The noise of the talking and laughing and the formless progress of the mob hushed the nearer night voices of the fields and woods; but from a distance the shuddering cry of a screech-owl could be heard; and the melancholy call of a killdee in a pasture beside the creek. The people, friends and foes together, made their way unlighted except by the tin lantern which some one had caught from where it stood on Enraghty’s gate-post.
With this one of the unbelievers took his stand at the door of the Temple after Redfield had passed in with his prisoner, and lifted it successively to the faces of those trying to enter. He allowed some and refused others, according as they were of those who denied or confessed Dylks, and a Hound at his elbow explained, “Don’t want any but goats in here, to-night.”
The common parlance was saturated with scriptural phrase, and the gross mockery would have been taken seriously if the speaker had not been so notoriously irreverent. As it was the words won him applause which Redfield and his friends were not able to quell. The joke was caught up and tossed back and forth; the Little Flock outside raised their hymn, the scoffers within joined in derision, and carried the hymn through to the end.
Dylks sat shrunken on the bench below the pulpit, his head fallen forward and his face hidden. Redfield and one of his friends sat on either side, and others tried to save him from those who from time to time pushed forward to strike him. They could not save him from the insults which broke again and again upon the silence; when Redfield rose and appealed to the people to leave the man to the law, they came back at him with shrieks and yells.
“Did the law keep my family from bein’ broke up by this devil? My wife left me and my own brother won’t speak to me because I wouldn’t say he was my Savior and my God.”
“I’m an old woman, and I lived with my son, but my son has quit me to starve, for all he cares, because I believe in the God of Jacob and he believes in this snorting, two-legged horse.”
“My sister won’t live with me, because I won’t fall down and worship her Golden Calf.”
“He’s spread death and destruction in my family. My daughters won’t look at me, and my two sons fought till they were all blood, about him.”
The accusings and upbraidings thickened upon him, but Dylks sat silent, except for a low groan of what might have seemed remorse. He put his hand to the place on his head where the hair had been torn away, and looked at the blood on his fingers.
A woman stole under the guard of his keepers, and struck him a savage blow on the cheeks, first one and then the other. “Now you can see how it feels to have your own husband slap you because you won’t say you believe in such a God as you are, you heathen pest!”
The guards struggled with her, and a man stooped over Dylks and voided a mouthful of tobacco juice in his face; another lashed him on the head with a switch of leatherwood: all in a squalid travesty of the supreme tragedy of the race. As if a consciousness of the semblance touched the gospel-read actors in the drama, they shrank in turn from what they had done, and lost themselves in the crowd.
The night wore away and when the red sunrise began to pierce the dusk of the Temple, where some had fallen asleep, and others drowsed as they walked to and fro to keep themselves awake, Redfield conferred with his lieutenants. Then they pulled their captive to his feet, not roughly, and moved with him down the aisle and out of the door. They left some of the slumberers still sleeping; of the others not all followed them on their way to Matthew Braile’s, up through the woods and past the cornfields and tobacco patches; but with those of the Little Flock who had hung night-long about the Temple, singing and praying to their idol, they arrived, some before and some after the prisoner, at the log cabin of the magistrate. He was sitting after his habit in his splint-bottomed chair tilted against the porch wall, waiting for the breakfast which his wife was getting within. As the crowd straggled up to the porch, he tilted his chair down, and came forward with a frown of puzzle. “What’s this?” he demanded; then, catching sight of a woman’s eager face among the foremost, his frown relaxed and he said, “Don’t all speak at once, Sally.”
“‘Deed and ‘deed, I’m not agoun’ to speak at all, Squire Braile; but if you want to know you can see for yourself that they’ve got the Good Old Man here, and from the tell I’ve hearn they want you to try him; they’ve been hittun’ him over the face and head all night.” She looked defiantly round on the unbelievers who so far joined in the Squire’s grin as to burst into a general laugh, and a cry of “Good for you, Sally. You’re about right.”
Braile referred himself to Redfield, who mounted to the porch with the other guards, and the tattered and bedraggled Dylks in their midst. “What are you doing with this man, Jim?”
“We’ve brought him to you to find out, Squire Braile. You know who he is, and all the mischief he’s been making in this settlement. We don’t need to go into that.”
“Wish you’d step in there,” the Squire said, nodding toward the room opposite the kitchen, “and bring me out the Laws of Ohio. You know where it is.”
His recognition of Redfield as a law-student pleased the Herd of the Lost, and one of the guards said, “All right, Jim. We’ll hold him.”
As Redfield disappeared within, the Squire called after him, “Bring out my table, too, will you. We’ll have the trial here.”
“That’s all right as fer as it goes, Squire,” one of the crowd before the cabin called out, “but there ain’t room enough for us up there.”
“Well,” the Squire answered, “you’ve got the whole State of Ohio down there. I reckon you can find room in it, if you stand close.”
He turned the joke on the crowd; which acquiesced with cheers. When Redfield returned with the large book and the small table he had been sent for, the Squire drew up to them and proclaimed silence in the Court. Then, “Who complains against this man? You, James Redfield?”
“I arrested him, but I don’t complain of him more than the rest. You know what he’s been doing in Leatherwood, as well as other places, for the last month or six weeks. We want his mischief stopped; we want to see what the law can do about it. We could have lynched him, but that ain’t the right way, and so we all feel.”
“Well, we’ve got to make a start, somewhere,” the justice returned. “What’s he accused of? What do you accuse him of?”
“Well, for one thing,” Redfield said, rather reluctantly, “he professes to be Almighty God.”
“And he is God, the Most High Jehovah, Maker of Heaven and Earth,” came in a varying cry, from the believers who had gathered increasingly on the skirts of their enemies.
Their voices seemed to put life and courage into the prisoner, who for the first time lifted his fallen face and looked at the justice with a light of hope in his dulled eyes.
“You hear that,” the old squire addressed him. “Is that your name? Are you God?”
“Thou sayest,” the prisoner answered, with a sudden effrontery.
“That will do!” the old man shouted. He might have been willing to burlesque the case from his own disbelief, but he could not suffer the desecration of the hallowed words; and Dylks shrank from his eyes of fierce rebuke. “Stand away from him,” he added to the guards. “Now, then, have you folks got any other charge against him? Has he stolen anything? Like a mule, for instance? Has he robbed a hen-roost? Has he assaulted anybody, or set a tobacco-shed on fire? Some one must make a charge; I don’t much care what it is.”
The old man scowled round on the people nearest him and down on the crowd below. The believers waited in anxious silence; the unbelievers applauded his humor with friendly laughter, and a kindlier spirit spread through them; they were beginning to see Dylks as a joke.
“Redfield,” — the Squire turned to the young man— “let’s have a look at the Laws of Ohio, in such case made and provided.” He opened the book which Redfield put on the table before him, and went carefully through the index; then he closed it. “There don’t seem,” he said, “to be any charge again
st the prisoner except claiming to be the Almighty; he pleads guilty to that, and he could be fined and imprisoned if there was any law against a man’s being God. But there isn’t, unless it’s some law of the Bible, which isn’t in force through reenactment in Ohio. He hasn’t offended against any of our statutes, neither he nor his followers. In this State every man has a right to worship what God he pleases, under his own vine and fig-tree, none daring to molest him or make him afraid. With religious fanaticism our laws have nothing to do, unless it be pushed so far as to violate some public ordinance. This I find the prisoner has not done. Therefore, he stands acquitted.”
A roar of protest, a shout of joy went up from the crowd according to their belief and unbelief. After his first plea Dylks had remained silent in becoming meekness and self-respect; now he looked wildly round in fear and hope; but he did not speak.
“Clear the way, you!” the Squire called to the people about him and below him, and he got slowly to his feet. He took the arm of the prisoner at one side, and said, “Here, Jim Redfield, you take this fellow’s other arm,” and as the young man helplessly obeyed, “Now!” he commanded, and with Dylks between them, they left the porch and passed through the severing crowd of friends and foes before the cabin. While they hesitated in doubt of his purpose, Braile led the way with the prisoner, acquitted, but still in custody, toward the turnpike road where the country lane passing the cabin joined it a little way off.
The crowd straggled after in patient doubt, but when the Squire halted with his captive and bade Redfield move back, the suspicions of the unbelievers began to stir.
“Now, put!” the Squire said in a low voice and loosed his hold. Dylks lifted his head alertly as he was accustomed to do when he gave his equine snort, but now he made no sound. He leaped forward and ran with vast bounds up the smooth turnpike toward the wall of woodland, where the whiteness of the highway ceased in the shadow of the trees. He far outdistanced the foremost of his pursuers, who stopped to gather the broken stone heaped along the roadside, and under the rain of these and the storm of curses that they sent after him, he escaped into the forest.
“Well, Abel,” the Squire said to Reverdy, whom he found, not unexpectedly, at his elbow when he looked round, “he may not be much of a god, but he’s a good deal of a racehorse, even if he didn’t give his snort.”
“Look here, Squire Braile,” Redfield broke out in the first realization of his defeat, “I’m not sure your decision was just right.”
“Well, you can appeal the case to the Supreme Court, Jim,” the old man returned. “It’s my breakfast time,” and he stamped stiffly away down the pike and up the road to his cabin, followed by the blessings of the Little Flock.
The Little Flock had remained in stupefaction at the junction of the country road and the turnpike, helplessly watching the flight of their idol from the Herd of the Lost. When Dylks vanished in the dusk of the forest, and the last of those who had followed him came lagging breathless back, and dropped from their hands the broken stone which they had unconsciously brought with them, the Little Flock involuntarily raised their hymn, as if it had been a song of triumph; an inglorious triumph, but an omen of final victory, and of the descent of the New Jerusalem in Leatherwood.
“Never mind!” one of the Herd panted. “We’ll have him out of that gulf of dark despair, yit!”
“The Lord will put forth His might,” one of the Flock defied him. “But if you fellows want to feel the arm of flesh, here and now, come on!”
The Squire put himself between the forces. “I want you to keep the peace; I command the peace,” he said with magisterial dignity.
“Oh, all right, Squire,” a Hound applauded him. “We know you’re on our side.”
“Brother Braile is on the side of righteousness,” the champion of the Flock answered.
The Squire turned a frowning face upon him. “If the law could have held your god, he’d have been on his way to the county jail by this time. Now, you fellows, both sides, go home, and look after your corn and tobacco; and you women, you go and get breakfast for them, and wash up your children and leave the Kingdom of Heaven alone for a while.”
The weight of condemnation was for the Little Flock, but there remained discomfort for the Herd of the Lost. “And you,” the Squire turned to them, “you let these folks worship any stock or stone they’re a mind to; and you find out the true God if you can, and stick to Him, and don’t bother the idolaters. I reckon He can take care of Himself. I command you all to disperse. Go home! Get out! Put!”
The saints and the sinners felt alike the mystical force of the law in his words and began to move away, not without threats and defiances, more or less straggling, and not altogether ceasing even after they had lost sight of one another in their parting ways.
Redfield stayed to walk home with the old man. “Of course, Squire Braile,” he said, “this ain’t the last of Dylks, and it ain’t the last of us. It’s a sin and a shame to have the thing going on among us. You know that as well as I do. It’s got to be stopped. If he’d got his just dues from you—”
“You young fool,” the Squire retorted, kindly, “haven’t you gone far enough yet in your Blackstone to know that justice is one thing and law is another? I gave Dylks his legal deserts.”
“Blackstone says the law is the perfection of reason.”
“Well, you think it don’t seem to be so in the State of Ohio. But I reckon it is, and so long as we look after our own souls, we can’t do better than let others look after theirs in their own way. Come in and have some breakfast!” He paused before his cabin with the young man.
“No, not this morning, Squire Braile,” Redfield lingered a moment, and then he said, askingly, “I didn’t see old Mr. Gillespie anywhere this morning.”
“I didn’t notice. Where it comes to a division in public, he doesn’t usually take sides against his daughter.”
“He won’t have to, after this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you know she told him once that if he would bring her a hair of Dylks’s head she would deny him? I helped him to a whole lock of it.”
“Oh, you did that?” There was condemnation in the Squire’s tone, and as if he had been going to express a more explicit displeasure, he hesitated. Then he said, “Well, I must be going in,” and turned his back upon Redfield, who turned again into the turnpike road and took his way homeward past the long and deep stretch of woods where Dylks had found refuge.
XV
In the middle of the forest there was a dense thicket of lower growths on a piece of dry land lifted above the waters of a swamp. The place was the lair of such small wild things as still survived in the wilderness once the haunt of the wolf and the wild cat, and the resort of the bear allured by the profusion of the huckleberries which grew there. But, except in the early fall when the annual squirrel-hunt swept over the whole country side and the summer drought had made the swamp easily passable to the gunners, the place was unmolested. Even the country boy who seeks the bounty of nature wherever she offers it, and makes the outlying property of man his prey where nature has been dispossessed, did not penetrate the thicket in his search for hazelnuts or chinquapins; it was proofed against his venture by its repute of rattlesnakes and copperheads and the rumor of ghosts and witches. Few, of men or boys, knew the approach to the interior by the narrow ridge of dry land lifted above the marsh, and Dylks did not stop in his flight till he reached the thicket and saw in it his hope of securer refuge. He walked round it through the pools which the frog and turtle haunted, twice before he found this path, overhung by a tangle of grapevines. There his foot by the instinct which the foot has where the eye fails of a path, divined the scarcely trodden way, and he found himself in a central opening among the thickly growing bushes. It was warm there, without the close heat of the woodland, and dry except for the spring of clear water that bubbled up in the heart of it, and trickled out over green mosses into the outer waters of the swamp.
The man stooped over and drank his fill, and then made his greedy breakfast on the berries that grew abundantly round, and nodded hospitably to his hand. All the time he wept, and moaned to himself in the self-pity of a hunted, fearful wretch. Then he drank again from the spring, and without rising from his knees pushed himself back a little from it, and fell over in an instant sleep.
He slept through the whole day, and at night, falling early in the shadows of the forest which thickened over his retreat, he supped, as he had breakfasted, on the wild berries and spring water, but with protesting from a stomach habitually flattered by the luxury of fried chicken and ham, and corn-pone and shortened biscuit, and hot coffee, which his adorers put before him when he laid aside his divinity and descended to the gratification of his carnal greed. He was a gross feeder, and in the midst of his fear and the joy of his escape, he thought of these things and lusted for them with a sort of thankless resentment.
He looked about for something he might kill, and he found a wounded pigeon which had fluttered into his refuge from the shot of some gunner. But he could not bring himself to eat it raw, and if he could have kindled a fire to cook it, he reflected, it would have betrayed him to his pursuers who must now be searching the woods for him. He wrung the pigeon’s neck and flung it into the bushes, and then fell down and wept with his face in the grass. He had slept so long that now he could not sleep, and when his tears would come no more, he sat up and watched the night through till the dawn grayed the blue-black sky. The noises of the noiseless woods made themselves heard: the cry of a night hawk, the hooting of an owl, the whirring note of the whip-poor-will; the long, plunging down-rush of a dead branch breaking the boughs below it; even the snapping of twigs as if under the pressure of stealthy feet. These sounds, the most delicate of the sounds he heard, shook him most with fear and hope, and then with despair. The feet could be the feet of his enemies seeking him out, or of his friends coming to succor and save him; then they resolved themselves into the light pressure from little paws, the paws of the wildcat, or the coon, and there was nothing to be feared or hoped from them. The constellations wheeled over him in the clear sky, and the planets blazed. He made out the North Star from the lower lines of the Dipper; the glowing and fading of the August meteors that flitted across the heavens seemed to leave a black trace on his straining eyes. Texts of Scripture declaring how the splendors of the day and night showed forth the glory of the Being whose name he had usurped to the deceit and shame of those who trusted him, glowed and faded in his mind like those shooting stars in the sky. At one time he thought he had cried aloud for destruction in the sin which could not be forgiven, but it was only a dull, inarticulate moan bursting from his tortured breast.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 918