by Walt Whitman
“I wish to see you alone, Mr. Covert, if convenient,” said the newcomer.
“We can talk quite well enough where we are,” answer’d the lawyer; “indeed, I don’t know that I have any leisure to talk at all, for just now I am very much press’d with business.”
“But I must speak to you,” rejoined Philip sternly, “at least I must say one thing, and that is, Mr. Covert, that you are a villain!”
“Insolent!” exclaimed the lawyer, rising behind the table, and pointing to the door: “Do you see that, sir! Let one minute longer find you the other side, or your feet may reach the landing by quicker method. Begone, sir?”
Such a threat was the more harsh to Philip, for he had rather high-strung feelings of honor. He grew almost livid with suppress’d agitation.
“I will see you again very soon,” said he, in a low but distinct manner, his lips trembling as he spoke; and left the office.
The incidents of the rest of that pleasant summer day left little impression on the young man’s mind. He roam’d to and fro without any object or destination. Along South street and by Whitehall, he watch’d with curious eyes the movements of the shipping, and the loading and unloading of cargoes; and listen’d to the merry heave-yo of the sailors and stevedores. There are some minds upon which great excitement produces the singular effect of uniting two utterly inconsistent faculties—a sort of cold apathy, and a sharp sensitiveness to all that is going on at the same time. Philip’s was one of this sort; he noticed the various differences in the apparel of a gang of wharf laborers—turn’d over in his brain whether they receiv’d wages enough to keep them comfortable, and their families also—and if they had families or not, which he tried to tell by their looks. In such petty reflections the daylight passed away. And all the while the master wish of Philip’s thoughts was a desire to see the lawyer Covert. For what purpose he himself was by no means clear.
Nightfall came at last. Still, however, the young man did not direct his steps homeward. He felt more calm, however, and entering an eating house, order’d something for his supper, which, when it was brought to him, he merely tasted, and stroll’d forth again. There was a kind of gnawing sensation of thirst within him yet, and as he pass’d a hotel, he bethought him that one little glass of spirits would perhaps be just the thing. He drank, and hour after hour wore away unconsciously; he drank not one glass, but three or four, and strong glasses they were to him, for he was habitually abstemious.
It had been a hot day and evening, and when Philip, at an advanced period of the night, emerged from the bar-room into the street, he found that a thunderstorm had just commenced. He resolutely walk’d on, however, although at every step it grew more and more blustering.
The rain now pour’d down a cataract; the shops were all shut; few of the street lamps were lighted; and there was little except the frequent flashes of lightning to show him his way. When about half the length of Chatham street, which lay in the direction he had to take, the momentary fury of the tempest forced him to turn aside into a sort of shelter form’d by the corners of the deep entrance to a Jew pawnbroker’s shop there. He had hardly drawn himself in as closely as possible, when the lightning reveal’d to him that the opposite corner of the nook was tenanted also.
“A sharp rain, this,” said the other occupant, who simultaneously beheld Philip.
The voice sounded to the young man’s ears a note which almost made him sober again. It was certainly the voice of Adam Covert. He made some commonplace reply, and waited for another flash of lightning to show him the stranger’s face. It came, and he saw that his companion was indeed his guardian.
Philip Marsh had drank deeply—(let us plead all that may be possible to you, stern moralist.) Upon his mind came swarming, and he could not drive them away, thoughts of all those insults his sister had told him of, and the bitter words Covert had spoken to her; he reflected, too, on the injuries Esther as well as himself had receiv’d, and were still likely to receive, at the hands of that bold, bad man; how mean, selfish, and unprincipled was his character—what base and cruel advantages he had taken of many poor people, entangled in his power, and of how much wrong and suffering he had been the author, and might be again through future years. The very turmoil of the elements, the harsh roll of the thunder, the vindictive beating of the rain, and the fierce glare of the wild fluid that seem’d to riot in the ferocity of the storm around him, kindled a strange sympathetic fury in the young man’s mind. Heaven itself (so deranged were his imaginations) appear’d to have provided a fitting scene and time for a deed of retribution, which to his disorder’d passion half wore the semblance of a divine justice. He remember’d not the ready solution to be found in Covert’s pressure of business, which had no doubt kept him later than usual; but fancied some mysterious intent in the ordaining that he should be there, and that they two should meet at that untimely hour. All this whirl of influence came over Philip with startling quickness at that horrid moment. He stepp’d to the side of his guardian.
“Ho!” said he, “have we met so soon, Mr. Covert? You traitor to my dead father—robber of his children! I fear to think on what I think now!”
The lawyer’s natural effrontery did not desert him.
“Unless you’d like to spend a night in the watch-house, young gentleman,” said he, after a short pause, “move on. Your father was a weak man, I remember; as for his son, his own wicked heart is his worst foe. I have never done wrong to either—that I can say, and swear it!”
“Insolent liar!” exclaimed Philip, his eye flashing out sparks of fire in the darkness.
Covert made no reply except a cool, contemptuous laugh, which stung the excited young man to double fury. He sprang upon the lawyer, and clutch’d him by the neckcloth.
“Take it, then!” he cried hoarsely, for his throat was impeded by the fiendish rage which in that black hour possess’d him. “You are not fit to live!”
He dragg’d his guardian to the earth and fell crushingly upon him, choking the shriek the poor victim but just began to utter. Then, with monstrous imprecations, he twisted a tight knot around the gasping creature’s neck, drew a clasp knife from his pocket, and touching the spring, the long sharp blade, too eager for its bloody work, flew open.
During the lull of the storm, the last strength of the prostrate man burst forth into one short loud cry of agony. At the same instant, the arm of the murderer thrust the blade, once, twice, thrice, deep in his enemy’s bosom! Not a minute had passed since that fatal exasperating laugh—but the deed was done, and the instinctive thought which came at once to the guilty one, was a thought of fear and escape.
In the unearthly pause which follow’d, Philip’s eyes gave one long searching sweep in every direction, above and around him. Above! God of the all-seeing eye! What, and who was that figure there?
“Forbear! In Jehovah’s name forbear;” cried a shrill, but clear and melodious voice.
It was as if some accusing spirit had come down to bear witness against the deed of blood. Leaning far out of an open window, appear’d a white draperied shape, its face possess’d of a wonderful youthful beauty. Long vivid glows of lightning gave Philip a full opportunity to see as clearly as though the sun had been shining at noonday. One hand of the figure was raised upward in a deprecating attitude, and his large bright black eyes bent down upon the scene below with an expression of horror and shrinking pain. Such heavenly looks, and the peculiar circumstance of the time, fill’d Philip’s heart with awe.
“Oh, if it is not yet too late,” spoke the youth again, “spare him. In God’s voice, I command, ‘Thou shalt do no murder!’ ”
The words rang like a knell in the ear of the terror-stricken and already remorseful Philip. Springing from the body, he gave a second glance up and down the walk, which was totally lonesome and deserted; then crossing into Reade street, he made his fearful way in a half state of stupor, half-bewilderment, by the nearest avenues to his home.
When the corpse of the mur
der’d lawyer was found in the morning, and the officers of justice commenced their inquiry, suspicion immediately fell upon Philip, and he was arrested. The most rigorous search, however, brought to light nothing at all implicating the young man, except his visit to Covert’s office the evening before, and his angry language there. That was by no means enough to fix so heavy a charge upon him.
The second day afterward, the whole business came before the ordinary judicial tribunal, in order that Philip might be either committed for the crime, or discharged. The testimony of Mr. Covert’s clerk stood alone. One of Philip’s employers, who, believing in his innocence, had deserted him not in this crisis, had provided him with the ablest criminal counsel in New York. The proof was declared entirely insufficient, and Philip was discharged.
The crowded court-room made way for him as he came out; hundreds of curious looks fixed upon his features, and many a jibe pass’d upon him. But of all that arena of human faces, he saw only one—a sad, pale, black-eyed one, cowering in the centre of the rest. He had seen that face twice before—the first time as a warning spectre—the second time in prison, immediately after his arrest—now for the last time. This young stranger—the son of a scorn’d race—coming to the court-room to perform an unhappy duty, with the intention of testifying to what he had seen, melted at the sight of Philip’s bloodless cheek, and of his sister’s convulsive sobs, and forbore witnessing against the murderer. Shall we applaud or condemn him? Let every reader answer the question for himself.
That afternoon Philip left New York. His friendly employer own’d a small farm some miles up the Hudson, and until the excitement of the affair was over, he advised the young man to go thither. Philip thankfully accepted the proposal, made a few preparations, took a hurried leave of Esther, and by nightfall was settled in his new abode.
And how, think you, rested Philip Marsh that night? Rested indeed! O, if those who clamor so much for the halter and the scaffold to punish crime, could have seen that sight, they might have learn’d a lesson then! Four days had elapsed since he that lay tossing upon the bed there had slumber’d. Not the slightest intermission had come to his awaken’d and tensely strung sense, during those frightful days.
Disturb’d waking dreams came to him, as he thought what he might do to gain his lost peace. Far, far away would he go! The cold roll of the murder’d man’s eye, as it turn’d up its last glance into his face—the shrill exclamation of pain—all the unearthly vividness of the posture, motions, and looks of the dead—the warning voice from above—pursued him like tormenting furies, and were never absent from his mind, asleep or awake, that long weary night. Anything, any place, to escape such horrid companionship! He would travel inland—hire himself to do hard drudgery upon some farm—work incessantly through the wide summer days, and thus force nature to bestow oblivion upon his senses, at least a little while now and then.
He would fly on, on, on, until amid different scenes and a new life, the old memories were rubb’d entirely out. He would fight bravely in himself for peace of mind. For peace he would labor and struggle—for peace he would pray!
At length after a feverish slumber of some thirty or forty minutes, the unhappy youth, waking with a nervous start, rais’d himself in bed, and saw the blessed daylight beginning to dawn. He felt the sweat trickling down his naked breast; the sheet where he had lain was quite wet with it. Dragging himself wearily, he open’d the window. Ah! that good morning air—how it refresh’d him—how he lean’d out, and drank in the fragrance of the blossoms below, and almost for the first time in his life felt how beautifully indeed God had made the earth, and that there was wonderful sweetness in mere existence. And amidst the thousand mute mouths and eloquent eyes, which appear’d as it were to look up and speak in every direction, he fancied so many invitations to come among them. Not without effort, for he was very weak, he dress’d himself, and issued forth into the open air.
Clouds of pale gold and transparent crimson draperied the eastern sky, but the sun, whose face gladden’d them into all that glory, was not yet above the horizon. It was a time and place of such rare, such Eden-like beauty! Philip paused at the summit of an upward slope, and gazed around him. Some few miles off he could see a gleam of the Hudson river, and above it a spur of those rugged cliffs scatter’d along its western shores. Nearer by were cultivated fields. The clover grew richly there, the young grain bent to the early breeze, and the air was filled with an intoxicating perfume. At his side was the large well-kept garden of his host, in which were many pretty flowers, grass plots, and a wide avenue of noble trees. As Philip gazed, the holy calming power of Nature—the invisible spirit of so much beauty and so much innocence, melted into his soul. The disturb’d passions and the feverish conflict subsided. He even felt something like envied peace of mind—a sort of joy even in the presence of all the unmarr’d goodness. It was as fair to him, guilty though he had been, as to the purest of the pure. No accusing frowns show’d in the face of the flowers, or in the green shrubs, or the branches of the trees. They, more forgiving than mankind, and distinguishing not between the children of darkness and the children of light—they at least treated him with gentleness. Was he, then a being so accurs’d? Involuntarily, he bent over a branch of red roses, and took them softly between his hands—those murderous, bloody hands! But the red roses neither wither’d nor smell’d less fragrant. And as the young man kiss’d them, and dropp’d a tear upon them, it seem’d to him that he had found pity and sympathy from Heaven itself.
Though against all the rules of story-writing, we continue our narrative of these mainly true incidents (for such they are,) no further. Only to say that the murderer soon departed for a new field of action—that he is still living—and that this is but one of thousands of cases of unravel’d, unpunish’d crime—left, not to the tribunals of man, but to a wider power and judgment.
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THE LAST LOYALIST.
“She came to me last night,
The floor gave back no tread.”
The story I am going to tell is a traditional reminiscence of a country place, in my rambles about which I have often passed the house, now unoccupied, and mostly in ruins, that was the scene of the transaction. I cannot, of course, convey to others that particular kind of influence which is derived from my being so familiar with the locality, and with the very people whose grandfathers or fathers were contemporaries of the actors in the drama I shall transcribe. I must hardly expect, therefore, that to those who hear it thro’ the medium of my pen, the narration will possess as life-like and interesting a character as it does to myself.
On a large and fertile neck of land that juts out in the Sound, stretching to the east of New York city, there stood, in the latter part of the last century, an old-fashion’d country-residence. It had been built by one of the first settlers of this section of the New World; and its occupant was originally owner of the extensive tract lying adjacent to his house, and pushing into the bosom of the salt waters. It was during the troubled times which mark’d our American Revolution that the incidents occurr’d which are the foundation of my story. Some time before the commencement of the war, the owner, whom I shall call Vanhome, was taken sick and died. For some time before his death he had lived a widower; and his only child, a lad of ten years old, was thus left an orphan. By his father’s will this child was placed implicitly under the guardianship of an uncle, a middle-aged man, who had been of late a resident in the family. His care and interest, however, were needed but a little while—not two years elaps’d after the parents were laid away to their last repose before another grave had to be prepared for the son—the child who had been so haplessly deprived of their fostering care.
The period now arrived when the great national convulsion burst forth. Sounds of strife and the clash of arms, and the angry voices of disputants, were borne along by the air, and week after week grew to still louder clamor. Families were divided; adherents to the crown, and ardent upholders of
the rebellion, were often found in the bosom of the same domestic circle. Vanhome, the uncle spoken of as guardian to the young heir, was a man who lean’d to the stern, the highhanded and the severe. He soon became known among the most energetic of the loyalists. So decided were his sentiments that, leaving the estate which he had inherited from his brother and nephew, he join’d the forces of the British king. Thenceforward, whenever his old neighbors heard of him, it was as being engaged in the cruelest outrages, the boldest inroads, or the most determin’d attacks upon the army of his countrymen or their peaceful settlements.
Eight years brought the rebel States and their leaders to that glorious epoch when the last remnant of a monarch’s rule was to leave their shores—when the last waving of the royal standard was to flutter as it should be haul’d down from the staff, and its place fill’d by the proud testimonial of our warriors’ success.
Pleasantly over the autumn fields shone the November sun, when a horseman, of somewhat military look, plodded slowly along the road that led to the old Vanhome farmhouse. There was nothing peculiar in his attire, unless it might be a red scarf which he wore tied round his waist. He was a dark-featured, sullen-eyed man; and as his glance was thrown restlessly to the right and left, his whole manner appear’d to be that of a person moving amid familiar and accustom’d scenes. Occasionally he stopp’d, and looking long and steadily at some object that attracted his attention, mutter’d to himself, like one in whose breast busy thoughts were moving. His course was evidently to the homestead itself, at which in due time he arrived. He dismounted, led his horse to the stables, and then, without knocking, though there were evident signs of occupancy around the building, the traveler made his entrance as composedly and boldly as though he were master of the whole establishment.
