced before the desk. The official arose and, walking to the window, stood for some time gazing out upon the lighted street below. Suddenly he turned and came back to Chapman, whom he held by the lapel of the coat, while he said,
“Chapman, I know that you hate Burton. I know also of your fidelity to the Dunlaps. You would never have told this to me, even as much as you hate Burton, if it were not true. This disclosure and disgrace, if it be as you suspect, will wound those dear to you.”
This phase of the situation had evidently not occurred to David Chapman in his zeal for satisfaction to his all-consuming hatred of Burton. He dropped his eyes, nervously clasped and unclasped his hands, while his face paled as he faltered out,
“Well—maybe you had best not act upon my suggestions; I may be all wrong.”
“There, Mr. Chapman, is where I can’t agree with you. I am a sworn officer of this commonwealth, and, by heavens! I would arrest thegovernor of the state if I knew it to be my duty. Not all the money of the Dunlaps or in the whole of Massachusetts could prevent me from laying my hand on Walter Burton and placing him under arrest for the murder of the Malloy girl, if I find the clothing you mention in the condition you describe. I shall wait to make the search at the ‘Eyrie’ until tomorrow night, that if there be a mistake it shall not be an irreparable one,” said the conscientious Chief of Detectives sternly, in a determined tone of voice.
“But I may be mistaken,” urged the agitated amateur detective.
“You have convinced me that there are grounds for your statements; I know them now, and, knowing them, by my oath of office, must take action,” quietly replied O’Brien.
“Then promise to keep my connection with the case a secret, except what may be required of me as a witness subpoenaed to appear and testify,” cried the now remorseful Chapman.
“That I will, and readily too, as it is but a small favor in comparison to the great aid you have been to our department, and is not in conflictwith my duty. I shall also collect and hand over to you all of the reward.”
“Never mind the reward; keep it for your pension fund,” replied the regretful Superintendent of J. Dunlap, who had played detective once too often and too well for his own peace of mind.
Never had there assembled beneath the roof of the Dunlap mansion since the old house was constructed, a company so entirely uncomfortable as that around the table in the library on the night that Walter Burton dined for the last time with Mr. Dunlap.
John Dunlap’s mind was filled with doubts concerning what was his duty with regard to Burton, having due consideration for the memory of his deceased brother, and as to what would have been the wish of that beloved brother under existing circumstances. Recognizing, as John Dunlap did, the influence that his personal antipathy for Burton had upon his conduct, he was nervous and uncomfortable.
Burton felt the restraint imposed upon him irksome, even for the time of this brief and final visit to the home where his best emotions had been aroused, and the purest delights of his artificialexistence enjoyed. He was anxious to be gone, to be free, to forget, and was impatient of delay.
Jack Dunlap, pale and somewhat thin, still carrying his arm bound to his breast, felt the weight of the responsibility resting upon him in releasing Lucy’s husband from a promise that for months had held him near her should the husband’s presence be required at any moment, and was correspondingly silent and meditative.
Nervous, expectant and fearful, David Chapman sat only half attentive to what was said or done around him. His ears were strained to catch the first sound that announced the coming of the visitors which he now dreaded.
“The terms of the settlement of my interest in your house, Mr. Dunlap, are entirely too liberal to me, and I only accept them because of my anxiety to be freed from the cares of business at the earliest possible moment, and am unwilling to await the report of examining accountants,” said Walter Burton as he glanced over the paper submitted to him by Chapman.
“Do you expect to leave the city at once?”asked Mr. Dunlap in a hesitating, doubtful voice.
“Yes, I will make a tour through the Southern States, probably go to California and may return and take a trip to Europe. I have promised Captain Dunlap to keep your house informed of my movements and address at all times, and shall immediately respond, by promptly returning, if my presence in Boston be called for,” replied Burton.
“I confess, Burton, that my mind is not free from doubt as to the propriety of allowing you to withdraw from our house. I should like to act as my brother James would have done. His wishes are as binding upon me now as when he lived,” said Mr. Dunlap in a low and troubled voice.
“It is needless to rehearse the painful story of the last few months, Mr. Dunlap. Had your brother lived he must have perceived the total vanity of some of his most cherished wishes regarding the union of his granddaughter and myself. Heirs to his name and estate must be impossible from that union under the unalterable conditions. My wife’s dementia and her irrationalaversion to my presence would have influenced him as it does you and me, and—I might as well say it—I am aware of the fact and realize the naturalness of the sentiment. I ampersona non gratahere.”
There was a tinge of bitterness in the closing sentence and Burton accompanied it with a defiant manner that evinced much concealed resentment.
As Burton ceased speaking, the eyes of the four men sitting at the table turned to the door, hearing it open. The footman who had opened it had hardly crossed the threshold when he was pushed aside by the firm hand of Chief of Detectives O’Brien, who, in full uniform, followed by a man in citizens’ dress carrying a bundle under his arm, entered the room.
Mr. Dunlap hurriedly arose and advancing with outstretched hand exclaimed,
“Why! Chief, this is an unexpected pleasure—”
“Mr. Dunlap, stop a moment.” There was a look in the official’s eyes that froze Mr. Dunlap’s welcome on his lips and nailed him to the spot onwhich he stood. Chapman glanced at Burton, on whom O’Brien’s gaze was fastened. Burton had risen and stood trembling like an aspen leaf without a single shade of color left in cheeks or lips. Jack Dunlap’s face flushed somewhat indignantly as he rose and walked forward to the side of his kinsman.
“With all due regard for that high respect I entertain for you, Mr. Dunlap, it has become my painful duty to enter your house tonight in my official capacity and arrest one accused of the most serious crime known to the law.” While O’Brien was speaking he moved toward the table, never removing his eyes from Burton.
“What do you mean, sir?” cried Jack in a wrathful voice, interposing himself between O’Brien and the table.
“Stand aside, Captain Dunlap!” said the Chief sternly. Quickly stepping to Burton’s side and placing his hand on his shoulder he said,
“Walter Burton, I arrest you in the name of the Commonwealth, on the charge of murder.”
With a movement too quick even for a glance to catch, the Chief jerked Burton’s hands togetherand snapped a pair of handcuffs on the wrists of the rapidly collapsing man.
The eyes of all present were fixed, in stupified amazement, on O’Brien and Burton, and had not seen what stood in the open doorway until a low moan caused Jack to turn his head. He saw then the figure of Lucy slowly sinking to the floor.
Lucy in her wanderings about the house was passing through the hall when the uniformed officer entered. Attracted by the unusual spectacle of a man in a blue coat ornamented with brass buttons, she had followed the policeman and overheard all that he had said, and seen what he had done.
“I will furnish bail in any amount, O’Brien,” exclaimed Mr. Dunlap, staying the two officers by stepping before them as they almost carried Burton, unable to walk, from the room.
“Please stand aside, Mr. Dunlap,” said the Chief kindly.
“Don’t make it harder than it is now for me to do my duty,” and gently pushing the old gentleman aside, O’Brien and his assistant bore Burtonfrom the library and the Dunlap mansion.
“Help me, quick! Lucy has fainted!” called Jack, who, crippled as he was, could not raise the unconscious wife of Burton.
When Mr. Dunlap reached Jack’s bending figure, Lucy opened her eyes, gazed about wildly for an instant, gasped for breath as if suffocating, and suddenly sprang unassisted to her feet, as if shot upward by some hidden mechanism.
“Walter! My husband! Where is he? Where is grandfather? What has happened?” she cried out, in a confused way, as one just aroused from a sound sleep.
Jack and Mr. Dunlap stared at her for a moment in wonderment; then something in her eyes gave them the gladsome tidings, in this their hour of greatest trouble, that reason had resumed its sway over loved Lucy’s mind; she was restored to sanity. The shock had been to her heart and restored her senses, as a similar shock had deprived her of them. The experts had predicted correctly.
“Walter is in trouble, danger. I heard that policeman say murder! Save my husband, Jack! Uncle John! Where is my grandfather?”
Jack finally gathered enough of his scattered composure to reply somehow to the excited young woman. He said all that he dared say so soon after the return of reason to her distracted head.
“Be calm, Cousin Lucy! Your grandfather is absent from the city. You have been ill. Your Uncle John and I will do all in our power to aid Walter if he be in danger.”
She turned her eyes toward her Uncle John and regarded him steadily for the space of a minute, and then she whirled about and faced Jack, crying out in clear and ringing tones,
“I will not trust Uncle John. He dislikes Walter and always has, but you! you, Jack Dunlap, I trust next to my God and my good grandfather. Will you promise to aid Walter?”
“I promise, Lucy. Now be calm,” said Jack gently.
There was no madness now in Lucy’s bright, gleaming, hazel eyes; womanly anxiety as a wife was superb in its earnestness. She was grand, sublime as with the majestic grace of a queen of tragedy she swept close to her cousin, then raising herself to her greatest height, with herhand extended upward, pointing to heaven, she commanded as a sovereign might have done.
“Swear to me, Jack Dunlap, by God above us and your sacred honor, that you will stop at nothing in the effort to save my husband. Swear!”
“I swear,” said the sailor simply as he raised his hand.
The woman’s manner, speech, and the scene did not seem strange to those who stood about her. She was suddenly aroused to reason to find the object of her tenderest love in direst danger; her stay, prop and reliance, her grandfather, unaccountably absent. In that trying stress of circumstances, the intensity of the feeling within her wrought-up soul found expression in excessive demands and exaggerated attitudes.
“Now go! my Jack; hurry after Walter and help him,” she urged as with nervous hands she pushed him toward the door.
Next morning, when the newspapers made the startling announcement that a member of the firm of J. Dunlap, Boston’s oldest and wealthiest business house, had been arrested on the chargeof that nameless crime and the murder of the Malloy girl, the entire city was stunned by the intelligence.
A crowd quickly gathered around the city jail. Threatful mutterings were heard as the multitude increased in numbers about the prison. When Malloy came and his neighbors clustered about the infuriated father of the outraged victim, that slow and slumbering wrath that lies beneath the calm, deceptive surface of the New England character began to make itself evident. “Tear down the gates!” “Lynch the fiend,” and such expressions were heard among the men, momentarily growing louder, as the cool exterior of the Northern nature gave away.
Soon many seafaring men were seen moving among the most excited of the mob, saying as they passed from one group to another, “It’s not true! You know the Dunlaps too well!” “Keep quiet, it’s a lie!” “Dunlap offered a reward for the arrest of the villain; it can’t be as the papers say!”
One sailor-man, who carried a crippled arm, mounted a box and made a speech, telling thepeople there must be a mistake and begging them to be quiet. When he said that his name was Dunlap, the seafaring men began to cheer for “Skipper Jack,” and the mob joined in. Seeing one of the Dunlap name so calm, honest and brave in their very midst, the mob began to doubt, and shaking their heads the people moved gradually away and dispersed, persuaded that naught connected with the worthy Dunlap name could cause such foul wrong and disgrace to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
The best legal talent of New England was retained that day for the defense of Burton. When they had examined the circumstantial evidence against Burton they frankly told Jack Dunlap that an alibi, positively established, alone could save the accused man.
The unselfish sailor sought the seclusion of his cabin on board his ship, that lay at anchor in the harbor, there to ponder over the terrible information given him by the leading lawyers of Boston.
Uncomplainingly the man had resigned his hope of the greatest joy that could come to hisstrong, unselfish soul—Lucy’s love. For the sake of her whom he loved he had concealed his suffering. He had smothered the sorrow that well nigh wrenched the heart out of his bosom, that he might minister to her in the hour of her mental affliction. He had shed his blood in shielding with his breast the man whom she had selected in his stead. All this he had done as ungrudgingly and gladly as he had tended her slightest bidding when as wee maid she had ruled him.
Love demanded of this great heart the final and culminating sacrifice. Could he, would he offer up his honor on the altar of his love?
To this knight by right of nature, honor and truth were dearer far than his blood or his life. Would he surrender the one prize he cherished highest for his hopeless love’s sake?