Book: Edward Barnett; a Neglected Child of South Carolina, Who Rose to Be a Peer of Great Britain, and the Stormy Life of His Grandfather, Captain Williams
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Tobias Aconite >> Edward Barnett; a Neglected Child of South Carolina, Who Rose to Be a Peer of Great Britain, and the Stormy Life of His Grandfather, Captain Williams
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A Narrative of Startling Interest!!
EDWARD BARNETT,
A NEGLECTED CHILD OF SOUTH CAROLINA, WHO ROSE TO BE A PEER OF GREAT
BRITAIN,--AND THE STORMY LIFE OF HIS GRANDFATHER, CAPTAIN WILLIAMS,
Or
The Earl's Victims:
with an Account of the Terrible End of the Proud Earl De Montford, the
Lamentable Fate of the Victim of His Passion,
And
The Shadow's Punishment,
'Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction.'
by
TOBIAS ACONITE,
The Mayor of Hole cum Corner.
1855
THE EARL'S VICTIMS.
CHAPTER I.
THE STEWARD.
Earl de Montford sat in a plainly furnished room in his stately mansion.
Gorgeously decorated as were the other apartments of his princely
residence, this apartment, with its plain business-look--its hard
benches for such of the tenantry as came to him or his agent on
business--its walls garnished with abstracts of the Game and Poor Law
Enactments--its worn old chairs and heavy oak presses, the open doors of
some of which disclosed bundles of old papers, parchments, etc.--this
little room, the only one almost ever seen by any save the aristocracy
and their followers--exercised and contained frequently more of human
hope and fear than any other or the whole of the others of this
sumptuous edifice. Here the toil-worn farmer came to pay his dues to the
Lord of the Manor--here often too with beating heart and quivering lip,
the old servant of the soil came to beg for time--time to enable him by
hard pinching to make up his proportion of the sum spent in luxury by
his landlord. Ah! reader! could those old walls reveal the sounds, the
tales of human suffering, of heartless avarice, and callous
indifference--of sneering assumption and hopeless woe, thy brain would
be as fire, thy heart would sicken, and thy blood would boil, till
rushing over every prudent thought, through grinding teeth and
passion-paling lips would start, the one wild word, Revenge!
I have said the room was plainly furnished, but there was one
exception--the chair in which the Earl sat. This was an old one,
formerly the chair of state in which the old Barons his ancestors had
presided at many a scene of wassail, with their retainers. It had been
stuffed and new-covered to suit modern luxury, but the armorial bearings
remained still carved in the wood of the high back, with the proud
motto, "Nulli Secundi," second to none.
The Earl was not alone. His agent, a hard-featured man of business, sat
at a desk, busy with papers, and a venerable old man, who had been his
father's steward, stood a little behind his chair. There was a frown on
the brow of the nobleman, as after a stern glance at the old man, he
asked,
'Has that scoundrel been apprehended yet?'
'He has not, your lordship,' said the agent, slowly folding up a
document; 'nor does it seem likely he will be. I have had the old haunts
searched--I have, as you directed, promised large rewards for his
apprehension, and threatened the tenants if they harbor him, but no clue
to his hiding-place has yet been discovered. I am afraid he has left.'
'He has not,' interrupted the Earl. 'He is here, in this neighbourhood.
I feel his hated presence. He must have harborers, Johnson. The parvenu
millionaire--the cotton lord--harbors these ruffians by refusing to
prosecute poachers. He preaches equal rights, forsooth! Break down his
fences--send my deer to stray into his park--get some one to fire his
barns--I will pay them. He has thwarted me, and he shall feel the agony
of a long and fluctuating law-suit. Oh! for one day of my Norman
ancestors! I would sweep such vermin from the earth. Waters!' said he,
turning to the steward, 'beware! I have, from respect to my father's
memory, somewhat restrained myself towards you. You have pleaded this
man's cause. Say no more. He has threatened me--dared to use reproaches
and threats to a peer of the realm--he shall be crushed as a noxious
reptile!'
'My lord,' said the old man firmly, 'I was your father's steward--I was
your grandfather's foster-brother and playmate--man and boy, I have been
in the service of your family for over seventy years, and for the love
of your house have I withstood you in wrong-doing--I beseech you again,
let this man go. You well know he is an injured man. Add not more to
that final account which you as well as I must one day render before
God.'
'Palter such trash to coward fools!--I want none of your priestcraft,'
returned the nobleman. 'Do I not know the reason of all this affected
love for justice and mercy. Your grand-daughter was to have married this
midnight robber--they were betrothed, or some such trash. Find
him--doubtless _she_ knows how--let them marry--such a son-in-law will
be an honor to your family, and a comfort to your declining years.'
'Your insinuations and your sneers fall as harmless upon me as your
threats,' said the steward with dignity. 'I am eighty-nine, and shall
soon be beyond them: but when you brand with undeserved infamy one who
never injured you--when you accuse my innocent grandchild of being
privy to the concealment of a midnight robber, as you but now called the
unhappy man whom your ill-usage, whom your misdeeds drove from a happy
home and honorable course of life, you commit an action, only equalled
in its baseness, by its cowardice!'
The Earl started up, purple with rage. For a moment, he seemed about to
strike the aged form before him. He paused, however, and stood regarding
him with clenched hands and furious look, and every evil passion glaring
from his eyes. The steward moved not one inch, but confronted him in the
majesty of venerable age.
The agent paused not for one moment in his task, but quietly labelling
and tying up a pile of documents, placed it in its proper pigeon hole,
and went on with methodical exactness to the next. They were a strange
group. The man of business in his chair, pursuing his work as if no
other were present, but observing all that took place nevertheless; the
nobleman in the prime of glorious manhood, noble, as far as physical
beauty could go; handsome, rich, accomplished, intellectual, but
distorted as that face was now, in his rage, ugly, hideous in the
extreme as he gazed upon the calm face slightly flushed with virtuous
indignation, the spare form and silver locks of the aged man who dared
to stand between him and the victims of his wrath.
Gradually the face of the nobleman became calmer, one by one the lines
of passion disappeared and an expression of cold sarcasm took possession
of his features; he threw himself into his chair and turned to the
agent.
'Mr. Lambert, be pleased to pay particular attention to my orders, that
is if your nerves are not too much discomposed by the exciting piece of
eloquence Mr. Waters has just favored us with for my especial benefit.
Gad! Waters, you'd do the heavy fathers finely on the stage. I'll write
to Davidge for you, that last speech of yours was capital; couldn't you
favor us with a finishing touch, we are all attention.' The agent placed
his papers on the table, and wheeling his chair round, sat in imitation
of his master as if in expectation of hearing some rich joke.
The single word 'God!' escaped the steward as he turned to leave the
room; he gave one glance around as if for the last time looking on those
familiar objects, cast a sorrowful glance at his master, and was about
to quit, when his eye was arrested by a picture; it was that of frank
and noble boy in the pride of youth and beauty, his face ruddy with
exercise, his eye bright with intellect. It was a portrait of the Earl
when a boy.
He turned towards them once more.
'My lord,' said he, 'I pass by your harsh speeches of me and mine. It
may be I spoke too rudely myself. I will dwell no longer on the past, it
is irrevocable; of my broken-hearted grandchild; of her young love,
which was twined too strong around her heart, for one to perish without
the other; of my own head grey in your service I will never more
speak--but oh! for the love that bright boy once bore me, here on my
knees, I entreat you, spare this man, who once was your playmate, spare
him as you would be spared yourself; for let not your proud heart
deceive you, not all your array of domestics, not all your barred doors,
can save you from a violent death, or the guilt of murder, if you do not
stop this unrighteous prosecution--for your own sake I entreat you stop,
ere it be too late. Spurn this grey head if you will into the dust, but
listen and spare.'
The Earl was unmoved as marble.
The old man left with bent head and slow step. 'Lambert, you will issue
a notice, offering L500 to any one who captures Horace Hunter, dead or
alive--also on pain of expulsion from the property, forbid any one
harboring him; send for two London officers. These country bumpkins will
never find him. Enquire for a dissolute fellow, known by the name of
Curly Tom--pay him well: he perhaps may track him, in short, find this
man and punishment to death shall follow.'
'It shall on you!' said a loud voice, apparently near them.
The Earl sprang to the window, and jumped out, the agent trembling
remained, not a living being was in sight--the window opened upon a
smooth lawn, there was not a chance of a person escaping notice, but no
one was there; he summoned the domestics; they searched--no one was
found, they had seen no one. Frantic with rage, yet with an ill-defined
sensation of fear, the nobleman, re-entered the mansion, and dismissing
every one, locked himself in an inner chamber.
The agent waited until his master was gone; then seated himself in the
chair of state, and mused. 'Let me see! L500, too much to slip from my
hands. I will find this Curly Tom myself--I think I know him--and if I
can but keep him sober--and promise him a good carouse when Hunter's
caught, he will entrap him--for these scoundrels all know how to find
one another--L500, too much for any of these bumpkins constables, no,
no, I must have it--there is danger though--I must think over it--that
voice was queer, where could it come from--could any one be in the
presses?' After screwing up his courage to the task, he opened them
fearfully one by one; there was nothing there but the old papers before
mentioned. He stooped and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, over
which was the Earl's picture--then puzzled, but determined on his course
of action, he left the room and took his way to the village. He was not
far from the house, when a servant called to him. 'You have a paper on
your back, Mr. Lambert,' said he. He took his coat off; on the back,
fastened with a pin, was a paper, with the single word, doomed, written
upon it. The man of business was puzzled; he was not altogether a
coward, but this was not a business proceeding; he said nothing,
however, but methodically folded it up, placed it in his pocket book,
and proceeded.
CHAPTER II.
THE VILLAGE ALE-HOUSE.
Railroads were unknown in the times in which our story occurred, and the
village ale-house was still the rendezvous of the villagers of an
evening; the parson still occasionally looked in and smoked his pipe
with the lawyer, the exciseman, the sexton, and the parish-clerk; while
the sturdy farmers, the smith, the butcher, and baker formed another
circle; while the laborers and ploughmen, the butcher-boy and the
tailor's apprentice lounged in to drink with greedy ears the news; to
listen to the wise saws of the village politicians, and become in due
time convinced that by some strange freak of fortune the only persons
incompetent to rule the country were those in power at the time. Mrs.
Alice Goodfellow, the landlady and proprietress of this village elysium,
fair, fat, and forty, was a buxom widow, shrewd, good-humored and fond
of pleasure, but careful withal and fond of admiration. She never,
however, allowed any one of her admirers, to suppose himself more
favored than the rest; neither did she suffer any of them to languish in
despair. If she allowed the smith to hand her to her pew in church on
Sunday, she, nevertheless, smiled sweetly on the baker; and if she took
a drive in Farmer Dobson's pony-chaise for her health, yet, Farmer
Thomas would sit for hours inside her bar; the truth was, the good widow
was perfectly well aware that her snug little free-hold and thriving
little trade were quite as great objects of attraction as her delectable
self, and acting on the same principle as that old humbug 'Elizabeth,'
insanely called 'the good Queen Bess,' viz: the balancing opposite
interests, she drew custom to her house and grist to her mill, without
troubling herself as to selection from her numerous admirers, which,
besides displeasing the others, would place another in authority over
that bar, which, for the last ten years, she had ruled monarch of all
she surveyed. She had no relative, save one nephew, a wild, shy boy,
strange and moody in his habits, passing whole days no one knew
where--holding little or no communication with any of those who visited
the tavern--none at all with the boys of the village, poring over some
book of wild adventure when at home, ranging the woods with an old duck
gun on his shoulders, or laying down beneath some shady tree poring over
the same wild legends when abroad. His aunt could make nothing of him,
and nobody else took the trouble. The curate, indeed, tried to teach him
once or twice, but he disconcerted the old man so by discharging his
musket at an old wig, hanging by the wall in the midst of a lecture on
the propriety of going to school, that he gave him up as hopeless.
The tap-room presented its usual evening appearance when the agent
entered. The curate and lawyer were deep in a discussion on the beauties
of the new poor-law; the farmers grumbling at the weather; the landlady
quietly seated behind the bar, while the bar-maid, a smart, coquettish
girl of nineteen, carried the ale and brandy around to the thirsty
customers, and all the usual concomitants of a scene then common, but,
what we must now call of the olden time, though half a century has
scarce passed away since it occurred. The agent was a great man there,
few liked him--in fact, all hated him, for though generally a just man,
he was entirely a man of business; punctuality was his deity--there was
no excuse with him for not meeting rent or bills when due; he did not
overcharge or wrong anyone, but he must have his bond, like Shylock,
without his ferocity. If money was due it must be paid; sickness, bad
crops, death itself was nothing to him; if not, he proceeded _legally_;
oh, what a world of anguish! what a number of crimes, crying aloud to
Heaven for justice and retribution, are committed under the cloak of
Man's legality. The type was forged in Hell that stamped the letter of
the law.
The agent, after exchanging courtesies, lip-deep, with the principal
farmers, the curate, etc., walked up to the bar and entered into
conversation with Mrs. Ally, as she was usually called.
'His lordship has desired me, Mrs. Ally, to put this notice up in a
conspicuous place in your tavern, perhaps you will oblige me by placing
it in a proper position.' So saying, he handed her the paper containing
the reward, etc., offered for the apprehension of Hunter.
'You may stick it up yourself on the parish pump, Mr. Lambert, if you
like, but my bar is no station-house or cage; give it to the town
crier,' said the dame bristling, for she hated the agent, and feared him
not.
'Dang my buttons!' said a burly farmer, 'Mrs. Ally ha the agent
dumbfoundered--what be the matter?'
'It is simply this, good friends,' said the agent: 'his lordship has
offered a reward of L500;--L500,' said the agent, slowly repeating the
sum, 'for the apprehension of the notorious poacher, Horace Hunter, who
has threatened his life, and will visit with his gravest displeasure any
one who harbors him, or in any way countenances him; if a tenant he
shall be discharged; and Mrs. Ally here, refuses to let me place the
notice in her bar, thereby showing great disregard for my lord's wishes,
to say the least.'
The farmers mostly shrunk back on this speech; the name of a lord, and
that lord their landlord, appalled them. They knew the bitter wrong he
had heaped upon Hunter's devoted head; they well could sympathize with
him; they had known him a gay and thriving farmer, their lord's especial
favorite--fatal favor--the companionship of the tiger and the deer. The
beauty of Hunter's sister had struck the libidinous eye of the
aristocratic villain--need I say more? ruin and desolation followed--no
one knew what had become of her. The brother had been kidnapped by a
press-gang, but of course the Earl knew nothing of that; he was now,
however, supposed to be lurking in the neighborhood. The Earl had
received a letter in which the brother's heart had been poured out in
bitterness; he had injured, therefore he could not forgive. Not so,
however, Mrs. Alice; she did not fear the lord one jot, and folks did
say, she knew more about him than he would like told; be that as it may,
she loudly protested against its being placed there at all; and was
still indignantly haranguing; now crying shame upon his lordship; now
bewailing poor Ellen, who had been a great favorite of hers, when her
eccentric nephew entered; he looked dusty and fatigued, but there was a
strange smile upon his lips as he looked at the agent. Without saying a
word he walked straight up to the agent, and taking the paper from his
hand procured a hammer and some tacks and nailed it up in the most
conspicuous place in the bar, displacing some of his aunt's ornaments in
so doing; then drinking a mug of ale, he threw himself along a bench and
was or seemed to be sound asleep.
'Dash ma wig,' said the farmer, who had before spoken, 'that dangs all,
the boy be daft and Mrs. Ally doant say nuthen--he be queer for
sartain.'
Mrs. Ally said not a word, but gazed on her nephew with mute
astonishment; she did not, however, attempt to remove the obnoxious
paper. The agent having in this unexpected manner gained his point,
called for wine and sat down with the curate, lawyer, etc. He had yet
another object--to find Curly Tom, no easy matter, that worthy being by
no means a welcome guest there; that he did come there sometimes,
however, Lambert knew, for as long as no warrant was out against him,
however bad his character, he could not be turned away from the inn when
he paid his shot; he did not like openly to ask for such a character,
but sat down trusting that when the ale made the farmers loquacious he
should gain some clue to his whereabouts. Fortune seemed destined to be
his friend in more than one way that evening. The sound of a pistol shot
was heard in the road leading towards the seaport, which was some ten
miles distant; and a few moments after, a burly seafaring man entered
the tap-room, dragging after him, in his powerful grasp, a ruffianly
ill-looking countryman; no other indeed than the man of all others
Lambert wished most to see, viz: Curly Tom.
'Cast your anchor there,' said the seaman, 'and if you attempt to slip
moorings, afore you've been over-hauled by the skipper, split my
topsails but I'll bring you up all standing with this barking iron,'
pressing the muzzle of a pistol to the fellow's forehead.
'Put up your pistol,' said the fellow sullenly. 'I beant going to run;
you've broke my head and dinged all the wind oot of ma body.'
'What is the matter, my good man?' said Mr. Lambert, coming forward. 'I
am a magistrate, and can take your deposition.'
'Matter!' said the sailor, 'piracy is the matter. I was making for this
ere port, charged with despatches from my commanding officer, when this
ere shark ranges alongside and pops his barking iron into my face, and
wants me to break cargo and hand over to him, but I brought my harpoon
handle to bear on his figure head and he capsized, and his barker got
foul of his rigging, then I roused him up and brought him along to this
port.'
'Highway robbery and attempt at murder,' said the agent. 'Simpkins, you
are constable, take this man in charge, while I make out his committal.
Stay!' he added, 'the cage is very insecure, and this is no trifling
case. You had better take him up to the castle, my lord will examine him
in the morning, and there is a strong room there; meantime, Mrs. Ally
will perhaps see to his wound, it looks an ugly one.'
The kind hearted landlady readily undertook this latter office, even for
so repulsive a being; his head had indeed received a terrific blow, a
fur cap had somewhat deadened the force or he must have been killed on
the spot; she bound his head up, and in charge of the constable and two
stout laborers he was marched up to the castle. The agent after warning
the mariner to attend in the morning at his examination, going with
them, well pleased, not only to have found the man he sought, but also
to have him in such a situation that he could only choose between doing
his bidding or the gallows. The boy, had never stirred from his sleep
during this scene. The company at the ale house also broke up, and each
wended his way home, where, no doubt, each in his own way, regaled his
family with the marvels of the evening, and the seaman alone remained,
eating his supper as coolly as though nothing had happened, a combat of
life and death seeming to him a thing too common to excite any emotion
in his breast. Had it been daylight it is not likely he would have been
attacked by one man; few that gazed upon his square muscular form, his
brawny chest and strong hard hands, would have liked to cope with him in
personal conflict, though his iron grey beard told that more than fifty
years of storm had rolled over his head. His face had been handsome,
scarred with storm and conflict, it still bore the impress of manly
beauty, and there was a look of settled determination, upon it, that
told was indeed,
'In close fight a warrior grim,'
and traces of fierce passion also showed him to be one whom no one would
like for an enemy. His dress was finer than an ordinary seaman's, and
though perfectly nautical, was free from any stain of tar or pitch,
generally considered absolutely necessary in a sailor's attire. The boy
gazed intently on him as he took his meal, closing his eyes however
whenever the sailor looked at him, and preserving the appearance of
slumber.
Mrs. Ally waited with becoming patience while her guest ate his fill and
then approaching him with a brimming tumbler of punch said, 'Drink to
the memory of old times, Walter.'
'You know me then!' said he, 'strange that but one eye alone of those
who knew me in my boyhood should recognize me, but sea and storm do much
to alter a man, human passion does more.' (He spoke now without any of
the sea jargon that had made his account of the encounter with Curly Tom
almost unintelligible to the farmers); 'but,' he added, 'you had better
send this lad to bed.'
'You need not,' said the boy, rising as he spoke, 'I remembered you
instantly. I will not betray you if you wish to remain unknown.'
'You may safely trust him,' said his aunt, 'he never breaks his word.'
'A good sign that,' said the seaman, 'and a bold boy I warrant, he is
well grown too for his years, and like--'
'Like who?' asked aunt and nephew in one breath.
'Like one I never wish to speak of,' was the answer, 'let be, let be, I
have much to ask you; first of my father, does he live?'
'He does, bowed down by age and now by sorrow, Walter. When you and I
were younger--years ago--when my sister, who is now an angel in heaven,
I hope, married you, I never thought the day would come when my lips
should be the ones to tell you of the desolation of your child.'
Walter recoiled, and rising from his seat grasped the back of the chair
he had been seated on with such a nervous gripe that the strong oak rail
broke in two with the pressure, and his heaving chest and quivering lip
told the fierce emotions that were struggling for utterance.--The
landlady understood his look.
'Do not fear, Walter--your child is as pure as an angel. It is the
desolation of her heart I speak of--not the pollution. It is the blight
that has fallen upon her young love--upon a woman's first and holiest
impressions--a virtuous love for a deserving object. Are you calm enough
to hear the tale?'
'I am--proceed.'
'My tale will not be a long one, but sad--sad for more than one victim
has and will fall yet to the fell passions of him, who rules this
neighborhood with a rod of iron. You remember Geoffry Hunter, of the
Toll gate farm?'
'Well; he and I were schoolmates.'
'He died some few years after you went on that voyage from which no one
ever expected to see you return--I for one. Though remembering your
daring courage and hardihood, I did not credit the tale that was brought
here that you had perished in the woods attempting to escape. I felt
confident you would one day return--as you did ten years ago, and
brought this boy with you. Geoffry Hunter left two children. You knew
them--Horace and Ellen. Poor Ellen! victim of a titled villain!' and the
good woman paused, and tears filled her eyes. It was some moments ere
she could proceed. 'Horace grew up a fine young-man. As a boy he was a
playmate of our proud master; and when Ellen returned from Canterbury,
where she had been educated by an aunt, she was the pride of the
village, the joy of her widowed mother's heart, and the apple of her
brother's eye. It was a beautiful thing to see, Walter, the strong love
of those two--the exultant pride of the brother in his sister's
loveliness--in her accomplishments, for she knew many things our country
folks were unacquainted with. The deep affection of the sister--oh, it
was a happy and a handsome picture, that mother, sister and brother. She
took more pleasure in the society of your daughter than in any other of
the village girls, and they were much together. Ellen taught her what
she had learned, and thus it came about that her brother first noticed
and finally loved her. And she loved him in return. A handsomer or more
fitting pair never trod the sod together. You would have approved the
match. Your father gave his consent--he had long mourned you as
dead--and they were to have been married when she became 20 years of
age. It yet wanted two years of this time when our lord returned from
abroad. He soon visited the house of his old playfellow, and was struck
with the beauty of Ellen Hunter--but he too well knew the character of
Horace Hunter to openly show it. The first step he took was to dismiss
your father from the stewardship, under pretence of his being too old,
and settling a pension on him. He did not wish the good old man near
him--it was a living reproach on his bad deeds.'