Several years ago, a man of the name of Samuel Needy, a poor artisan, was living in London. He had with him a wife, and a child by this wife. This artisan was skillful, quick, intelligent, very ill-treated by education, very well-treated by nature—able to think, but not to read. One winter his work failed him—there was neither fire nor food in his garret; the man, the woman, and the child were cold and hungry; he committed a theft; it is unnecessary to state what he stole, or whence he stole it. Suffice it to know, that the consequences of this theft were three days' food and fire to the wife and child, and five years of imprisonment to the man.
Sam Needy, lately an honest man, now and henceforth a thief, was dignified and grave in appearance; his high forehead was already wrinkled, though he was still young; some gray lines lurked among the black and bushy tufts of his hair; his eye was soft, and buried deep beneath his lofty and well-turned eye-brow; his nostrils were open, his chin advancing, his lip scornful; it was a fine head—let us see what society made of it.
He was a man of few words—more frequent gestures—somewhat imperious in his whole manner, and one to make himself obeyed; of a melancholy air—rather serious than suffering; for all that he had suffered enough.
In the place where he was confined there was a director of the work-rooms—a kind of functionary peculiar to prisons, who combined in himself the offices of turnkey and tradesman, who would at the same time issue an order to the workman and threaten the prisoner—put tools in his hand and irons on his feet. This man was a variety of his own species—a man peremptory, tyrannical, governed by his fancies, holding tight the reins of his authority, and yet, on occasion, a boon companion, jovial and condescending to a joke—rather hard than firm—reasoning with no one—not even himself—a good father, and doubtless a good husband—(a duty, by the way, and not a virtue;) in short, evil but not bad. The principal, the diagonal line of this man's character was obstinacy; he was proud of it, and therein compared himself to Napoleon, when he had once fixed what he calledhis willupon an absurdity, he went to its furthest length, holding his head high, and despising all obstacles. Such violence of purpose without reason, is only folly tied to the tail of brute force, and serving to lengthen it. For the most part, whenever a catastrophe, whether public or private, happens amongst men, if we look beneath the rubbish with which it strews the earth, to find in what manner the fallen fabric had been propped, we shall, with rare exceptions, discover it to have been blindly put together by a weak and obstinate man, trusting and admiring himself implicitly. Many of the smaller of these strange fatalities pass in the world for providences. Such was he who was the director of the work-rooms in the House of Correction where poor Sam Needy was sent to undergo his sentence. Such was the stone with which society daily struck its prisoners to draw sparks from them. The sparks which such stones draw from such flints often kindle conflagrations.
In a short time Sam found the prison air natural to him, and appeared to have forgotten every thing; a certain severe serenity, which belonged to his character, had resumed its mastery.
In about the same time he had acquired a singular ascendency over all his companions, as if by a sort of silent agreement, and without any one knowing wherefore, not even himself. All these men consulted him, listened to him, admired and imitated him, (the last point to which admiration can mount.) It was no slight glory to be obeyed by all these lawless natures; the empire had come to him without his own seeking—it was a consequence of the respect with which they beheld him. The eye of a man is a window, through which may be seen the thoughts which enter into and issue from his heart.
Place an individual who possesses ideas among those who do not, at the end of a given time, and by a law of irresistible attraction, all their misty minds shall draw together with humility and reverence round his illuminated one. There are men who are iron, and there are men who are loadstone. Sam Needy was loadstone. In less than three months he had become the soul, the law, the order of the work-room; he was the dial, concentrating all rays; he must even himself have sometimes doubted whether he were king or prisoner—it was the captivity of a pope among his cardinals.
By as natural a reaction, accomplished step by step, as he was loved by the prisoners, so was he detested by the jailers. It is always thus, popularity cannot exist without disfavor—the love of the slaves is always exceeded one degree by the hate of their masters.
Sam Needy was, by his particular organization, a great eater; his stomach was so formed, that food enough for two common men would hardly have sufficed for his nourishment. Lord Slickborough had one of these large appetites, and laughed at it; but that which is a cause of gayety for a British peer,with a rent-roll of fifty-thousand pounds a year, is a heavy charge to an artisan, and a misfortune to a prisoner.
Sam Needy, free in his own loft, worked all day, earned his four pounds of bread, and ate it; Sam Needy, in prison, worked all day, and, for his pains, received invariably one pound and a half of bread, and four ounces of meat; the ration admits of no change. Sam was therefore constantly hungry whilst in the House of Correction; he was hungry, and no more—he did not speak of it because it was not his nature so to do.
One day Sam, after devouring his scanty pittance, had returned to his work, thinking to cheat his hunger by it—the rest of the prisoners were eating cheerily. A young man, pale, fair, and feeble-looking, came and placed himself near him; he held in his hand his ration, as yet untouched, and a knife; he remained in that situation, with the air of one who would speak, and dares not. The sight of the man, and his bread and meat annoyed Sam.
"What do you want?" said he, rudely.
"That you would do me a service," said the young man, timidly.
"What?" replied Sam.
"That you would help me to eat this—it is too much for me."
A tear stood in the proud eye of Sam; he took the knife, divided the young man's ration into two equal parts, took one of them, and began eating.
"Thank you," said the young man; "if you like, we will share together every day."
"What is your name?" said Sam.
"Heartall."
"Wherefore are you here?"
"I have committed a theft."
"And I too," said Sam.
Henceforth they did thus share together every day. Sam Needy was little more than thirty years old, but at times he appeared fifty, so stern were his thoughts usually. Heartall was twenty—he might have been taken for seventeen, so much innocence was there in his appearance. A strict friendship was knit up between the two, rather of father to son than brother to brother, Heartall being still almost a child, Sam already nearly an old man. They wrought in the same work-room—they slept under the same vault—they walked in the same airing-ground—they ate of the same bread. Each of these two friends was the universe to the other—it would seem that they were happy.
Mention has already been made of the director of the work-rooms. This man, who was abhorred by the prisoners, was often obliged, in order to enforce obedience, to have recourse to Sam Needy, who was beloved by them. On more than one occasion, when the question was, how to put down a rebellion or a tumult, the authority without title of Sam Needy had given powerful aid to the official authority of the director; in short, to restrain the prisoners, ten words from him were as good as ten turnkeys. Sam had many times rendered this service to the director, wherefore the latter detested him cordially. He was jealous of him; there was at the bottom of his heart a secret, envious, implacable hatred against Sam—the hate of a titular for a real sovereign—of a temporal against a spiritual power; these are the worst of all hatreds.
Sam loved Heartall greatly, and did not trouble himself about the director. One morning when the turnkeys were leading the prisoners, two by two, from their dormitory to the work-room, one of them called Heartall, who was by the side of Sam, and informed him that the director wished to see him.
"What does he want with you?" said Sam.
"I do not know," replied the other.
The turnkey took Heartall away.
The morning past; Heartall did not return to the work-room. When the dinner hour arrived, Sam expected that he should rejoin Heartall in the airing-ground—but no Heartall was there. He returned into the work-room, still Heartall did not make his appearance. So passed the day. At night, when the prisoners were removed to their dormitory, Sam looked out for Heartall, but could not see him. It would seem that he must have suffered much at that moment, for he addressed the turnkey—a thing which he had never done before.
"Is Heartall sick?" was his question.
"No," replied the turnkey.
"Why is it, then, that he has not again made his appearance to-day?"
"Ah," replied the turnkey, carelessly, "they have put him in another ward."
The witnesses who deposed to these facts at a later period, remarked, that at this answer, Sam's hand, in which was a lighted candle, trembled a little. He again asked, calmly,
"Whose order was this?"
The turnkey said "Mr. Flint's."
The name of the director of the work-rooms was Flint.
The next day went by like the last, but no news of Heartall.
That evening, when the day's work ended, Mr. Flint came to make his usual round of inspection. As soon as Sam Needy saw him, he took off his cap of coarse wool, buttoned his gray vest, sad livery of the work-house, (it is a principle in prisons, that a vest, respectfully buttoned, bespeaks the favor of the superior officers,) and placed himself at the end of his bench, waiting till the director came by. He passed.
"Sir," said Sam.
The director stopped and turned half round.
"Sir," said Sam, "is it true that Heartall's ward has been changed?"
"Yes," returned the director.
"Sir," continued Sam, "I cannot live without Heartall; you know that with the ration of the house I have not enough to eat, and that Heartall shared his bread with me."
"That was his business," replied the director.
"Sir, is there no means of getting Heartall replaced in the same ward as myself?"
"Impossible! it is so decided."
"By whom?"
"By myself."
"Mr. Flint," persisted Sam, "the question is my life or death, and it depends upon you."
"I never revoke my decisions."
"Sir, is it because I have given you offence?"
"None."
"In that case," said Sam, "why do you separate me from Heartall?"
"It is my will" said the director.
With this explanation he went away.
Sam Needy stooped his head and made no answer. Poor caged lion, from whom they had taken his dog!
The grief of this separation in no way changed the prisoner's almost disease of voracity. Nor was he, in other respects, obviously altered. He did not speak of Heartall to any of his comrades. He walked alone in the airing-ground, in the hours of recreation, and suffered hunger—nothing more.
Nevertheless, those who knew him well, remarked something of a sinister and sombre expression which daily overspread his countenance more and more. In other respects he was gentler than ever. Many wished to share their ration with him, but he refused with a smile.
Every evening, after the explanation which the director had given him, he committed a sort of folly, which, in so grave a man, was astonishing. At the moment when the director, in the progress of his habitual duty, passed by Sam Needy's working-frame, he would raise his eyes, gaze steadily upon him, and then address to him, in a tone full of distress and anger, combining at once menace and supplication, these two words only—"remember Heartall!" the director would either appear not to hear, or pass on, shrugging his shoulders.
He was wrong. It became evident to all the lookers on of these strange scenes, that Sam Needy was inwardly determined on some step. All the prison awaited with anxiety the result of this strife between obstinacy and resolution.
It has been proved, that once Sam said to the director, "Listen, sir, give me back my comrade; you will do well to do it, I assure you. Take notice that I tell you this."
Another time, one Sunday, when he had remained in the airing-ground for many hours in the same attitude, seated on a stone, his elbows on his knees, and his forehead buried in his hands, one of his fellow-convicts approached him, and cried out, laughing,
"What are you about here, Sam?"
Sam raised his stern head slowly, and said, "I am sitting in judgment!"
At last, on the evening of the 1st of November, 1833, at the moment when the director was making his round, Sam Needy crushed under his foot a watch-glass, which he had that morning found in the corridor. The director inquired whence that noise proceeded.
"It is nothing," said Sam. "It is I, Mr. Flint—give me back my comrade."
"Impossible!" said his master.
"It must be done though," said Sam, in a low and steady voice, and looking the director full in the face, added, "reflect, this is the first of November, I give you till the 10th."
A turnkey made the remark to Mr. Flint that Sam Needy threatened him, and that it was a case for solitary confinement.
"No, nothing of the kind," said the director, with a disdainful smile, "we must be gentle with these sort of people."
On the morrow, another convict approached Sam Needy, who walked by himself, melancholy, leaving the other prisoners to bask in a patch of sunshine at the further corner of the court.
"What now, Sam—what are you thinking of? You seem sad."
"I am afraid," said Sam, "that some misfortune will happen soon to this gentle Mr. Flint."
There are nine full days from the 1st to the 10th of November. Sam Needy did not let one pass without gravely warning the director of the state, more and more miserable, in which the disappearance of Heartall placed him. The director, worn out, sentenced him to four-and-twenty hours of solitary confinement, because his prayer was too like a demand. This was all that Sam Needy obtained.
The 10th of November arrived. On this day Sam arose with such a serene countenance as he had not worn since the day whenthe decisionof Mr. Flint had separated him from his friend. When risen, he searched in a white wooden box, which stood at the foot of his bed, and contained his few possessions. He drew thence a pair of sempstress's scissors. These, with an odd volume of Cowper's poems, were all that remained to him of the woman he had loved—of the mother of his child—of his happy little home of other days. Two articles, totally useless to Sam; the scissors could only be of service to a woman—the book to a lettered person. Sam could neither sew nor read.
At the time when he was traversing the old hall, which serves as the winter walk for the prisoners, he approached a convict of the name of Dawson, who was looking with attention at the enormous bars of a window. Sam was holding the little pair of scissors in his hands; he showed them to Dawson, saying, "To-night I will divide those bars with these scissors."
Dawson began to laugh incredulously. Sam joined him.
That morning he worked with more zeal than usual—faster and better than ever before. A little past noon he went down on some pretext or other to the joiner's workshop, on the ground-floor, under the story in which was his own. Sam was beloved there as every where else; but he entered it seldom. Thus it was—"Stop, here's Sam!" They got round him; it was a perfect holyday. He cast a quick glance around the room. Not one of the overlookers was there.
"Who has a hatchet to lend me?" said he.
"What to do?" was the inquiry.
"Kill the director of the work-rooms."
They offered him many to choose from. He took the smallest of those which were very sharp, hid itin his trowsers, and went out. There were twenty-seven prisoners in that room. He had not desired them to keep his secret; they all kept it. They did not even talk of it among themselves. Every one separately awaited the result. The thing was straight-forward—terribly simple. Sam could neither be counseled nor denounced.
An hour afterward he approached a convict sixteen years old, who was lounging in the place of exercise, and advised him to learn to read. The rest of the day was as usual. At 7 o'clock at night the prisoners were shut up, each division in the work-room to which they belonged, and the overseers went out, as it appears was the custom, not to return till after the director's visit. Sam was locked in with his companions like the rest.
Then there passed in this work-room an extraordinary scene, one not without majesty and awe, the only one of the kind which is to be told in this story. There were there (according to the judiciary deposition afterward made) four-and-twenty prisoners, including Sam Needy. As soon as the overseers had left them alone, Sam stood up upon a bench, and announced to all the room that he had something to say. There was silence.
Then Sam raised his voice, and said, "You all know that Heartall was my brother. Here they do not give me enough to eat; even with the bread which I can buy with the little I earn, it is not sufficient. Heartall shared his ration with me. I loved him at first because he fed me, then because he loved me. The director, Mr. Flint, separated us; our being together could be nothing to him—but he is a bad-hearted man, who enjoys tormenting others. I have asked him for Heartall back again. You have heard me. He will not do it. I gave him till the 10th, which is to-day, to restore Heartall to me. He ordered me into solitary confinement for telling him so. I, during this time, have sat in judgment upon him, and condemned him to death. In two hours he will come to make his round. I warn you that I am about to kill him. Have you any thing to say on the matter?" All continued silent.
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, whichwas 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 consequentlywithout 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 asgentlemen 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 executionerpushed 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 takethe 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.
Silence hath conquered thee, imperial Night!Thou sit'st alone within her void, cold halls,Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soulPaining the space with dumb and mighty thought.The dreary wind ebbs, voiceless, round thy form,Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stirIn the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold.Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aislesGo shapes of good, and beckoning ghosts of crime,And dreams of maddening beauty—hopes, that shineTo 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 coolsLife's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soulTheir porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleamsOf shining wonder dazzle through the void,Like those bright marvels which the travele'rs torchWakes from the darkness of three thousand years,In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings.Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glowReflect 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 stepTouches the threshold of sublimer life,And through the boundless empyrean leapsIts prayer, borne like a faint, expiring cry,To angel-warders, listening as they paceThe crystal walls of Heaven. Down the blue fieldsOf the untraveled Infinite, they come:Beneath their wings one sweet, dilating waveThrills the pure deep, and bears my soul aloft,To walk amid their shining groups, and callIts guardian spirit, as an orphan callsHis vanished brother, taken in childhood home:"White through my cradled dreams thy pinions waved,Lost Angel of the Soul! thy presence ledThe babe's faint gropings through the glimmering darkAnd into Being's conscious dawn. Thy handHeld mine in childhood, and thy beaming cheekLay close, like some fond playmate's, to mine own.Up to that boundary, whence the heart leaps forthTo life, like some wild torrent, when the rainsPour dark and full upon the cloudy hills,Thy gentle footsteps wandered near to mine.Be with me now! Oh, in the starry hushOf the deep night, that holds the earthly downIn all my nature, bring to me againThe early purity, which kept thy handFrom the entrancing harp it held in Heaven!Through the warm starting of my hoarded tears,Let me behold thine eyes divine, as starsGleam through the twilight vapors of the sea!"Not yet hast thou forsaken me. The prayerWhose crowning fervor lifts my nature upMidway to God, may still evoke thy form.Thou hast been with me, when the midnight dewClung damp upon my brow, and the broad fieldsStretched far and dim beneath the ghostly moon;When the dark, awful woods were silent near,And with imploring hands toward the starsClasped in mute yearning, I have questioned HeavenFor the lost language of the book of Life.Oh, then thy face was glorious, and thy hairOn the white moonbeam floating, veiled thy brow,But in the holy sadness of thine eyeWhich held my spirit, tremblingly I saw,Through rushing tears, the sign of angel-griefO'er the false promise of diviner years.From the far glide of some descending strainOf tenderest music I have heard thy voice;And thou hast called amid the stormy rushOf grand orchestral triumph, with a soundResistless 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 knowHow thy withdrawing radiance leaves more dimThe twilight borders of the night of Earth.Now when the bitter truth is learned; when allThat 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 growsThe merciless hand of pain, desert me not!Come with the true heart of the faithful Night,When I have cast away the masquing garbOf hollow Day, and lain my soul to restOn her consoling bosom! From the fountsOf thine exhaustless light, make clear the roadThrough toil and darkness, into God's repose!"
Silence hath conquered thee, imperial Night!Thou sit'st alone within her void, cold halls,Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soulPaining the space with dumb and mighty thought.The dreary wind ebbs, voiceless, round thy form,Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stirIn the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold.Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aislesGo shapes of good, and beckoning ghosts of crime,And dreams of maddening beauty—hopes, that shineTo 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 coolsLife's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soulTheir porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleamsOf shining wonder dazzle through the void,Like those bright marvels which the travele'rs torchWakes from the darkness of three thousand years,In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings.Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glowReflect 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 stepTouches the threshold of sublimer life,And through the boundless empyrean leapsIts prayer, borne like a faint, expiring cry,To angel-warders, listening as they paceThe crystal walls of Heaven. Down the blue fieldsOf the untraveled Infinite, they come:Beneath their wings one sweet, dilating waveThrills the pure deep, and bears my soul aloft,To walk amid their shining groups, and callIts guardian spirit, as an orphan callsHis vanished brother, taken in childhood home:
"White through my cradled dreams thy pinions waved,Lost Angel of the Soul! thy presence ledThe babe's faint gropings through the glimmering darkAnd into Being's conscious dawn. Thy handHeld mine in childhood, and thy beaming cheekLay close, like some fond playmate's, to mine own.Up to that boundary, whence the heart leaps forthTo life, like some wild torrent, when the rainsPour dark and full upon the cloudy hills,Thy gentle footsteps wandered near to mine.Be with me now! Oh, in the starry hushOf the deep night, that holds the earthly downIn all my nature, bring to me againThe early purity, which kept thy handFrom the entrancing harp it held in Heaven!Through the warm starting of my hoarded tears,Let me behold thine eyes divine, as starsGleam through the twilight vapors of the sea!
"Not yet hast thou forsaken me. The prayerWhose crowning fervor lifts my nature upMidway to God, may still evoke thy form.Thou hast been with me, when the midnight dewClung damp upon my brow, and the broad fieldsStretched far and dim beneath the ghostly moon;When the dark, awful woods were silent near,And with imploring hands toward the starsClasped in mute yearning, I have questioned HeavenFor the lost language of the book of Life.Oh, then thy face was glorious, and thy hairOn the white moonbeam floating, veiled thy brow,But in the holy sadness of thine eyeWhich held my spirit, tremblingly I saw,Through rushing tears, the sign of angel-griefO'er the false promise of diviner years.From the far glide of some descending strainOf tenderest music I have heard thy voice;And thou hast called amid the stormy rushOf grand orchestral triumph, with a soundResistless 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 knowHow thy withdrawing radiance leaves more dimThe twilight borders of the night of Earth.Now when the bitter truth is learned; when allThat 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 growsThe merciless hand of pain, desert me not!Come with the true heart of the faithful Night,When I have cast away the masquing garbOf hollow Day, and lain my soul to restOn her consoling bosom! From the fountsOf thine exhaustless light, make clear the roadThrough toil and darkness, into God's repose!"
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 asaddle. 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 theTierra 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.
Chafing with disappointment, the young officer was about to retrace his way, when an exclamation from Heiss recalled him. The backwoodsman had found a clew to the labyrinth. An opening led into the thicket. This had been concealed by a perfect curtain of closely woven vines, covered with thick foliage and flowers. It appeared at first to be a natural door to the avenue which led from this spot, but a slight examination showed that these vines had been trained by human hands, and that the path itself had been kept open by the same agency. Branches were here and there lopped off and cast aside, and the ground had the marks of human footsteps. The track was clear and beaten, and Rolfe ordering his men to follow noiselessly, in Indian file, took the lead. For at least two miles they traced the windings of this forest road, through dark woods, occasionally opening out into green flowery glades. The bright sky began to gleam through the trees. Farther on and the breaks became larger and more frequent. An extensive clearing was near at hand. They reached it, but to their astonishment, insteadof a cultivated farm, which they had been expecting to see, the clearing had more the appearance of a vast flower-garden. The roofs and turrets of a house were visible near its centre. The house itself appeared of a strange oriental style, and was buried amidst groves of the brightest foliage. Several huge old trees spread their branches over the roof, and their leaves hung around the fantastic turrets.
What should have been fields were like a succession of huge flower-beds—and large shrubs, covered with sheets of pink and white blossoms that resembled wild roses. This shrubbery was high enough to conceal the approach of Rolfe and his party as they followed the path—apparently the only one which led to the house.
On nearing this, the officer halted his men in a little glade, and taking with him Heiss and the boy Gerry, (who might return for the men in case of a surprise,) proceeded to reconnoitre the strange-looking habitation.
A wall of ivy, or some perennial vine, lay between him and the house. A curtain of green leaves covered the entrance through this wall. This appeared to have grown up by neglect. As Rolfe lifted this festoon, to pass through, the sound of female voices greeted him. These voices reached his ear in tones of the lightest mirth. At intervals came a clear ringing laugh from some throat of silver, and then a plunging, splashing sound of water. Rolfe conjectured that some females were in the act of bathing, and not wishing to intrude upon them sat down for a moment outside the wall. The sounds of merriment were still heard, and among the soft tones the officer imagined that he could distinguish the coarser voice of a man. Curiosity now prompted him to enter. Moreover, he reflected that if there were men there already there could not be much impropriety in his taking a share in the amusement.
Drawing aside the curtain of leaves he looked in. The interior was a garden, but evidently in a neglected state. It appeared the ruin of a once noble garden and shrubbery. Broken fountains and statues crumbling among weeds, and untrained rose-trees, met the eye. The voices were more distinct, but those who uttered them were hidden by a hedge of jessamines. Rolfe stepped silently up to this hedge and peeped through an opening. The picture presented was indeed an enchanting one.
A large fountain lay between him and the house filled with crystal water. In this fountain two young girls were plunging and diving about in the wildest abandon of mirth. The water was not more than waist deep, and the arms and bosoms of the young girls appeared above its surface. They were strikingly alike, in all except color. In this there was a marked contrast. The neck, arms and bosom of one seemed carved from snow-white marble, while the other's complexion was almost as dark as mahogany. There was the same cast of features, the same expression in both countenances, and their forms, just emerging from the slender figure of girlhood, were exactly alike. Their long hair trailed after them, black and luxuriant, on the surface of the water, as they plunged and swam from one side of the basin to the other. A huge negress sat upon the edge of the fountain, seemingly enjoying the bath as much as those who partook of it. It was the voice of this negress that Rolfe had mistaken for that of a man.
The young officer did not hesitate a moment, but stole gently back and regained his comrades.
Then striking through the flowery fields that stretched away toward the wood in the rear, he commenced searching for the path that led from the woods in a direction opposite to that whence he had come, without disturbing the inmates of this peaceful mansion. Finding this path on the other side, the party entered and hastily kept on, in order to intercept the guerilleros, whom they still hoped to fall in with. In these hopes they were not disappointed, for emerging from the woods near Medellin they came upon the guerilleros, with whom they had a sharp skirmish. Rolfe and his party were successful, killing two of the guerrilla and taking the same number prisoners.
The young girls continued their pleasant pastime, little dreaming how near to them had been these strange and warlike visiters.