The hour came, and with it, to the bluff, came all the regulators—save one. But that one was a very important personage—none other, indeed, than the redoubtable major, who was to head the party. The nine were there a considerable time before sunset, and waited patiently for their captain's arrival; though, already, there were whisperings from those who had been doubtful of him in the outset, that he would not keep his appointment. And these were right—for, though they waited long beyond the time, the absentee did not make his appearance. It was afterward ascertained that he excused himself upon the plea of sudden illness; but he was very well again on the following day, and his excuse was not received. The ridicule growing out of the affair, and his reduction from the rank of major to that of captain, in derision, finally drove him in disgrace from the country.
His defection left the little company without a leader; and though they were determined not to give up the enterprise, an obstacle to its prosecution arose, in the fact that no one was willing to replace the absent captain. Each was anxious to play the part of a private, and all had come prepared to discharge the duties of the expedition, to the utmost of their ability. But they were all young men, and no one felt competent to take the responsibility of command.
They were standing in a group, consulting eagerly about their course, and, as one of them afterward said, “nearly at their wits' end,” when the circle was suddenly entered by another. He had come upon them so noiselessly, and they had been so much absorbed in their council, that no one saw him until he stood in their midst. Several of them, however, at once recognised him, as a hunter who had recently appeared in the southern part of the county, and had lived a singularly solitary life. No one knew his name, but, from his mode of life, he was already known among those who had heard of him, as “the wild hunter.” He was but little above the medium height, and rather slender in figure; but he was well and firmly built, and immediately impressed them with the idea of great hardihood and activity. His face, though bronzed by exposure, was still handsome and expressive; but there was a certain wildness in the eye, and a compression about the mouth, which gave it the expression of fierceness, as well as resolution. He was dressed in a hunting-shirt and “leggings” of deer-skin, fringed or “fingered” on the edges; and his head and feet were covered, the one by a cap of panther's hide, and the others by moccasins of dressed buckskin. At his belt hung a long knife, and in his hand he carried a heavy “Kentucky rifle.”
As he entered the circle, he dropped the breech of the latter to the ground, and, leaning calmly upon the muzzle, quietly surveyed the countenances of the group, in profound silence. The regulators were too much surprised to speak while this was going on; and the stranger seemed to be in no haste to open the conversation. When he had finished his scrutiny, however, he stepped back a pace or two, and resuming his easy attitude, addressed them:—
“You must pardon me, my friends,” he commenced, “when I tell you, that I have overheard all you have said in the last half hour. I did not remain in that thicket, however, for the purpose of eaves-dropping; but having accidentally heard one of you mention a name, the sound of which touches a chord whose vibrations you can not understand, I remained, almost against my own will, to learn more. I thus became acquainted with the object of your meeting, and the dilemma in which you find yourselves placed by the absence of your leader. Now, I have but little interest in this settlement, and none in the preservation of peace, or the vindication of law, anywhere: but I have been seeking this man, Cutler, of whom you spoke, nearly nine years. I supposed, a few days ago, that I had at last found him; but on going to his house, I learned that he had once more emigrated toward the west. You seem to know where he is to be found, and are without a leader: I wish to find him, and, if you will accept my services, will fill the place of your absent captain!”
He turned away as he finished, allowing them an opportunity for consultation among themselves. The question was soon decided: they called him back—announced their willingness to accept him as their leader—and asked his name.
“My name is Stone,” he replied.
It was after nightfall when the little party set out from the bluff. They had, then, more than eight miles to travel, over a country entirely destitute of roads, and cut up by numberless sloughs and ponds. They had, moreover, a considerable river to cross, and, after that, several miles of their way lay through a dense and pathless forest. But they were not the men to shrink from difficulties, at any time; and now they were carried along even more resolutely, by the stern, unwavering spirit of their new leader. Having once learned the direction, Stone put himself at the head of the party, and strode forward, almost “as the bird flies,” directly toward the point indicated, regardless of slough, and swamp, and thicket. He moved rapidly, too—so rapidly, indeed, as to tax the powers of some of his followers almost too severely. Notwithstanding this swiftness, however, they could not avoid a long delay at the river; and it was consequently near midnight, when, having at last accomplished a crossing, they reached the bank of M'Kee's creek, and turned up toward Cutler's house.
This stood in the centre of a “clearing,” some two or three acres in extent; and upon reaching its eastern limit, the little company halted to reconnoitre. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, they discovered that the people of the house were still awake; and by a bright light, which streamed through the open door, they could see several men, sitting and standing about the room.
“We shall make a good haul,” said one of the regulators; “the whole gang is there.” And immediately the party were for rushing forward. But Stone restrained them.
“My friends,” said he, “you have taken me for your leader, and must obey my directions.”
He then announced his determination to go forward alone; instructing his men, however, to follow at a little distance, but in no case to show themselves until he should give the signal. They agreed, though reluctantly, to this arrangement, and then—silently, slowly, but surely—the advance commenced. The hour had at last arrived!
In the meantime, Cutler and his three friends were passing the time quite pleasantly over a bottle of backwoods nectar—commonly called whiskey. They seemed well pleased, too, with some recent exploit of theirs, and were evidently congratulating themselves upon their dexterity; for, as the “generous liquid” reeked warmly to their brains, they chuckled over it, and hinted at it, and winked knowingly at each other, as if they enjoyed both the recollection and the whiskey—as they probably did, exceedingly. There were four present, as we said—Cutler and the three worthies so often alluded to. These last sat not far from the open door; and each in his hand held a kerchief, or something of that description, of which the contents were apparently very precious; for, at intervals of a few moments, each raised his bundle between him and the light, and then were visible many circular prints, as if made by the coinage of the mint. This idea was strengthened, too, by several piles of gold and silver, which lay upon the table near the bottle, to which Cutler directed no infrequent glances.
They had all been indulging pretty freely in their devotions to the mythological liquid—rewarding themselves, like soldiers after storming a hostile city, for their hardships and daring. There were a few coals in the chimney, although it was early in the autumn; and on them were lying dark and crumpled cinders, as of paper, over which little sparks were slowly creeping, like fiery insects. Cutler turned them over with his foot, and there arose a small blue, flickering blaze, throwing a faint, uncertain light beneath the table, and into the further corners of the room, and casting shadows of the money-bundles on the open door.
If the betrayer could have known what eyes were strained upon him, as he thus carelessly thrust his foot among the cinders, how changed his bearing would have been. Stone had now approached within fifty paces of the house, and behind him, slowly creeping after, were the regulators. A broad band of light streamed out across the clearing from the door, while, on each side of this, all lay in shadow deepened by t
he contrast. Through the shadows, cautiously and silently came the footsteps of the avenger! There was no trepidation, no haste—the strange leader rather lingered, with a deadly slowness, as if the movement was a pleasant one, and he disliked to end it. But he never halted—not even for a moment—he came, like fate, slowly, but surely!
“Come, boys,” said Cutler, and his voice penetrated the stillness quite across the clearing, “let us take another drink, and then lie down; we shall have a long journey to-morrow.”
They all advanced to the table and drained the bottle. Cutler drank last, and then went back to the fire. He again stirred the smouldering cinders with his foot, and, turning about, advanced to close the door. But—he halted suddenly in the middle of the room—his face grew ashy pale—his limbs trembled with terror! Stone stepped upon the threshold, and, without speaking, brought his rifle to his shoulder! Cutler saw that it pointed to his heart, but he had not the power to speak or move!
“Villain!” said Stone, in a low, suppressed voice, “your hour has come, at last!”
Cutler was by no means a coward; by any one else he would not have been overcome, even for an instant. As it was, he soon recovered himself and sprang forward; but it was only to fall heavily to the floor; for at the same moment Stone fired, and the ball passed directly through his heart! A groan was the only sound he uttered—his arm moved, as in the act of striking, and then fell to the ground—he was dead!
The regulators now rushed tumultuously into the house, and at once seized and pinioned the three desperadoes; while Stone walked slowly to the hearth, and resting the breech of his gun upon the floor, leaned calmly upon its muzzle. He had heard a scream from above—a voice which he knew too well. Margaret had been aroused from sleep by the report of the gun; and now, in her night-dress, with her hair streaming in masses over her shoulders, she rushed down the rude stairway. The first object that met her wild gaze was the body of Cutler, stretched upon the floor and already stiffening in death. With another loud scream, she threw herself upon him—mingling lamentations for his death, with curses upon his murderers.
Stone's features worked convulsively, and once or twice his hand grasped the hilt of the knife which hung at his belt. At last, with a start, he drew it from the sheath. But, the next moment, he dashed it into the chimney, and leaning his gun against the wall, slowly advanced toward the unhappy woman. Grasping her arm, he lifted her like a child from the body to which she clung. Averting his head, he drew her, struggling madly, to the light; and having brought her face full before the lamp, suddenly threw off his cap, and turned his gaze directly into her eyes. A scream, louder and more fearful than any before, rang even to the woods beyond the clearing; she closed her eyes and shuddered, as if she could not bear to look upon him, whom she had so deeply wronged. He supported her on his arm, and perused her sunken and careworn features, for many minutes, in silence. Then slowly relaxing his grasp—
“You have been punished sufficiently,” he said; and seating her gently upon the floor, he quietly replaced his knife in its sheath, resumed his rifle, and left the house.
He was never again seen by any of the parties, except Margaret. She, soon after this event, returned to Virginia; and here Stone paid her an annual visit. He always came without notice, and departed as suddenly, always bearing his rifle, and habited as a hunter. At such times he sought to be alone with her but a few moments, and never spoke more than three words: “Your punishment continues,” he would say, after gazing at her worn and haggard face for some minutes; and, then, throwing his rifle over his shoulder, he would again disappear for twelve months more.
And truly her punishment did continue; for though no one accurately knew her history, she was an object of suspicion to all; and though she led a most exemplary life, her reputation was evil, and her misery was but too evident. One after the other, her children died, and she was left utterly alone! At last her lamp also began to flicker, and when Stone arrived in the country, upon his twelfth annual visit, it was but to see her die, and follow her to the grave! He received her last breath, but no one knew what passed between them in that awful hour. On the day after her burial he went away and returned no more.
The regulators hastily dug a grave on the bank of the creek, and in the silence of the night placed Cutler within it. Then, taking possession of the stolen money, they released their prisoners, notifying them to leave the country within ten days, and returned to the east side of the river. A few years ago, a little mound might be seen, where they had heaped the dirt upon the unhappy victim of his own passions. It was “the first grave” in which a white man was buried in that part of the Illinois valley.
At the expiration of the ten “days of grace,” it became the duty of the regulators to see that their orders had been obeyed; and, though the death of Cutler had been more than they had designed or foreseen, they had no disposition to neglect it. They met, accordingly, on the morning of the eleventh day, and having chosen a new leader, proceeded to Cutler's grove. They found the houses of all those to whom they had given “notice” deserted excepting one. This was the cabin of the youngest of the three brothers; and declaring his intention to remain, in defiance of regulators and “Lynch law,” he put himself upon his defence. Without ceremony the regulators set fire to the house in which he had barricaded himself, and ten minutes sufficed to smoke him out. They then discovered what they had not before known: that his elder brothers were also within; and when the three rushed from the door, though taken by surprise, they were not thrown off their guard. The trio were at once seized, and, after a sharp struggle, securely pinioned. A short consultation then decided their course.
Leaving the house to burn at leisure, they posted away for the river, driving their prisoners before them, and a march of three hours brought them to the mouth of the Mauvaisterre. Here they constructed a “raft”, by tying half-a-dozen drift-logs together, and warning them that death would be the penalty of a return, they placed their prisoners upon it, pushed it into the middle of the stream, and set them adrift without oar or pole! Although this seems quite severe enough, it was a light punishment compared to that sometimes administered by regulators; and in this case, had not blood been spilt when they did not intend it, it is probable that the culprits would have been first tied to a tree, and thoroughly “lynched.”
The involuntary navigators were not rescued from their unpleasant position until they had nearly reached Saint Louis; and though they all swore vengeance in a loud voice, not one of them was ever again seen in the Sangamon country.
Vigorous measures, like those we have detailed, were usually effectual in restoring good order. Where there was no trial, there was no room for false witnesses; and where a punishment, not unfrequently disproportioned to the offence, so rapidly and certainly followed its commission, there was little prospect of impunity, and therefore slight inducement to violate the law. In most localities, it required but few severe lessons to teach desperadoes that prudence dictated their emigration; and, it must be acknowledged, that the regulators were prompt and able teachers.
But we should give only a partial and incomplete view of this institution (for such, in fact, it was), were we to notice its uses and say nothing of its abuse; because, like everything else partaking so largely of the mob element, it was liable to most mischievous perversions. Had the engine been suffered to rest, when it had performed its legitimate functions, all would have been well; but the great vice of the system was its obstinate vitality: it refused to die when its life was no longer useful.
As soon as the danger was past, and the call for his services had ceased, the good citizen, who alone could confine such a system to its proper limits, retired from its ranks: it was consequently left, with all its dangerous authority, in the hands of the reckless and violent. The selfish and designing soon filled up the places of the sober and honest, and from being a terror to evil-doers, and a protection to the peaceful citizen, it became a weapon in the hands of the very men against whom it s
hould have been directed.
When this came to be the case, the institution was in danger of doing more harm in its age, than it had accomplished of good in its youth. But it must not thence be inferred that it should never have been adopted, or that it was vicious in itself. In seasons of public danger, extraordinary powers are often intrusted to individuals—powers which nothing but that danger can justify, and which would constitute the dictators intolerable despots, if they were retained after the crises are passed. The Congress of our confederacy, for example, found it necessary, at one period of our Revolutionary struggle, to invest Washington with such authority; had he exercised it beyond the pressure of immediate peril, the same outcry which has been made against others in similar circumstances, would have been justly raised against him. And most men, less soberly constituted than Washington, would have endeavored to retain it; for power is a pleasant thing, which few have the self-denial to resign without a struggle. The wrong consists not in the original delegation of the authority—for that is justified by the highest of all laws, the law of self-preservation—but in its retention and exercise, when the exigency no longer supports it.
Having parted with the authority to redress grievances, and provide for protection and defence, the citizen can not at once recover it—it remains for a time in the hands of the representative, and is always difficult to regain. But it does not therefore follow, that he should never intrust it to another, for the inconvenience sometimes resulting from its delegation, is one of the incidents to human life, teaching, not obstinacy or jealousy, but circumspection.
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