Aaron Trow
I would wish to declare, at the beginning of this story, that Ishall never regard that cluster of islets which we call Bermuda asthe Fortunate Islands of the ancients. Do not let professionalgeographers take me up, and say that no one has so accounted them,and that the ancients have never been supposed to have gottenthemselves so far westwards. What I mean to assert is this--that,had any ancient been carried thither by enterprise or stress ofweather, he would not have given those islands so good a name. Thatthe Neapolitan sailors of King Alonzo should have been wrecked here,I consider to be more likely. The vexed Bermoothes is a good namefor them. There is no getting in or out of them without thegreatest difficulty, and a patient, slow navigation, which is veryheart-rending. That Caliban should have lived here I can imagine;that Ariel would have been sick of the place is certain; and thatGovernor Prospero should have been willing to abandon hisgovernorship, I conceive to have been only natural. When oneregards the present state of the place, one is tempted to doubtwhether any of the governors have been conjurors since his days.Bermuda, as all the world knows, is a British colony at which wemaintain a convict establishment. Most of our outlying convictestablishments have been sent back upon our hands from our colonies,but here one is still maintained. There is also in the islands astrong military fortress, though not a fortress looking magnificentto the eyes of civilians, as do Malta and Gibraltar. There are alsohere some six thousand white people and some six thousand blackpeople, eating, drinking, sleeping, and dying.The convict establishment is the most notable feature of Bermuda toa stranger, but it does not seem to attract much attention from theregular inhabitants of the place. There is no intercourse betweenthe prisoners and the Bermudians. The convicts are rarely seen bythem, and the convict islands are rarely visited. As to theprisoners themselves, of course it is not open to them--or shouldnot be open to them--to have intercourse with any but the prisonauthorities.There have, however, been instances in which convicts have escapedfrom their confinement, and made their way out among the islands.Poor wretches! As a rule, there is but little chance for any thatcan so escape. The whole length of the cluster is but twenty miles,and the breadth is under four. The prisoners are, of course, whitemen, and the lower orders of Bermuda, among whom alone could arunagate have any chance of hiding himself, are all negroes; so thatsuch a one would be known at once. Their clothes are all marked.Their only chance of a permanent escape would be in the hold of anAmerican ship; but what captain of an American or other ship wouldwillingly encumber himself with an escaped convict? But,nevertheless, men have escaped; and in one instance, I believe, aconvict got away, so that of him no farther tidings were ever heard.For the truth of the following tale I will not by any means vouch.If one were to inquire on the spot one might probably find that theladies all believe it, and the old men; that all the young men knowexactly how much of it is false and how much true; and that thesteady, middle-aged, well-to-do islanders are quite convinced thatit is romance from beginning to end. My readers may rangethemselves with the ladies, the young men, or the steady, well-to-do, middle-aged islanders, as they please.Some years ago, soon after the prison was first established on itspresent footing, three men did escape from it, and among them acertain notorious prisoner named Aaron Trow. Trow's antecedents inEngland had not been so villanously bad as those of many of hisfellow-convicts, though the one offence for which he was punishedhad been of a deep dye: he had shed man's blood. At a period ofgreat distress in a manufacturing town he had led men on to riot,and with his own hand had slain the first constable who hadendeavoured to do his duty against him. There had been courage inthe doing of the deed, and probably no malice; but the deed, let itsmoral blackness have been what it might, had sent him to Bermuda,with a sentence against him of penal servitude for life. Had hebeen then amenable to prison discipline,--even then, with such asentence against him as that,--he might have won his way back, afterthe lapse of years, to the children, and perhaps, to the wife, thathe had left behind him; but he was amenable to no rules--to nodiscipline. His heart was sore to death with an idea of injury, andhe lashed himself against the bars of his cage with a feeling thatit would be well if he could so lash himself till he might perish inhis fury.And then a day came in which an attempt was made by a large body ofconvicts, under his leadership, to get the better of the officers ofthe prison. It is hardly necessary to say that the attempt failed.Such attempts always fail. It failed on this occasion signally, andTrow, with two other men, were condemned to be scourged terribly,and then kept in solitary confinement for some lengthened term ofmonths. Before, however, the day of scourging came, Trow and histwo associates had escaped.I have not the space to tell how this was effected, nor the power todescribe the manner. They did escape from the establishment intothe islands, and though two of them were taken after a single day'srun at liberty, Aaron Trow had not been yet retaken even when a weekwas over. When a month was over he had not been retaken, and theofficers of the prison began to say that he had got away from themin a vessel to the States. It was impossible, they said, that heshould have remained in the islands and not been discovered. It wasnot impossible that he might have destroyed himself, leaving hisbody where it had not yet been found. But he could not have livedon in Bermuda during that month's search. So, at least, said theofficers of the prison. There was, however, a report through theislands that he had been seen from time to time; that he had gottenbread from the negroes at night, threatening them with death if theytold of his whereabouts; and that all the clothes of the mate of avessel had been stolen while the man was bathing, including a suitof dark blue cloth, in which suit of clothes, or in one of such anature, a stranger had been seen skulking about the rocks near St.George. All this the governor of the prison affected to disbelieve,but the opinion was becoming very rife in the islands that AaronTrow was still there.A vigilant search, however, is a task of great labour, and cannot bekept up for ever. By degrees it was relaxed. The warders andgaolers ceased to patrol the island roads by night, and it wasagreed that Aaron Trow was gone, or that he would be starved todeath, or that he would in time be driven to leave such traces ofhis whereabouts as must lead to his discovery; and this at last didturn out to be the fact.There is a sort of prettiness about these islands which, though itnever rises to the loveliness of romantic scenery, is neverthelessattractive in its way. The land breaks itself into little knolls,and the sea runs up, hither and thither, in a thousand creeks andinlets; and then, too, when the oleanders are in bloom, they give awonderfully bright colour to the landscape. Oleanders seem to bethe roses of Bermuda, and are cultivated round all the villages ofthe better class through the islands. There are two towns, St.George and Hamilton, and one main high-road, which connects them;but even this high-road is broken by a ferry, over which everyvehicle going from St. George to Hamilton must be conveyed. Most ofthe locomotion in these parts is done by boats, and the residentslook to the sea, with its narrow creeks, as their best highway fromtheir farms to their best market. In those days--and those dayswere not very long since--the building of small ships was theirchief trade, and they valued their land mostly for the small scrubbycedar-trees with which this trade was carried on.As one goes from St. George to Hamilton the road runs between twoseas; that to the right is the ocean; that on the left is an inlandcreek, which runs up through a large portion of the islands, so thatthe land on the other side of it is near to the traveller. For aconsiderable portion of the way there are no houses lying near theroad, and, there is one residence, some way from the road, sosecluded that no other house lies within a mile of it by land. Bywater it might probably be reached within half a mile. This placewas called Crump Island, and here lived, and had lived for manyyears, an old gentleman, a native of Bermuda, whose business it hadbeen to buy up cedar wood and sell it to the ship-builders atHamilton. In our story we shall not have very much to do with oldMr. Bergen, but it will be necessary to say a word or two about hishouse.It stood upon what would have been an island in the creek, had not anarrow causeway, barely broad enough for a road, joined it to thatlarger island on which stands the town of St. George. As the mainroad approaches the ferry it runs through some rough, hilly, openground, which on the right side towards the ocean has never beencultivated. The distance from the ocean here may, perhaps, be aquarter of a mile, and the ground is for the most part covered withlow furze. On the left of the road the land is cultivated inpatches, and here, some half mile or more from the ferry, a pathturns away to Crump Island. The house cannot be seen from the road,and, indeed, can hardly be seen at all, except from the sea. Itlies, perhaps, three furlongs from the high road, and the path to itis but little used, as the passage to and from it is chiefly made bywater.Here, at the time of our story, lived Mr. Bergen, and here lived Mr.Bergen's daughter. Miss Bergen was well known at St. George's as asteady, good girl, who spent her time in looking after her father'shousehold matters, in managing his two black maid-servants and theblack gardener, and who did her duty in that sphere of life to whichshe had been called. She was a comely, well-shaped young woman,with a sweet countenance, rather large in size, and very quiet indemeanour. In her earlier years, when young girls usually first budforth into womanly beauty, the neighbours had not thought much ofAnastasia Bergen, nor had the young men of St. George been wont tostay their boats under the window of Crump Cottage in order thatthey might listen to her voice or feel the light of her eye; butslowly, as years went by, Anastasia Bergen became a woman that a manmight well love; and a man learned to love her who was well worthyof a woman's heart. This was Caleb Morton, the Presbyterianminister of St. George; and Caleb Morton had been engaged to marryMiss Bergen for the last two years past, at the period of AaronTrow's escape from prison.Caleb Morton was not a native of Bermuda, but had been sent thitherby the synod of his church from Nova Scotia. He was a tall,handsome man, at this time of some thirty years of age, of apresence which might almost have been called commanding. He wasvery strong, but of a temperament which did not often give himopportunity to put forth his strength; and his life had been suchthat neither he nor others knew of what nature might be his courage.The greater part of his life was spent in preaching to some few ofthe white people around him, and in teaching as many of the blacksas he could get to hear him. His days were very quiet, and had beenaltogether without excitement until he had met with AnastasiaBergen. It will suffice for us to say that he did meet her, andthat now, for two years past, they had been engaged as man and wife.Old Mr. Bergen, when he heard of the engagement, was not wellpleased at the information. In the first place, his daughter wasvery necessary to him, and the idea of her marrying and going awayhad hardly as yet occurred to him; and then he was by no meansinclined to part with any of his money. It must not be presumedthat he had amassed a fortune by his trade in cedar wood. Fewtradesmen in Bermuda do, as I imagine, amass fortunes. Of some fewhundred pounds he was possessed, and these, in the course of nature,would go to his daughter when he died; but he had no inclination tohand any portion of them over to his daughter before they did go toher in the course of nature. Now, the income which Caleb Mortonearned as a Presbyterian clergyman was not large, and, therefore, noday had been fixed as yet for his marriage with Anastasia.But, though the old man had been from the first averse to the match,his hostility had not been active. He had not forbidden Mr. Mortonhis house, or affected to be in any degree angry because hisdaughter had a lover. He had merely grumbled forth an intimationthat those who marry in haste repent at leisure,--that love keptnobody warm if the pot did not boil; and that, as for him, it was asmuch as he could do to keep his own pot boiling at Crump Cottage.In answer to this Anastasia said nothing. She asked him for nomoney, but still kept his accounts, managed his household, andlooked patiently forward for better days.Old Mr. Bergen himself spent much of his time at Hamilton, where hehad a woodyard with a couple of rooms attached to it. It was hiscustom to remain here three nights of the week, during whichAnastasia was left alone at the cottage; and it happened by no meansseldom that she was altogether alone, for the negro whom they calledthe gardener would go to her father's place at Hamilton, and the twoblack girls would crawl away up to the road, tired with the monotonyof the sea at the cottage. Caleb had more than once told her thatshe was too much alone, but she had laughed at him, saying thatsolitude in Bermuda was not dangerous. Nor, indeed, was it; for thepeople are quiet and well-mannered, lacking much energy, but being,in the same degree, free from any propensity to violence."So you are going," she said to her lover, one evening, as he rosefrom the chair on which he had been swinging himself at the door ofthe cottage which looks down over the creek of the sea. He had satthere for an hour talking to her as she worked, or watching her asshe moved about the place. It was a beautiful evening, and the sunhad been falling to rest with almost tropical glory before his feet.The bright oleanders were red with their blossoms all around him,and he had thoroughly enjoyed his hour of easy rest. "So you aregoing," she said to him, not putting her work out of her hand as herose to depart."Yes; and it is time for me to go. I have still work to do before Ican get to bed. Ah, well; I suppose the day will come at last whenI need not leave you as soon as my hour of rest is over.""Come; of course it will come. That is, if your reverence shouldchoose to wait for it another ten years or so.""I believe you would not mind waiting twenty years.""Not if a certain friend of mine would come down and see me ofevenings when I'm alone after the day. It seems to me that Ishouldn't mind waiting as long as I had that to look for.""You are right not to be impatient," he said to her, after a pause,as he held her hand before he went. "Quite right. I only wish Icould school myself to be as easy about it.""I did not say I was easy," said Anastasia. "People are seldom easyin this world, I take it. I said I could be patient. Do not lookin that way, as though you pretended that you were dissatisfied withme. You know that I am true to you, and you ought to be very proudof me.""I am proud of you, Anastasia--" on hearing which she got up andcourtesied to him. "I am proud of you; so proud of you that I feelyou should not be left here all alone, with no one to help you ifyou were in trouble.""Women don't get into trouble as men do, and do not want any one tohelp them. If you were alone in the house you would have to go tobed without your supper, because you could not make a basin ofboiled milk ready for your own meal. Now, when your reverence hasgone, I shall go to work and have my tea comfortably." And then hedid go, bidding God bless her as he left her. Three hours afterthat he was disturbed in his own lodgings by one of the negro girlsfrom the cottage rushing to his door, and begging him in Heaven'sname to come down to the assistance of her mistress.When Morton left her, Anastasia did not proceed to do as she hadsaid, and seemed to have forgotten her evening meal. She had beenworking sedulously with her needle during all that lastconversation; but when her lover was gone, she allowed the work tofall from her hands, and sat motionless for awhile, gazing at thelast streak of colour left by the setting sun; but there was nolonger a sign of its glory to be traced in the heavens around her.The twilight in Bermuda is not long and enduring as it is with us,though the daylight does not depart suddenly, leaving the darknessof night behind it without any intermediate time of warning, as isthe case farther south, down among the islands of the tropics. Butthe soft, sweet light of the evening had waned and gone, and nighthad absolutely come upon her, while Anastasia was still seatedbefore the cottage with her eyes fixed upon the white streak ofmotionless sea which was still visible through the gloom. She wasthinking of him, of his ways of life, of his happiness, and of herduty towards him. She had told him, with her pretty femininefalseness, that she could wait without impatience; but now she saidto herself that it would not be good for him to wait longer. Helived alone and without comfort, working very hard for his poorpittance, and she could see, and feel, and understand that acompanion in his life was to him almost a necessity. She would tellher father that all this must be brought to an end. She would notask him for money, but she would make him understand that herservices must, at any rate in part, be transferred. Why should notshe and Morton still live at the cottage when they were married?And so thinking, and at last resolving, she sat there till the darknight fell upon her.She was at last disturbed by feeling a man's hand upon her shoulder.She jumped from her chair and faced him,--not screaming, for it wasespecially within her power to control herself, and to make noutterance except with forethought. Perhaps it might have beenbetter for her had she screamed, and sent a shrill shriek down theshore of that inland sea. She was silent, however, and with awe-struck face and outstretched hands gazed into the face of him whostill held her by the shoulder. The night was dark; but her eyeswere now accustomed to the darkness, and she could see indistinctlysomething of his features. He was a low-sized man, dressed in asuit of sailor's blue clothing, with a rough cap of hair on hishead, and a beard that had not been clipped for many weeks. Hiseyes were large, and hollow, and frightfully bright, so that sheseemed to see nothing else of him; but she felt the strength of hisfingers as he grasped her tighter and more tightly by the arm."Who are you?" she said, after a moment's pause."Do you know me?" he asked."Know you! No." But the words were hardly out of her mouth beforeit struck her that the man was Aaron Trow, of whom every one inBermuda had been talking."Come into the house," he said, "and give me food." And he stillheld her with his hand as though he would compel her to follow him.She stood for a moment thinking what she would say to him; for eventhen, with that terrible man standing close to her in the darkness,her presence of mind did not desert her. "Surely," she said, "Iwill give you food if you are hungry. But take your hand from me.No man would lay his hands on a woman.""A woman!" said the stranger. "What does the starved wolf care forthat? A woman's blood is as sweet to him as that of a man. Comeinto the house, I tell you." And then she preceded him through theopen door into the narrow passage, and thence to the kitchen. Thereshe saw that the back door, leading out on the other side of thehouse, was open, and she knew that he had come down from the roadand entered on that side. She threw her eyes around, looking forthe negro girls; but they were away, and she remembered that therewas no human being within sound of her voice but this man who hadtold her that he was as a wolf thirsty after her blood!"Give me food at once," he said."And will you go if I give it you?" she asked."I will knock out your brains if you do not," he replied, liftingfrom the grate a short, thick poker which lay there. "Do as I bidyou at once. You also would be like a tiger if you had fasted fortwo days, as I have done."She could see, as she moved across the kitchen, that he had alreadysearched there for something that he might eat, but that he hadsearched in vain. With the close economy common among his class inthe islands, all comestibles were kept under close lock and key inthe house of Mr. Bergen. Their daily allowance was given day by dayto the negro servants, and even the fragments were then gathered upand locked away in safety. She moved across the kitchen to theaccustomed cupboard, taking the keys from her pocket, and hefollowed close upon her. There was a small oil lamp hanging fromthe low ceiling which just gave them light to see each other. Shelifted her hand to this to tare it from its hook, but he preventedher. "No, by Heaven!" he said, "you don't touch that till I've donewith it. There's light enough for you to drag out your scraps."She did drag out her scraps and a bowl of milk, which might holdperhaps a quart. There was a fragment of bread, a morsel of coldpotato-cake, and the bone of a leg of kid. "And is that all?" saidhe. But as he spoke he fleshed his teeth against the bone as a dogwould have done."It is the best I have," she said; "I wish it were better, and youshould have had it without violence, as you have suffered so longfrom hunger.""Bah! Better; yes! You would give the best no doubt, and set thehell hounds on my track the moment I am gone. I know how much Imight expect from your charity.""I would have fed you for pity's sake," she answered."Pity! Who are you, that you should dare to pity me! By -, myyoung woman, it is I that pity you. I must cut your throat unlessyou give me money. Do you know that?""Money! I have got no money.""I'll make you have some before I go. Come; don't move till I havedone." And as he spoke to her he went on tugging at the bone, andswallowing the lumps of stale bread. He had already finished thebowl of milk. "And, now," said he, "tell me who I am.""I suppose you are Aaron Trow," she answered, very slowly. He saidnothing on hearing this, but continued his meal, standing close toher so that she might not possibly escape from him out into thedarkness. Twice or thrice in those few minutes she made up her mindto make such an attempt, feeling that it would be better to leavehim in possession of the house, and make sure, if possible, of herown life. There was no money there; not a dollar! What money herfather kept in his possession was locked up in his safe at Hamilton.And might he not keep to his threat, and murder her, when he foundthat she could give him nothing? She did not tremble outwardly, asshe stood there watching him as he ate, but she thought how probableit might be that her last moments were very near. And yet she couldscrutinise his features, form, and garments, so as to carry away inher mind a perfect picture of them. Aaron Trow--for of course itwas the escaped convict--was not a man of frightful, hideous aspect.Had the world used him well, giving him when he was young amplewages and separating him from turbulent spirits, he also might haveused the world well; and then women would have praised thebrightness of his eye and the manly vigour of his brow. But thingshad not gone well with him. He had been separated from the wife hehad loved, and the children who had been raised at his knee,--separated by his own violence; and now, as he had said of himself,he was a wolf rather than a man. As he stood there satisfying thecraving of his appetite, breaking up the large morsels of food, hewas an object very sad to be seen. Hunger had made him gaunt andyellow, he was squalid with the dirt of his hidden lair, and he hadthe look of a beast;--that look to which men fall when they livelike the brutes of prey, as outcasts from their brethren. But stillthere was that about his brow which might have redeemed him,--whichmight have turned her horror into pity, had he been willing that itshould be so."And now give me some brandy," he said.There was brandy in the house,--in the sitting-room which was closeat their hand, and the key of the little press which held it was inher pocket. It was useless, she thought, to refuse him; and so shetold him that there was a bottle partly full, but that she must goto the next room to fetch it him."We'll go together, my darling," he said. "There's nothing likegood company." And he again put his hand upon her arm as theypassed into the family sitting-room."I must take the light," she said. But he unhooked it himself, andcarried it in his own hand.Again she went to work without trembling. She found the key of theside cupboard, and unlocking the door, handed him a bottle whichmight contain about half-a-pint of spirits. "And is that all?" hesaid."There is a full bottle here," she answered, handing him another;"but if you drink it, you will be drunk, and they will catch you.""By Heavens, yes; and you would be the first to help them; would younot?""Look here," she answered. "If you will go now, I will not say aword to any one of your coming, nor set them on your track to followyou. There, take the full bottle with you. If you will go, youshall be safe from me.""What, and go without money!""I have none to give you. You may believe me when I say so. I havenot a dollar in the house."Before he spoke again he raised the half empty bottle to his mouth,and drank as long as there was a drop to drink. "There," said he,putting the bottle down, "I am better after that. As to the other,you are right, and I will take it with me. And now, young woman,about the money?""I tell you that I have not a dollar.""Look here," said he, and he spoke now in a softer voice, as thoughhe would be on friendly terms with her. "Give me ten sovereigns,and I will go. I know you have it, and with ten sovereigns it ispossible that I may save my life. You are good, and would not wishthat a man should die so horrid a death. I know you are good.Come, give me the money." And he put his hands up, beseeching her,and looked into her face with imploring eyes."On the word of a Christian woman I have not got money to give you,"she replied."Nonsense?" And as he spoke he took her by the arm and shook her.He shook her violently so that he hurt her, and her breath for amoment was all but gone from her. "I tell you you must make dollarsbefore I leave you, or I will so handle you that it would have beenbetter for you to coin your very blood.""May God help me at my need," she said, "as I have not above a fewpenny pieces in the house.""And you expect me to believe that! Look here! I will shake theteeth out of your head, but I will have it from you." And he didshake her again, using both his hands and striking her against thewall."Would you--murder me?" she said, hardly able now to utter thewords."Murder you, yes; why not? I cannot be worse than I am, were I tomurder you ten times over. But with money I may possibly bebetter.""I have it not.""Then I will do worse than murder you. I will make you such anobject that all the world shall loathe to look on you." And sosaying he took her by the arm and dragged her forth from the wallagainst which she had stood.Then there came from her a shriek that was heard far down the shoreof that silent sea, and away across to the solitary houses of thoseliving on the other side,--a shriek, very sad, sharp, andprolonged,--which told plainly to those who heard it of woman's woewhen in her extremest peril. That sound was spoken of in Bermudafor many a day after that, as something which had been terrible tohear. But then, at that moment, as it came wailing through thedark, it sounded as though it were not human. Of those who heardit, not one guessed from whence it came, nor was the hand of anybrother put forward to help that woman at her need."Did you hear that?" said the young wife to her husband, from thefar side of the arm of the sea."Hear it! Oh Heaven, yes! Whence did it come?" The young wifecould not say from whence it came, but clung close to her husband'sbreast, comforting herself with the knowledge that that terriblesorrow was not hers.But aid did come at last, or rather that which seemed as aid. Longand terrible was the fight between that human beast of prey and thepoor victim which had fallen into his talons. Anastasia Bergen wasa strong, well-built woman, and now that the time had come to herwhen a struggle was necessary, a struggle for life, for honour, forthe happiness of him who was more to her than herself, she foughtlike a tigress attacked in her own lair. At such a moment as thisshe also could become wild and savage as the beast of the forest.When he pinioned her arms with one of his, as he pressed her downupon the floor, she caught the first joint of the forefinger of hisother hand between her teeth till he yelled in agony, and anothersound was heard across the silent water. And then, when one handwas loosed in the struggle, she twisted it through his long hair,and dragged back his head till his eyes were nearly starting fromtheir sockets. Anastasia Bergen had hitherto been a sheer woman,all feminine in her nature. But now the foam came to her mouth, andfire sprang from her eyes, and the muscles of her body worked asthough she had been trained to deeds of violence. Of violence,Aaron Trow had known much in his rough life, but never had hecombated with harder antagonist than her whom he now held beneathhis breast."By--I will put an end to you," he exclaimed, in his wrath, as hestruck her violently across the face with his elbow. His hand wasoccupied, and he could not use it for a blow, but, nevertheless, theviolence was so great that the blood gushed from her nostrils, whilethe back of her head was driven with violence against the floor.But she did not lose her hold of him. Her hand was still twinedclosely through his thick hair, and in every move he made she clungto him with all her might. "Leave go my hair," he shouted at her,but she still kept her hold, though he again dashed her head againstthe floor.There was still light in the room, for when he first grasped herwith both his hands, he had put the lamp down on a small table. Nowthey were rolling on the floor together, and twice he had essayed tokneel on her that he might thus crush the breath from her body, anddeprive her altogether of her strength; but she had been too activefor him, moving herself along the ground, though in doing so shedragged him with her. But by degrees he got one hand at liberty,and with that he pulled a clasp knife out of his pocket and openedit. "I will cut your head off if you do not let go my hair," hesaid. But still she held fast by him. He then stabbed at her arm,using his left hand and making short, ineffectual blows. Her dresspartly saved her, and partly also the continual movement of all herlimbs; but, nevertheless, the knife wounded her. It wounded her inseveral places about the arm, covering them both with blood;--butstill she hung on. So close was her grasp in her agony, that, asshe afterwards found, she cut the skin of her own hands with her ownnails. Had the man's hair been less thick or strong, or her owntenacity less steadfast, he would have murdered her before anyinterruption could have saved her.And yet he had not purposed to murder her, or even, in the firstinstance, to inflict on her any bodily harm. But he had beendetermined to get money. With such a sum of money as he had named,it might, he thought, be possible for him to win his way across toAmerica. He might bribe men to hide him in the hold of a ship, andthus there might be for him, at any rate, a possibility of escape.That there must be money in the house he had still thought whenfirst he laid hands on the poor woman; and then, when the strugglehad once begun, when he had felt her muscles contending with his,the passion of the beast was aroused within him, and he stroveagainst her as he would have striven against a dog. But yet, whenthe knife was in his hand, he had not driven it against her heart.Then suddenly, while they were yet rolling on the floor, there was asound of footsteps in the passage. Aaron Trow instantly leaped tohis feet, leaving his victim on the ground, with huge lumps of histhick clotted hair in her hand. Thus, and thus only, could he haveliberated himself from her grasp. He rushed at the door, and therehe came against the two negro servant-girls who had returned down totheir kitchen from the road on which they had been straying. Trow,as he half saw them in the dark, not knowing how many there mightbe, or whether there was a man among them, rushed through them,upsetting one scared girl in his passage. With the instinct andwith the timidity of a beast, his impulse now was to escape, and hehurried away back to the road and to his lair, leaving the threewomen together in the cottage. Poor wretch! As he crossed theroad, not skulking in his impotent haste, but running at his best,another pair of eyes saw him, and when the search became hot afterhim, it was known that his hiding-place was not distant.It was some time before any of the women were able to act, and whensome step was taken, Anastasia was the first to take it. She hadnot absolutely swooned, but the reaction, after the violence of herefforts, was so great, that for some minutes she had been unable tospeak. She had risen from the floor when Trow left her, and hadeven followed him to the door; but since that she had fallen backinto her father's old arm-chair, and there sat gasping not only forwords, but for breath also.At last she bade one of the girls to run into St. George, and begMr. Morton to come to her aid. The girl would not stir without hercompanion; and even then, Anastasia, covered as she was with blood,with dishevelled hair, and her clothes half torn from her body,accompanied them as far as the road. There they found a negro ladstill hanging about the place, and he told them that he had seen theman cross the road, and run down over the open ground towards therocks of the sea-coast. "He must be there," said the lad, pointingin the direction of a corner of the rocks; "unless he swim acrossthe mouth of the ferry." But the mouth of that ferry is an arm ofthe sea, and it was not probable that a man would do that when hemight have taken the narrow water by keeping on the other side ofthe road.At about one that night Caleb Morton reached the cottage breathlesswith running, and before a word was spoken between them, Anastasiahad fallen on his shoulder and had fainted. As soon as she was inthe arms of her lover, all her power had gone from her. The spiritand passion of the tiger had gone, and she was again a weak womanshuddering at the thought of what she had suffered. She rememberedthat she had had the man's hand between her teeth, and by degreesshe found his hair still clinging to her fingers; but even then shecould hardly call to mind the nature of the struggle she hadundergone. His hot breath close to her own cheek she did remember,and his glaring eyes, and even the roughness of his beard as hepressed his face against her own; but she could not say whence hadcome the blood, nor till her arm became stiff and motionless did sheknow that she had been wounded.It was all joy with her now, as she sat motionless without speaking,while he administered to her wants and spoke words of love into herears. She remembered the man's horrid threat, and knew that byGod's mercy she had been saved. And he was there caressing her,loving her, comforting her! As she thought of the fate that hadthreatened her, of the evil that had been so imminent, she fellforward on her knees, and with incoherent sobs uttered herthanksgivings, while her head was still supported on his arms.It was almost morning before she could induce herself to leave himand lie down. With him she seemed to be so perfectly safe; but themoment he was away she could see Aaron Trow's eyes gleaming at heracross the room. At last, however, she slept; and when he saw thatshe was at rest, he told himself that his work must then begin.Hitherto Caleb Morton had lived in all respects the life of a man ofpeace; but now, asking himself no questions as to the propriety ofwhat he would do, using no inward arguments as to this or that lineof conduct, he girded the sword on his loins, and prepared himselffor war. The wretch who had thus treated the woman whom he lovedshould be hunted down like a wild beast, as long as he had arms andlegs with which to carry on the hunt. He would pursue the miscreantwith any weapons that might come to his hands; and might Heaven helphim at his need as he dealt forth punishment to that man, if hecaught him within his grasp. Those who had hitherto known Morton inthe island, could not recognise the man as he came forth on thatday, thirsty after blood, and desirous to thrust himself intopersonal conflict with the wild ruffian who had injured him. Themeek Presbyterian minister had been a preacher, preaching ways ofpeace, and living in accordance with his own doctrines. The worldhad been very quiet for him, and he had walked quietly in hisappointed path. But now the world was quiet no longer, nor wasthere any preaching of peace. His cry was for blood; for the bloodof the untamed savage brute who had come upon his young doe in hersolitude, and striven with such brutal violence to tear her heartfrom her bosom.He got to his assistance early in the morning some of the constablesfrom St. George, and before the day was over, he was joined by twoor three of the warders from the convict establishment. There waswith him also a friend or two, and thus a party was formed,numbering together ten or twelve persons. They were of course allarmed, and therefore it might be thought that there would be butsmall chance for the wretched man if they should come upon histrack. At first they all searched together, thinking from thetidings which had reached them that he must be near to them; butgradually they spread themselves along the rocks between St. Georgeand the ferry, keeping watchman on the road, so that he should notescape unnoticed into the island.Ten times during the day did Anastasia send from the cottage up toMorton, begging him to leave the search to others, and come down toher. But not for a moment would he lose the scent of his prey.What! should it be said that she had been so treated, and thatothers had avenged her? He sent back to say that her father waswith her now, and that he would come when his work was over. And inthat job of work the life-blood of Aaron Trow was counted up.Towards evening they were all congregated on the road near to thespot at which the path turns off towards the cottage, when a voicewas heard hallooing to them from the summit of a little hill whichlies between the road and the sea on the side towards the ferry, andpresently a boy came running down to them full of news. "Danny Lundhas seen him," said the boy, "he has seen him plainly in among therocks." And then came Danny Lund himself, a small negro lad aboutfourteen years of age, who was known in those parts as the idlest,most dishonest, and most useless of his race. On this occasion,however, Danny Lund became important, and every one listened to him.He had seen, he said, a pair of eyes moving down in a cave of therocks which he well knew. He had been in the cave often, he said,and could get there again. But not now; not while that pair of eyeswas moving at the bottom of it. And so they all went up over thehill, Morton leading the way with hot haste. In his waist-band heheld a pistol, and his hand grasped a short iron bar with which hehad armed himself. They ascended the top of the hill, and whenthere, the open sea was before them on two sides, and on the thirdwas the narrow creek over which the ferry passed. Immediatelybeneath their feet were the broken rocks; for on that side, towardsthe sea, the earth and grass of the hill descended but a little waytowards the water. Down among the rocks they all went, silently,Caleb Morton leading the way, and Danny Lund directing him frombehind."Mr. Morton," said an elderly man from St. George, "had you notbetter let the warders of the gaol go first; he is a desperate man,and they will best understand his ways?"In answer to this Morton said nothing, but he would let no one put afoot before him. He still pressed forward among the rocks, and atlast came to a spot from whence he might have sprung at one leapinto the ocean. It was a broken cranny on the sea-shore into whichthe sea beat, and surrounded on every side but the one by hugebroken fragments of stone, which at first sight seemed as thoughthey would have admitted of a path down among them to the water'sedge; but which, when scanned more closely, were seen to be so largein size, that no man could climb from one to another. It was asingularly romantic spot, but now well known to them all there, forthey had visited it over and over again that morning."In there," said Danny Lund, keeping well behind Morton's body, andpointing at the same time to a cavern high up among the rocks, butquite on the opposite side of the little inlet of the sea. Themouth of the cavern was not twenty yards from where they stood, butat the first sight it seemed as though it must be impossible toreach it. The precipice on the brink of which they all now stood,ran down sheer into the sea, and the fall from the mouth of thecavern on the other side was as steep. But Danny solved the mysteryby pointing upwards, and showing them how he had been used to climbto a projecting rock over their heads, and from thence creep roundby certain vantages of the stone till he was able to let himselfdown into the aperture. But now, at the present moment, he wasunwilling to make essay of his prowess as a cragsman. He had, hesaid, been up on that projecting rock thrice, and there had seen theeyes moving in the cavern. He was quite sure of that fact of thepair of eyes, and declined to ascend the rock again.Traces soon became visible to them by which they knew that some onehad passed in and out of the cavern recently. The stone, whenexamined, bore those marks of friction which passage and repassageover it will always give. At the spot from whence the climber leftthe platform and commenced his ascent, the side of the stone hadbeen rubbed by the close friction of a man's body. A light boy likeDanny Lund might find his way in and out without leaving such marksbehind him, but no heavy man could do so. Thus before long they allwere satisfied that Aaron Trow was in the cavern before them.Then there was a long consultation as to what they would do to carryon the hunt, and how they would drive the tiger from his lair. Thathe should not again come out, except to fall into their hands, wasto all of them a matter of course. They would keep watch and wardthere, though it might be for days and nights. But that was aprocess which did not satisfy Morton, and did not indeed wellsatisfy any of them. It was not only that they desired to inflictpunishment on the miscreant in accordance with the law, but alsothat they did not desire that the miserable man should die in a holelike a starved dog, and that then they should go after him to takeout his wretched skeleton. There was something in that idea sohorrid in every way, that all agreed that active steps must betaken. The warders of the prison felt that they would all bedisgraced if they could not take their prisoner alive. Yet whowould get round that perilous ledge in the face of such anadversary? A touch to any man while climbing there would send himheadlong down among the wave! And then his fancy told to each whatmight be the nature of an embrace with such an animal as that,driven to despair, hopeless of life, armed, as they knew, at anyrate, with a knife! If the first adventurous spirit should succeedin crawling round that ledge, what would be the reception which hemight expect in the terrible depth of that cavern?They called to their prisoner, bidding him come out, and telling himthat they would fire in upon him if he did not show himself; but nota sound was heard. It was indeed possible that they should sendtheir bullets to, perhaps, every corner of the cavern; and if so, inthat way they might slaughter him; but even of this they were notsure. Who could tell that there might not be some protected nook inwhich he could lay secure? And who could tell when the man wasstruck, or whether he were wounded?"I will get to him," said Morton, speaking with a low dogged voice,and so saying he clambered up to the rock to which Danny Lund hadpointed. Many voices at once attempted to restrain him, and one ortwo put their hands upon him to keep him back, but he was too quickfor them, and now stood upon the ledge of rock. "Can you see him?"they asked below."I can see nothing within the cavern," said Morton."Look down very hard, Massa," said Danny, "very hard indeed, down indeep dark hole, and then see him big eyes moving!"Morton now crept along the ledge, or rather he was beginning to doso, having put forward his shoulders and arms to make a first stepin advance from the spot on which he was resting, when a hand wasput forth from one corner of the cavern's mouth,--a hand armed witha pistol;--and a shot was fired. There could be no doubt now butthat Danny Lund was right, and no doubt now as to the whereabouts ofAaron Trow.A hand was put forth, a pistol was fired, and Caleb Morton stillclinging to a corner of the rock with both his arms was seen tofalter. "He is wounded," said one of the voices from below; andthen they all expected to see him fall into the sea. But he did notfall, and after a moment or two, he proceeded carefully to pick hissteps along the ledge. The ball had touched him, grazing his cheek,and cutting through the light whiskers that he wore; but he had notfelt it, though the blow had nearly knocked him from his perch. Andthen four or five shots were fired from the rocks into the mouth ofthe cavern. The man's arm had been seen, and indeed one or twodeclared that they had traced the dim outline of his figure. But nosound was heard to come from the cavern, except the sharp crack ofthe bullets against the rock, and the echo of the gunpowder. Therehad been no groan as of a man wounded, no sound of a body falling,no voice wailing in despair. For a few seconds all was dark withthe smoke of the gunpowder, and then the empty mouth of the cave wasagain yawning before their eyes. Morton was now near it, stillcautiously creeping. The first danger to which he was exposed wasthis; that his enemy within the recess might push him down from therocks with a touch. But on the other hand, there were three or fourmen ready to fire, the moment that a hand should be put forth; andthen Morton could swim,--was known to be a strong swimmer;--whereasof Aaron Trow it was already declared by the prison gaolers that hecould not swim. Two of the warders had now followed Morton on therocks, so that in the event of his making good his entrance into thecavern, and holding his enemy at bay for a minute, he would bejoined by aid.It was strange to see how those different men conducted themselvesas they stood on the opposite platform watching the attack. Theofficers from the prison had no other thought but of their prisoner,and were intent on taking him alive or dead. To them it was littleor nothing what became of Morton. It was their business toencounter peril, and they were ready to do so;--feeling, however, byno means sorry to have such a man as Morton in advance of them.Very little was said by them. They had their wits about them, andremembered that every word spoken for the guidance of their allywould be heard also by the escaped convict. Their prey was sure,sooner or later, and had not Morton been so eager in his pursuit,they would have waited till some plan had been devised of trappinghim without danger. But the townsmen from St. George, of whom somedozen were now standing there, were quick and eager and loud intheir counsels. "Stay where you are, Mr. Morton,--stay awhile forthe love of God--or he'll have you down." "Now's your time, Caleb;in on him now, and you'll have him." "Close with him, Morton, closewith him at once; it's your only chance." "There's four of us here;we'll fire on him if he as much as shows a limb." All of whichwords as they were heard by that poor wretch within, must havesounded to him as the barking of a pack of hounds thirsting for hisblood. For him at any rate there was no longer any hope in thisworld.My reader, when chance has taken you into the hunting-field, has itever been your lot to sit by on horseback, and watch the digging outof a fox? The operation is not an uncommon one, and in somecountries it is held to be in accordance with the rules of fairsport. For myself, I think that when the brute has so far savedhimself, he should be entitled to the benefit of his cunning; but Iwill not now discuss the propriety or impropriety of that practicein venery. I can never, however, watch the doing of that workwithout thinking much of the agonising struggles of the poor beastwhose last refuge is being torn from over his head. There he lieswithin a few yards of his arch enemy, the huntsman. The thickbreath of the hounds make hot the air within his hole. The sound oftheir voices is close upon his ears. His breast is nearly burstingwith the violence of that effort which at last has brought him tohis retreat. And then pickaxe and mattock are plied above his head,and nearer and more near to him press his foes,--his double foes,human and canine,--till at last a huge hand grasps him, and he isdragged forth among his enemies. Almost as soon as his eyes haveseen the light the eager noses of a dozen hounds have moistenedthemselves in his entrails. Ah me! I know that he is vermin, thevermin after whom I have been risking my neck, with a bold ambitionthat I might ultimately witness his death-struggles; but,nevertheless, I would fain have saved him that last half hour ofgradually diminished hope.And Aaron Trow was now like a hunted fox, doomed to be dug out fromhis last refuge, with this addition to his misery, that these houndswhen they caught their prey, would not put him at once out of hismisery. When first he saw that throng of men coming down from thehill top and resting on the platform; he knew that his fate wascome. When they called to him to surrender himself he was silent,but he knew that his silence was of no avail. To them who were soeager to be his captors the matter seemed to be still one ofconsiderable difficulty; but, to his thinking, there was nodifficulty. There were there some score of men, fully armed, withintwenty yards of him. If he but showed a trace of his limbs he wouldbecome a mark for their bullets. And then if he were wounded, andno one would come to him! If they allowed him to lie there withoutfood till he perished! Would it not be well for him to yieldhimself? Then they called again and he was still silent. That ideaof yielding is very terrible to the heart of a man. And when theworst had come to the worst, did not the ocean run deep beneath hiscavern's month?But as they yelled at him and hallooed, making their preparationsfor his death, his presence of mind deserted the poor wretch. Hehad stolen an old pistol on one of his marauding expeditions, ofwhich one barrel had been loaded. That in his mad despair he hadfired; and now, as he lay near the mouth of the cavern, under thecover of the projecting stone, he had no weapon with him but hishands. He had had a knife, but that had dropped from him during thestruggle on the floor of the cottage. He had now nothing but hishands, and was considering how he might best use them in riddinghimself of the first of his pursuers. The man was near him, armed,with all the power and majesty of right on his side; whereas on hisside, Aaron Trow had nothing,--not a hope. He raised his head thathe might look forth, and a dozen voices shouted as his face appearedabove the aperture. A dozen weapons were levelled at him, and hecould see the gleaming of the muzzles of the guns. And then thefoot of his pursuer was already on the corner stone at the cavern'smouth. "Now, Caleb, on him at once!" shouted a voice. Ah me! itwas a moment in which to pity even such a man as Aaron Trow."Now, Caleb, at him at once!" shouted the voice. No, by heavens;not so, even yet! The sound of triumph in those words raised thelast burst of energy in the breast of that wretched man; and hesprang forth, head foremost, from his prison house. Forth he came,manifest enough before the eyes of them all, and with head welldown, and hands outstretched, but with his wide glaring eyes stillturned towards his pursuers as he fell, he plunged down into thewaves beneath him. Two of those who stood by, almost unconscious ofwhat they did, fired at his body as it made its rapid way to thewater; but, as they afterwards found, neither of the bullets struckhim. Morton, when his prey thus leaped forth, escaping him forawhile, was already on the verge of the cavern,--had even thenprepared his foot for that onward spring which should bring him tothe throat of his foe. But he arrested himself, and for a momentstood there watching the body as it struck the water, and hid itselfat once beneath the ripple. He stood there for a moment watchingthe deed and its effect, and then leaving his hold upon the rock, heonce again followed his quarry. Down he went, head foremost, righton to the track in the waves which the other had made; and when thetwo rose to the surface together, each was struggling in the graspof the other.It was a foolish, nay, a mad deed to do. The poor wretch who hadfirst fallen could not have escaped. He could not even swim, andhad therefore flung himself to certain destruction when he took thatleap from out of the cavern's mouth. It would have been sad to seehim perish beneath the waves,--to watch him as he rose, gasping forbreath, and then to see to him sinking again, to rise again, andthen to go for ever. But his life had been fairly forfeit,--and whyshould one so much more precious have been flung after it? It wassurely with no view of saving that pitiful life that Caleb Mortonhad leaped after his enemy. But the hound, hot with the chase, willfollow the stag over the precipice and dash himself to piecesagainst the rocks. The beast thirsting for blood will rush in evenamong the weapons of men. Morton in his fury had felt but onedesire, burned with but one passion. If the Fates would but granthim to fix his clutches in the throat of the man who had ill-usedhis love; for the rest it might all go as it would.In the earlier part of the morning, while they were all searchingfor their victim, they had brought a boat up into this very inletamong the rocks; and the same boat had been at hand during the wholeday. Unluckily, before they had come hither, it had been takenround the headland to a place among the rocks at which a governmentskiff is always moored. The sea was still so quiet that there washardly a ripple on it, and the boat had been again sent for whenfirst it was supposed that they had at last traced Aaron Trow to hishiding-place. Anxiously now were all eyes turned to the headland,but as yet no boat was there.The two men rose to the surface, each struggling in the arms of theother. Trow, though he was in an element to which he was not used,though he had sprung thither as another suicide might spring tocertain death beneath a railway engine, did not altogether lose hispresence of mind. Prompted by a double instinct, he had clutchedhold of Morton's body when he encountered it beneath the waters. Heheld on to it, as to his only protection, and he held on to him alsoas to his only enemy. If there was a chance for a life struggle,they would share that chance together; and if not, then togetherwould they meet that other fate.Caleb Morton was a very strong man, and though one of his arms wasaltogether encumbered by his antagonist, his other arm and his legswere free. With these he seemed to succeed in keeping his headabove the water, weighted as he was with the body of his foe. ButTrow's efforts were also used with the view of keeping himself abovethe water. Though he had purposed to destroy himself in taking thatleap, and now hoped for nothing better than that they might bothperish together, he yet struggled to keep his head above the waves.Bodily power he had none left to him, except that of holding on toMorton's arm and plunging with his legs; but he did hold on, andthus both their heads remained above the surface.But this could not last long. It was easy to see that Trow'sstrength was nearly spent, and that when he went down Morton must gowith him. If indeed they could be separated,--if Morton could oncemake himself free from that embrace into which he had been soanxious to leap,--then indeed there might be a hope. All round thatlittle inlet the rock fell sheer down into the deep sea, so thatthere was no resting-place for a foot; it but round the headlands oneither side, even within forty or fifty yards of that spot, Mortonmight rest on the rocks, till a boat should come to his assistance.To him that distance would have been nothing, if only his limbs hadbeen at liberty.Upon the platform of rocks they were all at their wits' ends. Manywere anxious to fire at Trow; but even if they hit him, wouldMorton's position have been better? Would not the wounded man havestill clung to him who was not wounded? And then there could be nocertainty that any one of them would hit the right man. The rippleof the waves, though it was very slight, nevertheless sufficed tokeep the bodies in motion; and then, too, there was not among themany marksman peculiar for his skill.Morton's efforts in the water were too severe to admit of hisspeaking, but he could hear and understand the words which wereaddressed to him. "Shake him off, Caleb." "Strike him from youwith your foot." "Swim to the right shore; swim for it, even if youtake him with you." Yes; he could hear them all; but hearing andobeying were very different. It was not easy to shake off thatdying man; and as for swimming with him, that was clearlyimpossible. It was as much as he could do to keep his head abovewater, let alone any attempt to move in one settled direction.For some four or five minutes they lay thus battling on the wavesbefore the head of either of them went down. Trow had been twicebelow the surface, but it was before he had succeeded in supportinghimself by Morton's arm. Now it seemed as though he must sinkagain,--as though both must sink. His mouth was barely kept abovethe water, and as Morton shook him with his arm, the tide would passover him. It was horrid to watch from the shore the glaringupturned eyes of the dying wretch, as his long streaming hair layback upon the wave. "Now, Caleb, hold him down. Hold him under,"was shouted in the voice of some eager friend. Rising up on thewater, Morton made a last effort to do as he was bid. He did pressthe man's head down,--well down below the surface,--but still thehand clung to him, and as he struck out against the water, he waspowerless against that grasp.Then there came a loud shout along the shore, and all those on theplatform, whose eyes had been fixed so closely on that terriblestruggle beneath them, rushed towards the rocks on the other coast.The sound of oars was heard close to them,--an eager pressingstroke, as of men who knew well that they were rowing for thesalvation of a life. On they came, close under the rocks, obeyingwith every muscle of their bodies the behests of those who called tothem from the shore. The boat came with such rapidity,--was sorecklessly urged, that it was driven somewhat beyond the inlet; butin passing, a blow was struck which made Caleb Morton once more themaster of his own life. The two men had been carried out in theirstruggle towards the open sea; and as the boat curved in, so as tobe as close as the rocks would allow, the bodies of the men werebrought within the sweep of the oars. He in the bow--for there werefour pulling in the boat--had raised his oar as he neared therocks,--had raised it high above the water; and now, as they passedclose by the struggling men, he let it fall with all its force onthe upturned face of the wretched convict. It was a terrible,frightful thing to do,--thus striking one who was so stricken; butwho shall say that the blow was not good and just? Methinks,however, that the eyes and face of that dying man will haunt forever the dreams of him who carried that oar!Trow never rose again to the surface. Three days afterwards hisbody was found at the ferry, and then they carried him to theconvict island and buried him. Morton was picked up and taken intothe boat. His life was saved; but it may be a question how thebattle might have gone had not that friendly oar been raised in hisbehalf. As it was, he lay at the cottage for days before he wasable to be moved, so as to receive the congratulations of those whohad watched that terrible conflict from the shore. Nor did he feelthat there had been anything in that day's work of which he could beproud;--much rather of which it behoved him to be thoroughlyashamed. Some six months after that he obtained the hand ofAnastasia Bergen, but they did not remain long in Bermuda. "He wentaway, back to his own country," my informant told me; "because hecould not endure to meet the ghost of Aaron Trow, at that point ofthe road which passes near the cottage." That the ghost of AaronTrow may be seen there and round the little rocky inlet of the sea,is part of the creed of every young woman in Bermuda.
THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *
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