Bennett Emerson Read online

  The league of the Miami

  Bennett , Emerson

  table of contents

  CHAPTER I. THE NIGHT AND THE MAN.

  CHAPTER II. MOLLY MAGORE. CHAPTER III. CICELY.

  CHAPTER IV. THE LEAGUE.

  CHAPTER V. THE LOVERS.

  CHAPTER VI. AARON BURRAND.

  CHAPTER VII. THE ABDUCTION.

  CHAPTER VIII. THE QUARREL. CHAPTER IX. THE FAITHFUL WIFE AND MIDNIGHT WARNING.

  CHAPTER X. THE RUNNER'S RUSE.

  CHAPTER XI. THE HOMICIDE.

  CHAPTER XII. VILLAINY MASKED...

  CHAPTER XIII. THE ANTI-LEAGUE SOCIETY.

  CHAPTER XIV. THE LOVER AND TRAITOR.

  CHAPTER XV. OAKEN GROVE.

  CHAPTER XVI. THE ATTACK, AND HARLEM'S COVER.

  CHAPTER XVII. ASSASSINATION, AND DEATH OF THE ASSASSIN.

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION.

  CHAPTER XIX. A FOILED VILLAIN'S REVENGE.

  CHAPTER XX. THE SECRET AND FINALE.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE NIGHT AND THE MAN.

  Whoever has attempted to trace through its various windings, or plunge into and divine the mysteries of that mysterious, inexplicable thing, the human heart, has ever found himself perplexed—lost in a mazy bewilderment. Well sung one of England's greatest poets,

  “The proper study of mankind is man,” for man is a strange, strange being; his life is a medley of inconsistencies—his heart a labyrinth of good and evil. There is in our nature a propensity, a desire for concealment, which may be termed somewhat hypocritical, and which gives the outward, and the inward man, two strong contrasting aspects. Were it not for this, we should not see the gentle smile upon the surface, while the death-worm was gnawing at the core. We should not be daily told that such an one is happy, such an one enjoys all the beauties of life, while he, or she, is looking forward to the cold and silent tomb to end the misery of a life of woe. Why is this? Why do we seek to seem other than we feel— than we are? Ah, there is the mystery. That it is so, none will deny. Were it not for this—were our features the index of our thoughts—where would be the sacredness of grief? or the holy charm of love? And is not one sacred to us? Does not the other seem holy in our eyes? Do we not hoard them in our heart of hearts, as the miser hoards his treasures from the gaze of the world? And do we not, like him, feel a secret pleasure in brooding over them in silence, alone? Could we not do this—did the world know us as we know ourselves—not all the terrors of death, not all the terrors of a great hereafter, would be sufficient to hinder thousands from rashly plunging into the mystic, UNKNOWN BEYOND! In this do we not behold an All-wise ordering? This may, in part, account why hundreds do and say what we consider the very antipodes of our nature. This may, perchance, be developed in the course of our tale. Be this as it may, reader, we do not set up for an essayest—we did not intend an essay—and deeming this apology sufficient for what we have said, we shall, without further preliminary, enter at once upon our story. It was a winter's evening in the year of our Lord 1798, and in a private apartment of a building then standing on Front

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  street, in the village of Cincinnati, were two individuals, who, destined to figure largely in our narrative, must be brought into notice. The room, of moderate size, was well furnished. The floor was covered with a carpet, on which stood, in one corner, a high-post bedstead, the bed of which was screened from view by calico curtains falling around its front and end. At the foot of this was a trundle-bed, on which lay a sweet little girl, some ten years of age, apparently asleep. There was something beautifully serene in her open, guileless countenance, as she lay there, heedless of the dark world before her— heedless of the unknown future that was destined to try her soul. There she lay, a gentle being, expressive of hopeful, thoughtless innocence. By a table, near a fire that was blazing in the chimney, sat a man, over whom some thirty years had not passed without leaving the marks of conflicting passions. He was sitting with his hand clasped on his forehead, his elbow resting on the table, in an attitude of deep study. His face was partly turned toward a lamp standing on the table a little distance from him, which served to throw his figure into bold relief, and light the apartment. Between him and the light was a roll of papers, carelessly tumbled over, which he had, evidently, been examining. Raising his head at length, be fixed his eyes upon the light with that vacant stare which told his mind still seriously occupied. His features were not handsome, strictly speaking, neither were they ugly. His face was rather oval, stamped more with the marks of thought and care, than years. In the whole expression of his countenance, there was nothing decidedly sinister, and yet there was something dark—something mysterious. His forehead was high, pale, and full of thought, from which his dark, or rather black, hair fell off either way in striking contrast. His eyes were black and piercing, very fiery, and almost incapable of a soft, or languid expression. His cheek-bones were high and rather prominent, and the cheeks themselves a little concave. His nose might be classed between the Roman and aquiline, bordering, as it did, slightly on both. His mouth was medium in size, with thin lips, close drawn over a full set of teeth. His chin rose prominently from a curve below the mouth, was round, full, and, combined with the rest of his features, gave him a character of decision and firmness. If we take the whole expression into consideration, we find a singular mixture of good and evil struggling for the predominance. A mind peculiarly sensitive on some points, on others as peculiarly hardened. It was this, undoubtedly—this struggling of his soul between good and evil—this inward war of two mighty, opposing passions— that, as before said, had stamped his face with the look of thought and care—had given to his skin a pale, cadaverous cast. For a few minutes he sat in the position last described, while something within seemed agitating his soul, which exhibited itself in certain quivers of his features, as the bottom of a well, when disturbed displays itself in gentle wavelets directly upon the surface. “I see no other way,” said he, at length, in a deep, heavy voice. “I see no other way. Yes, yes, it must be so,” continued he, after a pause, during which a more settled look came over his countenance, and his lips closed tightly over his teeth, with a firm, determined expression. “Could it be otherwise—but no! no! it cannot be—there is a fate, a destiny that wills it. Some contend that every man can be honest; I admit under certain certain circumstances it may be true; but can man shape the circumstances

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  which govern him? If so, why is one wallowing in filth and wretchedness, starving for bread — bread the staff of life — bread the support of famishing nature — while another, born like him of woman, is rolling in all the pomp, the aristocracy of wealth? Why is one a slave, another a lord? Is it not the combined force of circumstances? Is it not destiny? and can man alter his destiny? Oh! that I could look into the future and read my final end! and yet, and yet, methinks I should fear to do it. And wherefore fear? what must be, can I alter? End, end,” continued he, solemnly, “the end is death! Ah! that is a fearful thing to contemplate — death — and — a hereafter! Is there a hereafter? — fearful thought! — I pause. But no! no! I'll think no more, lest I waver — lest I shrink with the thought. Born perchance to evil, I must in evil follow out my destiny. Alas! alas! what will become of Cicely, poor Cicely — sweet girl, I tremble for, I pity her. The oath! the horrid oath! thank God, I did not keep that oath; for she, sweet angel, shall in the balance weigh against my sins. And is it not for her I now plunge on to other deeds? She — she must live —
must live in innocence. Money is wanting — my stock is exhausted — I go but to gain money — and for her — for her. Will such an act be written down against me? Will God — why do I pause? there is a God! — will he not pardon me the deed in the intent? A thought strikes me — yes, I will, this night. Ha! those papers — but I must make her swear to keep them close.” As he spoke, he wrapped the papers, before mentioned as lying on the table before him, closely together, and placed them inside his vest; then rising from his seat, he commenced pacing the floor. His form was tall, commanding, and in proportions, beautiful. There was strength, grace, and elasticity combined. He was dressed in black, which became his figure well. There was nothing decidedly mean, nor sordid, in his appearance. For some minutes he paced the room with a quick, elastic step; sometimes running his fingers through his hair, sometimes striking his hand against his breast with an uneasy, nervous motion, that told all was not right within; while his brow contracted, and a dark shade rested on his features. At length he paused near the gentle sleeper, and gazed tenderly upon her: then his brow relaxed, and a smile, for the moment, chased away the shade, and his features settled to a quiet calm. “How innocent she sleeps,” sighed he, in an altered voice. “Did I ever sleep thus innocent? The gentle, the lovely Cicely! How I love that child; and who doth not that ever sa w her? — she is a being to be loved. Alas! I fear she is a flower too beautiful to last. And she calls me father — I taught her that. O how sweetly it rings out in her silvery voice. And we must part; ah! that, that wrings my soul! I go to — to — I will not name it — I will not mar more sacred thoughts by the contaminating sound; I go, because it is my destiny. Some day she will know what now she little dreams. And will she despise me then? No! no! I could not bear that; she will pity, she will pity me. Her pure, gentle spirit will not despise — that would be contrary to the law of angels — and she is one. Ah! she smiles — she is dreaming — sweet, sweet Cicely!” and bending gently over, be pressed his lips upon her clear, white, ivory forehead. “If I am ever saved, it will be by thee, sweet one. But I must think no more of thee, or I shall be a child, and weep;” and he drew his fingers quickly across his eyes. At this moment Cicely awoke, and,

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  fastening her soft, deep blue eyes mournfully upon the other, she, in a sweet, sad, heart-touching voice, inquired: “What is the matter, dear father?” The other started, for he supposed her asleep. “Nothing, my child,” said he, hastily, “nothing.” “Nothing,” repeated Cicely; “you always answer so when you are sad, as if I couldn't understand. Nothing—I know that isn't it, dear father.” “I was merely thinking of something long ago, my child. Do not let it trouble you, Cicely. I have forgotten it already; see! I smile again.” “Ah! that smile is to please me,” sighed she. “Well, well, be a good girl, and go to sleep again; I must be gone now—a few minutes' business calls me away.” “But you will return soon, father?” “Soon? Ay, ay, I will return soon. There, good-bye.” As he spoke, he pressed a kiss upon her rosy lips, and, turning, left the room. Cicely composed herself, and was soon asleep; for sleep comes quickly to the young and innocent. Meanwhile the other passed into the street, descended a steep hill to the river, unfastened a skiff which was there, entered it, and shot directly across the Ohio. The object, and adventure, will be shown in the following chapter.

  CHAPTER II.

  MOLLY MAGORE.

  Somewhat back from the little village of Covington, there stood, at the time of which we write, a rude log hut, owned and tenanted by a single person, a woman some forty years of age. On the evening in question, she was seated on a rough made chair, before a fire, which, blazing on the hearth, threw flickering shadows upon her weather-beaten, strongly-marked countenance. She was bent a little over—her elbows resting on her knees—her fingers interlocked— gazing upon the flame with a listless, half sleepy look. The inside of this cottage exhibited much cleanliness, but was rough and homely. A bed stood in one corner, covered with a patched quilt. In another corner was an old fashioned dresser, on which were ranged a few pewter dishes, some crockery ware, and at the foot of which were a few pots and kettles. Along one side of the wall hung various articles of female apparel, a rude broom, one or two willow baskets, &c., &c. Over head, suspended by two wooden hooks, was a very neat rifle, one of the hooks also sustaining a pouch and powder-horn. We must not forget to mention a clock, then a much rarer piece of furniture than now, which adorned one portion of the apartment, and whose steady, solemn tick, was the only sound now audible. The floor was plain, but very white, from being often scoured, and was graced with an old arm-chair, just such a piece of furniture as we never see without being reminded of the couplet.

  “I love it, I love it, and who shall dare To chide me, for loving that old arm-chair.” One or two other chairs, a rough loom, a foot-wheel, a spinning-wheel, a deal-table, a sort of stand to work by, on which was a candle, a stocking half knit, evidently just laid down, completed the general appearance of the place. This, by the way, was the only room in the house, if we except a rude half attic, entered by a ladder at one end. The only tenant of this building—that is the only human tenant (for a large

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  cabby cat lay dozing on the hearth)— was the individual seated before the fire, and whom we shall designate by the appellation of Molly Magore. Molly Magore, as before said, was about forty; but for the matter of that, she might have been taken for sixty, so much so had trouble and exposure, amused themselves by drawing furrows upon her countenance. There was in the expression of her countenance nothing of greatness, but a great deal of goodness. Her features were decidedly ugly, and, but for this expression of goodness, might have been pronounced hideous. Her hair of a tow, or flaxen color, was combed up and back from the sides and front of her head, was twisted together, and was then quirled round and fastened on the top by an old three-toothed comb. By this operation many of the hairs had been pulled out, especially in front, above the forehead, giving it a rather rough, stumpy appearance. Her eyebrows were light like her hair, and very thin; but her skin was dark and bronzed from exposure. Her eyes were oblique, of a pale blue, and of that peculiar cast which requires something very extraordinary to make flash. Her face, from the forehead to the chin, formed a half semi, or quarter circle; and the lower part of the nose—which, by the way, was short, and turned up—found its position about half way on the arch. She was a little sunken about the mouth, for most of her teeth had decayed. Add to this a rather wrinkled skin, rough and coarse, and you have a pretty good idea of her features. But ugly as they were in form, there was something about them that would at once interest you. Her eyes looked mild, and a softened expression seemed to rest on her countenance. Her dress consisted of a frock of coarse, red woollen, with short sleeves, which left the lower part of her brawny arms bare. A large check apron was fastened around her waist by a tow string, and her feet were covered with thick brogans. Molly Magore, in some respects, was a very singular woman. In the first place, she took great delight in doing good secretly, but seemed to take an equal delight in openly appearing in the worst light possible. Her manners to a stranger were rough and boorish; and it was only when excited by some tale of suffering, that the feelings of her heart were truly displayed. She was also very eccentric, and would sit for hours in the position we have introduced her, without noticing external objects. To account for this singularity, we must leave to those, if there be such, who can account for the various workings of the human heart; we merely state the fact. It now becomes necessary for us, before proceeding further, to give a brief history of this woman, which we shall make as brief as possible. Poor, humble, and ugly as she looks, Molly Magore had been raised in affluence. Born of wealthy paren
ts in the State of New York, she had had, in early life, all the advantages of society and education which such a position could bestow. Life, with her, until arrived at the age of sixteen, had glided sweetly along, like the even current of a beautiful stream. Every wish of her heart had been divined and gratified. Her father, formerly a merchant, had retired from business, rich. He was a stern, morose man, who said but little to any one, and who disliked his daughter because she was not handsome. This he never openly avowed; and as he was ever willing to gratify her slightest wish, she rarely ever gave it a thought. Her mother was a very different being. She was mild, gentle, affectionate, and loved her daughter tenderly. She was, besides, a pious lady; and she instilled

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  into her daughter's mind those noble precepts of christianity, which come up, in after years, from the wells of memory, and shed a hallowed influence around the soul. How many who have launched into the wide, stormy sea of dissipation, have been checked in mid-career, have been saved, by the recollections of a pious mother's prayers and holy teachings. How much, mothers of our country, depends upon the training of your children! To you is consigned a nation's welfare! To you will posterity turn with blessings or reproaches, as you in good or evil dispose of the sacred trusts the Almighty has consigned to your charge. Let this solemn truth be impressed upon you, that you may thereby act in righteous judgment! At the age of sixteen, the mother of Mary Ellington (otherwise Molly Magore) closed her accounts with time, and passed to the abodes of the blest—first blessing and giving her only child much parental advice—advice which she treasured— advice which bore her up in after years through many heart-rending trials—advice which finally saved her from the dread abyss of crime. We have said that her father was stern and morose in his disposition while his wife was living; after her death he became still more so; and his daughter, whom he never loved, he now as much as possible avoided; and she wept for her mother in silence, alone, without sympathy. Thus a year passed in dull, gloomy monotony with the daughter, at the end of which time the father married, and brought his new wife home. This seemed for Molly a final blow; for her step-mother was a woman proud, tyr annical, and jealous of authority; and being persuaded by a young man who often visited there, whom she held in good esteem, and who in return professed to love her with true devotion, she finally eloped, and they were married. This was a sufficient plea for her father to disown her, which he accordingly did; and her husband, who was seeking money only in this alliance, finding himself disappointed in his high expectations, abused, and at last deserted her. Thus at the age of eighteen, without friends—without money—without hope—she who had been reared in affluence was thrown upon the world, a creature to be pitied. We say without friends, for she was too proud to let her former associates know of her degraded condition. Had she been like many of her sex, she would have drooped under the blow, or have plunged into crime, and ended her life in miserable dissipation. But hers was the spirit of the oak which defies the storm. She remembered a mother's teachings— she sought consolation in the God of the friendless, and grappled with the world without a repining thought. She hired herself to a farmer, and though unacquainted with the business, she, with ready tact, soon learned all the useful occupations appertaining thereto, and worked with an honest zeal that won her high regard. Her former history she kept a secret; and though the persons with whom she lived would gladly have known more of her, yet they never ventured to question her on that point. Thus years rolled on, and thus Molly Magore (for such the name she had assumed, and ever after adhered to,) passed her time in her daily routine of business, laying aside her hard earnings for a future period. At length she concluded to leave the farm, and visit the great emporium of the western continent—the city of New York. Accordingly she packed her few things together, took a friendly leave of the good people with tears in her eyes, while they, as much affected, wished her a happy destiny. Arrived in New York, she soon