The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

The workhouse was situated at the distance of nearly a mile from the centre of the village, on a little farm of some twenty acres, and stood several rods apart from any inhabited house. It was the half of a large unpainted wooden building divided into two sections, the other half of which was used as an alms-house, and might be considered as a sort of auxiliary or ally of the county jail, to receive those minor offenders whom the dignity of the latter rejected.

The road Basset had to travel passed over the lower bridge of the Yaupáae, next went up a hill, and then suddenly turning, skirted the lake-like expanse of water, on which the building was situated. In order, however, to reach the house, it was necessary to leave the main road and pass down a lane of some twenty rods in length.

Together the pair proceeded through the driving snow, Basset keeping hold of Holden, who walked meekly by his side. The fatalism of the latter seemed to have taken entire possession of his mind, and he probably regarded his sufferings as a necessary part of the designs of Providence, which it would be as wicked as vain to resist. The constable had repeatedly endeavored to engage his companion in conversation, striving to comfort him with the opinion, that the keeper of the quasi jail was a "clever man," and that people did not find it as bad as they expected, and a week would quickly pass away. "In winter," said Basset, "when it's hard to get work, I've known many a likely young fellow do some trick on purpose to be put into the workhouse till spring; so it can't be the worst place in the world." Basset stretched the truth a little. He might have known or heard of persons, who, in order to obtain warmth, and food, and shelter during that inclement season, had committed petty crimes, but such instances were exceedingly rare, and the offenders were anything but "likely fellows." But Basset must be excused his leasing, for he felt lonely, and longed to hear the sound of a human voice, and failing that of another, was fain to put up with his own as better than none. But Holden steadily resisted all the advances of the constable, refusing to reply to any question, or to take notice of anything he might say, until the latter, either wearied out by the pertinacity of his captive, or vexed by what he considered sullenness or arrogance, himself relapsed into silence.

They had crossed the bridge, passed up the hill, and traversed the road along the margin of the Yaupáae, and were now just entering the lane that runs down to the house. The storm was raging with unabated fury, and the constable, with clenched teeth, and bent head, and half-shut eyes, was breasting the driving flakes, and congratulating himself with the idea that his exposure would soon be over, and he by the side of a warm stove in one of the stores, the hero of the evening, recounting the adventures of the day and comfortably taking his cheerful glass, when suddenly, without having seen a person, his cap was violently pulled over his eyes, a thick coffee-bag slipped over his head, and a hand applied to his throat to stifle any cries, should he be disposed to make them. But the poor fellow was too much frightened to emit a sound, had he been never so much inclined to scream.

"Make no noise," said a stern but disguised voice, "and you are safe.
No injury is designed. I will lead you. Follow quietly."

The man grasped his arm, and led him, as it seemed, out of the travelled path into an adjoining field, for he was directed to lift his feet at a particular spot, and in doing so, struck them against what were evidently wooden bars, such as are everywhere to be found in New England, at the entrances to the stone wall encircled lots. They were followed by Holden, and, as the constable judged, from the slight sounds he succeeded in occasionally catching, by another person. When his captor seemed to think he was in a place where he would be unlikely to be disturbed by a casual passer, he stopped and demanded the key to the handcuffs. Every movement of the constable must have been narrowly watched during the evening, for, as he hesitated, either confused by the unexpected capture, and forgetful of where he had placed the key, or desirous to gain time in the hope that help might arrive—whatever might have been the motive, no time was granted, the same stern voice instantly adding,

"The key is in the right pocket of your pantaloons: give it to me at once."

With a trembling hand, the constable produced the key from his pocket, and was confirmed, by what followed, in the belief that his captor must have a coadjutor, for he still kept his hold, and uttered the single word "here," as if addressing another, and handing him the key. Presently, the handcuffs were thrown down at his feet, and he thought he could detect the sound of receding footsteps. His captor then demanded the mittimus, which he tore into small pieces, and scattered around. In this condition muffled so that he could hardly breathe, with a desperado, or he knew not how many at his side, who, at the least attempt to make an outcry, might do him some bodily injury or perhaps murder him, the next quarter of an hour seemed a whole dismal night to the unfortunate Basset. At the expiration of that time, his guard addressed him again, and in the same carefully feigned voice:

"You are in my power, and who would know it were I to leave your corpse to stiffen on the snow? But I bear you no ill will, and have no intention to hurt you. I would not harm a hair of your head. I will not subject you even to the inconvenience of having these fetters on your wrists, though you were unfeeling enough to place them on a man, the latchet of whose shoes you are unworthy to unloose. Be thankful for the forebearance, and show that you know how to appreciate it. Mark what I say. Remain where you are, nor venture to remove the covering for half an hour. It will keep you warm. Return then to your home, nor seek to discover either Holden or who rescued him, and be assured he was not privy to the intention to release him. Remember, remember. Eyes will be upon you. Good night!" So saying, the unknown departed and left the stupefied constable like a statue, rooted to the spot.

There he remained, not daring to stir or to remove the uncomfortable head-dress—for by what unseen dangers he was surrounded he knew not—until, as he supposed, the half hour was more than passed. Then Basset cautiously and slowly raised his hand to his head, as if to intimate that if any one were watching and wanted him to desist, he was ready to do so, and hearing no sound, proceeded to divest himself of the hood. He looked around but could see nothing; the falling snow effectually shut out all objects from sight. He tried to move, but stiff with cold his limbs refused their office, and he nearly fell down. He took a step forward and his feet struck against the handcuffs. He stooped down and picked them up, comforting himself with the reflection, that bad as was his case, it might have been worse had they been transferred to his wrists. He strove to peer into the fallen snow, to discover, if possible, any tracks, but except his own just made none were distinguishable. The snow had already obliterated them. Faint and weary, and frozen, and vexed and frightened, the melancholy Basset turned his face to the village, not among his cronies with bold brow and loud voice to boast of his achievements, and by the aid of John Barleycorn to screw his courage up to a fabulous pitch, but with drooping crest and dejected spirits to slink to his bachelor's bed, and dream of banditti all the night.