Ten Nights in a Bar Room

SOWING the wind.

The state of affairs in Cedarville, it was plain, from the partial glimpses I had received, was rather desperate.  Desperate, I mean, as regarded the various parties brought before my observation.  An eating cancer was on the community, and so far as the eye could mark its destructive progress, the ravages were tearful.  That its roots were striking deep, and penetrating, concealed from view, in many unsuspected directions, there could be no doubt.  What appeared on the surface was but a milder form of the disease, compared with its hidden, more vital, and more dangerous advances.

I could not but feel a strong interest in some of these parties.  The case of young Hammond had, from the first, awakened concern; and now a new element was added in the unlooked-for appearance of his mother on the stage, in a state that seemed one of partial derangement.  The gentleman at whose office I met Mr. Harrison on the day before—­the reader will remember Mr. H. as having come to the “Sickle and Sheath” in search of his son—­was thoroughly conversant with the affairs of the village, and I called upon him early in the day in order to make some inquiries about Mrs. Hammond.  My first question, as to whether he knew the lady, was answered by the remark: 

“Oh, yes.  She is one of my earliest friends.”

The allusion to her did not seem to awaken agreeable states of mind.  A slight shade obscured his face, and I noticed that he sighed involuntarily.

“Is Willy her only child?”

“Her only living child.  She had four; another son, and two daughters; but she lost all but Willy when they were quite young.  And,” he added, after a pause,—­“it would have been better for her, and for Willy, too, if he had gone to a better land with them.”

“His course of life must be to her a terrible affliction.” said I.

“It is destroying her reason,” he replied, with emphasis, “He was her idol.  No mother ever loved a son with more self-devotion than Mrs. Hammond loved her beautiful, fine-spirited, intelligent, affectionate boy.  To say that she was proud of him, is but a tame expression.  Intense love—­almost idolatry—­was the strong passion of her heart.  How tender, how watchful was her love!  Except when at school, he was scarcely ever separated from her.  In order to keep him by her side, she gave up her thoughts to the suggestion and maturing of plans for keeping his mind active and interested in her society—­and her success was perfect.  Up to the age of sixteen or seventeen, I do not think he had a desire for other companionship than that of his mother.  But this, you know, could not last.  The boy’s maturing thought must go beyond the home and social circle.  The great world, that he was soon to enter, was before him; and through loopholes that opened here and there he obtained partial glimpses of what was beyond.  To step forth into this world, where he was soon to be a busy actor and worker, and to step forth alone, next came in the natural order of progress.  How his mother trembled with anxiety, as she saw him leave her side!  Of the dangers that would surround his path, she knew too well; and these were magnified by her fears—­at least so I often said to her.  Alas! how far the sad reality has outrun her most fearful anticipations.

“When Willy was eighteen—­he was then reading law—­I think I never saw a young man of fairer promise.  As I have often heard it remarked of him, he did not appear to have a single fault.  But he had a dangerous gift—­rare conversational powers, united with great urbanity of manner.  Every one who made his acquaintance became charmed with his society; and he soon found himself surrounded by a circle of young men, some of whom were not the best companions he might have chosen.  Still, his own pure instincts and honorable principles were his safeguard; and I never have believed that any social allurements would have drawn him away from the right path, if this accursed tavern had not been opened by Slade.”

“There was a tavern here before the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ was opened?” said I.

“Oh, yes.  But it was badly kept, and the bar-room visitors were of the lowest class.  No respectable young man in Cedarville would have been seen there.  It offered no temptations to one moving in Willy’s circle.  But the opening of the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ formed a new era.  Judge Hammond—­himself not the purest man in the world, I’m afraid—­gave his countenance to the establishment, and talked of Simon Slade as an enterprising man who ought to be encouraged.  Judge Lyman and other men of position in Cedarville followed his bad example; and the bar-room of the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ was at once voted respectable.  At all times of the day and evening you could see the flower of our young men going in and out, sitting in front of the bar-room, or talking hand-and-glove with the landlord, who, from a worthy miller, regarded as well enough in his place, was suddenly elevated into a man of importance, whom the best in the village were delighted to honor.

“In the beginning, Willy went with the tide, and, in an incredibly short period, was acquiring a fondness for drink that startled and alarmed his friends.  In going in through Slade’s open door, he entered the downward way, and has been moving onward with fleet footsteps ever since.  The fiery poison inflamed his mind, at the same time that it dimmed his noble perceptions.  Fondness for mere pleasure followed, and this led him into various sensual indulgences, and exciting modes of passing the time.  Every one liked him—­he was so free, so companionable, and so generous—­and almost every one encouraged, rather than repressed, his dangerous proclivities.  Even his father, for a time, treated the matter lightly, as only the first flush of young life.  ’I commenced sowing my wild oats at quite as early an age,’ I have heard him say.  ‘He’ll cool off, and do well enough.  Never fear.’  But his mother was in a state of painful alarm from the beginning.  Her truer instincts, made doubly acute by her yearning love, perceived the imminent danger, and in all possible ways did she seek to lure him from the path in which he was moving at so rapid a pace.  Willy was always very much attached to his mother, and her influence over him was strong; but in this case he regarded her fears as chimerical.  The way in which he walked was, to him, so pleasant, and the companions of his journey so delightful, that he could not believe in the prophesied evil; and when his mother talked to him in her warning voice, and with a sad countenance, he smiled at her concern, and made light of her fears.

“And so it went on, month after month, and year after year, until the young man’s sad declensions were the town talk.  In order to throw his mind into a new channel—­to awaken, if possible, a new and better interest in life—­his father ventured upon the doubtful experiment we spoke of yesterday; that of placing capital in his hands, and making him an equal partner in the business of distilling and cotton-spinning.  The disastrous—­I might say disgraceful—­result you know.  The young man squandered his own capital and heavily embarrassed his father.

“The effect of all this upon Mrs. Hammond has been painful in the extreme.  We can only dimly imagine the terrible suffering through which she has passed.  Her present aberration was first visible after a long period of sleeplessness, occasioned by distress of mind.  During the whole of two weeks, I am told, she did not close her eyes; the most of that time walking the floor of her chamber, and weeping.  Powerful anodynes, frequently repeated, at length brought relief.  But, when she awoke from a prolonged period of unconsciousness, the brightness of her reason was gone.”  Since then, she has never been clearly conscious of what was passing around her, and well for her, I have sometimes thought it was, for even obscurity of intellect is a blessing in her case.  Ah, me!  I always get the heart-ache, when I think of her.”  “Did not this event startle the young man from his fatal dream, if I may so call his mad infatuation?” I asked.

“No.  He loved his mother, and was deeply afflicted by the calamity; but it seemed as if he could not stop.  Some terrible necessity appeared to be impelling him onward.  If he formed good resolutions—­and I doubt not that he did—­they were blown away like threads of gossamer, the moment he came within the sphere of old associations.  His way to the mill was by the ’Sickle and Sheaf’; and it was not easy for him to pass there without being drawn into the bar, either by his own desire for drink, or through the invitation of some pleasant companion, who was lounging in front of the tavern.”

“There may have been something even more impelling than his love of drink,” said I.

“What?”

I related, briefly, the occurrences of the preceding night.

“I feared—­nay, I was certain—­that he was in the toils of this man!  And yet your confirmation of the fact startles and confounds me,” said he, moving about his office in a disturbed manner.  “If my mind has questioned and doubted in regard to young Hammond, it questions and doubts no longer.  The word ‘mystery’ is not now written over the door of his habitation.  Great Father! and is it thus that our young men are led into temptation?  Thus that their ruin is premeditated, secured?  Thus that the fowler is permitted to spread his net in the open day, and the destroyer licensed to work ruin in darkness?  It is awful to contemplate!” The man was strongly excited.

“Thus it is,” he continued; “and we who see the whole extent, origin, and downward rushing force of a widely sweeping desolation, lift our voices of warning almost in vain.  Men who have everything at stake—­sons to be corrupted, and daughters to become the wives of young men exposed to corrupting influences—­ stand aloof, questioning and doubting as to the expediency of protecting the innocent from the wolfish designs of bad men; who, to compass their own selfish ends, would destroy them body and soul.  We are called fanatics, ultraists, designing, and all that, because we ask our law-makers to stay the fiery ruin.  Oh, no! we must not touch the traffic.  All the dearest and best interests of society may suffer; but the rum-seller must be protected.  He must be allowed to get gain, if the jails and poorhouses are filled, and the graveyards made fat with the bodies of young men stricken down in the flower of their years, and of wives and mothers who have died of broken hearts.  Reform, we are told, must commence at home.  We must rear temperate children, and then we shall have temperate men.  That when there are none to desire liquor, the rum-seller’s traffic will cease.  And all the while society’s true benefactors are engaged in doing this, the weak, the unsuspecting, and the erring must be left an easy prey, even if the work requires for its accomplishment a hundred years.  Sir! a human soul destroyed through the rum-seller’s infernal agency, is a sacrifice priceless in value.  No considerations of worldly gain can, for an instant, be placed in comparison therewith.  And yet souls are destroyed by thousands every year; and they will fall by tens of thousands ere society awakens from its fatal indifference, and lays its strong hand of power on the corrupt men who are scattering disease, ruin, and death, broadcast over the land!

“I always get warm on this subject,” he added, repressing his enthusiasm.  “And who that observes and reflects can help growing excited?  The evil is appalling; and the indifference of the community one of the strangest facts of the day.”

While he was yet speaking, the elder Mr. Hammond came in.  He looked wretched.  The redness and humidity of his eyes showed want of sleep, and the relaxed muscles of his face exhaustion from weariness and suffering.  He drew the person with whom I had been talking aside, and continued an earnest conversation with him for many minutes—­often gesticulating violently.  I could see his face, though I heard nothing of what he said.  The play of his features was painful to look upon, for every changing muscle showed a new phase of mental suffering.

“Try and see him, will you not?” he said, as he turned, at length, to leave the office.

“I will go there immediately,” was answered.

“Bring him home, if possible.”

“My very best efforts shall be made.”

Judge Hammond bowed and went out hurriedly.

“Do you know the number of the room occupied by the man Green?” asked the gentleman, as soon as his visitor had retired.

“Yes.  It is No. 11.”

“Willy has not been home since last night.  His father, at this late day, suspects Green to be a gambler.  The truth flashed upon him only yesterday; and this, added to his other sources of trouble, is driving him, so he says, almost mad.  As a friend, he wishes me to go to the ‘Sickle and Sheaf,’ and try and find Willy.  Have you seen any thing of him this morning?”

I answered in the negative.

“Nor of Green?”

“No.”

“Was Slade about when you left the tavern?”

“I saw nothing of him.”

“What Judge Hammond fears may be all too true—­that, in the present condition of Willy’s affairs, which have reached the point of disaster, his tempter means to secure the largest possible share of property yet in his power to pledge or transfer,—­to squeeze from his victim the last drop of blood that remains, and then fling him, ruthlessly, from his hands.”

“The young man must have been rendered almost desperate, or he would never have returned, as he did, last night.  Did you mention this to his father?”

“No.  It would have distressed him the more, without effecting any good.  He is wretched enough.  But time passes, and none is to be lost now.  Will you go with me?”

I walked to the tavern with him; and we went into the bar together.  Two or three men were at the counter, drinking.

“Is Mr. Green about this morning?” was asked by the person who had come in search of young Hammond.

“Haven’t seen any thing of him.”

“Is he in his room?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you ascertain for me?”

“Certainly.  Frank,”—­and he spoke to the landlord’s son, who was lounging on a settee,—­“I wish you would see if Mr. Green is in his room.”

“Go and see yourself.  I’m not your waiter,” was growled back, in an ill-natured voice.

“In a moment I’ll ascertain for you,” said Matthew, politely.

After waiting on some new customers, who were just entering, Matthew went up-stairs to obtain the desired information.  As he left the bar-room, Frank got up and went behind the counter, where he mixed himself a glass of liquor, and drank it off, evidently with real enjoyment.

“Rather a dangerous business for one so young as you are,” remarked the gentleman with whom I had come, as Frank stepped out of the bar, and passed near where we were standing.  The only answer to this was an ill-natured frown, and an expression of face which said almost as plainly as words, “It is none of your business.”

“Not there,” said Matthew, now coming in.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

But there was a certain involuntary hesitation in the bar-keeper’s manner, which led to a suspicion that his answer was not in accordance with the truth.  We walked out together, conferring on the subject, and both concluded that his word was not to be relied upon.

“What is to be done?” was asked.

“Go to Green’s room,” I replied, “and knock at the door.  If he is there, he may answer, not suspecting your errand.”

“Show me the room.”

I went up with him, and pointed out No. 11.  He knocked lightly, but there came no sound from within.  He repeated the knock; all was silent.  Again and again he knocked, but there came back only a hollow reverberation.

“There’s no one there,” said he, returning to where I stood, and we walked down-stairs together.  On the landing, as we reached the lower passage, we met Mrs. Slade.  I had not, during this visit at Cedarville, stood face to face with her before.  Oh! what a wreck she presented, with her pale, shrunken countenance, hollow, lustreless eyes, and bent, feeble body.  I almost shuddered as I looked at her.  What a haunting and sternly rebuking spectre she must have moved, daily, before the eyes of her husband.

“Have you noticed Mr. Green about this morning”?” I asked.

“He hasn’t come down from his room yet,” she replied.

“Are you certain?” said my companion.  “I knocked several times at the door just now, but received no answer.”

“What do you want with him?” asked Mrs. Slade, fixing her eyes upon us.

“We are in search of Willy Hammond; and it has been suggested that he was with Green.”

“Knock twice lightly, and then three times more firmly,” said Mrs. Slade; and as she spoke, she glided past us with noiseless tread.

“Shall we go up together?”

I did not object; for, although I had no delegated right of intrusion, my feelings were so much excited in the case, that I went forward, scarcely reflecting on the propriety of so doing.

The signal knock found instant answer.  The door was softly opened, and the unshaven face of Simon Slade presented itself.

“Mr. Jacobs!” he said, with surprise in his tones.  “Do you wish to see me?”

“No, sir; I wish to see Mr. Green,” and with a quick, firm pressure against the door, he pushed it wide open.  The same party was there that I had seen on the night before,—­Green, young Hammond, Judge Lyman, and Slade.  On the table at which the three former were sitting, were cards, slips of paper, an ink-stand and pens, and a pile of bank-notes.  On a side-table, or, rather, butler’s tray, were bottles, decanters, and glasses.

“Judge Lyman!  Is it possible?” exclaimed Mr. Jacobs, the name of my companion.  “I did not expect to find you here.”

Green instantly swept his hands over the table to secure the money and bills it contained; but, ere he had accomplished his purpose, young Hammond grappled three or four narrow strips of paper, and hastily tore them into shreds.

“You’re a cheating scoundrel!” cried Green, fiercely, thrusting his hand into his bosom as if to draw from thence a weapon; but the words were scarcely uttered, ere Hammond sprung upon him with the fierceness of a tiger, bearing him down upon the floor.  Both hands were already about the gambler’s neck, and, ere the bewildered spectators could interfere, and drag him off.  Green was purple in the face, and nearly strangled.

“Call me a cheating scoundrel!” said Hammond, foaming at the mouth, as he spoke,—­“Me, whom you have followed like a thirsty blood-hound.  Me! whom you have robbed, and cheated, and debased from the beginning!  Oh! for a pistol to rid the earth of the blackest-hearted villain that walks its surface.  Let me go, gentlemen!  I have nothing left in the world to care for,—­there is no consequence I fear.  Let me do society one good service before T die’”

And, with one vigorous effort, he swept himself clear of the hands that were pinioning him, and sprung again upon the gambler with the fierce energy of a savage beast.  By this time, Green had got his knife free from its sheath, and, as Hammond was closing upon him in his blind rage, plunged it into his side.  Quick almost as lightning, the knife was withdrawn, and two more stabs inflicted ere we could seize and disarm the murderer.  As we did so, Willy Hammond fell over with a deep groan, the blood flowing from his side.

In the terror and excitement that followed, Green rushed from the room.  The doctor, who was instantly summoned, after carefully examining the wound, and the condition of the unhappy young man, gave it as his opinion that he was fatally injured.

Oh! the anguish of the father, who had quickly heard of the dreadful occurrence, when this announcement was made.  I never saw such fearful agony in any human countenance.  The calmest of all the anxious group was Willy himself.  On his father’s face his eyes were fixed as if by a kind of fascination.

“Are you in much pain, my poor boy!” sobbed the old man, stooping over him, until his long white hair mingled with the damp locks of the sufferer.

“Not much, father,” was the whispered reply.  “Don’t speak of this to mother, yet.  I’m afraid it will kill her.”

What could the father answer?  Nothing!  And he was silent.

“Does she know of it?” A shadow went over his face.

Mr. Hammond shook his head.

Yet, even as he spoke, a wild cry of distress was heard below.  Some indiscreet person had borne to the ears of the mother the fearful news about her son, and she had come wildly flying toward the tavern, and was just entering.

“It is my poor mother,” said Willy, a flush coming into his pale face.  “Who could have told her of this?”

Mr. Hammond started for the door, but ere he had reached it, the distracted mother entered.

“Oh!  Willy, my boy! my boy!” she exclaimed, in tones of anguish that made the heart shudder.  And she crouched down on the floor, the moment she reached the bed whereon he lay, and pressed her lips—­oh, so tenderly and lovingly!—­to his.

“Dear mother!  Sweet mother!  Best of mothers!” He even smiled as he said this; and, into the face now bent over him, looked up with glances of unutterable fondness.

“Oh, Willy!  Willy!  Willy! my son, my son!” And again her lips were laid closely to his.

Mr. Hammond now interfered, and endeavored to remove his wife, fearing for the consequence upon his son.

“Don’t, father!” said Willy; “let her remain.  I am not excited nor disturbed.  I am glad that she is here, now.  It will be best for us both.”

“You must not excite him, dear,” said Mr. Hammond—­“he is very weak.”

“I’ll not excite him,” answered the mother.  “I’ll not speak a word.  There, love”—­and she laid her fingers softly upon the lips of her son—­“don’t speak a single word.”

For only a few moments did she sit with the quiet formality of a nurse, who feels how much depends on the repose of her patient.  Then she began weeping, moaning, and wringing her hands.

“Mother!” The feeble voice of Willy stilled, instantly, the tempest of feeling.  “Mother, kiss me!”

She bent down and kissed him.

“Are you there, mother?” His eyes moved about, with a straining motion.

“Yes, love, here I am.”

“I don’t see you, mother.  It’s getting so dark.  Oh, mother! mother!” he shouted suddenly, starting up and throwing himself forward upon her bosom—­“save me! save me!”

How quickly did the mother clasp her arms around him—­how eagerly did she strain him to her bosom!  The doctor, fearing the worst consequences, now came forward, and endeavored to release the arms of Mrs. Hammond, but she resisted every attempt to do so.

“I will save you, my son,” she murmured in the ear of the young man.  “Your mother will protect you.  Oh! if you had never left her side, nothing on earth could have done you harm.”

“He is dead!” I heard the doctor whisper; and a thrill of horror went through me.  The words reached the ears of Mr. Hammond, and his groan was one of almost mortal agony.

“Who says he is dead?” came sharply from the lips of the mother, as she pressed the form of her child back upon the bed from which he had sprung to her arms, and looked wildly upon his face.  One long scream of horror told of her convictions, and she fell, lifeless, across the body of her dead son!

All in the room believed that Mrs. Hammond had only fainted.  But the doctor’s perplexed, troubled countenance, as he ordered her carried into another apartment, and the ghastliness of her face when it was upturned to the light, suggested to every one what proved to be true.  Even to her obscured perceptions, the consciousness that her son was dead came with a terrible vividness—­so terrible, that it extinguished her life.

Like fire among dry stubble ran the news of this fearful event through Cedarville.  The whole town was wild with excitement.  The prominent fact, that Willy Hammond had been murdered by Green, whose real profession was known by many, and now declared to all, was on every tongue; but a hundred different and exaggerated stories as to the cause and the particulars of the event were in circulation.  By the time preparations to remove the dead bodies of mother and son from the “Sickle and Sheaf” to the residence of Mr. Hammond were completed, hundreds of people, men, women, and children, were assembled around the tavern and many voices were clamorous for Green; while some called out for Judge Lyman, whose name, it thus appeared, had become associated in the minds of the people with the murderous affair.  The appearance, in the midst of this excitement, of the two dead bodies, borne forth on settees, did not tend to allay the feverish state of indignation that prevailed.  From more than one voice, I heard the words, “Lynch the scoundrel!”

A part of the crowd followed the sad procession, while the greater portion, consisting of men, remained about the tavern.  All bodies, no matter for what purpose assembled, quickly find leading spirits who, feeling the great moving impulse, give it voice and direction.  It was so in this case.  Intense indignation against Green was firing every bosom; and when a man elevated himself a few feet above the agitated mass of humanity, and cried out: 

“The murderer must not escape!”

A wild responding shout, terrible in its fierceness, made the air quiver.

“Let ten men be chosen to search the house and premises,” said the leading spirit.

“Ay! ay!  Choose them!  Name them!” was quickly answered.

Ten men were called by name, who instantly stepped in front of the crowd.

“Search everywhere; from garret to cellar; from hayloft to dog-kennel.  Everywhere! everywhere!” cried the man.

And instantly the ten men entered the house.  For nearly a quarter of an hour, the crowd waited with increasing signs of impatience.  These delegates at length appeared, with the announcement that Green was nowhere about the premises.  It was received with a groan.

“Let no man in Cedarville do a stroke of work until the murderer is found,” now shouted the individual who still occupied his elevated position.

“Agreed! agreed!  No work in Cedarville until the murderer is found,” rang out fiercely.

“Let all who have horses saddle and bridle them as quickly as possible, and assemble, mounted, at the Court House.”

About fifty men left the crowd hastily.

“Let the crowd part in the centre, up and down the road, starting from a line in front of me.”

This order was obeyed.

“Separate again, taking the centre of the road for a line.”

Four distinct bodies of men stood now in front of the tavern.

“Now search for the murderer in every nook and corner, for a distance of three miles from this spot; each party keeping to its own section; the road being one dividing line, and a line through the centre of this tavern the other.  The horsemen will pursue the wretch to a greater distance.”

More than a hundred acquiescing voices responded to this, as the man sprung down from his elevation and mingled with the crowd, which began instantly to move away on its appointed mission.

As the hours went by, one, and another, and another, of the searching party returned to the village, wearied with their efforts, or confident that the murderer had made good his escape.  The horsemen, too, began to come in, during the afternoon, and by sundown, the last of them, worn out and disappointed, made their appearance.

For hours after the exciting events of the forenoon, there were but few visitors at the “Sickle and Sheaf.”  Slade, who did not show himself among the crowd, came down soon after its dispersion.  He had shaved and put on clean linen; but still bore many evidences of a night spent without sleep.  His eyes were red and heavy and the eyelids swollen; while his skin was relaxed and colorless.  As he descended the stairs, I was walking in the passage.  He looked shy at me, and merely nodded.  Guilt was written plainly on his countenance; and with it was blended anxiety and alarm.  That he might be involved in trouble, he had reason to fear; for he was one of the party engaged in gambling in Green’s room, as both Mr. Jacobs and I had witnessed.

“This is dreadful business,” said he, as we met, face to face, half an hour afterward.  He did not look me steadily in the eyes.

“It is horrible!” I answered.  “To corrupt and ruin a young man, and then murder him!  There are few deeds in the catalogue of crime blacker than this!”

“It was done in the heat of passion,” said the landlord, with something of an apology in his manner.  “Green never meant to kill him.”

“In peaceful intercourse with his fellow-men, why did he carry a deadly weapon?  There was murder in his heart, sir.”

“That is speaking very strongly.”

“Not stronger than the facts will warrant,” I replied.  “That Green is a murderer in heart, it needed not this awful consummation to show.  With a cool, deliberate purpose, he has sought, from the beginning, to destroy young Hammond.”

“It is hardly fair,” answered Slade, “in the present feverish excitement against Green, to assume such a questionable position.  It may do him a great wrong.”

“Did Willy Hammond speak only idle words, when he accused Green of having followed him like a thirsty bloodhound?—­of having robbed, and cheated, and debased him from the beginning?”

“He was terribly excited at the moment.”

“Yes,” said I, “no ear that heard his words could for an instant doubt that they were truthful utterances, wrung from a maddened heart.”

My earnest, positive manner had its effect upon Slade.  He knew that what I asserted, the whole history of Green’s intercourse with young Hammond would prove; and he had, moreover, the guilty consciousness of being a party to the young man’s ruin.  His eyes cowered beneath the steady gaze I fixed upon him.  I thought of him as one implicated in the murder, and my thoughts must have been visible in my face.

“One murder will not justify another,” said he.

“There is no justification for murder on any plea,” was my response.

“And yet, if these infuriated men find Green, they will murder him.”

“I hope not.  Indignation at a horrible crime has fearfully excited the people.  But I think their sense of justice is strong enough to prevent the consequences you apprehend.”

“I would not like to be in Green’s shoes,” said the landlord, with an uneasy movement.

I looked him closely in the face.  It was the punishment of the man’s crime that seemed so fearful in his eyes; not the crime itself.  Alas! how the corrupting traffic had debased him.

My words were so little relished by Slade, that he found some ready excuse to leave me.  I saw little more of him during the day.

As evening began to fall, the gambler’s unsuccessful pursuers, one after another, found their way to the tavern, and by the time night had fairly closed in, the bar-room was crowded with excited and angry men, chafing over their disappointment, and loud in their threats of vengeance.  That Green had made good his escape, was now the general belief; and the stronger this conviction became, the more steadily did the current of passion begin to set in a new direction.  It had become known to every one that, besides Green and young Hammond, Judge Lyman and Slade were in the room engaged in playing cards.  The merest suggestion as to the complicity of these two men with Green in ruining Hammond, and thus driving him mad, was enough to excite strong feelings against them; and now that the mob had been cheated out of its victim, its pent-up indignation sought eagerly some new channel.

“Where’s Slade?” some one asked, in a loud voice, from the centre of the crowded bar-room.  “Why does he keep himself out of sight?”

“Yes; where’s the landlord?” half a dozen voices responded.

“Did he go on the hunt?” some one inquired.

“No!” “No!” “No!” ran around the room.  “Not he.”

“And yet, the murder was committed in his own house, and before his own eyes!”

“Yes, before his own eyes!” repeated one and another, indignantly.

“Where’s Slade?  Where’s the landlord?  Has anybody seen him tonight?  Matthew, where’s Simon Slade?”

From lip to lip passed these interrogations; while the crowd of men became agitated, and swayed to and fro.

“I don’t think he’s home,” answered the bar-keeper, in a hesitating manner, and with visible alarm.

“How long since he was here?”

“I haven’t seen him for a couple of hours.”

“That’s a lie!” was sharply said.

“Who says it’s a lie?” Matthew affected to be strongly indignant.

“I do!” And a rough, fierce-looking man confronted him.

“What right have you to say so?” asked Matthew, cooling off considerably.

“Because you lie!” said the man, boldly.  “You’ve seen him within a less time than half an hour, and well you know it.  Now, if you wish to keep yourself out of this trouble, answer truly.  We are in no mood to deal with liars or equivocators.  Where is Simon Slade?”

“I do not know,” replied Matthew, firmly.

“Is he in the house?”

“He may be, or he may not be.  I am just as ignorant of his exact whereabouts as you are.”

“Will you look for him?”

Matthew stepped to the door, opening from behind the bar, and called the name of Frank.

“What’s wanted?” growled the boy.

“Is your father in the house?”

“I don’t know, nor don’t care,” was responded in the same ungracious manner.

“Someone bring him into the bar-room, and we’ll see if we can’t make him care a little.”

The suggestion was no sooner made, than two men glided behind the bar, and passed into the room from whence the voice of Frank had issued.  A moment after they reappeared, each grasping an arm of the boy, and bearing him like a weak child between them.  He looked thoroughly frightened at this unlooked-for invasion of his liberty.

“See here, young man.”  One of the leading spirits of the crowd addressed him, as soon as he was brought in front of the counter.  “If you wish to keep out of trouble, answer our questions at once, and to the point.  We are in no mood for trifling.  Where’s your father?”

“Somewhere about the house, I believe,” Frank replied, in an humble tone.  He was no little scared at the summary manner with which he had been treated.

“How long since you saw him?”

“Not long ago.”

“Ten minutes.”

“No; nearly half an hour.”

“Where was he then?”

“He was going up-stairs.”

“Very well, we want him.  See him, and tell him so.”

Frank went into the house, but came back into the bar-room after an absence of nearly five minutes, and said that he could not find his father anywhere.

“Where is he then?” was angrily demanded.

“Indeed, gentlemen, I don’t know.”  Frank’s anxious look and frightened manner showed that he spoke truly.

“There’s something wrong about this—­something wrong—­wrong,” said one of the men.  “Why should he be absent now?  Why has he taken no steps to secure the man who committed a murder in his own house, and before his own eyes?

“I shouldn’t wonder if he aided him to escape,” said another, making this serious charge with a restlessness and want of evidence that illustrated the reckless and unjust spirit by which the mob is ever governed.

“No doubt of it in the least!” was the quick and positive response.  And at once this erroneous conviction seized upon every one.  Not a single fact was presented.  The simple, bold assertion, that no doubt existed in the mind of one man as to Slade’s having aided Green to escape, was sufficient for the unreflecting mob.

“Where is he?  Where is he?  Let us find him.  He knows where Green is, and he shall reveal the secret.”

This was enough.  The passions of the crowd were at fever heat again.  Two or three men were chosen to search the house and premises, while others dispersed to take a wider range.  One of the men who volunteered to go over the house was a person named Lyon, with whom I had formed some acquaintance, and several times conversed with on the state of affairs in Cedarville.  He still remained too good a customer at the bar.  I left the bar at the same time that he did, and went up to my room.  We walked side by side, and parted at my door, I going in, and he continuing on to make his searches.  I felt, of course, anxious and much excited, as well in consequence of the events of the day, as the present aspect of things.  My head was aching violently, and in the hope of getting relief, I laid myself down.  I had already lighted a candle, and turned the key in my door to prevent intrusion.  Only for a short time did I lie, listening to the hum of voices that came with a hoarse murmur from below, to the sound of feet moving along the passages, and to the continual opening and shutting of doors, when something like suppressed breathing reached my ears, I started up instantly, and listened; but my quickened pulses were now audible to my own sense, and obscured what was external.

“It is only imagination,” I said to myself.  Still, I sat upright, listening.

Satisfied, at length, that all was mere fancy, I laid myself back on the pillow, and tried to turn my thoughts away from the suggested idea that some one was in the room.  Scarcely had I succeeded in this, when my heart gave a new impulse, as a sound like a movement fell upon my ears.

“Mere fancy!” I said to myself, as some one went past the door at the moment.  “My mind is overexcited.”

Still I raised my head, supporting it with my hand, and listened, directing my attention inside, and not outside of the room.  I was about letting my head fall back upon the pillow, when a slight cough, so distinct as not to be mistaken, caused me to spring to the floor, and look under the bed.  The mystery was explained.  A pair of eyes glittered in the candlelight.  The fugitive, Green, was under my bed.  For some moments I stood looking at him, so astonished that I had neither utterance nor decision; while he glared at me with a fierce defiance.  I saw that he was clutching a revolver.

“Understand!” he said, in a grating whisper, “that I am not to be taken alive.”

I let the blanket, which had concealed him from view, fall from my hand, and then tried to collect my thoughts.

“Escape is impossible,” said I, again lifting the temporary curtain by which he was hid.  “The whole town is armed, and on the search; and should you fall into the hands of the mob, in its present state of exasperation, your life would not be safe an instant.  Remain, then, quiet, where you are, until I can see the sheriff, to whom you had better resign yourself, for there’s little chance for you except under his protection.”

After a brief parley he consented that things should take this course, and I went out, locking the room door after me, and started in search of the sheriff.  On the information I gave, the sheriff acted promptly.  With five officers, fully armed for defence, in case an effort were made to get the prisoner out of their hands, he repaired immediately to the “Sickle and Sheaf.”  I had given the key of my room into his possession.

The appearance of the sheriff, with his posse, was sufficient to start the suggestion that Green was somewhere concealed in the house; and a suggestion was only needed to cause the fact to be assumed, and unhesitatingly declared.  Intelligence went through the reassembling crowd like an electric current, and ere the sheriff could manacle and lead forth his prisoner, the stairway down which he had to come was packed with bodies, and echoing with oaths and maledictions.

“Gentlemen, clear the way!” cried the sheriff, as he appeared with the white and trembling culprit at the head of the stairs.  “The murderer is now in the hands of the law, and will meet the sure consequences of his crime.”

A shout of execration rent the air; but not a single individual stirred.

“Give way, there!  Give way!” And the sheriff took a step or two forward, but the prisoner held back.

“Oh, the murdering villain!  The cursed blackleg!  Where’s Willy Hammond?” was heard distinctly above the confused mingling of voices.

“Gentlemen! the law must have its course; and no good citizen will oppose the law.  It is made for your protection—­for mine—­and for that of the prisoner.”

“Lynch law is good enough for him,” shouted a savage voice.  “Hand him over to us, sheriff, and we’ll save you the trouble of hanging him, and the county the cost of the gallows.  We’ll do the business right.”

Five men, each armed with a revolver, now ranged themselves around the sheriff, and the latter said firmly: 

“It is my duty to see this man safely conveyed to prison; and I’m going to do my duty.  If there is any more blood shed here, the blame will rest with you.”  And the body of officers pressed forward, the mob slowly retreating before them.

Green, overwhelmed with terror, held back.  I was standing where I could see his face.  It was ghastly with mortal fear.  Grasping his pinioned arms, the sheriff forced him onward.  After contending with the crowd for nearly ten minutes, the officers gained the passage below; but the mob was denser here, and blocking up the door, resolutely maintained their position.

Again and again the sheriff appealed to the good sense and justice of the people.

“The prisoner will have to stand a trial and the law will execute sure vengeance.”

“No, it won’t!” was sternly responded.

“Who’ll be judge in the case?” was asked.

“Why, Judge Lyman!” was contemptuously answered.

“A blackleg himself!” was shouted by two or three voices.

“Blackleg judge, and blackleg lawyers!  Oh, yes!  The law will execute sure vengeance!  Who was in the room gambling with Green and Hammond?”

“Judge Lyman!” “Judge Lyman!” was answered back.

“It won’t do, sheriff!  There’s no law in the country to reach the case but Lynch law; and that the scoundrel must have.  Give him to us!”

“Never!  On, men, with the prisoner!” cried the sheriff resolutely, and the posse made a rush toward the door, bearing back the resisting and now infuriated crowd.  Shouts, cries, oaths, and savage imprecations blended in wild discord; in the midst of which my blood was chilled by the sharp crack of a pistol.  Another and another shot followed; and then, as a cry of pain thrilled the air, the fierce storm hushed its fury in an instant.

“Who’s shot?  Is he killed?”

There was a breathless eagerness for the answer.

“It’s the gambler!” was replied.  “Somebody has shot Green.”

A low muttered invective against the victim was heard here and there; but the announcement was not received with a shout of exultation, though there was scarcely a heart that did not feel pleasure at the sacrifice of Harvey Green’s life.

It was true as had been declared.  Whether the shot were aimed deliberately, or guided by an unseen hand to the heart of the gambler, was never known; nor did the most careful examination, instituted afterward by the county, elicit any information that even directed suspicion toward the individual who became the agent of his death.

At the coroner’s inquest, held over the dead body of Harvey Green, Simon Slade was present.  Where he had concealed himself while the mob were in search of him, was not known.  He looked haggard; and his eyes were anxious and restless.  Two murders in his house, occurring in a single day, were quite enough to darken his spirits; and the more so, as his relations with both the victims were not of a character to awaken any thing but self-accusation.

As for the mob, in the death of Green its eager thirst for vengeance was satisfied.  Nothing more was said against Slade, as a participator in the ruin and death of young Hammond.  The popular feeling was one of pity rather than indignation toward the landlord; for it was seen that he was deeply troubled.

One thing I noticed, and it was that the drinking at the bar was not suspended for a moment.  A large proportion of those who made up the crowd of Green’s angry pursuers were excited by drink as well as indignation, and I am very sure that, but for the maddening effects of liquor, the fatal shot would never have been fired.  After the fearful catastrophe, and when every mind was sobered, or ought to have been sobered, the crowd returned to the bar-room, where the drinking was renewed.  So rapid were the calls for liquor, that both Matthew and Frank, the landlord’s son, were kept busy mixing the various compounds demanded by the thirsty customers.

From the constant stream of human beings that flowed toward the “Sickle and Sheaf,” after the news of Green’s discovery and death went forth, it seemed as if every man and boy within a distance of two or three miles had received intelligence of the event.  Few, very, of those who came, but went first into the bar-room; and nearly all who entered the bar-room called for liquor.  In an hour after the death of Green, the fact that his dead body was laid out in the room immediately adjoining, seemed utterly to pass from the consciousness of every one in the bar.  The calls for liquor were incessant; and, as the excitement of drink increased, voices grew louder, and oaths more plentiful, while the sounds of laughter ceased not for an instant.

“They’re giving him a regular Irish wake,” I heard remarked, with a brutal laugh.

I turned to the speaker, and, to my great surprise, saw that it was Judge Lyman, more under the influence of drink than I remembered to have seen him.  He was about the last man I expected to find here.  If he knew of the strong indignation expressed toward him a little while before, by some of the very men now excited with liquor, his own free drinking had extinguished fear.

“Yes, curse him!” was the answer.  “If they have a particularly hot corner ‘away down below,’ I hope he’s made its acquaintance before this.”

“Most likely he’s smelled brimstone,” chuckled the judge.

“Smelled it!  If old Clubfoot hasn’t treated him with a brimstone-bath long before this, he hasn’t done his duty.  If I thought as much, I’d vote for sending his majesty a remonstrance forthwith.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the judge.  “You’re warm on the subject.”

“Ain’t I?  The blackleg scoundrel!  Hell’s too good for him.”

“H-u-s-h!  Don’t let your indignation run into profanity,” said Judge Lyman, trying to assume a serious air; but the muscles of his face but feebly obeyed his will’s feeble effort.

“Profanity!  Poh!  I don’t call that profanity.  It’s only speaking out in meeting, as they say,—­it’s only calling black, black—­and white, white.  You believe in a hell, don’t you, judge?”

“I suppose there is one; though I don’t know very certain.”

“You’d better be certain!” said the other, meaningly.

“Why so?”

“Oh! because if there is one, and you don’t cut your cards a little differently, you’ll be apt to find it at the end of your journey.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the judge, retreating somewhat into himself, and trying to look dignified.

“Just what I say,” was unhesitatingly answered.

“Do you mean to insinuate any thing?” asked the judge, whose brows were beginning to knit themselves.

“Nobody thinks you a saint,” replied the man, roughly.

“I never professed to be.”

“And it is said”—­the man fixed his gaze almost insultingly upon Judge Lyman’s face—­“that you’ll get about as hot a corner in the lower regions as is to be found there, whenever you make the journey in that direction.”

“You are insolent!” exclaimed the judge, his face becoming inflamed.

“Take care what you say, sir!” The man spoke threateningly.

“You’d better take care what you say.”

“So I will,” replied the other.  “But—­”

“What’s to pay here?” inquired a third party, coming up at the moment, and interrupting the speaker.

“The devil will be to pay,” said Judge Lyman, “if somebody don’t look out sharp.”

“Do you mean that for me, ha?” The man, between whom and himself this slight contention had so quickly sprung up, began stripping back his coat sleeves, like one about to commence boxing.

“I mean it for anybody who presumes to offer me an insult.”

The raised voices of the two men now drew toward them the attention of every one in the bar-room.

“The devil!  There’s Judge Lyman!” I heard some one exclaim, in a tone of surprise.

“Wasn’t he in the room with Green when Willy Hammond was murdered?” asked another.

“Yes, he was; and what’s more, it is said he had been playing against him all night, he and Green sharing the plunder.”

This last remark came distinctly to the ears of Lyman, who started to his feet instantly, exclaiming fiercely: 

“Whoever says that is a cursed liar!”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before a blow staggered him against the wall, near which he was standing.  Another blow felled him, and then his assailant sprang over his prostrate body, kicking him, and stamping upon his face and breast in the most brutal, shocking manner.

“Kill him!  He’s worse than Green!” somebody cried out, in a voice so full of cruelty and murder that it made my blood curdle.  “Remember Willy Hammond!”

The terrible scene that followed, in which were heard a confused mingling of blows, cries, yells, and horrible oaths, continued for several minutes, and ceased only when the words—­“Don’t, don’t strike him any more!  He’s dead!” were repeated several times.  Then the wild strife subsided.  As the crowd parted from around the body of Judge Lyman, and gave way, I caught a single glance at his face.  It was covered with blood, and every feature seemed to have been literally trampled down, until all was a level surface!  Sickened at the sight, I passed hastily from the room into the open air, and caught my breath several times, before respiration again went on freely.  As I stood in front of the tavern, the body of Judge Lyman was borne out by three or four men, and carried off in the direction of his dwelling.

“Is he dead?” I inquired of those who had him in charge.

“No,” was the answer.  “He’s not dead, but terribly beaten,” and they passed on.

Again the loud voices of men in angry strife arose in the bar-room.  I did not return there to learn the cause, or to witness the fiend-like conduct of the men, all whose worst passions were stimulated by drink into the wildest fervor.  As I was entering my room, the thought flashed through my mind that, as Green was found there, it needed only the bare suggestion that I had aided in his concealment, to direct toward me the insane fury of the drunken mob.

“It is not safe to remain here.”  I said this to myself, with the emphasis of a strong internal conviction.

Against this, my mind opposed a few feeble arguments; but the more I thought of the matter, the more clearly did I become satisfied, that to attempt to pass the night in that room was to me a risk it was not prudent to assume.

So I went in search of Mrs. Slade, to ask her to have another room prepared for me.  But she was not in the house; and I learned, upon inquiry, that since the murder of young Hammond, she had been suffering from repeated hysterical and fainting fits, and was now, with her daughter, at the house of a relative, whither she had been carried early in the afternoon.

It was on my lip to request the chambermaid to give me another room; but this I felt to be scarcely prudent, for if the popular indignation should happen to turn toward me, the servant would be the one questioned, most likely, as to where I had removed my quarters.

“It isn’t safe to stay in the house,” said I, speaking to myself.  “Two, perhaps three, murders have been committed already.  The tiger’s thirst for blood has been stimulated, and who can tell how quickly he may spring again, or in what direction?”

Even while I said this, there came up from the bar-room louder and madder shouts.  Then blows were heard, mingled with cries and oaths.  A shuddering sense of danger oppressed me, and I went hastily down-stairs, and out into the street.  As I gained the passage, I looked into the sitting-room, where the body of Green was laid out.  Just then, the bar-room door was burst open by a fighting party, who had been thrown, in their fierce contention, against it.  I paused only for a moment or two; and even in that brief period of time, saw blows exchanged over the dead body of the gambler!

“This is no place for me,” I said, almost aloud, and hurried from the house, and took my way to the residence of a gentleman who had shown me many kind nesses during my visits at Cedarville.  There was needed scarcely a word of representation on my part, to secure the cordial tender of a bed.

What a change!  It seemed almost like a passage from Pandemonium to a heavenly region, as I seated myself alone in the quiet chamber a cheerful hospitality had assigned me, and mused on the exciting and terrible incidents of the day.  They that sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind.  How marked had been the realization of this prophecy, couched in such strong but beautiful imagery!

On the next day I was to leave Cedarville.  Early in the morning I repaired to the “Sickle and Sheaf.”  The storm was over, and all was calm and silent as desolation.  Hours before, the tempest had subsided; but the evidences left behind of its ravaging fury were fearful to look upon.  Doors, chairs, windows, and table’s were broken, and even the strong brass rod that ornamented the bar had been partially wrenched from its fastenings by strong hands, under an impulse of murder, that only lacked a weapon to execute its fiendish purpose.  Stains of blood, in drops, marks, and even dried-up pools, were to be seen all over the bar-room and passage floors, and in many places on the porch.

In the sitting-room still lay the body of Green.  Here, too, were many signs to indicate a fierce struggle.  The looking-glass was smashed to a hundred pieces, and the shivered fragments lay yet untouched upon the floor.  A chair, which it was plain had been used as a weapon of assault, had two of its legs broken short off, and was thrown into a corner.  And even the bearers on which the dead man lay were pushed from their true position, showing that even in its mortal sleep, the body of Green had felt the jarring strife of elements he had himself helped to awaken into mad activity.  From his face, the sheet had been drawn aside; but no hand ventured to replace it; and there it lay, in its ghastly paleness, exposed to the light, and covered with restless flies, attracted by the first faint odors of putridity.  With gaze averted, I approached the body, and drew the covering decently over it.

No person was in the bar.  I went out into the stable-yard, where I met the hostler with his head bound up.  There was a dark blue circle around one of his eyes, and an ugly-looking red scar on his cheek.

“Where is Mr. Slade?” I inquired.

“In bed, and likely to keep it for a week,” was answered.

“How comes that?”

“Naturally enough.  There was fighting all around last night, and he had to come in for a share.  The fool!  If he’d just held his tongue, he might have come out of it with a whole skin.  But, when the rum is in, the wit is out, with him.  It’s cost me a black eye and a broken head; for how could I stand by and see him murdered outright?”

“Is he very badly injured?”

“I rather think he is.  One eye is clean gone.”

“Oh, shocking!”

“It’s shocking enough, and no mistake.”

“Lost an eye?”

“Too true, sir.  The doctor saw him this morning, and says the eye was fairly gouged out, and broken up.  In fact, when we carried him upstairs for dead, last night, his eye was lying upon his cheek.  I pushed it back with my own hand!”

“Oh, horrible!” The relation made me sick.  “Is he otherwise much injured?”

“The doctor thinks there are some bad hurts inside.  Why, they kicked and trampled upon him, as if he had been a wild beast!  I never saw such a pack of blood-thirsty devils in my life!”

“So much for rum,” said I.

“Yes, sir; so much for rum,” was the emphatic response.  “It was the rum, and nothing else.  Why, some of the very men who acted the most like tigers and devils, are as harmless persons as you will find in Cedarville when sober.  Yes, sir; it was the rum, and nothing else.  Rum gave me this broken head and black eye.”

“So you had been drinking also?”

“Oh, yes.  There’s no use in denying that.”

“Liquor does you harm.”

“Nobody knows that better than I do.”

“Why do you drink, then?”

“Oh, just because it comes in the way.  Liquor is under my eyes and nose all the time, and it’s as natural as breathing to take a little now and then.  And when I don’t think of it myself, somebody will think of it for me, and say—­’Come, Sam, let’s take something.’  So, you see, for a body such as I am, there isn’t much help for it.”

“But ain’t you afraid to go on in this way?  Don’t you know where it will all end?”

“Just as well as anybody.  It will make an end of me or—­of all that is good in me.  Rum and ruin, you know, sir.  They go together like twin brothers.”

“Why don’t you get out of the way of temptation?” said I.

“It’s easy enough to ask that question, sir; but how am I to get out of the way of temptation?  Where shall I go, and not find a bar in my road, and somebody to say—­’Come, Sam, let’s take a drink’?  It can’t be done, sir, nohow.  I’m a hostler, and I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“Can’t you work on a farm?”

“Yes; I can do something in that way.  But, when there are taverns and bar-rooms, as many as three or four in every mile all over the country, how are you to keep clear of them?  Figure me out that.”

“I think you’d better vote on the Maine Law side at next election,” said I.

“Faith, and I did it last time!” replied the man, with a brightening face—­“and if I’m spared, I’ll go the same ticket next year.”

“What do you think of the Law?” I asked.

“Think of it!  Bless your heart! if I was a praying man, which I’m sorry to say I ain’t—­my mother was a pious woman, sir”—­his voice fell and slightly trembled—­“if I was a praying man, sir, I’d pray, night and morning, and twenty times every day of my life, for God to put it into the hearts of the people to give us that Law.  I’d have some hope then.  But I haven’t much as it is.  There’s no use in trying to let liquor alone.”

“Do many drinking men think as you do?”

“I can count up a dozen or two myself.  It isn’t the drinking men who are so much opposed to the Maine Law as your politicians.  They throw dust in the people’s eyes about it, and make a great many, who know nothing at all of the evils of drinking in themselves, believe some bugbear story about trampling on the rights of I don’t know who, nor they either.  As for rum-sellers’ rights, I never could see any right they had to get rich by ruining poor devils such as I am.  I think, though, that we have some right to be protected against them.”

The ringing of a bell here announced the arrival of some traveler, and the hostler left me.

I learned, during the morning, that Matthew, the bar-keeper, and also the son of Mr. Slade, were both considerably hurt during the affrays in the bar-room, and were confined, temporarily, to their beds.  Mrs. Slade still continued in a distressing and dangerous state.  Judge Lyman, though shockingly injured, was not thought to be in a critical condition.

A busy day the sheriff had of it, making arrests of various parties engaged in the last night’s affairs.  Even Slade, unable as he was to lift his head from his pillow, was required to give heavy bail for his appearance at court.  Happily, I escaped the inconvenience of being held to appear as a witness, and early in the afternoon had the satisfaction of finding myself rapidly borne away in the stage-coach.  It was two years before I entered the pleasant village of Cedarville again.