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The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Twenty Four.
The coon-hunter conscience-stricken
On the night preceding Richard Darke’s arrest, another man, not many rods distant, lies awake, or, at least, loses more than half his customary measure of sleep.
This is the coon-hunter. In his case the disturbing cause is conscience; though his crime is comparatively a light one, and should scarce rob him of his rest. It would not, were he a hardened sinner; but Blue Bill is the very reverse; and though, at times, cruel to “coony,” he is, in the main, merciful, his breast overflowing with the milk of human kindness.
On the night succeeding his spoilt coon-chase, he has slept sound enough, his mind being unburdened by the confession to Phoebe. Besides, he had then no certain knowledge that a murder had been committed, or of any one being even killed. He only knew there were shots, and angry words, resembling a fight between two men; one his young master; the other, as he supposed, Charles Clancy. True, the former, rushing past in such headlong pace, seemed to prove that the affair had a tragical termination.
But of this, he, Blue Bill, could only have conjecture; and, hoping the dénouement might not be so bad as at first deemed, neither was he so alarmed as to let it interfere with his night’s slumbers.
In the morning, when, as usual, hoe in hand, he goes abroad to his day’s work, no one would suspect him of being the depository of a secret so momentous. He was always noted as the gayest of the working gang – his laugh, the loudest, longest, and merriest, carried across the plantation fields; and on this particular day, it rings with its wonted cheerfulness.
Only during the earlier hours. When, at mid-day, a report reaches the place where the slaves are at work, that a man has been murdered – this, Charles Clancy – the coon-hunter, in common with the rest of the gang, throws down his hoe; all uniting in a cry of sympathetic sorrow. For all of them know young “Massr Clancy;” respecting, many of them loving him. He has been accustomed to meet them with pleasant looks, and accost them in kindly words.
The tidings produce a painful impression upon them; and from that moment, though their task has to be continued, there is no more cheerfulness in the cotton field. Even their conversation is hushed, or carried on in a subdued tone; the hoes being alone heard, as their steel blades clink against an occasional “donick.”
But while his fellow-labourers are silent through sorrow, Blue Bill is speechless from another and different cause. They only hear that young Massr Clancy has been killed – murdered, as the report says – while he knows how, when, where, and by whom. The knowledge gives him double uneasiness; for while sorrowing as much, perhaps more than any, for Charles Clancy’s death, he has fears for his own life, with good reasons for having them.
If by any sinister chance Massr Dick should get acquainted with the fact of his having been witness to that rapid retreat among the trees, he, Blue Bill, would be speedily put where his tongue could never give testimony.
In full consciousness of his danger, he determines not to commit himself by any voluntary avowal of what he has seen and heard; but to bury the secret in his own breast, as also insist on its being so interred within the bosom of his better half.
This day, Phoebe is not in the field along with the working gang; which causes him some anxiety. The coon-hunter can trust his wife’s affections, but is not so confident as to her prudence. She may say something in the “quarter” to compromise him. A word – the slightest hint of what has happened – may lead to his being questioned, and confessed; with torture, if the truth be suspected.
No wonder that during the rest of the day Blue Bill wears an air of abstraction, and hoes the tobacco plants with a careless hand, often chopping off the leaves. Fortunately for him, his fellow-workers are not in a mood to observe these vagaries, or make inquiry as to the cause.
He is rejoiced, when the boom of the evening bell summons them back to the “big house.”
Once more in the midst of his piccaninnies, with Phoebe by his side, he imparts to her a renewed caution, to “keep dark on dat ere seerous subjeck.”
At supper, the two talk over the events of the day – Phoebe being the narrator. She tells him of all that has happened – of the search, and such incidents connected with it as have reached the plantation of the Darkes; how both the old and young master took part in it, since having returned home. She adds, of her own observation, that Massr Dick looked “berry scared-like, an’ white in de cheeks as a ole she-possum.”
“Dats jess de way he oughter look,” is the husband’s response.
After which they finish their frugal meal, and once more retire to rest.
But on this second night, the terrible secret shared by them, keeps both from sleeping. Neither gets so much as a wink.
As morning dawns, they are startled by strange noises in the negro quarter. These are not the usual sounds consequent on the uprising of their fellow-slaves – a chorus of voices, in jest and jocund laughter. On the contrary, it is a din of serious tone, with cries that tell of calamity.
When the coon-hunter draws – back his door, and looks forth, he sees there is commotion outside; and is soon told its cause. One of his fellow-bondsmen, coming forward, says: —
“Massr Dick am arrested by de sheriff. Dey’ve tuk ’im for de murder ob Massr Charl Clancy.”
The coon-hunter rushes out, and up to the big house.
He reaches it in time to see Richard Darke set upon a horse, and conducted away from the place, with a man on each side, guarding him. All know that he goes a prisoner.
With a sense of relief, Blue Bill hastens back to his own domicile, where lie communicates what has happened to the wife anxiously waiting.
“Phoebe, gal,” he adds, in a congratulatory whisper, “dar ain’t no longer so much reezun for us to hab fear. I see Sime Woodley mong de men; and dis nigger know dat he’ll gub me his purtecshun, whatsomever I do. So I’se jess made up my mind to make a clean bress ob de hul ting, and tell what I heern an’ see, besides deliverin’ up boaf dat letter an’ picter. What’s yar view ob de matter? Peak plain, and doan be noways mealy-moufed ’bout it.”
“My views is den, for de tellin’ ob de troof. Ole Eph Darke may flog us till dar ain’t a bit o’ skin left upon our bare backs. I’ll take my share ob de ’sponsibility, an a full half ob de noggin’. Yes, Bill, I’se willin’ to do dat. But let de troof be tole – de whole troof, an’ nuffin but de troof.”
“Den it shall be did. Phoebe, you’s a darlin’. Kiss me, ole gal. If need be, we’ll boaf die togedder.”
And their two black faces come in contact, as also their bosoms; both beating with a humanity that might shame whiter skins.
Chapter Twenty Five.
An unceremonious search
Arrested, Richard Darke is taken to jail. This not in Natchez, but a place of less note; the Court-house town of the county, within the limits of which lie the Darke and Armstrong plantations. He is there consigned to the custody of Joe Harkness, jailer.
But few, who assisted at the arrest, accompany him to the place of imprisonment; only the Deputy, and the brace of constables.
The sheriff himself, with the others, does not leave Ephraim Darke’s premises, till after having given them a thorough examination, in quest of evidence against the accused.
This duty done, without regard to the sensibilities of the owner, who follows them from room to room, now childishly crying – now frantically cursing.
Alike disregarded are his tears and oaths.
The searchers have no sympathy for him in his hour of affliction. Some even secretly rejoice at it.
Ephraim Darke is not a Southerner, pur sang; and, though without the slightest taint of abolitionism – indeed the very opposite – he has always been unpopular in the neighbourhood; alike detested by planter and “poor white.” Many of both have been his debtors, and felt his iron hand over them, just as Archibald Armstrong.
Besides, some of these now around his house were present two days before upon Armstrong’s plantation; saw his establishment broken up, his goods and chattels confiscated, his home made desolate.
Knowing by whom all this was done, with ill-concealed satisfaction, they now behold the arcana of Ephraim Darke’s dwelling exposed to public gaze; himself humiliated, far more than the man he made homeless.
With no more ceremony than was shown in making the arrest, do the sheriff and party explore the paternal mansion of him arrested, rudely ransacking it from cellar to garret; the outbuildings as well, even to the grounds and garden.
Their search is but poorly rewarded. All they get, likely to throw light on the matter of inquiry, is Richard Darke’s double-barrelled gun, with the clothes he wore on the day fatal to Clancy. On these there is no blood; but while they are looking for it, something comes under their eyes, almost equally significant of strife.
Through the coat-skirt is a hole, ragged, and recently made. Several pronounce it a bullet-hole; further declaring the ball to have been discharged from a rifle.
For certain, a singular discovery!
But like all the others that have been made, only serving to perplex them. It is rather in favour of the accused; giving colour to the idea, that between him and Clancy there has been a fight, with shots fired from both sides. The question is, “has it been a fair one?”
To negative this, a bit of adjunct evidence is adduced, which goes against the accused. The coat, with the perforated skirt, is not the one worn by him on the day before, when out assisting in the search; while it is that he had on, the day preceding, when Clancy came not home. Ephraim Darke’s domestics, on being sternly interrogated, and aside, disclose this fact; unaware how greatly their master may desire them to keep it concealed.
Still, it is not much. A man might have many reasons for changing his coat, especially for the dress of two different days. It would be nothing, but for the conjoint circumstance of the shot through the skirt. This makes it significant.
Another item of intelligence, of still more suspicious nature, is got out of the domestics, whose stern questioners give them no chance to prevaricate. Indeed, terrified, they do not try.
Their young “Massr Dick” had on a different pair of boots the day he went out hunting, from those worn by him, when, yesterday, he went searching.
The latter are in the hands of the sheriff, but the former are missing – cannot be found anywhere, in or about the house!
All search for them proves idle. And not strange it should; since one is in the side-pocket of Sime Woodley’s surtout, the other having a like lodgment in that of Ned Heywood.
The two hunters, “prospecting” apart, found the boots thickly coated with mud, concealed under a brush pile, at the bottom of the peach orchard. Even the sheriff does not know what bulges out the coat-skirts of the two backwoodsmen.
Nor is he told there or then. Sime has an object in keeping that secret to himself and his companion; he will only reveal it, when the time comes to make it more available.
The affair of the arrest and subsequent action over, the sheriff and his party retire from the plantation of Ephraim Darke, leaving its owner in a state of frenzied bewilderment.
They go direct to Mrs Clancy’s cottage; not to stay there, but as a starting point, to resume the search for the body of her son, adjourned since yester-eve.
They do not tell her of Dick Darke’s arrest. She is inside her chamber – on her couch – so prostrated by the calamity already known to her, they fear referring to it.
The doctor in attendance tells them, that any further revelation concerning the sad event may prove fatal to her.
Again her neighbours, now in greater number, go off to the woods, some afoot, others on horseback. As on the day preceding, they divide into different parties, and scatter in diverse directions. Though not till after all have revisited the ensanguined spot under the cypress, and renewed their scrutiny of the stains. Darker than on the day before, they now look more like ink than blood!
The cypress knee, out of which Woodley and Heywood “gouged” the smooth-bore bullet, is also examined, its position noted. Attempts are made to draw inferences therefrom, though with but indifferent success. True, it tells a tale; and, judging by the blood around the bullet-hole, which all of them have seen, a tragic one, though it cannot of itself give the interpretation.
A few linger around the place, now tracked and trodden hard by their going and coming feet. The larger number proceeds upon the search, in scattered parties of six or eight each, carrying it for as many miles around.
They pole and drag the creek near by, as others at a greater distance; penetrate the swamp as far as possible, or likely that a dead body might be carried for concealment. In its dim recesses they discover no body, living or dead, no trace of human being, nought save the solitude-loving heron, the snake-bird, and scaly alligator.
On this second day’s quest they observe nothing new, either to throw additional light on the commission of the crime, or assist them in recovering the corpse.
It is but an unsatisfactory report to take back to the mother of the missing man. Perhaps better for her she should never receive it?
And she never does. Before it can reach her ear, this is beyond hearing sound. The thunder of heaven could not awake Mrs Clancy from the sleep into which she has fallen. For it is no momentary unconsciousness, but the cold insensible slumber of Death.
The long-endured agony of ill fortune, the more recent one of widowhood, and, now, this new bereavement of a lost, only son – these accumulated trials have proved too much for her woman’s strength, of late fast failing.
When, at evening hour, the searchers, on their return, approach the desolated dwelling, they hear sounds within that speak of some terrible disaster.
On the night before their ears were saluted by the same, though in tones somewhat different. Then the widow’s voice was lifted in lamentation; now it is not heard at all.
Whatever of mystery there may be is soon removed. A woman, stepping out upon the porch, and, raising her hand in token of attention, says, in sad solemn voice, —
“Mrs Clancy is dead!”
Chapter Twenty Six.
Tell-tale tracks
“Mrs Clancy is dead!”
The simple, but solemn speech, makes an impression on the assembled backwoodsmen difficult to be described. All deem it a double-murder; her death caused by that of her son. The same blow has killed both.
It makes them all the more eager to discover the author of this crime, by its consequence twofold; and now, more than ever, do their thoughts turn towards Dick Darke, and become fixed upon him.
As the announcement of Mrs Clancy’s death makes complete the events of the day, one might suppose, that after this climax, her neighbours, satisfied nothing more could be done, would return to their own homes.
This is not the custom in the backwoods of America, or with any people whose hearts beat true to the better instincts of humanity. It is only in Old world countries, under tyrannical rule, where these have been crushed out, that such selfishness can prevail.
Nothing of this around Natchez – not a spark of it in the breasts of those collected about that cottage, in which lies the corpse of a woman.
The widow will be waked by men ready to avenge her wrongs.
If friendless and forlorn while living, it is different now she is dead. There is not a man among them but would give his horse, his gun, ay, a slice of his land, to restore her to life, or bring back that of her son.
Neither being now possible, they can only show their sympathy by the punishment of him who has caused the double desolation.
It still needs to know who. After all, it may not be the man arrested and arraigned, though most think it is. But, to be fully convinced, further evidence is wanted; as also a more careful sifting of that already obtained.
As on the night before, a council is convened, the place being the bit of green sward, that, lawn-like, extends from the cottage front to the rail fence of the road. But now the number taking part in it is different. Instead of a half-score, there is nearer a half hundred. The news of the second death has been spreading meanwhile, and the added sympathy causes the crowd to increase.
In its centre soon forms a ring, an open space, surrounded by men, acknowledged as chief on such occasions. They discuss the points of the case; state such incidents and events as are known; recall all circumstances that can be remembered; and inquire into their connection with motives.
It is, in short, a jury, standing, not sitting, on the trial of a criminal case; and, with still greater difference between them and the ordinary “twelve good men and true,” in that, unlike these, they are not mere dummies, with a strong inclination to accept the blandishments of the barrister, or give way to the rulings of the judge, too often wrong. On the contrary, men who, in themselves, combine the functions of all three – judge, jury, and counsel – with this triple power, inspired by a corresponding determination to arrive at the truth.
In short it is the court of “Justice Lynch” in session. Every circumstance which has a possible bearing on the case, or can throw light into its dark ambiguity, is called up and considered. The behaviour of the accused himself, coupled with that of the hound, are the strongest points yet appearing against him. Though not the only ones. The bullet extracted from the cypress knee, has been tried in the barrel of his gun, and found to fit exactly. About the other ball, which made the hole through the skirt of his coat, no one can say more than that it came out of a rifle. Every backwoodsman among them can testify to this.
A minor point against the accused man is, his having changed his clothes on the two succeeding days; though one stronger and more significant, is the fact that the boots, known to have been worn by him on the former, are still missing and cannot anywhere be found.
“Can’t they, indeed?” asks Sime Woodley, in response to one, who has just expressed surprise at this.
The old hunter has been hitherto holding back; not from any want of will to assist the lynch jury in their investigation, but because, only lately arrived, he has scarce yet entered into the spirit of their proceedings.
His grief, on getting the news of Mrs Clancy’s death, for a time holds him in restraint. It is a fresh sorrow; since, not only had her son been long his friend, but in like manner her husband and herself.
In loyal memory of this friendship, he has been making every effort to bring the murderer to justice; and one just ended accounts for his late arrival at the cottage. As on the day before, he and Heywood have remained behind the other searchers; staying in the woods till all these returned home. Yesterday they were detained by an affair of bullets– to-day it is boots. The same that are missing, and about which questions have just been asked, the last by Sime Woodley himself.
In answer to it he continues: —
“They not only kin be foun’, but hev been. Hyar they air!”
Saying this, the hunter pulls a boot out of his pocket, and holds it up before their eyes; Heywood simultaneously exposing another – its fellow!
“That’s the fut wear ye’re in sarch o’, I reck’n,” pursues Woodley. “’T all eevents it’s a pair o’ boots belongin’ to Dick Darke, an’ war worn by him the day afore yesterday. What’s more, they left thar marks down on the swamp mud, not a hunderd mile from the spot whar poor Charley Clancy hez got his death shot; an’ them tracks war made not a hundred minnits from the time he got it. Now boys! what d’ye think o’ the thing?”
“Where did you get the boots?” ask several, speaking at the same time.
“No matter whar. Ye kin all see we’ve got ’em. Time enuf to tell o’ the whar an’ the wharf or when it kums to a trial. Tho lookin’ in yur faces, fellurs, I shed say it’s kim to somethin’ o’ that sort now.”
“It has!” responds one of the jury, in a tone of emphatic affirmation.
“In that case,” pursues the hunter, “me an’ Ned Heywood are ready to gie sech evidince as we’ve got. Both o’ us has spent good part o’ this arternoon collectin’ it; an’ now it’s at the sarvice o’ the court o’ Judge Lynch, or any other.”
“Well then, Woodley!” says a planter of respectability, who by tacit consent is representing the stern terrible judge spoken of. “Suppose the Court to be in session. Tell us all you know.”
With alacrity Woodley responds to the appeal; giving his experience, along with it his suspicions and conjectures; not simply as a witness, but more like a counsel in the case. It needs not to say, he is against the accused, in his statement of facts, as the deductions he draws from them. For the hunter has long since decided within himself, as to who killed Clancy.
Heywood follows him in like manner, though with no new matter. His testimony but corroborates that of his elder confrère.
Taken together, or separately, it makes profound impression on the jurors of Judge Lynch; almost influencing them to pronounce an instant verdict, condemnatory of the accused.
If so, it will soon be followed by the sentence; this by execution, short and quick, but sternly terrible!
