Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 June 1895 — The Governor's Pardon [ARTICLE]

The Governor's Pardon

BY E. M. GILMER.

It was at the Southern Club, and it was growing late. The crowd of habitues had long since scattered to their evening’s diversion. Only in the smoking room a little group had gathered, closer and closer about the open fire, in a comradeship that seemed to shut out the rest of the world. There was Major Overington, with his long legs stretched out on the hearth, and young Carrington and one or two others, while over against the corner of the mantel sat the colonel, with his leonine old head thrown back against the tall, carved back of his chair. The room was blue and fragrant with tobacco smoke, and it was that witching hour when conventionality is a thing forgotten and men speak from their souls with an abandon they vaguely wonder at the next morning; but notwithstanding all this it had been a rather silent group about the club room fire, and after a bit someone said .something about going home. “Oh, don’t!" said young Carrington, flippantly, taking his eyes off the colonel’s face, where the}' had rested for the last few minutes. “Oh, don’t! It’s never late till morning, and then it’s early. Besides. the colonel has something to tell us. ”

■The colonel stirred a little in his chair as if he roused himself, and then he turned to Major Overington. “Major,” he said, “I’ve been home —down South. “I went back to the little town near which I was raised, and I walked about feeling every change in it. They’d got a fine new govern- j ment building for a postoffice and I went and stood on the steps, trying to locate old landmarks, but it was all cruelly new—people and places. By and by an old colored man, one of the polite, old fashioned body servants—you know, major—came op with Isis hat in his hand and said. ‘Mornin’, marster.' ‘Howdy tmcle.’ I said, and he asked: ‘Marster. kinyou tell me whar 'bouts I kin find de old gin ral?’ General who?’ I inquired. ‘Ole Gin ral Delir’ry, ’he answered. ‘My i son sent me word he writ me a letter, an' for me jess to come to de pos’office an’ ax de ole gin’ral for hit.’ I unraveled the mystery of the postal system for him, and when he got his letterand stowed it away in the lin- i lag of his hat, something in the expression or action struck me with a sudden familiarity, and I said : 1 ‘ ‘ Uncle Ike, don’t you remember Dick Buckner?’ He looked at me a moment, and then he seized me in an ■embrace that lifted me off the pavement. ‘Marse Dick !’ he said. ‘l’clar’ fa’ gracious I jess didn’t known you in yo’ sto’ does.’ “ I took the old man back to the hotel with me, and we spent the day italking over old times, and—but I beg your pardon,” said the colonel, Breaking off abruptly, “ personal reminiscences are always a bore.” “ Go on,” said the major; “ when people have reached our ages they Are entitled to their reminiscences.’ There was evidently a story in the colonel’s mind that he needed little urging to tell, but he gave a deprecating little wave of his hand as he continued:

“I was just remembering Uncle Ike’s story about his young master,” he said. ‘‘lt was something so fine and dramatic in its way, we should say it was touched up if we saw it in print, but I knew all about it in its .beginnings. ■“'iou see, old Ike’s young master !»nd I were boys together, plantations joined, and we were inseperable. We 'went to school together, hunted and tfished together, were beaten for the same juvenile offenses, and when the war came along we fought it out side by side. I don’t think,” said the Colonel, slowiy, “the good God ever made a finer man than Billy Bayuhatn—handsome, olever, brave, loyal, Bre was one of the men who capture .your fancy by their charms and hold .you by their real worth. There was .a fire and vim and enthusiasm about him that carried everything before them. Gentle and affectionate as a woman, too, but under all his airy sweetness of manner and geniality was an iron will and determination, ■and once rouse his hatred, he was implacable in his dislike. ‘‘lt goes without saying that such safellow as he should have a love affair, and should love with all the passionate fervor of his nature. What is it, Carrington, you beardless young cynics quote from the French? ‘ln love, one loves, the •other consents to be loved’—and Billy loved. It began when they were children, and I think none of us ever thought of anything but Billy and Diana Worthington marrying. You *>e, he was altogether unexceptional ma a match, independent of his infatuation for her, and. boy or man, he never had eyes for any one else. She was the one woman in the world for him, and she held his heart in the fwiaa of her little hand. ‘ Suae of us thought the less of her that she was a bit of a coquette *•4 had a hundred men following as- • ■■ .- ■

ter her—lekst of all did Billy. He was too loyal to be jealous, too honorable I and chivalrous to believe the woman j he loved could stoop to deceit ; for the-irest, who cculd see her and not ' admire? And she was his. he was so I secure, so exultant “ Then the war came on. and Billy and I and the rest of my world and yours, major, went out to fight for the South. *‘ It—it is not easy always to hear lovers’ raptures in patience,” said she colonel, after a pause; “but if I jhadknown—poorßilly! Thethou£ht j of Diana’s love and welcome cheered | and brightened for him those four | long, awful years of bitter trial and ( sore defeat, and when, after' Lee’s surrender, we turned our faces homeward the joy of seeing her again swallowed up all troubles in it. “I remember as if it were yesterday how we came home.” The narrator’s voice trembled, and the major instinctively reached out his hand toward him. “I remember how—how it all looked—the familiar scene that the desolation of war had touched and shriveled with its curse —the untilled fields, the broken fences, the ruined homes. We rode along with bowed heads and heavy hearts, two wearied, gaunt, ragged soldiers of a lost cause, when suddenly our horses shied, and coming toward us, down a shady pathway, was Diana Worthington. I looked at Billy, at his transfigured face, and then I turned my r oack. It is not good for one man to look on the unveiled soul of another.

“ ‘Diana, Diana!’ I heard him cry as he threw himself off his horse and at her feet, and then he caught her hands and held them against his ragged gray jacket as if he would ; still the tumult of his beating heart, j ‘Oh, Billy,’ she answered, with j the light laugh I remembered so well j of old. ‘Oh, Billy, haven’t you j learned any self control in all these ! years? \ou must forget I am married.’ ‘Married*’ he cried, and reeled and would have fallen, but I caught him. “‘Why, yes,’ she said; ‘to Mr. Appleby. Haven't you heard it?’ And she laughed again as if she did not know every word stabbed him. lou know,” said the colonel, softly, ‘■that when a man gets his death wound sometimes he stands still and straight for a moment, unconscious even of the pain. It was that way with Billy. He straightened him- j self, as I’ve seen him do when we ; charged the enemy, but his voice j never raised itself above a whisper. } He compelled her eyes to meet his. “ ‘I swear by the love and truth you have murdered in me,’ he said, you shall answer to me yet for this. Tel 1 your husband that; and when the day comes I will show as little mercy as you have shown me. Go!’ And he pointed sternly to the woodland path she had come. ‘Go; you dishonor an honest man with your presence.’ "She shrank away from him, from his haggard face and accusing eyes, and when she had gone I turned to him with—God knows what words of impotent sympathy—but before the misery in his face, pity itself was dumb. Betrayed, forsaken by the woman he worshiped—what was there to say ? “He waved his hand to me in farewell, and struck off into a bridlepath that led to his rained home, and the very night seemed to close in around him in added darkness as he went forth on his lonely and despairing way. “Of course we soon knew' the par-1 ticulars of Diana Worthington’s mar- j riage. The Baynham estate, like many another in the South, was swallowed up in the maelstrom of war. Old Mr. Baynham had speculated in Confederate money, failed, of course, di,ed; and when Billy came home he was .absolutely penniless. Diana had no notion of wasting her charms on an impecunious husband, and a wealthy man coming along, she married him. It was all very commonplace and unromantic, and —usual—only, you see, I knew Billy. "Well, I came on here to try to retrieve my own fortunes, which were bad enough, God knows, and I rather lost sight of Baynham. Of course I knew he studied law, and after a while was elected Governor, but I didn’t know much else until the other day when I met Uncle Ike, his old body servant, as I was telling you. “It seems that of the slaves and

possessions that had once been Baynham’s, all were gone; he had absolutely nothing with which to start his unequal fight against fate, except his iron will and determination to succeed. He stayed for a few days in the old home, gathering himself together after the blow Diana had given him, and then one morning he called Uncle Ike and his wife into the house and explained to them his plan. He was going into the county town to study law. The old man protested against it, saying he would starve, and indeed the chances looked very flattering for it. But Judy—his wife —who had carried Billy on. her tender black breast when he was a baby, encouraged him in it. So he went. And, by Jove!” said the colonel, with his face alight with enthusiasm, “ that old colored man told me the story as simply, and with no more idea of the fine part he and his wife played in it than a child. He ! said Baynham went to the county town and hired a couple of poor rooms, and put every cent he had in books, and foraged for himself —>- cooking miserable messes on a rusty grate.

“ ‘He went hongry many a time,’ said the old man; ‘an’ he would ’a been hongrier oftener still es it hadn’t been for Judy. You know she promised ole Miss she gwine to take kier Marse Billy when he’s a baby, an’ she says she gwine to do it; so she tuk an’ hire herself out, an’ ev’ry week she go in de town an’ take Marse Billy a basket full of snack. You know she jess fairly scrimp herself an’ me to feed him.’ The old fellow chuckled to himself, and then he added: ‘ Maybe you tink Marse Billy’s donelfergot dat time! Maybe you tink Judy ain’t got a silk dress lak a lady, an’ iaoney in her puss—but you know the Baynhams.’ “Well, of course it niras a foregone conclusion that Billy would succeed. Law clients came to him; then he went into politics and was elected Governor. When he received the nomination for re-election, promi-

nent among those who opposed him [ was the man who had married Diana ! Worthington—Appleby. He even went so far as to take the stump against him, and at one place, when Tom Mason, one of Billy’s ardent friends, and he were .pitted against each other they indulged in some personalities, and Appleby so far I lost his temper as to make some ! threats against Mason. I suppose j it didn’t amount to anything, though Appleby was bitterly disliked by his j neighbors; but toward morning I Tom’s horse strayed into the town : riderless and covered with blood, and ! they found Tom in a lonely part of a sequestered road—murdered —shot in the back. Appleby had been seen to enter that road soon after Tom. Some colored men had heard a shot j fired as they went hom» from work. A dozen witnesses testified to his threat—you know how the links in a | chain of circumstantial evidence tighten and tighten about the victim’s neck; and the result was, Appleby was tried and convicted of the murder of Tom Mason, and sentenced to be hanged. “Appleby was cordially disliked by his neighbors, but after the sentence was passed and the day of execution drawing near there was a sort of reaction in public feeling; that maudlin sentiment,” interposed the colonel, testily, “that prompts us to try to save the sinner from the consequences of his sin. You don’t like to have your acquaintances in tha stripes even if you don’t fancy them, and people were sorry for his wife and children, and the result was a petition was gotten up, asking for executive clemency, and Diana took it herself to Billy. They say he read it through, as she stood cowering before him, and then looked at her with those stern, accusing eyes of his. ‘The murdered man was my friend,’ he said, ‘and his blood cries to me for vengeance. If the slayer were my brother I would give him up to justice. Go; this is not the first man your husband has killed. Years ago you two murdered all that was good in me.’ So he turned her from his door. “No other effort was made to save him. People who knew Billy’s impartial justice knew how futile all further endeavor would be, and so the days rolled on until the execution was only a couple of days off. Then, suddenly, one night, one of the men who had testified to hearing the shpt fired, and to having seen the two men enter the woods, sent for Uncle Ike and confessed he had had an old grudge against Appleby, and had been lying in wait for him, knowing he would pass that way, and hearing a horseman coming he had fired and fled, only to find, to his horror, next day, that he had killed Tom Mason instead of his enemy. Afterward, when suspicion pointed toward Appleby, he had gladly shielded himself behind it. Now he was dying, and dared not go into eternity with the secret on his soul. “ ‘I wuz in an’ about skeer’d to death,’ said the old man when he told me this, ‘but I knowed somethin' mus’ be done to keep Marse Billy from bangin’ that man, so I went home an’ retch down my coat off de wall, an’ Judy, she saddle Ma’y Jane—she’s my mule —an’ I put off to find Marse Billy. All dat night I rid, an’ de nex’ day till ’bout dark, till I come to de cap’tol an’ see de light in de winder, an’ dere sot Marse Billy. I cross up right dost to de glass an’looked in, an’ I see dat he looked kinder ole an’ wore an’ mighty broke, an' I ’membered dat I ain’t neffer seen de light in his eyes nor de smile on his face since Miss Di marry Mr. Appleby—not once ; an’ I knowed ’cause Bhe done dat no woman would ever rest his tired head on her breast, an’ no little children ever play about his feet—an’ then I thought 'bout what I come Tor, an’ I 'clarto God, Marse Dick, I wuz skeer’d to go in. By an’ by a clock somewhere struck, an’ I ’membered dere wa’c’t no time to waste, an’ I pushed open de do’ and went in.

“‘“Dat you, Ike?” asked Marse Billy, when he see me; an’ I say, “ Yesair.” An’ den he ax me what I want, an’ I tell him an’ I say, “ Marse Billy, I come for Mr. Appleby’s pardon.” His sac looked like death, hit was so white an’ drawed, an’ then he says ‘‘Who’s to prove the truth of what you say? an’ I answered, ‘‘De grave.” An’ then I hear him say, right easy to hisself, ‘‘My revenge is in mv own hands—a life for a life—an’ they murdered me.” Then he say out loud, ‘‘ln a few more hours your message would be too late—the scaffold is already built. What if I refuseto listen to you?” ‘“‘‘Marse Billy,” I say, ‘‘you dasn’t do it for yo’own soul sake,” but he didn't listen, an’ den I went over an’ took his han’ in mine,' lak he was a little child agin, an’ I says, “ Marse Billy, is I been a good servant to you?” An’ he says, ‘‘A faithful fren’ that stood by me when the worl’ jell away, an’ helped put me here.” An’ Isays, ‘‘ls I ever took any pay?” An’ he says, ‘‘None. ” An I says, ‘‘Fay me.now; give me dis man's pardon,” Well, he set still a while, an’ then he writ somethin’ oh a yellow paper dat say, ‘‘Reprieved.” an’ he sent it off by a boy. An’ I know I done save more than Mr. Appleby’s life—l done save Marse Billy’s soul.’” The colonel was silent a moment, and then he gave a deprecating little cough. ‘‘l beg your pardon,” he said, as he fumbled in his pockets for his cigar case. “ I did not mean to make such a long story out of it —but—l —l—knew Billy—when wo were boys.”—Leslie’s Weekly.