“The Stolen Child; A True tale of the Back-Woods” (from Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine [New York, New York] August 1844; pp. 227-236)
It was towards the commencement of the month of December, 1825, that I was going down the Mississippi in the steam-boat Feliciana. We had arrived in the neighborhood of Hopefield, Hampstead County, when one of our paddles struck against a sawyer,* and was broken to pieces. We were obliged in consequence to cast anchor before the town.
Hopefield is a small town on the west bank of the river, about six hundred miles above New Orleans, and five hundred below the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi. It consisted, at the time of which I speak, of about fifteen houses, two of which were taverns and shops of the usual kind found in such places—their stock in trade consisting of a cask or two of whiskey, a couple of dozen knives and forks, a few coloured handkerchiefs, some earthenware, lead, powder, and the like. Our party was composed of ten ladies, the same number of young men, and several elderly gentlemen. Nothing appears so desirable, during a long voyage in a river steam-boat, as a stroll upon shore; and, as there was nothing to be done at Hopefield, the proposal of one of our number to take a ramble in the forest, was met with unqualified approbation by all the young men. We equipped ourselves each with a rifle, and a bottle of wine or brandy, to keep the vapours of the swamps out of our throats; the son of one of the tavern-keepers, who offered himself for a guide, was loaded with a mighty ham and a bag of biscuits, which we procured from the steam-boat; and, thus provided, we sallied forth on our expedition, attended by the good wishes of the ladies who accompanied us a few hundred yards into the wood, and then left us to pursue our march.
I have often had occasion to notice, that the first entrance into one of our vast American forests is apt to reduce the greatest talker to silence. In the present instance, I found the truth of this remark fully confirmed. Whether it was the subdued half-light of the luxuriant wilderness through which we were passing, the solemn stillness,
* The local name for large tree-trunks which get partially buried in the mud, one end sticking up just below the surface of the water. They cause frequent accidents to the steam-boats on the Mississippi.
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only broken by the rustling of the dead leaves under our feet, or the colossal dimensions of the mighty trees, that rose like so many giants around us, that wrought upon the imagination, I cannot say; but it is certain that my companions, who were mostly from the northern states, and had never before been beyond Albany or the Saratoga springs, became at once silent, and almost sad. The leaves of the cotton-tree, that giant of the south-western forests, had already assumed the tawny hues of latter autumn; only here and there a streak of sunbeam, breaking through the canopy of branches that spread over our heads, brought out the last tints of green now fast fading away, and threw a strange sparkling ray, a bar of light across our path. Here was a magnolia with its snow-white blossoms, or a catalpa with its long cucumber-shaped fruit, amongst which the bright-hued red birds and paroquets glanced and fluttered.
We walked for some time through the forest, amused more than once by the proceedings of two young clerks from boston, who saw a wild animal in every thicket, and repeatedly levelled their guns at some bear or panther, which turned out to be neither more nor less than a bush or tree stump. They pestered our guide with all sorts of simple questions, which he, with a true backwoodsman’s indifference, left for the most part unanswered. After about an hour, we found ourselves on the borders of a long and tolerably wide swamp, formed by the overflowings of the river, and which stretched for some five miles from north to south, with a broad patch of clear bright-green water in the centre. The western bank was covered with a thick growth of palmettos, the favourite cover of deer, bears, and even panthers; and this cover we resolved to beat. We divided ourselves into two parties, the first of which, consisting of the New Englanders, and accompanied by the guide, was to go round the northern extremity of the swamp, while we were to take a southerly direction, and both to meet behind the marsh, on a certain path which led through a thicket of wild plum-trees and acacias. Our guide’s instructions were not of the clearest, and the landmarks he gave us were only intelligible to a thorough backwoodsman; but as too many questions would probably have puzzled him without making matters clearer to us, we set off, trusting to our eyes and ears, and to the pocket compasses with which several of us were provided.
After another hour’s walk, during which we had seen nothing but wild pigeons and squirrels, and a few mocassin snakes warming themselves in the sunbeams, which latter, on our approach, drew hastily back under the heaps of dry leaves, we arrived at the southern extremity of the swamp. Proceeding a short distance westward, we then took a northerly direction, along the edge of the palmetto field, with the marsh upon our right hand. It was a sort of cane-brake we were passing through, firm footing, and with grass up to our knees; the shore of the swamp or lake was overgrown with lofty cedars, shooting out of water four or five feet deep, which reflected their circular crowns. The broad streak of water looked like a huge band of satin, and the slightest motion of the leaves was immediately perceptible in the mirror beneath them. From time to time, the least possible breeze rustled through the trees, and curled the water with a tiny ripple. The water itself was of the brightest emerald-green; and the forest of palmetto stems that grew along the edge, was reflected in it like myriads of swords and lances. In the small creeks and inlets, flocks of swans, pelicans, and wild gees, were sunning themselves, and pluming their feathers for their winter flight. They allowed us to come within a score of paces of them, and then flew away with a rushing, whirring noise.
We had been for some time plodding patiently along, when our attention was suddenly attracted by a slow but continued rustling amongst the palmettos. Something was evidently cautiously approaching us, but whether panther, stag, or bear, we could not tell—probably the last. We gave a glance at our rifles, cocked them, and pressed a few paces forward amongst the canes; when suddenly a bound and a cracking noise, which
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grew rapidly more distant, warned us that the animal had taken the alarm. One of our companions, who had as yet never seen a bear-hunt, ran forward as fast as the palmettos would allow him, and was soon out of sight. Unfortunately we had no dogs, and after half an hour’s fruitless beating about, during which we started another animal, within sight or shot of which we were unable to get, we became convinced that we should have to meet our friends empty-handed. It was now time to proceed to the place of rendezvous, on the further side of the palmetto field, which was about half a mile wide. The man who had gone after the bear, had rejoined us, and from him we learned that the brake was bordered on the western side by a dense thicket of wild-plum, apple, and acacia trees, through which there was not the least sign of a path. On arriving there we saw that his account was a correct one; and to add to our difficulties, the nature of the ground in our front now changed, and the cane break sank down into a sort of swampy bottom, extending to the northern extremity of the lake. Our situation was an embarrassing one. Before us, an impassable swamp; to our right, water; to our left an impenetrable thicket; and four hours out of the eight that had been allotted to us already elapsed. There seemed nothing to be done but to retrace our steps; but, before doing so, we resolved to make a last effort to find a path. To this end we separated, taking different directions, and for nearly half an hour we wandered through the thicket, amongst bushes and brambles, tearing and scratching ourselves to no purpose. At last, when I for one was bout to abandon the search in despair, a loud hurrah gave notice that the path was found. We were soon all grouped around the lucky discoverer; but to our considerable disappointment, instead of finding him at the entrance of the wished-for road, we beheld him gravely contemplating a cow, which was cropping the grass quite undisturbed by our approach. Nevertheless, this was no bad find, if we could only ascertain whether it was a strayed cow that had wandered far from its home, or a beast of regular habits that passed each night in its master’s cow-house. An Ohioman solved the question, by pointing out that the animal had evidently been milked that morning; and as we were debating how we should induce Brindle to proceed in the direction of its domicile, he settled that difficulty also, by firing off his rifle so close to the beast’s tail, that the bullet carried off a patch of hair, and grazed the skin. The cow gave a tremendous spring, and rushed through a ticket, as if a score of wolves had been at its heels. We followed, and the brute led us to a tolerably good path through the wilderness, which we had thought impenetrable. It was doubtless the path that was to take us to the appointed place of meeting; and we now slackened our pace, and followed the cow’s trail more leisurely. We had proceeded about a mile, when a strong light in the distance made us aware that we were coming to a clearing; and on arriving at the place, we found several maize fields enclosed by hedges, and a log-house, the smoking chimney of which bespoke the presence of inhabitants.
The dwelling was pleasantly situated on a gentle slope, roofed with clapboards, and having stables and other out-houses in its rear, such as one usually finds in backwood settlements of the more comfortable kind. Peach-trees were trailed against the house, in front of which stood some groups of papaws. The whole place had a rural and agreeable aspect.
We were scarcely within the hedge that surrounded the domain, when a brace of bull-dogs rushed upon us with open jaws. We were keeping off the furious brutes with some difficulty, when a man came out of the barn, and, upon seeing us, again entered it. After a few moments, he appeared for a second time, in company with two negroes, who were leading by the horns the very same cow which we had so unceremoniously compelled to become our guide. We greeted the man with a “good-morning;” but he made no answer, merely gazing hard at us with a cold sullen look. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man, with an expressive but extraordinarily sad, gloomy, and almost repulsive countenance. There was a restless excitement of manner
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about him, which struck us at the very first glance.
“A fine morning,” said I, approaching the stranger.
No answer. The man was holding the cow by one horn, and staring at the tail, from which a drop or two of blood was falling.
“How far is it from here to Hopefield?” asked I.
“Far enough for you never to get there, if it’s you who’ve been drivin’ my cow,” was the threatening reply.
“And if we had driven your cow,” said I, “you would surely not take it amiss? It was a mere accident.”
“Such accidents don’t often happen. People don’t shoot cows, if they haven’t a mind to eat other folks’ beef.”
“You do not suppose,” said the Ohioman, “that we should wish to hurt your cow—we, who have no other intention but to shoot a few turkeys in the voyage. We are passengers by the Feliciana—one of our paddles is broken; and that is the reason that our boat is at anchor in front of Hopefield, and that we are here.”
This circumstantial explanation seemed to produce little effect on the backwoodsman. He made no reply. We walked towards the house, and, on stepping in, found a woman there, who scarcely looked at us, or seemed aware of our entrance. There was the same appearance of fixed grief upon her countenance that we had remarked in the man; only with the difference, that the expression was less morose and fierce, but on the other hand more mournful.
“Can we have something to eat?” said I to the woman.
“We don’t keep a tavern,” was the answer.
“The other party cannot be far off,” said one of my companions. “We will give them a sign of our whereabout.” And so saying, he passed out at the door and walked a few paces in the direction of a cotton field.
“Stop!” cried the backwoodsman, suddenly placing himself before him. “Not a step further shall you go, till you satisfy me who you are, and where from.”
“Who and where from?” replied our comrade, a young doctor of medicine from Tennessee. “That is what neither you nor any other man shall know who asks after such a fashion. If I’m not mistaken we are in a free country.” And as he spoke he fired off his rifle.
The report of the piece was echoed so magnificently from the deep forests which surrounded the plantation, that my other companions raised their guns to their shoulders with the intention of firing also. I made them a sign in time to prevent it. Although there could hardly be any real danger to be apprehended, it appeared to me advisable to hold ourselves prepared for whatever might happen. The next moment a shot was heard—the answer to our signal.
“Keep yourself quiet,” said I to the backwoodsman; “our companions and their guide will soon be here. As to your cow, you can hardly have so little common sense as to suppose that five travellers would shoot a beast that must be perfectly useless to them.”
As I left off speaking, there emerged from the fores tour other detachment and the guide, the latter carrying two fat turkeys. He greeted the backwoodsman as an old acquaintance, but with a degree of sympathy and compassion in the tone of his salutation which contrasted strangely with his usual rough dry manner.
“Well, Mr. Clarke,” said he, “heard nothing yet? I’m sorry for it—very sorry?” [sic]
The backwoodsman made no reply, but his rigid sturdy mien softened, and his eyes, as I thought, glistened with moisture.
“Mistress Clarke,” said our guide to the woman, who was standing at the house-door, “these gentlemen here wish for a snack. They’ve plenty of everything, if you’ll be so good as to cook it.”
The woman stood without making any reply: the man was equally silent. There was a sort of stubborn surly manner about them, which I had never before witnessed in backwoodspeople.
“Well,” said the doctor, “we need expect nothing here. We are only losing time. Let us sit down on a tree-trunk, and eat our ham and biscuits.”
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The guide made us a significant sign, and then stepping up to the woman, spoke to her in a low and urgent tone. She did not, however, utter a word.
“Mistress,” said the doctor, “something must have happened to you or your family, to put you so out of sorts. We are strangers, but we are not without feeling. Tell us what is wrong. There may be means of helping you.”
The man looked up; the woman shook her head.
“What is it that troubles you?” said I, approaching her. “Speak out. Help often comes when least expected.”
The woman made me no answer, but stepped up to our guide, took a turkey and the ham from him, and went into the house. We followed, sat down at the table, and produced our bottles. The backwoodsman placed glasses before us. We pressed him to join us, but he obstinately declined our invitation, and we at last became weary of wasting good words on him. Our party consisted, as before mentioned, of ten persons: two bottles were soon emptied; and we were beginning to get somewhat merry whilst talking over our morning’s ramble, when our host suddenly got up from his seat in the chimney-corner, and approached the table.
“Gemmen,” said he, “you mustn’t think me uncivil if I tell ye plainly, that I can have no noise made in my house. It aint a house to larf in—that it aint, by G—!” And having so spoken he resumed his seat, leant his head upon both hands, and relapsed into his previous state of gloomy reverie.
“We ask pardon,” said we; “but really we had no idea that our cheerfulness could annoy you.”
The man made no reply, and half an hour passed away in whisperings and conjectures. At the end of that time, a negro girl came in to spread the table for our meal.
After much entreaty, our host and hostess were prevailed on to sit down with us. The former took a glass of brandy, and emptied it at a draught. we filled it again; he drank it off, and it was again replenished. After the third glass, a deep sigh escaped him. The cordial had evidently revived him.
“Gemmen,” said he, “you will have thought me rough and stubborn enough, when I met you as you had been huntin’ my cow: but I see now who I have to do with. But may I be shot myself, if, whenever I find him, I don’t send a bullet through his body; and I’ll be warrant it shall hinder his stealin’ any more children.”
“Stealing children!” repeated I. “Has one of your negroes been stolen?”
“One of my niggers, man! My son, my only son! Her child!” continued he, pointing to his wife. “Our boy, the only one remaining to us out of five, whom the fever carried off before our eyes. As bold and smart a boy as any in the back woods! Here we set ourselves down in the wilderness, worked day and night, went through toil and danger, hunger and thirst, heat and cold. And for what? here we are alone, deserted, childless; with nothin’ left for us but to pray and cry, and curse and groan. No help; all in vain. I shall go out of my mind, I expect. If he were dead!—if he were lyin’ under the hillock yonder beside his brothers, I would say nothing. He gave, and He has a right to take away! But, Almighty God!”—And the man uttered a cry so frightful, so heart-rending, that the knives and forks fell from our hands, and a number of negro women and children came rushing in to see what was the matter. We gazed at him in silence.
“God only knows,” continued he, and his head sank upon his breast; then suddenly starting up, he drank off glass after glass of brandy, as fast as he could pour it out.
“And how and when did this horrible theft occur?” asked we.
“The woman can tell you about it,” was the answer.
The woman had left the table, and now sat sobbing and weeping upon the bed. It was really a heartbreaking scene. The doctor got up, and led her to the table. We waited till she became more composed, anxiously expecting her account of this horrible calamity.
“It was four weeks yesterday,” she began; “Mister Clarke was in the forest; I was in the fields, looking
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after the people, who were gathering in the maize. I had been there some time, and by the sun it was already pretty near eleven; but it was as fine a morning as ever was seen on the Mississippi, and the niggers don’t work well if there’s not somebody to look after them—so I remained. At last it was time to get the people’s dinner ready, and I left the field. I don’t know what it was, but I had scarcely turned towards the house, when it seemed as if somebody called to me to run as fast as I could; a sort of fear and uneasiness came over me, and I ran all the way to the house. When I got there I saw little Cesy, our black boy, sitting on the threshold, and playing all alone. I thought nothing of this, but went into the kitchen, without suspecting anything wrong. As I was turning about amongst the pots and kettles, I thought suddenly of my Dougal. I threw down what I had in my hand, and ran to the door. Cesy came to meet me: “Missi,” said her, “Dougal is gone!”
“Dougal is gone!” cried I. “Where is he gone to, Cesy?”
“Don’t know,” said Cesy; “gone away with a man on horseback.”
“With a man on horseback?” said I[.] “In God’s name, where can he be gone to? What does all this mean, Cesy?”
“Don’t know,” said Cesy.
“And who was the man? Did he go willingly?”
“No! he didn’t go willingly!” said Cesy: “but the man got off his horse, put Dougal upon it, and then jumped up behind him and rode away.”
“And you don’t know the man?”
“No, missi!”
“Think again, Cesy,” cried I; “for God’s sake, remember. Don’t you know the man/”
“No,” said the child, “I don’t know him.”
“Didn’t you see what he looked like? Was he black or white?”
“I don’t know,” said Cesy, crying; “he had a red flannel shirt over his face!”
“Was it neighbour Syms, or Banks, or Medling, or Barnes?”
“No!” whined Cesy.
“Gracious God!” cried I. “What is this[?] What is become of my poor child?” I ran backwards and forwards into the forest, through the fields. I called out. I looked everywhere. At last I ran to where the people were at work, and fetched Cesy’s mother. I thought she would be able to make him tell something more about my child. She ran to the house with me, promised him cakes, new clothes, everything in the world; but he could tell nothing more than he had already told me. At last Mister Clarke came.”
Here the woman paused, and looked at her husband.
“When I came home,” continued the latter, “the woman was nearly distracted; and I saw directly that some great misfortune had happened. But I should never have guessed what it really was. When she told me, I said, to comfort her, that one of the neighbors must have taken the child away, though I didn’t think it myself; for none of the neighbours would have allowed themselves such a freedom with my only child. I shouldn’t have thanked ’em for it, I can tell you. I called Cesy and asked him again what the man was like; if I had a blue or black coat? He said it was blue. ‘What sort of horse?’ ‘A brown one.’ ‘What road he had taken?’ ‘That road!’ answered the boy, pointing to the swamp. I sent all my niggers, men, women, and children, round to the neighbours, to seek for the child, and tell them what had happened. I myself followed the path that the robber had taken, and found hoof-prints upon it. I tracked them to the creek, but there I lost the trail. The man must have got into a boat, with his horse and the child, had perhaps crossed the Mississippi, or perhaps gone down the stream. Who could tell where he would land! it might be ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred miles lower down. I was terribly frightened, and I rode on to Hopefield. There nothing had been seen or heard of my child; but all the men got on their horses to help me to find him. The neighbours came also, and we sought about for a whole day and night. No trace or track was to be found. Nobody had seen either the child or the man who had carried him off. We beat the woods for thirty miles round my house, crossed the Mississippi, went up as far as Mem-
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phis, and down to Helena and the Yazoo river; nothing was to be seen or heard. We came back as we went out, empty-handed and discouraged. When I got home, I found the whole county assembled at my house. Again we set out; again we searched the forest through; every hollow tree, every bush and thicket, was looked into. Of bears, stags, and panthers there were plenty, but no signs of my boy. On the sixth day I came home again; but my home was become hateful to me—everything vexed and disgusted me. My clothes and skin were torn off by the thorns and briers, my very bones ached; but I didn’t feel it. It was nothing to what I suffered in my mind.
“On the second day after my return, I was lying heart and body sick in bed, when one of the neighbours came in, and told me that he had just seen, at Hopefield, a man from Muller county, who told him that a stranger had been seen on the road to New Madrid, whose description answered to that which Cesy had given of the child-stealer. It was a man with a blue coat and a brown horse, and a child upon his saddle. I forgot my sickness and my sore bones, bought a new horse—for I had ridden mine nearly to death—and set out directly, rode day and night, three hundred miles, to New Madrid, and when I arrived there, sure enough I found the man who had been described to me, and a child with him. But it was not my child! The man belonged to New Madrid, and had been on a journey with his son into Muller county.
“I don’t know how I got home again. Some people found me near Hopefield, and brought me to my house. I had fever, and was raving for ten days; and during that time the neighbours advertised the thing in all the papers in Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. We had ridden altogether thousands of miles, but it was no use. No!” continued he, with a deep groan; “if my child had died of the fever, if he had fallen in with a bear or panther, and been killed, it would be bitter, bitter sorrow—he was my last child. But, merciful God—stolen! My son, my poor child, stolen!”
And the man cried aloud, sprang from his seat, and wrung his hands and wept like an infant. Even his wife had not shown such utter agony of grief.
“When I go to work,” continued he after a pause, “my little Dougal seems to stand before me, and my hands fall by my sides, as stiff and heavy as though they were lead. I look round, but no Dougal is there. When I go to bed, I put his bed beside mine, and call him, but no one answers. Sleeping or waking, my poor boy is always before me. Would to God I were dead! I have cursed and sworn, prayed and supplicated, wept and groaned, but all—all in vain!”
I have seen many persons suffering from distress of mind, but never did I meet with one whose sorrow was so violent and overpowering as that of this backwoodsman. We did our utmost to console him, and to inspire him with new hope, but he was inconsolable; his eyes were fixed, he had fallen into a sort of apathy, and I doubt if he even heard what was said to him. We ourselves were so affected that our words seemed almost to choke us. Time pressed, however; it was impossible for us to remain any longer, nor could we have done any good by so doing. We shook the unfortunate couple by the hand, promised to do all in our power to learn something of their child’s fate, and took our departure.
It was six weeks after the time above referred to, that I found myself compelled by business to make a journey to Natchez. I had often thought of poor Clarke’s misfortune, and, in conjunction with my friends, had done all in my power to discover the villain who had robbed him of his child. Hitherto all our endeavours had been fruitless. The facts were circulated in every newspaper, were matter of conversation at every tea-table in the country; rewards were offered, researches made, but not the smallest trace of the boy or his stealer was to be found.
It was a bright January afternoon when I landed at Natchez. In company with some acquaintances, I was ascending the little hill between the lower and upper town, when we heard
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an unusual noise and bustle; and on reaching the summit, we saw a crowd assembled before the door of Justice Bonner’s house. Upon going to see what was the matter, we found that the mob consisted of the better class of people in Natchez, both women and men, but especially the former. Every face wore an expression of interest and anxiety; and upon making inquiry, we learned that the child-stealer had been at length discovered—or rather, that a man had been taken up on strong suspicion of his having stolen Mr. Clarke’s son, of Hampstead county. I was heartily rejoiced at the news, and endeavoured to press forward through the throng, in hopes of hearing some particulars; but the crowd was so dense that it was impossible to get through. I stood there for nearly two hours, the concourse all the while increasing, none stirring from the places they occupied, while every adjacent window was filled with eager, anxious faces.
At last the door opened, and the prisoner, guarded by two constables, and followed by the sheriff, came out of the house, and took the direction of the town prison. “That is he!” whispered the women to one another, with pale faces and trembling voices, clasping their children tighter, as though fearful they would be snatched from them. The countenance of the culprit was the most repulsive I had ever seen—a mixture of brutal obstinacy and low cunning, with a sort of sneering, grinning expression. His small green-grey eyes were fixed upon the ground; but as he passed through the lane opened by the crowd, he from time to time partially raised them, and threw sidelong and malicious glances at the bystanders. He was rather above the middle height, his complexion of a dirty greyish colour, his cheeks hollow, his lips remarkably thick and coarse, his whole appearance in the highest degree wild and disgusting. His dress consisted of an old worn-out blue frock, trousers of the same colour, a high-crowned shabby hat, and tattered shoes. The impression which his appearance made might be read in the pale faces of the spectators. They gazed after him with a sort of hopeless look as he walked away. “If that is the man who stole the child,” murmured several, “there is no hope. The boy is lost!” I extricated myself from the throng, and hastened to Justice Bonner, with whom I was acquaited, and who gave me the following particulars.
About four weeks after our excursion in the neighbourhood of Hopefield, Clarke had received a letter, signed Thomas Tully, and stamped with the Natchez postmark. The contents were to the effect that his child was still living, that the writer of the letter knew where he was, and that, if Mr. Clarke would enclose a fifty-dollar bank-note in his answer, he should receive further information. On receipt of the said sum, the writer said he would indicate a place to which Mrs. Clarke might repair, unaccompanied, and there, upon payment of two hundred dollars more, the child should be delivered up.
Upon receiving this letter, the unfortunate father consulted with his friends and neighbours; and, by their advice, he wrote immediately to the postmaster at Natchez, informing him of the circumstances, and requesting that the person who applied for his answer might be detained. Four days afterwards, a man came to the window of the post-office, and inquired if there was any letter to the address of Thomas Tully. The postmaster pretended to be searching for the letter amongst a pile of others, and meanwhile a constable, who was in attendance, went round and captured the applicant. Upon the examination of the latter, it appeared that he was an Irishman, who had some time previously been hanging about Natchez, and had endeavoured to establish a school there. As he, however, had been unable to give any satisfactory account of himself, of where he came from, or what he had been doing up to that time, and as his manner and appearance were moreover in the highest degree suspicious and repulsive, he had not succeeded in his plan, and the few parents who sent their children to him had speedily withdrawn them. He was know at Natchez by the name of Thomas Tully, nor did he now deny that that was his name, or that he had sent the letter, which was written in a practised
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schoolmasterlike hand. It was further elicited that he was perfectly acquainted with the paths and roads between Natchez and Hopefield, and in the neighbourhood of those two places, as well as with the swamps, creeks, and rivers there adjacent. He was fully committed, till such time as the father of the stolen child should be made acquainted with the result of the examination.
In five days Clarke arrived with the negro boy Cæsar. The whole town showed the greatest sympathy with the poor man’s misfortune, the lawyers offered him their services free of charge, and a second examination of the prisoner took place. Everything possible was done to induce the latter to confess what had become of the child; but to all questions he opposed an obstinate silence. The negro boy did not recognize him. At last he declared that he knew nothing of the stolen child, and that he had only written the letter in the hope of extorting money from the father. Hardly, however, had this been written down, when he turned to Clarke, with an infernal grin upon his countenance, and said, “You have persecuted and hunted me like a wild beast, but I will make you yet more wretched than you are able to make me.” He then proceeded to inform him of a certain place where he would find his child’s clothes.
Clarke immediately set out with a constable to the indicated spot, found the clothes, as he had been told he would do, and returned to Natchez. The accused was again put at the bar, and said, after frequently contradicting himself, that the child was still alive, but that if they kept him longer in prison, it would inevitably die of hunger. Nothing could persuade him to say where the boy was, or to give one syllable of further explanation.
Meantime the quarter sessions commenced, and the prisoner was brought up for trail. An immense concourse of persons had assembled to witness the proceedings in this remarkable case. everything was done to induce the accused to confess, but all in vain. Promises of free pardon, and even of reward, were made to him, if he told where the child was; but the man maintained an obstinate silence. He at last again changed his story, retracted his previous declaration as to his knowledge of where the boy was, said he had found the clothes, which he had recognized by the descriptions that had been everywhere advertised, and that it was that which had put it into his head to write to the father, in hopes of making his profit by so doing. In the absence of witnesses, although there was strong suspicion, there could be no proof of his having committed the crime in question. In America, circumstantial evidence is always received with extreme caution and reluctance; and even the fact of the child’s clothes having been found in the place the prisoner had pointed out, was insufficient to induce the jury to find the latter guilty of the capital charge brought against him. Many of the lawyers, indeed, were of opinion, that the man’s last story was true, that he had found the clothes, and, being a desperate character, and in needy circumstances, had written the letter for purposes of extortion. Of this offence only was he found guilty, and condemned, as a vagrant and impostor, to a few months’ imprisonment. By the American laws no severer punishment could be awarded. This one, however, was far from satisfying the public. There was something so infernal in the malignant sneer of the culprit, in the joy with which he contemplated the sufferings of the bereaved father, and the anxiety of the numerous friends of the latter, that a shudder of horror and disgust had frequently run through the court during the trial. Even the coolest and most practised lawyers had not been free from this emotion, and they declared that they had never witnessed such obduracy.
The inhabitants of Natchez, especially of the upper town, are, generally speaking, a highly intelligent and respectable class of people; but upon this occasion they lost all patience and self-control, and proceeded to an extreme measure, which only the peculiar circumstances of the case could in any degree justify. Without previous notice, they assembled in large numbers upon the night of the 31st January, with a firm determination to correct for once the mildness of the laws, and to take the punishment of the criminal into their own hands. They opened the prison, brought out the culprit, and after tying him up, a number of stout ne-
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groes proceeded to flog him severely with whips of bullock’s hide.
For a long time, the man bore his punishment with extraordinary fortitude, and remained obstinately silent when questions were put to him concerning the stolen child. At last, however, he could bear the pain no longer, and promised a full confession. He named a house on the banks of the Mississippi, some fifty miles from Natchez, the owner of which, he said, knew where the child was to be found.
The sheriff had, of course, not been present at these Lynch-law proceedings, of which he was not aware till they were over, but of which he probably in secret did not entirely disapprove. No sooner, however, was he told of the confession that had been extorted from the prisoner, than he set off at once in the middle of the night, accompanied by Clarke, for the house that had been pointed out. They arrived there at noon on the following day, and found it inhabited by a respectable family, who had heard of the child having been stolen, but beyond that, knew nothing of the matter. The mere suspicion of participation in such a crime, seemed in the highest degree painful and offensive to them. It was soon made evident that the prisoner had invented the story, in order to procure a cessation of his punishment of the previous night.
The fatigues and constant disappointments that poor Clarke had endured, had worn him out, and at last again stretched him on a bed of sickness. His life was for a long time despaired of, but he finally recovered, and shortly afterwards the term of imprisonment to which the child-stealer (for such the public persisted in considering Tully) had been condemned, expired. there was no pretext for detaining him, and he was set at liberty. Clarke was advised to endeavour to obtain from him, by money and good treatment, some information concerning the child. Both father and mother threw themselves at the man’s feet, implored him to name his own reward, but to tell them what had become of their son.
“You have flogged and imprisoned me,” replied the man, with one of his malicious grins; “you would have hung me if you could; you have done all in your power to make me miserable. It is now my turn.”
And he obstinately refused to say a word on the subject of the lost child. He left the town, accompanied by Clarke, who clung to him like his shadow, in the constant hope that he would at last make a revelation. They crossed the Mississippi together, and on arriving behind Concordia, the bereaved father once more besought Tully to tell him what had become of his son, swearing that, if he did not do so, he would dog him day and night, but that he should never escape alive out of his hands. The man asked how long he would give him. “Six-and-thirty hours” was the reply. Tully walked on for some time beside Clarke and his wife, apparently deep in thought. on a sudden he sprang upon the backwoodsman, snatched a pistol from his belt, and fired it at his head. The weapon missed fire. Tully saw that his murderous attempt had failed, and apprehensive doubtless of the punishment that it would entail, he leaped, without an instant’s hesitation, into the deepest part of a creek by which they were walking. He sank immediately, the water closed over his head, and he did not once reappear. His body was found a couple of hours afterwards, but no trace was ever discovered of the Stolen Child.*
* Various particulars of the above incident may be found in the Mississippi newspapers, of the years 1825-6.