Part 13

How long the four held back the hundreds none can tell, but it seemed an age to the fast wearying men who held the gate. A blow from an ax split McLeod’s head and he fell dead without even a groan. Brice turned as he heard his shipmate fall and received a stunning smash on the temple from a club that felled him like an ox in the shambles.

Jack saw Burton, who was fighting furiously, beset by two savage blacks armed with axes stuck on long poles. In that supreme moment of peril the thought of Lucy’s sorrow at loss of her husband, should she be restored to reason, came to the mind of the great hearted sailor. He recklessly rushed in front of Burton, severed at a stroke of his sword the arm of one of Burton’s assailants, and caught the descending ax of the other when within an inch of the head of the man who had taken the place in Lucy’s love that he had hoped for.

Jack Dunlap’s cutlass warded off the blow from Burton but the sharp ax glanced along the blade and was buried in the broad breast of Lucy’s knight, and he fell across the bodies of his faithful followers, Brice and McLeod; Jack’s fast deafening ears caught sound of—

“Follow me, lads, give them cold steel. Don’t shoot. You may hit friends! Charge!”

Tom Maxon’s voice was far from jolly now. There was death in every note of it as, at the head of a body of United States Blue-jackets, he dashed in among the black barbarians. When he caught sight of the prostrate, bleeding form of his old school-fellow he raged like a wounded lion among Sybella’s savage followers.

As the lieutenant saw that the range of fire was free from his friends, he cried out, hoarse with passion,

“Fire at will. Give them hell!” and he emptied his own revolver into the huddled crowd of mountaineers, who still stood, brave to recklessness, hesitating about what to do against the new adversaries.

The repeating rifles of the Americans soon covered the roadway with dark corpses. Long lanes were cut by the rapid fire through the black mass. With howls and yells of mingled terror, rage and disappointment the mob broke and taking to the jungle disappeared in the darkness of the adjacent forest.

A sailor kicked aside what he thought was a bundle of rags, and started back as the torch that he bore revealed the open, fangless mouth and snake-like, glaring eyes of an old crone of a woman who in death seemed even more horrible than in life.

A rifle ball, at close range, had shattered Mother Sybella’s skull.

XVII.

All established rules of the house of “J. Dunlap” were as the laws of the Medes and Persians to David Chapman, inviolable. When the hour of twelve struck and neither Mr. John Dunlap nor Mr. Burton appeared at the office, the Superintendent immediately proceeded to the residence of Mr. Dunlap.

“I am sorry, Chapman, to have given you the trouble of coming out here, but the fact is I am not so strong as formerly, and I expected that Burton would be at the office and thought a day of repose might benefit me,” remarked Mr. John Dunlap as Chapman entered his library carrying a bundle of papers this March afternoon.

“Mr. Burton has only been at the office once within the past week and not more than a dozen times since you all returned from Haiti some two months ago,” replied the Superintendent, methodically arranging the various memoranda on the large library table.

“First in order of date is as follows: Douglass and McPherson, the solicitors at Glasgow, write that they have purchased the annuity for old Mrs. McLeod and that the income secured to her is far larger than any possible comfort or even luxury can require; they also say that the lot in the graveyard has been secured and that the mother of the dead ship carpenter is filled with gratitude for the granite stone you have provided to mark her son’s grave and that no nobler epitaph for any Scotsman could be carved than the one suggested by you to be cut on the stone, ‘Died defending innocent women;’ they expect the body to arrive within a few days and will follow instructions concerning the reinterment of the remains of gallant McLeod; they add that beyond all expenditures ordered they will hold a balance to our credit and ask what is your pleasure concerning same, that the four thousand pounds remitted by you was far too large a sum.”

“Far too small! Tell them to buy a cottage for McLeod’s mother and draw at sight for more money, that the cottage may be a good one. Why! Chapman, McLeod was a hero; but they were all of them that. He, however, gave his life in our defense and there is no money value that can repay that debt to him and his,” exclaimed Mr. Dunlap earnestly, and leaning forward in the excitement that the recollection of the past recalled, continued:

“David, the dead were heaped about the spot where McLeod, Brice and Jack fell like corded fire-wood. When I could leave the women, Lieutenant Maxon and his men had dispersed the blacks, I fairly waded in blood to reach the place where Maxon and Burton were bending over Jack. It was a fearful sight. It had been an awful struggle, but it was all awful that night. I dared not leave the women, yet I knew that even my weak help was needed at the gate. Had my messenger not met Maxon on the road, to whom notice of the intended attack had been given by a friendly black, we had all been killed.”

The excited old gentleman paused to regain his breath and resumed the story of that dreadful experience.

“Martha Dunlap is the kind of woman to be mother of a hero. She was as calm and brave as her son and helped me like a real heroine in keeping the others quiet. We told Lucy it was only a jubilee among the natives and that they were shouting and shooting off firearms in their sport along the highway. God forgive me for the falsehood, but it served to keep our poor girl perfectly calm and she does not even now know to the contrary.” Mr. Dunlap reverently inclined his head when he spoke of that most excusable lie that he had told.

“Jack does not get all of his nerve and courage from the Dunlap blood, that is sure! When the surgeon was examining the great gash in his breast, Martha stood at his side and held the basin; her hand never trembled though her tearless face was as white as snow. All the others of us, I fear, were blubbering like babies, I know, anyhow Tom Maxon was whimpering more like a lass than the brave and terrible fighter that he is. When the surgeon gave us the joyful news that the blow of the ax had been stopped by the strong breast bone over our boy’s brave heart, we were all ready to shout with gladness, but Martha then, woman like, broke down and began weeping.”

There was rather a suspicious moisture in the eyes of the relator of the scene, as he thought over the occurrences of that night in Haiti. Even though all danger was past and his beloved namesake, Jack Dunlap, was now so far recovered as to be able to walk about, true somewhat paler in complexion and with one arm bound across his breast, but entirely beyond danger from the blow of the desperate Haitian axman.

“That fighting devil of an American admiral soon cleared Port au Prince of the insurgents and wished me to take up my residence at the consulate, but I had enough of Haiti, for awhile anyway. So as soon as Jack could safely be moved, and old Brice, whose skull must be made of iron, had come around sufficiently after that smashing blow in the head, to take command of the ‘Adams’ and navigate her to Boston, I bundled everybody belonging to me aboard and sailed for home.” The word home came with a sigh of relief from Mr. Dunlap’s lips as he settled back in his chair.

“When we heard of your frightful experience, I had some faint hope that the shock might have restored Mrs. Burton to her normal condition of mind,” said Chapman.

“Well, in the first place Lucy learned nothing concerning the affair, and was simply told when she called for Jack that he was not well and would be absent from her for a short time. But even had she received a nervous shock from the harrowing events of that night, the experts in mental disorders inform me that it is most unlikely that any good result could have been produced; that as the primary cause of her dementia is disappointed hope, expectation, and the recoil of the purest and best outpouring of her heart, that the only shock at all probable to bring about the desired change must come from a similar source,” answered Mr. Dunlap.

“To proceed with my report,” said the Superintendent glancing over some papers.

“Lieutenant Maxon is not wealthy, in fact, has only his pay from the United States, and while his family is one of the oldest and most highly respected in Massachusetts all the members of it are far from rich. The watch ordered made in New York will be finished by the time the U.S. Ship Delaware arrives, which will not be before next month.”

“That all being as you have ascertained, I am going to make a requisition upon your ingenuity, David. You must secure the placing in Maxon’s hands of twenty one-thousand dollar bills with no other explanation than that it is from ‘an admirer.’ The handsome, gay fellow may think some doting old dowager sent it to him. The watch I will present as a slight token of my friendship when I have him here to dine with me, and he can never suspect me in the money matter.” Mr. Dunlap chuckled at the deep cunning of the diabolical scheme.

Chapman evidently was accustomed to the unstinted munificence of the house of Dunlap, for he accepted the instruction quite as a mere detail of the business, made a few notes and with his pen held between his teeth as he folded the paper, mumbled:

“I’ll see that he gets the money all right, sir, without knowing where it comes from.”

“Here are several things that Mr. Burton, who is familiar with the preceding transactions, should pass upon, but as he is so seldom at the office, I have had no opportunity to lay them before him,” continued the ever vigilant Chapman, turning over a number of documents.

“I know even less than you do about Burton’s department, so make out the best way that you can under the circumstances.”

“Is Mr. Burton ill, sir, or what is the reason why he is absent from the office so much?” asked Chapman, to whom it seemed that the greatest deprivation in life must be loss of ability to be present daily in the office of J. Dunlap.

“I am utterly at a loss to explain Burton’s conduct, especially since our return from Haiti. He is morbid, melancholy, and seems to avoid the society of all those who formerly were his chosen associates and companions. He calls or sends here daily with religious regularity to ascertain the condition of Lucy’s health, and occasionally asks Jack to accompany him on a ride behind his fine team. You know that he is aware that Jack saved his life by taking the blow on his own breast that was aimed at Burton’s head. He was devoted to Jack on the voyage home and here, until Jack’s recovery was assured beyond a doubt, but now he acts so peculiarly that I don’t know what to make of him,” replied the perplexed old gentleman.

“Humph! Humph!” grunted Chapman, in a disparaging tone, and resumed the examination of the sheets of paper before him. Selecting one, he said:

“I find Malloy, the father of the girl, who was the victim of that nameless crime and afterward murdered, to be a respectable, worthy man, poor, but in need of no assistance. He is a porter at Brown Brothers. It appears that the girl, who was only fifteen years of age, was one of the nursery maids in the Greenleaf family, and had obtained permission to visit her father’s home on the night of the crime and was on her way there when she was assaulted.”

“What has been done by the Police Department?” asked Mr. Dunlap eagerly.

“To tell the truth, very little. The detectives seem mystified by a crime of so rare occurrence in our section that it has shocked the whole of New England. However, I know what would have happened had the crowd assembled around Malloy’s house when the body was brought home, been able to lay hands on the perpetrator of the deed, the whole police force of Boston notwithstanding.”

“What do you mean, David?”

“I mean that the wretch would have been lynched,” exclaimed Chapman.

“That had been a disgrace to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” said the old gentleman warmly.

“That may or may not be, sir. Malloy and his friends are all peaceable, law-abiding citizens. Malloy was almost a maniac, not at the death of his child but the rest of the crime, and the agony of the heartbroken father was too much for the human nature of his neighbors, and human nature is the same in New England as elsewhere in our land.”

“But the law will punish crime and must be respected no matter what may be the provocation to ignore its regular administration of justice,” said Mr. Dunlap with a judicial air.

“Truth is, sir, that one can hardly comprehend a father’s feelings under such circumstances, and I don’t imagine there is a great difference between the paternal heart in Massachusetts and in Mississippi. Human nature is much alike in the same race in every clime. Men of the North may occasionally be slower to wrath but are fearfully in earnest when aroused by an outrage,” rejoined Chapman.

“I frankly confess, David, that I recognize that it is one thing for me to sit here calmly in my library and coolly discuss a crime in which I have no direct personal interest, and announce that justice according to written law only should be administered, but it would be quite a different state of mind with which I should regard this crime if one of my own family were the victim of the brute’s attack. I fear then I should forget about my calm theory of allowing the regular execution of justice and everything else, even my age and hoary head, and be foremost in seeking quick revenge on the wretch,” said the old New Englander hotly.

“Knowing you and your family as I do, sir, I’ll make oath that you would head the mob of lynchers.”

“My brother James, who was the soul of honor and a citizen of whom the Commonwealth was justly proud, was very liberal in his opinion of lynching for this crime. It was the single criminal act for which his noble, charitable heart could find no excuse. I think even my brother James, model citizen though he was, would have been a law-forgetting man under such circumstances.”

Old John Dunlap’s voice grew soft and tender when he mentioned the name of his beloved brother, and either Chapman became extraordinarily near-sighted or the papers in his hand required close scrutiny.

“I have published the notice of the reward of one thousand dollars offered by our house for the capture of the perpetrator of the crime,” said the Superintendent rather huskily, changing the subject from that of the character of his old master.

“That is well, we are the oldest business house in Boston, and none can think it presumptuous that we should be anxious to erase this stain from the escutcheon of our Commonwealth. I wish every inducement offered that may lead to the apprehension of the criminal.” Mr. Dunlap stopped short as if suddenly some new idea had occurred to his mind, and then exclaimed:

“David, you possess a wonderful faculty for fathoming deep and complex mysteries. Why don’t you seek to discover the perpetrator of this horrible crime?”

David Chapman was not in the habit of blushing, but certainly his cheeks took on an unusually bright crimson hue, as Mr. Dunlap asked the question, and he answered in a somewhat abashed manner, as though detected in some act of youthful folly.

“I confess, sir, that I am making a little investigation in my own way. There are a few trifling circumstances and fragments of evidence left by the criminal that were considered unworthy of attention by the police that I am tracing up, like an amateur Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good for you, David! May you succeed in unearthing the brutal villain! You have carte-blanche to draw on the house for any expense that your search may entail. Go ahead! I will stand by you!” cried John Dunlap enthusiastically.

XVIII.

“The abysmal depth of degradation has now been reached; I no longer, even in my moments of affected refinement, attempt to conceal the fact from myself, the gauzy veil of acquisition no longer deceives even me, it long since failed to deceive others.”

What evil genii of metamorphosis had transformed the debonair Walter Burton into the wretched, slovenly, brutalized being who, grunting, gave utterance to such sentiments, while stretched, in unkempt abandonment, on a disordered couch in the center of the unswept and neglected music-room in the ‘Eyrie’ early on this March morning?

Even the linen of the once fastidious model of masculine cleanliness was soiled, and the delights of the bath seemed quite unknown to the heavy-eyed, listless lounger on the couch.

“I have abandoned useless effort to rehabilitate myself in the misfit garments of a civilization and culture for which the configuration of my mental structure, by nature, renders me unsuited. My child indicated the off-springs natural to me. My emotion and actions in the forest of Haiti gave evidence of the degree of the pure spirit of religion to be found in my inmost soul, and my conduct, following natural inclinations, since my return to Boston, has demonstrated how little control civilization, morality, or pity have over my inherent savage nature.”

The man seemed in a peculiar way to derive some satisfaction from rehearsing the story of his hopeless condition, and in the fact that he had reached the limit of descent.

“I should have fled to the mountains of Haiti, had I not been led to fight against my own kinsmen. For the moment I was blinded by the thread-bare thought that I was of the white instead of black race, and when I had time to free my mind from that old misleading idea, my hands were stained with the blood of my own race. I was obliged to leave Haiti or suffer the fate that ever overtakes a traitor to his race.”

“There is no hope of the restoration of my wife’s mental faculties, and even should there be that is all the more reason for my fleeing from Boston and forever disappearing, I retain enough of the borrowed refinement of the whites in my recollection to know that as I am now I should be loathesome to her.”

“Here, I must shun the sight of those who know me, realizing that I can no longer appear in the assumed character that I formerly did. Here, I skulk the streets at night in the apparel of a tramp seeking gratification of proclivities that are natural to me.”

“I know that I must leave this city and country as quickly as possible. The long repressed desires natural to me break forth with a fury that renders me oblivious to consequences and my own safety. Repression by civilization and culture foreign to a race but serves to increase the violence of the outburst when the barrier once is broken.”

“I will go to the office today, secure some private documents and notify Mr. Dunlap that I desire to withdraw at once from the firm of J. Dunlap. I will nerve myself for one more act in the farce. I will don the costume in which I paraded the stage so long for one more occasion.”

Burton arose slowly from his recumbent position as if reluctant to resume even for a day a character that had become tiresome and obnoxious to his negro nature.

* * * * *

David Chapman had on several occasions made suggestions to the head of the Police Department in Boston that had resulted in the detection and apprehension of elusive criminals. Unlike many professional detectives, Chief O’Brien welcomed the aid of amateurs and listened respectfully to theories, sometimes ridiculous, but occasionally suggestive of the correct solution of an apparently incomprehensible crime.

The deductive method of solving the problem of a mysterious crime employed by Chapman was not alone interesting to the Chief of Detectives, but appeared wonderful in the correctness of the conclusions obtained. He therefore gave eager attention to what Chapman communicated to him while seated in the Chief’s private office on the evening of the day that Burton visited the office of J. Dunlap to secure his private correspondence and documents.

“In the first place, Chief, as soon as I learned the details of this Malloy crime, I decided that the perpetrator of it was of the negro race,” said Chapman, methodically arranging a number of slips of paper on the Chief’s desk, at which he sat confronting O’Brien on the opposite side.

“How did you arrive at that decision?” said the detective.

“Well, as you are aware, for you laughed at me often enough when you ran across me with my black associates, I ‘slummed’ among the negroes for months to gain some knowledge of the negro nature”.

“Yes, I know that and often wondered at your persistent prosecution of such a disagreeable undertaking,” said O’Brien.

“I learned in that investigation that beneath the surface of careless, thoughtless gaiety and good nature there lies a tremendous amount of cruelty and brutal savagery in the negro nature; that dire results have been caused by a misconception of the negro character on this point to those associated with them; that while sensual satiety produces lassitude in other races, in the negro race it engenders a lust for blood that almost invariably results in the murder of the victim of a brutal attack. I checked the correctness of my conclusions by an examination of all obtainable records and completely verified the accuracy of my deduction.”

“That had not occurred to me before,” said the Chief frankly; “now that you mention it, I think from the record of that crime, as it recurs to me at this moment, that your statement is true.”

“The next step was to look for the particular individual of the negro race who could fit in with the trifling evidence in your possession, which you so readily submitted to me. From the mold taken by your men of the criminal’s foot-prints it is evident that his feet were small and clad in expensive shoes. In the shape of the imprints I find corroboration of my premise that the author of the crime was of the negro race. The fragment of finger nail embedded in the girl’s throat, under a microscope reveals the fact that, while the nail was not free from dirt, it had recently been under the manipulation of a manicure and was not of thick, coarse grain like a manual laborer’s nails,” said the amateur detective glancing at his notes.

“Yes, I agree in all that, Mr. Chapman. Go ahead; what follows?” remarked O’Brien.

“We have then a negro, but one not engaged in the usual employment of the negro residents in Boston, to look for; next you found clutched in the fingers of the dead girl two threads of brownish color and coarse material, together with a fragment of paper like a part of an envelope on which was written a few notes of music.”

“Yes, and I defy the devil to make anything result from such infinitesimal particles of evidence,” exclaimed the professional detective.

“Well, I’m not the devil.” said Chapman, quietly proceeding to recapitulate the process adopted by him.

“From the few notes—you know that I am something of a musician—I began, _poco a poco_, as they say in music, to reconstruct the tune of which the few notes were a part. As I proceeded, going over the notes time and again on my violoncello, I became convinced that I had heard that wild tune before, and am now able to say where and when.”

“Wonderful, perfectly wonderful if you can, Chapman,” cried the thoroughly interested Chief.

“What next?” O’Brien asked, impatient at the calmness of the man on the opposite side of the desk.

“To-day I saw the finger that the fragment of nail found in the girl’s neck would fit, and one finger-nail had been broken and was gone,” continued Chapman, by great effort restraining the evidence of the exultation that he felt.