The Best American Mystery Stories of the 19th Century

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  The assembled crowd was still anxiously awaiting the return of the verdict, when the mother of Charles Rivington, leaning on the arm of Catharine Wentworth, entered the courthouse of Edgarton. A passage was instantly opened for them, with that intuitive respect which almost all men are ready to yield to misfortune, even when accompanied by guilt. They had not been long seated in the part of the room, where they could be most screened from observation, when the jury returned, and, handing a sealed verdict to the clerk, resumed their places. The clerk arose, and read in a faltering voice, “We find the prisoner, Charles Rivington, guilty.” The words had scarcely left his lips, when a piercing shriek ran through the apartment, and Catharine Wentworth fell lifeless on the floor. Not so with that Christian mother; with an unwonted strength she darted through the assembly, till she reached her child.

  “My boy!” she cried, “my boy! be of good cheer; your heavenly Father knows your inmost soul, and sees that you are guiltless. We shall lie down together, for think not I can survive you. We shall lie down together, to wake with the Lord! My boy! my boy! little did I think to see this bitter day!”

  Exhausted nature could endure no more, and the mother fainted in the arms of her son.

  We shall not attempt to describe the situation of our unhappy hero, for words are inadequate to the task. The insensible forms of his mother and his beloved Catharine, were conveyed from the scene; and when some degree of silence was restored among the sympathizing multitude, the judge proceeded to pronounce sentence upon him. He had nothing to say to avert it, except a reiterated declaration of his innocence; and he besought the court that the time previous to his execution might be as brief as possible, in mercy to his bereaved parent, who would be but dying a continual death while he survived. It was accordingly fixed to take place on that day three weeks.

  It was near midnight of that important day—the busy throng which the trial had collected together were dispersed, and the moon, high in heaven, was wading on her silent course, through the clouds of a wintry sky, when Charles Rivington, startled from unquiet slumber, by a noise at the door of his prison, and sitting up in bed, that he might more intently listen, heard his own name whispered from the outer side.

  “Will you wake, Mr. Charles?” was softly uttered in the sweet accents of our little Irish acquaintance, Judy. “Was there iver the like,” continued she, “and he asleeping at that rate, when his friends are opening the door for him?”

  “Be quiet, Judy,” responded a masculine voice, but modulated to its softest tone, “and stand more in the shadow, the doctor’ll awake fast enough, as soon as I get this bolt sawed out; but if ye git that tavern-keeper’s dog a-barking, there’s no telling but it may wake the jailer instead of the doctor.”

  “And you’re right, Jimmy dear,” responded Judy; “there now, leave go with your fingers, man, you can’t pull it off that ere way. Here, take this bit of a stake for a pry—and now, that’s your sort,” continued she, adding her strength to his, and a large end of the log, to which the fastenings of the door were appended, fell to the ground: “Now, one more pull, Jimmy, and the day’s our own.”

  They accordingly made another exertion of united strength, when the prison door flying open, Buckhorn and Judy stood before the prisoner.

  “There, Mister Charles, say nothing at all, at all about it; but jist take Jimmy’s nag, that’s down in the hollow, and git clare as well as ye can. There’s a steam-boat, Jimmy says, at St. Louis going right down the river; and here’s all the money we could git, but it’s enough to pay your passage any how,” said the affectionate girl, tears standing in her eyes as she reached to her respected, and, as she firmly believed, guiltless master, all her own hoardings, together with the sum which Buckhorn had been accumulating, ever since he became a suitor for her hand.

  “You are a kind and excellent girl,” answered Rivington, sensibly affected by the heroism and attachment of his domestic, “and you are a noble fellow, Buckhorn; but you forget that by flying I should only confirm those in the belief of my guilt who are wavering now; besides, I could hardly expect to escape; for my life being forfeit to the laws, a proclamation would be immediately issued, and apprehension and death then, as now, would be my doom. No, no, my good friends, you mean me well, but I cannot consent to live, unless I can live with an unsullied fame.”

  “Ah, dear doctor,” sobbed out poor Judy, whose heart seemed almost broken; “what’s the use of spaking about it? If you stay, you’ve but a few days to live; and if you take your chance now, who knows but the rail murderer may be found out, and then you might come back, Mr. Charles, and all would go well again.”

  “That is a powerful argument, Judy; but my trust is in him who beholds all my actions,” returned our hero; “and I must confess that I cannot divest myself of the hope that the truth will yet be brought to light before I die the death of a felon.”

  “Doctor Rivington,” said Buckhorn, going up to him, and taking him warmly by the hand, “I’ve been wavering all along about you; but I’m sartin now. The man that murdered Silversight in cold blood, wouldn’t be agoing to stand shilly-shally, and the jail door wide open. I always was dub’ous about it, though the proof seemed so sure. My nag is down in the hollow, with saddle bags on him, and Judy has filled ’em full of your clothes; you may take him, Doctor, if ye will; you may take the money and welcome—but I that come here to set you clear, advise you to stay; and if I don’t find out somethin’ to turn the tables before hanging day, it shan’t be because I don’t try.”

  Our hero exchanged with the honest hunter one of those warm pressures of the hand, which may be termed the language of the soul, and conveyed to him, by the eloquent action, more than he could readily have found words to express. They were now alarmed by the report of two rifles near them, fired in quick succession, and two persons issuing from the shadow of a neighboring horse shed, at the same moment made directly towards the door of the jail, crying out in a loud voice, “The prisoner has broke out! the prisoner has broke out!” Our friends, Judy and Buckhorn, were enabled to make good their retreat, as the object of the alarm seemed more to secure the prisoner than to arrest his intended deliverers. It was not many minutes before a considerable number of the idle and curious were collected by this clamor around the insufficient place of confinement, and effectual means were devised to prevent any danger of a further attempt at rescue.

  The glimmer of hope which had been lighted up in our hero’s heart by the last words of Buckhorn, and the confident manner in which they were uttered, gradually declined as day after day rolled by, and no trace could be discovered of the real perpetrator of the crime. To add to the anguish of his situation, he learned that his beloved Catharine was confined by a wasting fever to her bed, and that his mother, though she still bore up and uttered not a murmur against the Almighty’s will, was fast sinking with a broken heart into the grave. The evening previous to the fatal day which was to terminate his earthly career at length arrived, but brought no cheering promise with it, and the unhappy young man, therefore, humbling himself before the throne of heaven, and beseeching that mercy there which he could no longer hope for on earth, devoted the greater part of the night to prayer.

  It was on the same evening, in a little mean looking cabin, called “Brown’s Tavern,” in the place which we have before had occasion to speak of as the New Settlements, that two men were sitting at a table, with a bottle of whiskey between them, conversing on the general topic, the execution that was to take place on the morrow, when a third person entered, and, calling for a dram, took a seat at some distance from them. He was a tall, dark man, dressed in a hunting frock and buckskin leggings, and held in his hand one of those mongrel weapons, which partaking of the characters both of rifle and musket, are called smooth bores by the hunters of our western frontier, who, generally speaking, hold them in great contempt. The apartment of the little grocery, or tavern, where these three persons were assembled, was lighted, in addition to the blaze of a large wood fire,
by a single long-dipped tallow candle, held in an iron candlestick; and its only furniture consisted of the aforementioned table, with the rude benches on which the guests were seated. The conversation had been interrupted by the entry of the third person, but was now resumed.

  “For my part, as I was saying,” observed one of the persons, in continuation of some remark he had previously made, “I think the thing’s been too hasty altogether. The doctor’s character, which every body respected, should have made ’em more cautious how they acted; especially as he wanted ’em to go right out on his trail, and said they’d find he’d kept straight on to Mr. Wentworth’s. Now he wouldn’t a told ’em that if it wasn’t so; and I am half a mind to believe that he’s not guilty after all.”

  “That’s damned unlikely,” said the stranger, in a gruff voice.

  “Why bless me, Mr. Rumley,” continued the first speaker, “I didn’t know it was you, you set so in the dark. How have you been this long time? Let me see, why, yes, bless me, so it was—it was you and I that was talking with poor old Silversight the day he started from here with the money. I haven’t seen you since. Why, a’n’t you a going to be over in Edgarton to see the doctor hung tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know whether I shall go or not,” replied Rumley.

  “Well, I’ve a great notion to ride over there, though I’m monstrous sorry for the poor man.”

  “Sorry—the devil! hang all the cursed Yankees, say I,” responded the amiable deputy-sheriff.

  “Come, that’s too bad—though I like to see you angry on account of the old man’s murder, because ye wasn’t very good friends with him when he was alive—but bless me, Mr. Rumley, that powder-horn looks mighty like old Silversight’s,” taking hold of it to examine it, as he said so.

  “Stand off!” cried Rumley; “what do you s’pose I’d be doing with the old scoundrel’s powder-horn? It’s not his—it never was his—he never seen it.”

  “It’s a lie!” cried a person, who had glided in during the foregoing conversation, and had obtained a view of the horn in question, as the deputy-sheriff jerked it away from the other. “It’s a lie!—I know it well—I’ve hunted with the old man often; I know it as well as I do my own. Bill Brown, and you, John Gillam,” addressing himself to the one who first recognized the horn, “I accuse Cale Rumley of old Silversight’s murder—help me to secure him.”

  The deputy-sheriff stood motionless for a moment; and turned as pale as death (from surprise, perhaps), then suddenly recovering his powers, he darted across the room, and seizing his gun, before any one was aware of his intention, leveled and fired at his accuser. The apartment became instantly filled with smoke, which, as it slowly rolled away, discovered to the astonished beholders the stiff and bleeding form of Caleb Rumley, stretched at full length upon the floor. As soon as he discharged his piece, the infuriated man had sprung towards the door, designing to make an immediate escape; but the motion was anticipated by our friend Jimmy Buckhorn (for it was he who charged his fallen antagonist with murder, and who luckily was not touched by the ball that was meant to destroy him), and with one blow of his powerful arm he felled the scoundrel to the earth. He now rapidly explained to the wondering trio the nature of the proof he had obtained of Rumley’s guilt; and succeeded in satisfying them that he ought to be made prisoner, and immediately conveyed to Edgarton.

  The morning which our hero believed was to be the last of his earthly existence, rose with unwonted brightness; and throngs of males and females came pouring into the little village, impelled by the mysterious principle of our nature, which incites us to look on that we nevertheless must shudder to behold. But no sounds of obstreperous merriment, no untimely jokes, were uttered, as they passed along the road, to grate upon the ear of the unfortunate Charles, and break him off from his communion with heaven: on the contrary, many a tear was shed that morning by the bright eyes of rustic maidens, who were “all unused to the melting mood”; and many a manly breast heaved a sigh of sympathy for the culprit, who was that day to make expiation to the offended laws. Indeed, since the sentence of the court was passed, a wonderful change had been wrought among the ever-changing multitude, by various rumors that were whispered from one part of these wide prairies to another, and spread with almost incredible velocity. A thousand acts of unasked benevolence were now remembered, in favor of him, who was soon to suffer. Here was an aged and afflicted woman, whom he had not only visited without hope of reward, but upon whom he had conferred pecuniary, as well as medical comforts. There was an industrious cripple, who had received a receipt in full from the young physician, when creditors to a less amount were levying upon his farm. And many similar acts of bounty were proclaimed abroad, by the grateful hearts on which they had been conferred; all helping to produce the change of sentiment which was manifestly wrought. Still the general impression seemed to be unshaken, (so strong had been the proofs), that, in an evil hour, he had yielded to temptation, and embrued his hands in a fellow-creature’s blood.

  The hour at last arrived when Charles Rivington was to suffer the sentence of the law. A rude gallows was erected at about a quarter of a mile from the public square; and thither the sad procession moved. He was decently dressed in a black suit, and walked to the fatal place with a firm step. He was very pale; but from no other outward sign might the spectators guess that he shrunk from the horrors of such a death; for his eye had a calm expression, and the muscles of his face were as motionless as an infant’s in slumber. They reached the spot: a prayer, a solemn prayer was offered up to heaven for the murderer’s soul; in which every hearer joined with unaccustomed fervor. The sheriff’s attendant stood in waiting with the fatal cord, while the agonized mother, vainly endeavoring to emulate the firmness of her heroic son, approached with trembling steps, to bid a last farewell—when hark! a shout was heard; all eyes were turned to catch its meaning; another shout, and the words “Stop, stop the execution!” were distinctly audible. In less than an instant after, the death-pale form of Jimmy Buckhorn tumbled from his horse with just sufficient strength remaining to reach towards the sheriff, with an order from the judge to stay the execution.

  Reader, our tale is nearly at an end. Jimmy Buckhorn had been faithful to his word: he had sought for some clue to the real murderer, with an earnestness, which nothing but a firm conviction of our hero’s innocence, superadded to his love for Judy, could possibly have enkindled. For some time he was unsuccessful. At length the thought struck him, that the track on the side of the stream where Mr. Wentworth resided, might have been caused by a traveler passing along, on the morning after the fatal deed, and the deputy-sheriff, in that case, might be the real culprit. He immediately set out to visit every cabin above Mr. Wentworth’s, to see if his story that he had been further up the stream was correct. This took a considerable time; but the result satisfied him that that tale was false. He then procured the assistance of a surgeon, imposing upon him secrecy, until the proper time for disclosure; and proceeded to disinter the body of Silversight. This was more successful than he had even dared to hope: the ball had lodged in a cavity of the head; and being produced, Buckhorn pronounced at once, from its great size, that it could have been discharged only from Rumley’s smooth-bore. He set out directly for Edgarton, choosing to go by the way of the New Settlements, for a two-fold reason. He had heard that Rumley was in that neighborhood; and to get possession of him or of his gun, at any rate, he deemed very essential. Besides, that route would take him by the house of the judge, and from him it would be necessary to procure an order to delay the proceedings. We have seen the result. But the chain of evidence was not yet complete.

  A wild and dissipated young man, by the name of Michael Davis, who had just returned up the river from New Orleans, entered the office of the clerk of the county, on his way back to the tavern, from the place where the execution was to have taken place, in order to while away an hour, until the time for dinner should arrive. The powder-flask, which had been brought in evidence against ou
r hero, was lying on the table, the graven side downwards. There is a restless kind of persons in the world, who can never be easy, let them be sitting where they will, without fingering and examining whatever is in their reach—and such an one was Michael Davis: he accordingly took up the flask in a careless manner, and turning it over in his hand, his eye fell upon the letters.

  “Why, halloo! what the devil are you doing with my powder-flask?” asked he.

  “I wish the unlucky article had been yours, or any body’s, except the unfortunate Dr. Rivington’s,” returned the clerk, who was a friend of our hero, and deeply deplored the circumstances that had lately transpired.

  “Unfortunate devil’s,” reiterated Michael; “I tell you it’s my flask, or article, as you prefer calling it; or rather it was mine and Cale Rumley’s together. We bought it when him and me went down to New Orleans—let’s see, that’s three years, come spring. I ought to know the cursed thing, for I broke a bran new knife in scratching them letters on it.”

  The clerk started from his seat—he snatched the flask out of the hand of Davis—he gazed at it a moment intently—then, the truth suddenly flashing on his mind, he rushed out into the road, forgetting his hat, forgetting every thing but the letters on the flask. The magistrate, who grieved as much as any one, at the supposed dereliction of their young friend, the physician, was amazed to see the clerk enter his apartment in such a plight.

  “There!” cried he, as he threw down the flask on the table, “C. R. M.D. spells something beside Rivington. Send your servant out of the room.”

  As soon as he was gone, and the door carefully closed, the clerk continued in a low, confidential tone, “That flask is Caleb Rumley’s, and Caleb Rumley is the murderer (no wonder he has kept himself away all this while). It belonged to him, and that imp of Satan, Mich. Davis, together, and Mich. Davis told me so, with his own mouth, not three minutes ago—and Charles Rivington’s an honest man—huzza! huzza! huzza!” concluded he, as he danced and skipped about the apartment, with the delirious joy true friendship inspired. The magistrate was a man of middle age, and very large and corpulent, but a mountain of flesh could not have kept him down, when such thrilling news tingled in his ears, and he, too, began to dance a jig, that shook the tenement to its foundation.