Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Nine.
An assassin in retreat
Athwart the thick timber, going as one pursued – in a track straight as the underwood will allow – breaking through it like a chased bear – now stumbling over a fallen log, now caught in a trailing grape-vine – Richard Darke flees from the place where he has laid his rival low.
He makes neither stop, nor stay. If so, only for a few instants, just long enough to listen, and if possible learn whether he is being followed.
Whether or not, he fancies it; again starting off, with terror in his looks, and trembling in his limbs. The sangfroid he exhibited while bending over the dead body of his victim, and afterwards concealing it, has quite forsaken him now. Then he was confident, there could be no witness of the deed – nothing to connect him with it as the doer. Since, there is a change – the unthought-of presence of the dog having produced it. Or, rather, the thought of the animal having escaped. This, and his own imagination.
For more than a mile he keeps on, in headlong reckless rushing. Until fatigue overtaking him, his terror becomes less impulsive, his fancies freer from exaggeration; and, believing himself far enough from the scene of danger, he at length desists from flight, and comes to a dead stop.
Sitting down upon a log, he draws forth his pocket-handkerchief, and wipes the sweat from his face. For he is perspiring at every pore, panting, palpitating. He now finds time to reflect; his first reflection being the absurdity of his making such precipitate retreat; his next, its imprudence.
“I’ve been a fool for it,” he mutters. “Suppose that some one has seen me? ’Twill only have made things worse. And what have I been running away from? A dead body, and a living dog! Why should I care for either? Even though the adage be true – about a live dog better than a dead lion. Let me hope the hound won’t tell a tale upon me. For certain the shot hit him. That’s nothing. Who could say what sort of ball, or the kind of gun it came from? No danger in that. I’d be stupid to think there could be. Well, it’s all over now, and the question is: what next?”
For some minutes he remains upon the log, with the gun resting across his knees, and his head bent over the barrels. He appears engaged in some abstruse calculation. A new thought has sprang up in his mind – a scheme requiring all his intellectual power to elaborate.
“I shall keep that tryst,” he says, in soliloquy, seeming at length to have settled it. “Yes; I’ll meet her under the magnolia. Who can tell what changes may occur in the heart of a woman? In history I had a royal namesake – an English king, with an ugly hump on his shoulders – as he’s said himself, ‘deformed, unfinished, sent into the world scarce half made up,’ so that the ‘dogs barked at him,’ just as this brute of Clancy’s has been doing at me. And this royal Richard, shaped ‘so lamely and unfashionable,’ made court to a woman, whose husband he had just assassinated – more than a woman, a proud queen – and more than wooed, he subdued her. This ought to encourage me; the better that I, Richard Darke, am neither halt, nor hunchbacked. No, nor yet unfashionable, as many a Mississippian girl says, and more than one is ready to swear.
“Proud Helen Armstrong may be, and is; proud as England’s queen herself. For all that, I’ve got something to subdue her – a scheme, cunning as that of my royal namesake. May God, or the Devil, grant me like success!”
At the moment of giving utterance to the profane prayer, he rises to his feet. Then, taking out his watch, consults it.
It is too dark for him to see the dial; but springing open the glass, he gropes against it, feeling for the hands.
“Half-past nine,” he mutters, after making out the time. “Ten is the hour of her assignation. No chance for me to get home before, and then over to Armstrong’s wood-ground. It’s more than two miles from here. What matters my going home? Nor any need changing this dress. She won’t notice the hole in the skirt. If she do, she wouldn’t think of what caused it – above all it’s being a bullet. Well, I must be off! It will never do to keep the young lady waiting. If she don’t feel disappointed at seeing me, bless her! If she do, I shall curse her! What’s passed prepares me for either event. In any case, I shall have satisfaction for the slight she’s put upon me. By God I’ll get that!”
He is moving away, when a thought occurs staying him. He is not quite certain about the exact hour of Helen Armstrong’s tryst, conveyed in her letter to Clancy. In the madness of his mind ever since perusing that epistle, no wonder he should confuse circumstances, and forget dates.
To make sure, he plunges his hand into the pocket, where he deposited both letter and photograph – after holding the latter before the eyes of his dying foeman, and witnessing the fatal effect. With all his diabolical hardihood, he had been awed by this – so as to thrust the papers into his pocket, hastily, carelessly.
They are no longer there!
He searches in his other pockets – in all of them, with like result. He examines his bullet-pouch and gamebag. But finds no letter, no photograph, not a scrap of paper, in any! The stolen epistle, its envelope, the enclosed carte de visite– all are absent.
After ransacking his pockets, turning them inside out, he comes to the conclusion that the precious papers are lost.
It startles, and for a moment dismays him. Where are they? He must have let them fall in his hasty retreat through the trees; or left them by the dead body.
Shall he go back in search of them?
No – no – no! He does not dare to return upon that track. The forest path is too sombre, too solitary, now. By the margin of the dank lagoon, under the ghostly shadow of the cypresses, he might meet the ghost of the man murdered!
And why should he go back? After all, there is no need; nothing in the letter which can in any way compromise him. Why should he care to recover it?
“It may go to the devil, her picture along! Let both rot where I suppose I must have dropped them – in the mud, or among the palmettoes. No matter where. But it does matter, my being under the magnolia at the right time, to meet her. Then shall I learn my fate – know it, for better, for worse. If the former, I’ll continue to believe in the story of Richard Plantagenet; if the latter, Richard Darke won’t much care what becomes of him.”
So ending his strange soliloquy, with a corresponding cast upon his countenance, the assassin rebuttons his coat – thrown open in search for the missing papers. Then, flinging the double-barrelled fowling-piece – the murder-gun – over his sinister shoulder, he strides off to keep an appointment not made for him, but for the man he has murdered!
Chapter Ten.
The eve of departure
The evil day has arrived; the ruin, foreseen, has fallen.
The mortgage deed, so long held in menace over the head of Archibald Armstrong – suspended, as it were, by a thread, like the sword of Damocles – is to be put into execution. Darke has demanded immediate payment of the debt, coupled with threat of foreclosure.
The demand is a month old, the threat has been carried out, and the foreclosure effected. The thread having been cut, the keen blade of adversity has come down, severing the tie which attached Colonel Armstrong to his property, as it to him. Yesterday, he was owner, reputedly, of one of the finest plantations along the line of the Mississippi river, an hundred able-bodied negroes hoeing cotton in his fields, with fifty more picking it from the pod, and “ginning” the staple clear of seed; to-day, he is but their owner in seeming, Ephraim Darke being this in reality. And in another day the apparent ownership will end: for Darke has given his debtor notice to yield up houses, lands, slaves, plantation-stock – in short, everything he possesses.
In vain has Armstrong striven against this adverse fate; in vain made endeavours to avert it. When men are falling, false friends grow falser; even true ones becoming cold. Sinister chance also against him; a time of panic – a crisis in the money-market – as it always is on such occasions, when interest runs high, and second mortgages are sneered at by those who grant loans.
As no one – neither friend nor financial speculator – comes to Armstrong’s rescue, he has no alternative but submit.
Too proud, to make appeal to his inexorable creditor – indeed deeming it idle – he vouchsafes no answer to the notice of foreclosure, beyond saying: “Let it be done.”
At a later period he gives ear to a proposal, coming from the mortgagee: to put a valuation upon the property, and save the expenses of a public sale, by disposing of it privately to Darke himself.
To this he consents; less with a view to the convenience of the last, than because his sensitive nature recoils from the vulgarism of the first. Tell me a more trying test to the delicate sensibilities of a gentleman, or his equanimity, than to see his gate piers pasted over with the black and white show bills of the auctioneer; a strip of stair carpet dangling down from one of his bedroom windows, and a crowd of hungry harpies clustered around his door-stoop; some entering with eyes that express keen concupiscence; others coming out with countenances more beatified, bearing away his Penates – jeering and swearing over them – insulting the Household Gods he has so long held in adoration. Ugh! A hideous, horrid sight – a spectacle of Pandemonium!
With a vision of such domestic iconoclasm flitting before his mind – not a dream, but a reality, that will surely arise by letting his estate go to the hammer – Colonel Armstrong accepts Darke’s offer to deliver everything over in a lump, and for a lamp sum. The conditions have been some time settled; and Armstrong now knows the worst. Some half-score slaves he reserves; the better terms secured to his creditor by private bargain enabling him to obtain this concession.
Several days have elapsed since the settlement came to a conclusion – the interval spent in preparation for the change. A grand one, too; which contemplates, not alone leaving the old home, but the State in which it stands. The fallen man shrinks from further association with those who have witnessed his fall. Not but that he will leave behind many friends, faithful and true. Still to begin life again in their midst – to be seen humbly struggling at the bottom of the ladder on whose top he once proudly reposed – that would indeed be unendurable.
He prefers to carry out the design, he once thought only a dreamy prediction – migrating to Texas. There, he may recommence life with more hopeful energy, and lesser sense of humiliation.
The moving day has arrived, or rather the eve preceding it. On the morrow, Colonel Archibald Armstrong is called upon by the exigency of human laws, – oft more cruel, if not more inexorable, than those of Nature – to vacate the home long his.
’Tis night. Darkness has spread its sable pall over forest and field, and broods upon the brighter surface of the stream gliding between – the mighty Mississippi. All are equally obscured – from a thick veil of lead-coloured cloud, at the sun’s setting, drawn over the canopy of the sky. Any light seen is that of the fire-flies, engaged in their nocturnal cotillon; while the sounds heard are nightly noises in a Southern States forest, semi-tropical, as the wild creatures who have their home in it. The green cicada chirps continuously, “Katy did – Katy did;” the hyladae, though reptiles, send forth an insect note; while the sonorous “gluck-gluck” of the huge rana pipiens mingles with the melancholy “whoo-whooa” of the great horned owl; which, unseen, sweeps on silent wing through the shadowy aisles of the forest, leading the lone traveller to fancy them peopled by departed spirits in torment from the pains of Purgatory.
Not more cheerful are the sounds aloft: for there are such, far above the tops of the tallest trees. There, the nightjar plies its calling, not so blind but that it can see in deepest darkness the smallest moth or midge, that, tired of perching on the heated leaves essays to soar higher. Two sorts of these goatsuckers, utter cries quite distinct; though both expressing aversion to “William.” One speaks of him as still alive, mingling pity with its hostile demand: “Whippoor-Will!” The other appears to regard him as dead, and goes against his marital relict, at intervals calling out: “Chuck Will’s widow!”
Other noises interrupt the stillness of a Mississippian night. High up in heaven the “honk” of a wild gander leading his flock in the shape of an inverted V; at times the more melodious note of a trumpeter swan; or from the top of a tall cottonwood, or cypress, the sharp saw-filing shriek of the white-headed eagle, angered by some stray creature coming too close, and startling it from its slumbers. Below, out of the swamp sedge, rises the mournful cry of the quabird – the American bittern – and from the same, the deep sonorous bellow of that ugliest animal on earth – the alligator.
Where fields adjoin the forest – plantation clearings – oft few and far between – there are sounds more cheerful. The song of the slave, his day’s work done, sure to be preceded, or followed, by peals of loud jocund laughter; the barking of the house-dog, indicative of a well-watched home; with the lowing of cattle, and other domestic calls that proclaim it worth watching. A galaxy of little lights, in rows like street lamps, indicate the “negro quarter;” while in the foreground a half-dozen windows of larger size, and brighter sheen, show where stands the “big house” – the planter’s own dwelling.
To that of Colonel Armstrong has come a night of exceptional character, when its lights are seen burning later than usual. The plantation clock has tolled nine, nearly an hour ago. Still light shines through the little windows of the negro cabins, while the larger ones of the “big house” are all aflame. And there are candles being carried to and fro, lighting up a scene of bustling activity: while the clack of voices – none of them in laughter – is heard commingled with the rattling of chains, and the occasional stroke of a hammer. The forms of men and women, are seen to flit athwart the shining windows, all busy about something.
There is no mystery in the matter. It is simply the planter, with his people, occupied in preparation for the morrow’s moving. Openly, and without restraint: for, although so near the mid hour of night, it is no midnight flitting.
The only individual, who appears to act surreptitiously, is a young girl; who, coming out by the back door of the dwelling, makes away from its walls in gliding gait – at intervals glancing back over her shoulder, as if in fear of being followed, or observed.
Her style of dress also indicates a desire to shun observation; for she is cloaked and close hooded. Not enough to ensure disguise, though she may think so. The most stolid slave on all Colonel Armstrong’s plantation, could tell at a glance whose figure is enfolded in the shapeless garment, giving it shape. He would at once identify it as that of his master’s daughter. For no wrap however loosely flung over it, could hide the queenly form of Helen Armstrong, or conceal the splendid symmetry of her person. Arrayed in the garb of a laundress, she would still look the lady.
Perhaps, for the first time in her life she is walking with stealthy step, crouched form, and countenance showing fear. Daughter of a large slave-owner – mistress over many slaves – she is accustomed to an upright attitude, and aristocratic bearing. But she is now on an errand that calls for more than ordinary caution, and would dread being recognised by the humblest slave on her father’s estate.
Fortunately for her, none see; therefore no one takes note of her movements, or the mode of her apparel. If one did, the last might cause remark. A woman cloaked, with head hooded in a warm summer night, the thermometer at ninety!
Notwithstanding the numerous lights, she is not observed as she glides through their crossing coruscations. And beyond, there is but little danger – while passing through the peach orchard, that stretches rearward from the dwelling. Still less, after getting out through a wicket-gate, which communicates with a tract of woodland. For then she is among trees whose trunks stand close, the spaces between buried in deep obscurity – deeper from the night being a dark one. It is not likely so to continue: for, before entering into the timber, she glances up to the sky, and sees that the cloud canopy has broken; here and there stars scintillating in the blue spaces between. While, on the farther edge of the plantation clearing, a brighter belt along the horizon foretells the uprising of the moon.
She does not wait for this; but plunges into the shadowy forest, daring its darkness, regardless of its dangers.
Chapter Eleven.
Under the Trysting Tree
Still stooping in her gait, casting furtive glances to right, to left, before and behind – at intervals stopping to listen – Helen Armstrong continues her nocturnal excursion. Notwithstanding the obscurity, she keeps in a direct course, as if to reach some particular point, and for a particular reason.
What this is needs not be told. Only love could lure a young lady out at that late hour, and carry her along a forest path, dark, and not without dangers. And love unsanctioned, unallowed – perhaps forbidden, by some one who has ascendancy over her.
Just the first it is which has tempted her forth; while the last, not the cold, has caused her to cloak herself, and go close hooded. If her father but knew of the errand she is on, it could not be executed. And well is she aware of this. For the proud planter is still proud, despite his reverses, still clings to the phantom of social superiority; and if he saw her now, wandering through the woods at an hour near midnight, alone; if he could divine her purpose: to meet a man, who in time past has been rather coldly received at his house – because scarce ranking with his own select circle – had Colonel Armstrong but the gift of clairvoyance, in all probability he would at once suspend the preparations for departure, rush to his rifle, then off through the woods on the track of his erring daughter, with the intent to do a deed sanguinary as that recorded, if not so repulsive.
The girl has not far to go – only half a mile or so, from the house, and less than a quarter beyond the zigzag rail fence, which forms a boundary line between the maize fields and primeval forest. Her journey, when completed, will bring her under a tree – a grand magnolia, monarch of the forest surrounding. Well does she know it, as the way thither.
Arriving at the tree, she pauses beneath its far-stretching boughs. At the same time tossing back her hood, she shows her face unveiled.
She has no fear now. The place is beyond the range of night-strolling negroes. Only one in pursuit of ’possum, or ’coon, would be likely to come that way; a contingency too rare to give her uneasiness.
With features set in expectation, she stands. The fire-flies illuminate her countenance – deserving a better light. But seen, even under their pale fitful coruscation, its beauty is beyond question. Her features of gipsy cast – to which the cloak’s hood adds characteristic expression – produce a picture appropriate to its framing – the forest.
Only for a few short moments does she remain motionless. Just long enough to get back her breath, spent by some exertion in making her way through the wood – more difficult in the darkness. Strong emotions, too, contribute to the pulsations of her heart.
She does not wait for them to be stilled. Facing towards the tree, and standing on tiptoe, she raises her hand aloft, and commences groping against the trunk. The fire-flies flicker over her snow-white fingers, as these stray along the bark, at length resting upon the edge of a dark disc – the knot-hole in the tree.
Into this her hand is plunged; then drawn out – empty!
At first there is no appearance of disappointment. On the contrary, the phosphoric gleam dimly disclosing her features, rather shows satisfaction – still further evinced by the phrase falling from her lips, with the tone of its utterance. She says, contentedly: – “He has got it!”
But by the same fitful light, soon after is perceived a change – the slightest expression of chagrin, as she adds, in murmured interrogatory, “Why hasn’t he left an answer?”
Is she sure he has not? No. But she soon will be.
With this determination, she again faces towards the tree; once more inserts her slender fingers; plunges in her white hand up to the wrist – to the elbow; gropes the cavity all round; then draws out again, this time with an exclamation which tells of something more than disappointment. It is discontent – almost anger. So too a speech succeeding, thus: —
“He might at least have let me know, whether he was coming or not – a word to say, I might expect him. He should have been here before me. It’s the hour – past it!”
She is not certain – only guessing. She may be mistaken about the time – perhaps wronging the man. She draws the watch from her waistbelt, and holds the dial up. By the moon, just risen, she can read it. Reflecting the rays, the watch crystal, the gold rings on her fingers, and the jewels gleam joyfully. But there is no joy on her countenance. On the contrary, a mixed expression of sadness and chagrin. For the hands indicate ten minutes after the hour of appointment.
There can be no mistake about the time – she herself fixed it. And none in the timepiece. Her watch is not a cheap one. No fabric of Germany, or Geneva; no pedlar’s thing from Yankeeland, which as a Southron she would despise; but an article of solid English manufacture, sun-sure, like the machine-made watches of “Streeter.”
In confidence she consults it; saying vexatiously:
“Ten minutes after, and he not here! No answer to my note! He must have received it: Surely Jule put it into the tree? Who but he could have taken it out? Oh, this is cruel! He comes not – I shall go home.”
The cloak is once more closed, the hood drawn over her head. Still she lingers – lingers, and listens.
No footstep – no sound to break the solemn stillness – only the chirrup of tree-crickets, and the shrieking of owls.
She takes a last look at the dial, sadly, despairingly. The hands indicate full fifteen minutes after the hour she had named – going on to twenty.
She restores the watch to its place, beneath her belt, her demeanour assuming a sudden change. Some chagrin still, but no sign of sadness. This is replaced by an air of determination, fixed and stern. The moon’s light, with that of the fire-flies, have both a response in flashes brighter than either – sparks from the eyes of an angry woman. For Helen Armstrong is this, now.
Drawing her cloak closer around, she commences moving off from the tree.
She is not got beyond the canopy of its branches, ere her steps are stayed. A rustling among the dead leaves – a swishing against those that live – a footstep with tread solid and heavy – the footfall of a man!
A figure is seen approaching; as yet only indistinctly, but surely that of a man. As surely the man expected?
“He’s been detained – no doubt by some good cause,” she reflects, her spite and sadness departing as he draws near.
They are gone, before he can get to her side. But woman-like, she resolves to make a grace of forgiveness, and begins by upbraiding him.
“So you’re here at last. A wonder you condescended coming at all! There’s an old adage ‘Better late than never.’ Perhaps, you think it befits present time and company? And, perhaps, you may be mistaken. Indeed you are, so far as I’m concerned. I’ve been here long enough, and won’t be any longer. Good-night, sir! Good-night!”
Her speech is taunting in tone, and bitter in sense. She intends it to be both – only in seeming. But to still further impress a lesson on the lover who has slighted her, she draws closer the mantle, and makes as if moving away.
Mistaking her pretence for earnest, the man flings himself across her path – intercepting her. Despite the darkness she can see that his arms are in the air, and stretched towards her, as if appealingly. The attitude speaks apology, regret, contrition – everything to make her relent.
She relents; is ready to fling herself upon his breast, and there lie lovingly, forgivingly.
But again woman-like, not without a last word of reproach, to make more esteemed her concession, she says: —
“’Tis cruel thus to have tried me. Charles! Charles! why have you done it?”
As she utters the interrogatory a cloud comes over her countenance, quicker than ever shadow over sun. Its cause – the countenance of him standing vis-à-vis. A change in their relative positions has brought his face full under the moonlight. He is not the man she intended meeting!
Who he really is can be gathered from his rejoinder: —
“You are mistaken, Miss Armstrong. My name is not Charles, but Richard. I am Richard Darke.”
