“‘Ay,’ says he, ‘but I’m not wishin’ t’ go t’ hell for that.’
“’Twas come broad day now.
“‘An I’m but able, Tom Callaway,’ says I, ‘I’ll make a gentleman of un t’ ease your pains.’
“‘Would ye swear it?’ says he.
“I put my hand on the Book; an’ I knowed, Dannie, when I made ready t’ take that oath, out there on the Devil’s Teeth, that I’d give my soul t’ hell for the wickedness I must do. I done it with my eyes wide open t’ the burden o’ evil I must take up; an’ ’twas sort o’ hard t’ do, for I was by times a Christian man, Dannie, in them ol’ days, much sot on church an’ prayer an’ the like o’ that. But I seed that your poor father was bent on makin’ a gentleman out o’ you t’ please your dead mother’s wishes, an’ I ’lowed, havin’ no young un o’ my own, that I didn’t know much about the rights of it; an’ I knowed he’d suffer forever the pains o’ hell for what he done, whatever come of it, an’ I ’lowed ’twould be a pity t’ have the murder o’ seven poor men go t’ waste for want o’ one brave soul t’ face the devil. ‘Nick,’ thinks I, while your father, poor, doomed man! watched me––I can see here in the dusk the blood an’ water on his white face––‘Nick,’ thinks I, ‘an you was one o’ them seven poor, murdered men, ye’d want the price o’ your life paid t’ that wee young 333 one. From heaven or hell, Nick, accordin’ t’ which place ye harbored in,’ thinks I, ‘ye’d want t’ watch that little life grow, an’ ye’d like t’ say t’ yourself, when things went ill with ye,’ thinks I, ‘that the little feller ye died for was thrivin’, anyhow, out there on earth.’ An’ I ’lowed, for your wee sake, Dannie, an’ for the sake o’ the seven poor, murdered men, whose wishes I read in the dead eyes that looked into mine, an’ for the sake o’ your poor, fond father, bound soon for hell, that I’d never let the comfort o’ my mean soul stand in the way o’ fetchin’ good t’ your little life out o’ all this woe an’ wickedness. I ’lowed, Dannie, then an’ there, on the Devil’s Teeth, that could I but manage to endure, I’d stand by your little body an’ soul t’ the end, whatever become o’ me.”
’Twas but a tale my uncle told: ’twas not an extenuation––not a plea.
“‘Tide’s risin’, Nick,’ says your father. ‘I can’t stand it much longer with my broken arm an’ froze fingers. Nick,’ says he, ‘will ye swear?’
“I was afraid, Dannie, t’ swear it.
“‘Won’t ye?’ says he. ‘He’ve his mother’s eyes––an’ he’ll be a wonderful good lad t’ you.’
“I couldn’t, Dannie.