The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians

by Ambrose Bierce

  THE FAMOUS GILSON BEQUEST

  It was rough on Gilson. Such was the terse, cold, but not altogetherunsympathetic judgment of the better public opinion at Mammon Hill--thedictum of respectability. The verdict of the opposite, or rather theopposing, element--the element that lurked red-eyed and restless aboutMoll Gurney's "deadfall," while respectability took it with sugar at Mr.Jo. Bentley's gorgeous "saloon"--was to pretty much the same generaleffect, though somewhat more ornately expressed by the use ofpicturesque expletives, which it is needless to quote. Virtually, MammonHill was a unit on the Gilson question. And it must be confessed that ina merely temporal sense all was not well with Mr. Gilson. He had thatmorning been led into town by Mr. Brentshaw and publicly charged withhorse stealing; the sheriff meantime busying himself about The Tree witha new manila rope and Carpenter Pete being actively employed betweendrinks upon a pine box about the length and breadth of Mr. Gilson.Society having rendered its verdict, there remained between Gilson andeternity only the decent formality of a trial.

  These are the short and simple annals of the prisoner: He had recentlybeen a resident of New Jerusalem, on the north fork of the Little Stony,but had come to the newly discovered placers of Mammon Hill immediatelybefore the "rush" by which the former place was depopulated. Thediscovery of the new diggings had occurred opportunely for Mr. Gilson,for it had only just before been intimated to him by a New Jerusalemvigilance committee that it would better his prospects in, and for, lifeto go somewhere; and the list of places to which he could safely go didnot include any of the older camps; so he naturally established himselfat Mammon Hill. Being eventually followed thither by all his judges, heordered his conduct with considerable circumspection, but as he hadnever been known to do an honest day's work at any industry sanctionedby the stern local code of morality except draw poker he was still anobject of suspicion. Indeed, it was conjectured that he was the authorof the many daring depredations that had recently been committed withpan and brush on the sluice boxes.

  Prominent among those in whom this suspicion had ripened into asteadfast conviction was Mr. Brentshaw. At all seasonable andunseasonable times Mr. Brentshaw avowed his belief in Mr. Gilson'sconnection with these unholy midnight enterprises, and his ownwillingness to prepare a way for the solar beams through the body of anyone who might think it expedient to utter a different opinion--which, inhis presence, no one was more careful not to do than the peace-lovingperson most concerned. Whatever may have been the truth of the matter,it is certain that Gilson frequently lost more "clean dust" at Jo.Bentley's faro table than it was recorded in local history that he hadever honestly earned at draw poker in all the days of the camp'sexistence. But at last Mr. Bentley--fearing, it may be, to lose the moreprofitable patronage of Mr. Brentshaw--peremptorily refused to letGilson copper the queen, intimating at the same time, in his frank,forthright way, that the privilege of losing money at "this bank" was ablessing appertaining to, proceeding logically from, and coterminouswith, a condition of notorious commercial righteousness and social goodrepute.

  The Hill thought it high time to look after a person whom its mosthonored citizen had felt it his duty to rebuke at a considerablepersonal sacrifice. The New Jerusalem contingent, particularly, began toabate something of the toleration begotten of amusement at their ownblunder in exiling an objectionable neighbor from the place which theyhad left to the place whither they had come. Mammon Hill was at last ofone mind. Not much was said, but that Gilson must hang was "in the air."But at this critical juncture in his affairs he showed signs of analtered life if not a changed heart. Perhaps it was only that "the bank"being closed against him he had no further use for gold dust. Anyhow thesluice boxes were molested no more forever. But it was impossible torepress the abounding energies of such a nature as his, and hecontinued, possibly from habit, the tortuous courses which he hadpursued for profit of Mr. Bentley. After a few tentative and resultlessundertakings in the way of highway robbery--if one may venture todesignate road-agency by so harsh a name--he made one or two modestessays in horse-herding, and it was in the midst of a promisingenterprise of this character, and just as he had taken the tide in hisaffairs at its flood, that he made shipwreck. For on a misty, moonlightnight Mr. Brentshaw rode up alongside a person who was evidently leavingthat part of the country, laid a hand upon the halter connecting Mr.Gilson's wrist with Mr. Harper's bay mare, tapped him familiarly on thecheek with the barrel of a navy revolver and requested the pleasure ofhis company in a direction opposite to that in which he was traveling.

  It was indeed rough on Gilson.

  On the morning after his arrest he was tried, convicted, and sentenced.It only remains, so far as concerns his earthly career, to hang him,reserving for more particular mention his last will and testament,which, with great labor, he contrived in prison, and in which, probablyfrom some confused and imperfect notion of the rights of captors, hebequeathed everything he owned to his "lawfle execketer," Mr. Brentshaw.The bequest, however, was made conditional on the legatee taking thetestator's body from The Tree and "planting it white."

  So Mr. Gilson was--I was about to say "swung off," but I fear there hasbeen already something too much of slang in this straightforwardstatement of facts; besides, the manner in which the law took its courseis more accurately described in the terms employed by the judge inpassing sentence: Mr. Gilson was "strung up."

  In due season Mr. Brentshaw, somewhat touched, it may well be, by theempty compliment of the bequest, repaired to The Tree to pluck the fruitthereof. When taken down the body was found to have in its waistcoatpocket a duly attested codicil to the will already noted. The nature ofits provisions accounted for the manner in which it had been withheld,for had Mr. Brentshaw previously been made aware of the conditions underwhich he was to succeed to the Gilson estate he would indubitably havedeclined the responsibility. Briefly stated, the purport of the codicilwas as follows:

  Whereas, at divers times and in sundry places, certain persons hadasserted that during his life the testator had robbed their sluiceboxes; therefore, if during the five years next succeeding the date ofthis instrument any one should make proof of such assertion before acourt of law, such person was to receive as reparation the entirepersonal and real estate of which the testator died seized andpossessed, minus the expenses of court and a stated compensation to theexecutor, Henry Clay Brentshaw; provided, that if more than one personmade such proof the estate was to be equally divided between or amongthem. But in case none should succeed in so establishing the testator'sguilt, then the whole property, minus court expenses, as aforesaid,should go to the said Henry Clay Brentshaw for his own use, as stated inthe will.

  The syntax of this remarkable document was perhaps open to criticalobjection, but that was clearly enough the meaning of it. Theorthography conformed to no recognized system, but being mainly phoneticit was not ambiguous. As the probate judge remarked, it would take fiveaces to beat it. Mr. Brentshaw smiled good-humoredly, and afterperforming the last sad rites with amusing ostentation, had himself dulysworn as executor and conditional legatee under the provisions of a lawhastily passed (at the instance of the member from the Mammon Hilldistrict) by a facetious legislature; which law was afterward discoveredto have created also three or four lucrative offices and authorized theexpenditure of a considerable sum of public money for the constructionof a certain railway bridge that with greater advantage might perhapshave been erected on the line of some actual railway.

  Of course Mr. Brentshaw expected neither profit from the will norlitigation in consequence of its unusual provisions; Gilson, althoughfrequently "flush," had been a man whom assessors and tax collectorswere well satisfied to lose no money by. But a careless and merelyformal search among his papers revealed title deeds to valuable estatesin the East and certificates of deposit for incredible sums in banksless severely scrupulous than that of Mr. Jo. Bentley.

  The astounding news got abroad directly, throwing the Hill into a feverof excitement. The Mammon Hill _Patriot_, whose edi
tor had been aleading spirit in the proceedings that resulted in Gilson's departurefrom New Jerusalem, published a most complimentary obituary notice ofthe deceased, and was good enough to call attention to the fact that hisdegraded contemporary, the Squaw Gulch _Clarion_, was bringing virtueinto contempt by beslavering with flattery the memory of one who in lifehad spurned the vile sheet as a nuisance from his door. Undeterred bythe press, however, claimants under the will were not slow in presentingthemselves with their evidence; and great as was the Gilson estate itappeared conspicuously paltry considering the vast number of sluiceboxes from which it was averred to have been obtained. The country roseas one man!

  Mr. Brentshaw was equal to the emergency. With a shrewd application ofhumble auxiliary devices, he at once erected above the bones of hisbenefactor a costly monument, overtopping every rough headboard in thecemetery, and on this he judiciously caused to be inscribed an epitaphof his own composing, eulogizing the honesty, public spirit and cognatevirtues of him who slept beneath, "a victim to the unjust aspersions ofSlander's viper brood."

  Moreover, he employed the best legal talent in the Territory to defendthe memory of his departed friend, and for five long years theTerritorial courts were occupied with litigation growing out of theGilson bequest. To fine forensic abilities Mr. Brentshaw opposedabilities more finely forensic; in bidding for purchasable favors heoffered prices which utterly deranged the market; the judges found athis hospitable board entertainment for man and beast, the like of whichhad never been spread in the Territory; with mendacious witnesses heconfronted witnesses of superior mendacity.

  Nor was the battle confined to the temple of the blind goddess--itinvaded the press, the pulpit, the drawing-room. It raged in the mart,the exchange, the school; in the gulches, and on the street corners. Andupon the last day of the memorable period to which legal action underthe Gilson will was limited, the sun went down upon a region in whichthe moral sense was dead, the social conscience callous, theintellectual capacity dwarfed, enfeebled, and confused! But Mr.Brentshaw was victorious all along the line.

  On that night it so happened that the cemetery in one corner of whichlay the now honored ashes of the late Milton Gilson, Esq., was partlyunder water. Swollen by incessant rains, Cat Creek had spilled over itsbanks an angry flood which, after scooping out unsightly hollowswherever the soil had been disturbed, had partly subsided, as if ashamedof the sacrilege, leaving exposed much that had been piously concealed.Even the famous Gilson monument, the pride and glory of Mammon Hill, wasno longer a standing rebuke to the "viper brood"; succumbing to thesapping current it had toppled prone to earth. The ghoulish flood hadexhumed the poor, decayed pine coffin, which now lay half-exposed, inpitiful contrast to the pompous monolith which, like a giant note ofadmiration, emphasized the disclosure.

  To this depressing spot, drawn by some subtle influence he had soughtneither to resist nor analyze, came Mr. Brentshaw. An altered man wasMr. Brentshaw. Five years of toil, anxiety, and wakefulness had dashedhis black locks with streaks and patches of gray, bowed his fine figure,drawn sharp and angular his face, and debased his walk to a dodderingshuffle. Nor had this lustrum of fierce contention wrought less upon hisheart and intellect. The careless good humor that had prompted him toaccept the trust of the dead man had given place to a fixed habit ofmelancholy. The firm, vigorous intellect had overripened into the mentalmellowness of second childhood. His broad understanding had narrowed tothe accommodation of a single idea; and in place of the quiet, cynicalincredulity of former days, there was in him a haunting faith in thesupernatural, that flitted and fluttered about his soul, shadowy,batlike, ominous of insanity. Unsettled in all else, his understandingclung to one conviction with the tenacity of a wrecked intellect. Thatwas an unshaken belief in the entire blamelessness of the dead Gilson.He had so often sworn to this in court and asserted it in privateconversation--had so frequently and so triumphantly established it bytestimony that had come expensive to him (for that very day he had paidthe last dollar of the Gilson estate to Mr. Jo. Bentley, the lastwitness to the Gilson good character)--that it had become to him a sortof religious faith. It seemed to him the one great central and basictruth of life--the sole serene verity in a world of lies.

  On that night, as he seated himself pensively upon the prostratemonument, trying by the uncertain moonlight to spell out the epitaphwhich five years before he had composed with a chuckle that memory hadnot recorded, tears of remorse came into his eyes as he remembered thathe had been mainly instrumental in compassing by a false accusation thisgood man's death; for during some of the legal proceedings, Mr. Harper,for a consideration (forgotten) had come forward and sworn that in thelittle transaction with his bay mare the deceased had acted in strictaccordance with the Harperian wishes, confidentially communicated to thedeceased and by him faithfully concealed at the cost of his life. Allthat Mr. Brentshaw had since done for the dead man's memory seemedpitifully inadequate--most mean, paltry, and debased with selfishness!

  As he sat there, torturing himself with futile regrets, a faint shadowfell across his eyes. Looking toward the moon, hanging low in the west,he saw what seemed a vague, watery cloud obscuring her; but as it movedso that her beams lit up one side of it he perceived the clear, sharpoutline of a human figure. The apparition became momentarily moredistinct, and grew, visibly; it was drawing near. Dazed as were hissenses, half locked up with terror and confounded with dreadfulimaginings, Mr. Brentshaw yet could but perceive, or think he perceived,in this unearthly shape a strange similitude to the mortal part of thelate Milton Gilson, as that person had looked when taken from The Treefive years before. The likeness was indeed complete, even to the full,stony eyes, and a certain shadowy circle about the neck. It was withoutcoat or hat, precisely as Gilson had been when laid in his poor, cheapcasket by the not ungentle hands of Carpenter Pete--for whom some onehad long since performed the same neighborly office. The spectre, ifsuch it was, seemed to bear something in its hands which Mr. Brentshawcould not clearly make out. It drew nearer, and paused at last besidethe coffin containing the ashes of the late Mr. Gilson, the lid of whichwas awry, half disclosing the uncertain interior. Bending over this, thephantom seemed to shake into it from a basin some dark substance ofdubious consistency, then glided stealthily back to the lowest part ofthe cemetery. Here the retiring flood had stranded a number of opencoffins, about and among which it gurgled with low sobbings and stillywhispers. Stooping over one of these, the apparition carefully brushedits contents into the basin, then returning to its own casket, emptiedthe vessel into that, as before. This mysterious operation was repeatedat every exposed coffin, the ghost sometimes dipping its laden basininto the running water, and gently agitating it to free it of the baserclay, always hoarding the residuum in its own private box. In short, theimmortal part of the late Milton Gilson was cleaning up the dust of itsneighbors and providently adding the same to its own.

  Perhaps it was a phantasm of a disordered mind in a fevered body.Perhaps it was a solemn farce enacted by pranking existences that throngthe shadows lying along the border of another world. God knows; to us ispermitted only the knowledge that when the sun of another day touchedwith a grace of gold the ruined cemetery of Mammon Hill his kindliestbeam fell upon the white, still face of Henry Brentshaw, dead among thedead.