BLACK JOE O’ THE BOW.
By James Smith.
In the days no sae very lang syne, when the auld West Bow o’ Edinburgh was in the deadthraw o’ its glory, there lived an auld blackymore named Joe Johnson. He was weel kent through a’ the toun for his great ingenuity in makin’ ships an’ automaton figures—something like the “Punch and Judy” o’ present times, but mair exquisitely finished an’—what d’ye ca’ that fine word?—artistic?—that’s it. Aweel, this man, commonly ca’d Black Joe, lived up a lang stair in the Bow, on the richt-hand side gaun doun. He made his livin’ in simmer by the bonnie bits o’ ships he made, displaying them for sale at the front gate o’ Heriot’s Wark, in Lauriston; an’ whiles he took a change at the drum an’ pan-pipes, wi’ a wee doggie ca’d Pincher, that stood on its hint-legs when Joe was playin’, wi’ a tin saucer in its mouth to haud the coppers. Sometimes, when Joe was playin’, and naething was comin’ in, the dog wad bite somebody’s leg by mistake to vary the entertainment, to Joe’s unspeakable delight. But this was often followed by somebody roaring oot—“Horselip! Horselip!” an’ then the drumstick flew through the crowd at somebody’s head, an’ Joe was generally marched to the office between twa policemen. But for a’ his fiery temper when roused, he had a kind, canny way wi’ him when civilly treated, an’ wadna hae wranged a livin’ cratur.
When the lang winter nichts set in, Joe had a show at the fit o’ his stair; an’ aften the Bow rang wi’ his drum an’ pan-pipes, as he stood at the outside o’ the show, wi’ a lichtit paper lantern stuck up in front, whereon was painted a rough sketch o’ Billy Button on the road to Brentford, the Babes in the Wood, Tam o’ Shanter on his mare Meg, pursued by the witches, wi’ Cutty Sark makin’ a catch at Maggie’s tail, or some ither scenic representation. Whiles, when Joe was burstin’ his black face in the middle o’ a fine tune, some ragged imp wad roar—
Hey cocky dawdy, hey cocky dow—
Horselip, Horselip’s comin doun the Bow,
Wi’ his drum an’ his pipe, an’ his pipe, pipe, pipe!
Doun went the drum, an’ aff ran Joe after the malicious urchin, the doggie first and foremost in the chase. For whether the beast had been trained, or acted through the force o’ instinct, certain it is, that nae sooner was its maister ca’d “Horselip,” than aff it sprang, an’ fixed its teeth in the shins o’ the first ane that cam in its way.
There was ae New Year’s nicht that an unco mess took place wi’ Joe’s show. There was a wee funny dancin’ figure o’ a man that the laddies aye ca’d “Tooral”—ane o’ the best figures in the show. This figure was on the stage singin’ “Tooraladdy,” an’ he was at the last verse—
Tak the pan an’ break his head—
Tooraladdy, tooraladdy;
That’s a’ as fac’ as death—
when a wild loon, that had been lookin’ on wi’ a greedy e’e an’ a watery mouth at the figures a’ nicht, unable ony langer to resist temptation, made a dart at “Tooral,” and vanished wi’ him oot o’ the show. This created an unco commotion, for when the folk begoud to rise up in the gallery—it was a’ gallery thegither—as Joe rushed out after the thief, cryin’ “Polish! polish! polish!—catch a thief! catch a thief!” the whole rickety concern cam doun wi’ a great crash. But they didna fa’ far; for it wasna muckle mair than five or six inches frae the ground a’thegither. But the thief was never gotten that nicht, tho’ it’s a consolation to ken that he was banished shortly afterwards for stealin’ a broon tammy an’ a quarter o’ saut butter frae a puir widdy woman, as she was comin’ out o’ a provision shop in the Canongate.
But Joe was thrown into sic a state wi’ rinnin’ through the toun after the thief, that next day he was delirious wi’ a ragin’ fever. My mither lived but an’ ben wi’ Joe; an’ it was while gaun in noo an’ then to see how the puir body was doing, that a strange interest in Joe’s history was awakened in her breast. For he had cam oot wi’ some very strange expressions when lyin’ in the delirious state. Ance or twice he cried, “Me nebber shoot massa—me nebber shoot massa. Major murder him broder—me see ’im do it. Got pistol yet—me tell truth—me no tell lie;” an’ sae he wad gang ravin’ on at this gait for hours. When at last the fever had abated, an’ Joe was able to come ben an’ sit doun by my mither’s fireside, she asked him, in her ain canny way, if he wadna like to gang back again to his native country. But the black fell a tremblin’, an’ shook his head, sayin’ “Nebber—nebber—nebber more!” This roused my mither’s curiosity to the highest pitch, for she was convinced noo, mair than ever, that some dark history was locked up in the African’s breast. Ae day, a while after this, Joe cam ben an’ sat doun by the fireside, as usual; for though the day was scorching hot, being in the heat o’ simmer, the cratur was aye shiverin’ and cowerin’ wi’ the cauld. Takin oot his cutty pipe, as usual, he began to fill’t, sayin’—“Missy, me no lib long; me no strength—me weak as water—me no happy—wish ’im was dead.”
“What way that?” asked my mither; “by my faith, ye’ll live mony a lang day yet. Deein’! deil the fear o’ ye!”
But Joe aye shook his head.
“Joe,” says my mither, takin’ his puir wasted hand in her ain, “there’s something mair than weakness the matter wi’ ye. I ken that, whatever ye may say; and the best thing for ye to do’s to mak a clean breast o’t. Whatever ye may say to me, I promise shall be as secret as the grave. Ye ken me ower weel to doot that.”
Joe lookit earnestly in her face, an’ syne at the door. My mither cannily closed the door, an’ sat doun beside him. Then the nigger, cautioning her to mind her promise, telt her a story that sent her to her bed that nicht wi’ a gey quaking heart. But as this story wadna be richtly understood to gie’t in the nigger’s strange broken English, I’ll tell’t in my ain way.
Ten years before Joe cam to Edinburgh, baith him an’ his wife were slaves on Zedekiah Gilroy’s plantation in Jamaica. This Zedekiah Gilroy was the second son o’ Colonel Gilroy, o’ Hawkesneb Hoose. I mind o’ the place mysel’ as weel as if it were yesterday; for mony a time I’ve passed it on the road to my aunty’s at Cockleburgh. It’s a gude fourteen hours’ journey frae Edinburgh—try’t ony day ye like. Aweel, the eldest son o’ this Colonel Gilroy had gotten a commission in the East India Company, an’ had risen to the rank o’ major in ane o’ the native regiments; but brocht himsel’ into disgrace there by causing the death o’ ane o’ his servants wi’ his merciless cruelty, an’ was obliged to sell oot, an’ come hame in disgrace. He hadna been lang hame, when a letter cam frae his brither, requesting him to come oot an’ look after his estate, for he had been twice attacked by yellow fever, an’ was utterly incompetent to look after’t. His overseers, he said, were rivin’ him oot o’ hoose an’ ha’, an’ a’thing was gaun wrang thegither. His wife had been struck doun by the same fell disease, an’ a lowness o’ spirits had ta’en possession o’ him, that a’ the luxuries o’ high life an’ plenty o’ siller couldna diminish. His only wish was to see his brither oot beside him, an’ tak for a while the oversicht o’ his affairs, till health an’ strength blessed him ance mair. Aweel, under a’ thae circumstances, the auld colonel advised his son to gang oot an’ do his best to help his brither in his sair extremity. Sae the major, wi’ an unco show o’ reluctance, at last consented, an’ aff he gaed to Jamaica, to play the deevil there, as he had done before in the East Indies.
Major Gilroy wasna lang at Jamaica when an unco change for the waur took place. There was naething but orderin’, cursin’, swearin’, an’ lashin’ o’ slaves frae mornin’ till nicht. Joe’s wife was amang the first that succumbed to the murderous whip, an’ Joe himsel’ cam in for mair than his share. Rumours soon began to spread that the maister himsel’ was tyrannised ower by his brither. He was ane o’ the very kindest o’ maisters to his slaves, until his brither cam like a frosty blicht, and filled the whole estate wi’ lamentation. Sae this state o’ things gaed on for nearly six months, when ae day Joe, exasperated at the inhuman treatment he was receivin’ at the major’s instigation, took leg-bail to the sea-shore, an’ hid himsel’ amang the cliffs. There he lurked, day after day, crawlin’ oot at nicht to gather shell-fish an’ dulse frae the rocks, an’ castin’ his e’e ower the wide watery waste for the welcome sicht o’ a sail to bear him frae the accursed spot. Mair than ance he had heard the shouts o’ the manhunters on his track, intermingling wi’ the terrible bay o’ the bluidhound. But a’ their vigilance was eluded by the impregnable nature o’ his position, high up amang the rocks.
On the morning o’ the thirteenth day after his escape, he cautiously emerged frae his high den, an’ looked around him as usual. The air was intensely hot, an’ dark-red masses o’ cloud were fast drivin’ through a black, lowering sky, the certain presage o’ a fearfu’ storm. The sea lay calm and still, for there wasna a breath o’ wind stirring, an’ flocks o’ sea-birds were filling the sultry air wi’ their harsh, discordant cries. Suddenly a flash o’ forked lichtnin’ illumined the black, murky sky, an’ a loud clap o’ thunder reverberated amang the mountains. Then the lichtnin’ an’ thunder became incessant, the sea lashed itsel’ into foam an’ fury, an’ the rain poured doun in torrents. As the slave surveyed the elements thus ragin’ in a’ their terrific grandeur, the distant sound o’ carriage-wheels caught his ear. Nearer an’ nearer they cam, till he recognised a gig driven by the major comin’ on at a rattlin’ pace. His brither sat beside him, propped up wi’ shawls and cushions, an’ appeared to be at that moment in an attitude o’ earnest entreaty; while every noo and then the faint sound o’ voices in noisy altercation was borne on the gale that noo roared ower land an’ sea, though what they said it was utterly impossible to distinguish. The slave looked on, first in astonishment, an’ syne in horror; for, instead o’ turnin’ the horse’s head hamewards as the storm cam on, the major persisted in drivin’ richt on through the sands as the spring-tide was fast cornin’ in, in spite o’ the agonised entreaties o’ his brither to turn. At last the gig was stopped, as the horse, plunging and restive, went up to the middle in water. Then a deadly struggle took place that lasted scarcely a minute, when the report o’ a pistol reverberated amid the thunder, an’ the next instant the body o’ the invalid was hurled into the roaring surge. Then, indeed, the horse’s head was turned hameward, an’ aff went the gig in richt earnest, but no before a wild yell o’ execration frae the cliff warned the murderer that the deed had been witnessed by mair than the e’e o’ God abune. Scarcely had the sound o’ the wheels died away, when the slave descended the lofty precipitous rocks wi’ the agility o’ a wild cat, an’ plunged into the sea to save, if it were yet possible, his puir maister. But the dark purple streaks on the surface o’ the water where the deed was accomplished telt, ower fearfully, that the sharks were already thrang at their horrid wark, an’ that a’ hope o’ saving him, if he werena clean deid after the pistol-shot was fired, was for ever gane. Therefore he reluctantly swam back to the shore, wi’ barely enough o’ time to save himsel’. Before scaling the cliff, he lifted the pistol that the murderer, in the hurry an’ confusion o’ the moment, had left behind him on the beach. This incident filled the slave wi’ fresh alarm, for it was certain the major wad come back for’t before lang. Sae a’ that nicht he wearied sair for the mornin’ to come in. Slowly at last the storm subsided, as the first pale streaks o’ dawn were visible in the horizon; an’ as the daylicht lengthened mair an’ mair, he saw a dark speck floating on the waves, that on a nearer approach proved to be a boat that had burst frae its moorings frae some ship in the distant harbour. Fervently thanking God for this providential means o’ deliverance, he descended frae his friendly shelter for the last time, an’ boldly struck out for the boat, which he reached in safety. Seizing the oars, he steered oot to the open sea, wi’ a fervent prayer that the dark drizzly fog that enveloped the ocean wad continue to shield him, for a time, frae his merciless enemy, till some friendly ship wad tak him up. It was high time; for he hadna gi’en half-a-dozen strokes, when the sound o’ angry voices, among which was the major’s, was borne on the breeze, an’ again the deep-toned bay o’ the bluidhound nerved his arms wi’ a’ the energy o’ desperation. Farther an’ farther oot he gaed, battling wi’ the heavily swelling rollers that threatened every moment to engulph the boat he steered sae bravely. For mony a lang and weary hour he struggled wi’ the giant waves, enveloped in fog, till the darkness o’ nicht had nearly set in; an’ he was fast gi’en up a’ hopes o’ succour, when the tout o’ a horn near at hand warned him that a ship was bearing doun upon him. He had barely time to steer oot o’ her way, when he was hailed by the captain, an’ asked where he cam frae. Joe made answer that he was the sole survivor o’ the Nancy, bound for England, that had sprung a leak, an’ foundered in last nicht’s gale. At that moment a terrible wave capsized the boat, and Joe was struggling in the water. But a rope was flung oot to him, an’ he speedily drew himsel’ on board. This circumstance o’ the boat’s being swamped was a mercy for Joe; for had the name o’ the ship she belanged to met the captain’s e’e, the lee wad hae been fand oot, an’ it micht hae fared waur wi’ him. But the captain treated Joe wi’ great kindness, and telt him he micht work his passage to Leith, which was the port o’ their destination. The vessel was a Leith trader named the William and Mary, an’ was on her passage hame frae the Island o’ Cuba.
Here, let it be remembered, Joe wasna to be blamed a’thegither for the doonricht lee he telt the captain. He was a rinaway slave in the first place, an’ had the captain kent the truth, it’s mair than likely he wad hae delivered him up at the first port he touched at on the voyage hame. In the second place, there was nae ither witness o’ the fearfu’ crime binna himsel’; an’ he had the tact to see that evidence resting on the sole testimony o’ a rinaway slave, mair especially when that slave micht be reasonably suspected o’ vindictive feelings against the murderer, wad be treated wi’ scorn an’ indignation, an’ even add to the horrors o’ his ain death. Therefore Joe kept his ain coonsel, and when the vessel arrived at Leith, he wandered up to Edinburgh, and resided for mony a lang year in the West Bow, makin’ his livin’ in the manner already related, and wi’ the secret carefully locked up in his breast until now.
“Aweel, Joe,” said my mither, when she had heard him oot, “that’s an unco story, man. But are ye aware that the auld colonel’s aye livin’ yet, an’ that it wad be a duty to let him ken the truth?” Here Joe lookit in her face sae pitifu’ an’ imploring like, that she didna find it in her heart to press the question ony mair at that time. But when the body gaed awa’ ben, my mither sat thinkin’ and thinkin’ till the day was far spent; an’ for mony a lang day after that she hadna muckle peace o’ mind.
Ae mornin’ she put on her bannit and shawl, and said she wadna be hame till late. Although I was a bit lassie at the time, I jaloused where she was gaun, but I never let on. It wasna till late, late at nicht that she cam hame, an’ then she telt me she had been at Hawkesneb Hoose on a pretence to see if an auld servant she had kent mony a year sin’ was aye bidin’ there. As she rang the gate-bell, she said a fearfu’ sense o’ shame an’ disgrace comin’ ower an auld man made her swither; but there was the lodgekeeper’s wife comin’ to the gate, an’ it was ower late noo to gang back. She then inquired for ane Jess Tamson, that had been a servant up at the big hoose three years sin’; but the woman said she didna ken o’ onybody o’ that name servin’ there noo. My mither said that was an unco pity, as she had cam a lang way to see her, an’ her feet were sair blistered wi’ the roads. The woman then opened the gate, an’ asked my mither into the lodge, an’ offered her a cup o’ tea, for which my mither was very thankfu’. Then, when the twa fell on the crack, my mither said the laird wad be gey far doon the brae noo, for he was an auld man in Jess’s time. My mither came oot wi’ this in her ain pawky way, to hear for certain whether the colonel were dead or livin’.
“The auld colonel’s dead an’ gane a year sin’,” said the woman, “but his son the major’s expected hame in a month; an’ I’m sure there has been sic a scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ hammerin’, that what wi’ masons, joiners, plasterers, painters, and glaziers, there hasna been muckle rest for the servants this last fortnicht.”
“An’ is the major married?” asked my mither.
“Married! no as yet,” said the woman. “They say he’s turned unco silent and cantankerous since his brither’s death, sees naebody, an’ never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside.”
“The major never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside!” said my mither, slowly comin’ ower the words after her. “Deary me, that’s strange!” tryin’ sair to keep in her breath. “What kind o’ death was’t his brither dee’d o’, hae ye heard?”
“What kind o’ death was’t? It was murder, dounricht murder!” said the woman; “an’ done too by ane o’ his ain slaves through revenge. But it was a grand day for the major when his brither dee’d; for he wasna a month gane when the plantation was selt aff, an’ the major left Jamaica wi’ mony a braw thousand pound in his pouch.”
My mither then asked if the major cam hame at that time. The woman said, “No, he had gane to Italy, and aye kept sendin’ letters to his faither every noo and then, makin’ apologies about his health being in a delicate state, and declaring his resolution to abide by the advice o’ his doctors to remain in a warmer climate, in spite o’ the auld laird’s anxious entreaties for him to come hame. I often used to wonder at the major’s continued absence; an’ it lookit strange that he didna come to lay his faither’s head in the grave, though he’s comin’ hame noo. As for the slave that did the deed, they raised a hue an’ cry after him for a while; but the murderer was never gotten, an’ it’s not likely he ever will be noo. It seems the major had been gi’en his brither an airing in a gig, when they were attacked by the slave frae behind, wha fired a pistol at his brither oot o’ revenge, and then fled, wounding him mortally. The major pursued, but when he had gane a lang distance and fand he couldna mak up to him, he cam back to the spot where the murder had been committed, expecting to see the body; but, astonishing to relate, the body had disappeared. And the man that did the deed, as I said before, was never gotten; nor is it very likely he ever will be, after sic a lang lapse o’ time. It seems he fled awa to the mountains among the Maroons, as they ca’ them.”
“That’s hard, hard to say,” said my mither; “but God has his ain ways o’ workin’, lass, an’ maybe the deed’ll be brocht to licht in a way that you an’ me little dream o’.” Then she rose up, an’ spoke o’ gaun hame; but the woman wadna hear o’t, sayin’ the nicht was ower far gane, an’ she wad mak her very welcome to a bed beside the bairns. At that moment the gudeman himsel’ cam in, an’ seeing her anxiety to gang awa, he said the mail-coach wad be gaun by in half an hour, an’ he had nae doot the guard wad gie her a lift into the toun. Sae she waited till the coach cam by, an’ fortunately got a ride in.
Aweel, when my mither had composed hersel’ a bit, after she had telt this, she filled her cutty-pipe, an’ begoud to blaw. “Lassie,” says she to me, after a wee, “fetch doun yer faither’s Bible frae the shelf.” It aye got the name o’ my faither’s Bible, though he had been deid an’ gane mony a year. Sae I gied her the Bible; an’ then I heard her slowly readin’ ower thae verses frae the Book o’ Proverbs—“Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being taken.” This she read ower twa-three times to hersel’, an’ syne put a mark at the place, and gaed awa to her bed. And lang after that, as the puir body lay half doverin’, I heard her comin’ ower and ower thae bonnie verses, till she was fast asleep. The first thing she did, when the mornin’ cam in, was to tell Joe o’ her journey an’ its result. The puir African lifted up his hands in astonishment when she telt him the murder had been laid to his charge. But she took doun the Bible again, an’ read ower the verses that had sae powerfully arrested her attention the nicht before; and as she read them, a gleam o’ triumphant exultation shone in the e’e o’ the puir nigger—a look o’ conscious innocence, that dispelled every vestige o’ doot in my mither’s mind, if she ever had ony, an’ made her sympathise a’ the mair wi’ the lingerin’ agony he had endured since the murder was committed. He noo declared his readiness to lodge an accusation against Major Gilroy; for the fear o’ his word being misdooted vanished as if by magic frae his mind, mair especially when my mither led him to understand that, being in a free country, nae slave-owner could touch him, and that his word would be ta’en wi’ the best white man among them a’. Hooever, my mither advised him no to be rash, but to bide a wee till the major’s arrival, as an accusation preferred against him in his absence micht be construed into an evidence o’ guilt on the part o’ the accuser; for the wily, lang-headit bodies o’ lawyers were fit for onything, an’ siller could do an awfu’ lot, an’ mak black look white ony day. Besides, Great Britain was at this time deeply engaged in the Slave Trade, and micht be ower glad to tak the major’s part. Sae Joe took her advice, an’ prayed that Job wad teach him patience.
Three weeks had passed away, when Joe, unable ony langer to control the wild tumult that reigned in his breast, gaed awa oot to Hawkesneb Hoose, carryin’ his drum an’ pan-pipes wi’ him as usual. It had been a drizzly sma’ rain a’ day; an’ when he reached his journey’s end, as nicht set in, he was wet through an’ through. The place was a’ in darkness, and as he stood at the gate, an’ looked up the lang dusky avenue, he half resolved to gang back, an’ trust to time an’ the retributive justice o’ Heaven to prove his innocence. But an impulse he couldna resist chained him to the spot, an’ he rang the gate-bell. Nae answer was returned; a second time’ he rang, but still wi’ the same result. Then he pushed the gate forward, and to his surprise it swung heavily back on its hinges. Wi’ an unsteady, tremblin’ step, he advanced up the dark avenue till he reached the mansion. The hoose seemed silent an’ deserted, binna a sma’ licht that twinkled in ane o’ the lower windows, an’ as he drew nearer, the sound o’ voices reached his ear. Then the resolve to gang back again took possession o’ him; but the strange impulse to advance gained the mastery, an’ he lifted the kitchen knocker. A lass wasna lang in makin’ her appearance at the door wi’ a lichtit candle in her hand; an’ nae sooner did she see the black man stannin’ oot in the dark than she gied a roar as if Joe had been the very deevil himsel’. This brocht ben a’ the rest o’ the servants; an’ a bonnie hurly-burly was set up as this ane an’ the ither ane wondered hoo he had got in.
“That’s your negligence, Willie Johnston,” said an auld leddy dressed in black, that appeared to be the hoosekeeper; “I’m sure ye needna hae been sae thochtless as that, particularly at a time when the major’s lookit for every minute.”
This was addressed to the keeper o’ the lodge, that had come up to the big hoose wi’ his wife at the hoosekeeper’s invitation, to while awa the nicht wi’ a cup o’ tea an’ a dram. Willie Johnston fell a swearin’, an’ was aboot to lay violent hands on Joe, when the butler, a wee fat birsy body, but no bad-hearted, ordered him to desist; and seeing the nicht was sae cauld an’ wat, he brocht Joe into the kitchen, and thinkin’ him a cadger, he set doun baith bread, meat, an’ beer before him, tellin’ him to look alive, for it wadna do to stay lang there. The hoosekeeper didna offer ony objection to this, as mony a ane wad hae dune; but to tell the truth, it seems that the twa were unco gracious, for when the tane took whisky, the tither took yill—sae that settles that. When Joe had sat for a while preein’ the mercies set before him, ane o’ them—the laundry-maid—gi’en a wistfu’ look at Joe’s drum an’ pan-pipes, said she hadna haen a dance since gude kens the time, an’ the cook, an’ the kitchen-maid, an’ a young crater o’ a flunkey, expressed themsel’s in a similar manner.
“A dance!” cried the hoosekeeper, makin’ a pretence o’ being angry. “A bonnie daft-like thing it wad be to welcome hame the laird wi’ a drum an’ pan-pipes, as if he were the keeper o’ a wild-beast show. A fiddle michtna be sae bad.”
Joe saw what was wanted. It was only a quiet invitation to play for naething; sae he took a lang heavy pull at the beer-jug, an’ syne struck up a lilt that set them a’ up on their feet thegither. An’ sae on he played, tune after tune, until a breathin’ time was ca’ed; an’ the whisky an’ beer in plenty were again gaun round, when the gate-bell was rung wi’ great violence.
“Flee for yer life to the gate, Willie Johnston,” cried the hoosekeeper, “an’ stop that skirlin’. I’m sure I never expected him the nicht noo, when it’s sae late. What’s to be dune? Haste ye, Sally, to the major’s room, an’ on wi’ a fire like winkin’!” and in an instant a’ was confusion, an’ every ane stannin’ in each ither’s road.
The soond o’ carriage wheels was heard comin’ up the avenue, and the lood gruff voice o’ Major Gilroy cursing the carelessness o’ the lodge-keeper startled every ane there, but nane mair sae than Joe; for that voice brocht back the past in a’ its terrible reality, an’ he kent the crisis was comin’ wi’ a crash either for him or his auld relentless oppressor. But him and his pan-pipes were then as completely forgotten by the servants as if they had never been there. But as quietness was at last restored, an’ the major had shut himsel’ up in his room, wi’ a stern injunction to the butler that he wasna to be disturbed wi’ supper or onything else that nicht, an’ threatenin’ instant dismissal to the first that gied him ony cause o’ annoyance, Joe asked the hoosekeeper, wi’ a palpitatin’ heart, if he micht gang noo.
“No, for a thoosand pound I wadna open that door,” said the hoosekeeper; “ye had better bide awhile yet till he’s asleep. I never saw sic a savage-lookin’ man in my life, as he cam in at the front door. He’s completely changed since I mind o’ him, when he wasna muckle mair than a laddie. An’ sic a restless, suspicious e’e as he’s got! I dinna like it—I positively dinna like it. But I’ll never pit up wi’ sic a man—I’ll tak to drink, as sure’s I’m a livin’ woman. An’ what the deil brocht you here?—makin’ things fifty times waur! Ye’ll never get oot o’ here this nicht—I’m certain o’ that. An’ yet there’s that brute,” pointing to Pincher, that a’ this time had been keepin’ quiet under the table, thrang worryin’ at a big bane—“what’s to be dune if it barks?”
But Joe gied her to understand there was nae fear o’ that, for he had him ower weel trained to mak ony disturbance; but oh! he was anxious—anxious to be off. The woman, hooever, remained inexorable. There was therefore nae help for’t but to sit doun on a chair by the kitchen fireside, an’ be slippit oot cannily in the mornin’ before the major was up. Sae they a’ gaed awa to their beds, an’ Joe was left alane in the kitchen, wi’ Pincher snockerin’ at his side. But Joe couldna close an e’e, wi’ the intensity o’ his thocht; for here, at last, had the providence o’ God brocht the murderer and his accuser beneath the same roof. Joe lay doverin’ an’ waitin’ wearily for the mornin’ comin’ in. The weather had cleared up, an’ the moon was streamin’ in through the kitchen windows. The fire had gane oot, an’ the air felt cauld an’ chill; an’ gradually a feeling o’ horror took possession o’ Joe that he couldna shake off. At last Pincher gaed a low growl, as if he had heard somebody comin’. Joe could hear naething at first, but by degrees he became sensible that a step was advancin’, saft, an’ almost noiseless, doun the kitchen stair; an’ slowly the door opened as a figure dressed in a lang dressin’-goun, an’ a lichtit wax candle in its hand, entered the kitchen. Speechless and unable to move, Joe saw his mortal enemy, the major, starin’ him in the face; but as he silently returned the gaze, he became sensible that it was void o’ consciousness. The major was walkin’ in his sleep, that was evident, for he kept movin’ up an’ doun the kitchen, mutterin’ to himsel’. He laid doun the candle on the floor in ane o’ his rounds, an’ said in a tone sae distinct that Joe could hear every word—
“Will the sea give up its dead?—No, no. Why does his face always turn up amid the roaring waves, as if to taunt me with the crime, and drag me to eternal perdition? Pshaw! it’s but a fancy after all. But the slave who eluded my vengeance—curses on him!—where is he? Wandering over the face of the earth, to confront me at last, perhaps, and accuse me as my brother’s murderer. But will they believe him? They will not—nay, they dare not—they dare not. Yet oh! the black countenance of that infernal fiend dogs me wherever I go, and will not give me peace—peace—peace!”
Then he took up the candle an’ made for the door, drew back, an’ again cam into the kitchen; then left the kitchen a second time, an’ opened the door. The sudden rush o’ the nicht air put oot the candle, an’ he again entered the kitchen. At that moment he stumbled ower a chair, an’ Pincher gaed a loud bark, as the major started to his feet, restored to consciousness. And as the moon’s rays revealed every surrounding object wi’ a ghastly distinctness, the first sicht that met his e’e was Joe—Joe stannin’ before him, rigid and motionless—an auld rusty pistol in his richt hand presented at him, an’ a wild glare o’ rage an’ defiance flashin’ in his unearthly-lookin’ e’en. The suddenness o’ the appearance o’ this apparition—for apparition he thocht Joe to be—completely paralysed him for the moment. His knees gaed knock, knockin’ thegither, as Joe cried—
“Murderer! murderer! murderer! Me tell truth—me no tell lie. You dam rascal—you villain—me hear to speak truth, and truth me speak spite of eberyting. Ha! what you say now?”
As Joe said this, he advanced nearer an’ nearer, till the pistol touched the major’s breast. But there he stood, powerless to resist; for his belief still was that Joe was a phantom, till the growlin’ o’ the doggie brocht him to himsel’ mair than onything else; and, fired by the energy o’ desperation, he made a snatch at the pistol. But the nigger was ower quick for him; for he sprang past the major, and oot at the kitchen door that the major had providentially opened in his sleep, darted doun the avenue and oot at the gate, syne awa at full speed on his lang journey hame, which he reached by nine o’clock in the mornin’, mair deid than alive. He cam into my mither’s just as she sat doun to her tea, an’ gaed her the history o’ his last nicht’s adventure, as already related. My mither’s advice to him was to gang directly to the authorities, an’ lodge an accusation. Joe did sae, and the result was that Captain S——, accompanied by half a dozen constables, immediately took the coach for Hawkesneb Hoose, which they reached about seven o’clock.
When they arrived there, the butler, hoosekeeper, an’ a’ the lave o’ them cam out, wonderin’ at seein’ the police authorities, accompanied by the black man. But when Captain S—— asked, in a stern manner, if he could see the major, an’ telling the men to watch the hoose, baith back and front, their surprise was turned into consternation. The major wasna up yet, the butler said; and his orders the nicht before were that naebody was to disturb him unless his bell rang. And it was neither his business nor onybody else’s to intrude where they werena wanted. On hearing this, the captain peremptorily demanded to see his maister, otherwise it wad be necessary to force an entrance into his room. At this the hoosekeeper and butler baith gaed up, an’ cried the major’s name; but nae answer cam. Then they tried to open the door, but the door was evidently locked frae the inside, for it wadna open. When the captain heard this, he gaed up himsel’, an’ burst open the door. On entering the room, he lookit round, but could see naething. The bed lay untouched; there had been naebody there, that was evident. But there was a sma’ dressing-room that opened frae the bedroom, and on lookin’ there he saw the major lyin’ in a doubled-up position on the carpet, wi’ his hands clenched, an’ his e’en starin’ wide open. An empty phial lay beside him, that telt, ower surely, what he had been after. The captain placed his hand on his face, but it was quite cauld; an’ there wasna the least doot that he had been dead for a lang time. When the captain cam doun and communicated the news, there was sair wonder an’ astonishment, but no muckle grief, ’od knows. The major had been a perfect stranger to them a’, except the auld hoosekeeper; an’ to do the body justice, she shed a tear or twa; but it’s my belief a third never made its appearance, for a’ she tried.
Naething farther could be done in the matter. The major had anticipated the demands o’ justice by takin’ justice on himsel’, an’ the wuddy had been cheated o’ a victim, an’ a multitude o’ morbid sightseers rightly ungratified. But oh, the joy o’ Joe’s heart when he cam into my mither’s next mornin’! for it seems they had remained in the hoose a’ that nicht, till the coach cam by on the Edinburgh journey. The fear that had hung ower him like a nichtmare was dispelled for ever, an’ his innocence triumphantly established beyond the least shadow o’ a doot. Kindly my mither shook him by the hand, as she said—“The hand o’ God’s been in’t, Joe, my man; an’ praise be to his name for sendin’ a bonnie glint o’ sunshine oot o’ the lang dreary darkness that’s encompassed ye. An’ never forget the verses that gaed ye sic blessed consolation;” an’ saftly an’ solemnly she cam ower them again—“Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the Lord shall be thy confidence, an’ shall keep thy foot from being taken.” An’ Joe looked happy an’ contented, an’ never forgot my mither’s kindness.
Joe gaed aboot the streets o’ Edinburgh mony a lang day after this. He never taen up the show again, that I mind o’; but mony a bonnily riggit ship he selt at Heriot’s Wark, and on the Earthen Mound, amang the panoramas and the wild-beast shows, and doun at the stairs at bonnie auld Shakespeare Square, that’s noo awa; an’ mony a time hae I heard his drum an’ pan-pipes when I was baith a young quean an’ a married wife. He dee’d a short time before the richt-hand side o’ the West Bow was taen doun, an’ there’s no a single vestige noo to be seen o’ the auld land where the show used to be, wi’ the lichtit paper-lantern at the door, an’ the pan-pipes playin’ “Tooraladdy,” that cheered sae mony young hearts in the days that are noo past an’ gane.—From “Peggy Pinkerton’s Recollections.”