Wooster's Well
Meanwhile, how passed the time with their
prisoner in his place of confinement?
Let our young readers imagine it, for it is
not easy to depict the reality. It was not the dreariness
of the cold, damp apartment, striking a sepulchral
chill through his frame; it was not the loneliness
of his solitude, with no kindly face to behold, and no
friendly voice to fall upon his ear, that most oppressed
him. It was the terrible conviction that he was
doomed to die. He had not recovered from the shock
of the transaction that morning among the willows of
the swamp; and though for the moment rescued from
the threatened doom, he felt that it was but a temporary
respite. He was in the power of ruffians that
knew no pity; or if some of them had relented when
in no imminent danger of their own, he could not
doubt they would be as inexorable as their leader
whenever their own safety could be secured only by
sacrificing him. He had heard Graham's muttered
imprecations upon his confederates, and knew that it
was his purpose to have his own way still, notwithstanding
the opposition.
But what was it to die? It is not a thought to
which a young mind accustoms itself, and it required
an effort to conceive of it. It was to leave home and
friends, the mother, the father, never so dear as now
when he was to be torn from their loving arms; the
young brothers and sisters, playmates and companions
of his childhood, bound to his heart by a thousand
ties. It was to be torn from the bright world that
looked so attractive to his youthful anticipations. It
was to have his young life quenched in the blackness
of night, in the horrors of the dark, cold grave. Nay,
more, it was to go into the presence of God, his Judge,
and receive from his lips that sentence which should
fix his destiny in everlasting joy or woe. Let it not
be deemed unmanly that as he thought all this he
was overcome with terror, and he "lifted up his voice
and wept."
But the storm of anguish spent itself, and he was
enabled to look more calmly at his situation. Chauncey,
though trained to the strictest habits of morality,
had never professed a personal experience of religion.
In those days it was not expected of the young.
Rarely was a person of either sex found in the membership
of the church under twenty. We owe it chiefly
to our Sunday schools and the increased attention
awakened in the religious instruction of the young
that things are so changed in our day, and that so
large a proportion of those who are converted and enter
the church are of the youth and children.
In the deep gloom of his prison there came to him
the recollection of Joseph, who was cast into the dungeon
for no fault of his own, and whose prayers God
heard, and in due time granted him deliverance. But
could he pray? Had he not hitherto lived in sin, unmindful
of the claims of his Father and Saviour, and
could he hope now in this hour of his necessity, that
he would be heard? Still there remained the example,
and it seemed to him as if it was written for those
in trouble – Joseph prayed and was heard; why may
not I?
He threw himself upon the cold stone floor and
poured out his soul unto God. He pleaded for life.
He besought some divine interposition which would
deliver him from the cruel men into whose power he
had fallen. Or if this was denied him, he prayed that
he might be prepared to die, that his sins might be
washed away in the blood of Jesus, and that he might
be received into that better world where there should
be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying.
And God heard his prayer. Even as he spoke, the
tempest of anguish and fear subsided, and a gentle
peace stole into his heart. He felt that he was no
longer alone. The darkness of his prison seemed full
of the presence of One who would be his friend. Hope
dawned upon his soul, and he grew strong to meet
and suffer whatever was before him, for he felt that
all would come out right in the end.
And through all his subsequent life Chauncey never
forgot that feeling. The revelation which God makes
of himself to the heart of His child in such an hour as
this is an experience which no after sorrow can obliterate,
the earnest and the pledge of the welcome that
awaits him when he shall reach his Father's house at
the last.
But while his prayer was heard, God had his own
time and way of answering it. Like that of Jesus
himself in Gethsemane, the bitter cup was to precede
the deliverance and the glory.
Graham, having wrung a reluctant assent to his
deed of blood, seized his pistol, and entered, with one
or two more, the cellar and dairy-room. After taking
a hasty survey of the premises, his eye fell upon the
well, which at once suggested to him the mode of
carrying his purpose into execution. The lad should
be shot, and his body thrown into it, ballasted with a
heavy weight which would sink it to the bottom.
A small Bible was procured from above and placed
in his hands, and he was bidden to prepare for death.
It was a fearful mandate, and though he had become
calm in the contemplation sustained by the sense of
the divine presence and sympathy, yet, confronted
again thus suddenly with so awful a doom, with the
dark, deep well yawning before him, Nature reasserted
her instincts, and he burst anew into a passion of
tears and importunities for mercy. He begged; he
promised silence; be urged his innocence, and the
wickedness of the act they were about to commit; but
to no purpose. Their minds were made up. The
plea of necessity stifled their misgivings, and though
all but their leader withdrew from the room, it was
with no thought of desisting from their purpose. At
last, despairing of human help, Chauncey threw himself
upon his knees, and poured out his anguish to
God, praying that he who delivered Joseph from the
pit would even yet interpose to save him.
The pleading cry of distress rose from the cellar,
and was heard by the family above. It was more than
Mrs. Wooster could bear. Her sympathies indeed, in
political matters, were those of her husband and her
sons. She was willing to render aid and comfort to
those of that party in all ordinary matters, and did
not scruple even to share in the spoils of the late expedition;
but she was not yet ready for murder, unprovoked,
and in her own special premises. She was
a woman, nay, more, she was a mother. The young
man whose lot it had been to fall into these cruel
bands was a son, innocent and amiable. His mother
was her neighbor, against whom the tongue of scandal
was never heard to speak. She could not, and she
would not, let such a deed of shame be done in her
house.
Calling to one of her elder daughters to accompany
her, she hastened down stairs, and threw herself between
the victim and his murderers, who were just
preparing to execute their purpose.
For shame! she cried. Are you men, or
wolves, to kill a poor boy in this way? I tell you, it
shan't be done, – not in this house! Mr. Wooster, for
God's sake, come down here and stop this villainy!
Better not meddle with what does not concern
you, said he, descending the stairs.
It does concern me, she repeated. I'll not
have murder committed here. Let him alone, Sam!
Take your bands off him, Captain!
She was a large and powerful woman, and once
thoroughly aroused was a match for any antagonist.
Her husband took her by the arm and bade David
seize the other to drag her away. But she resisted
their united strength, and at last, turning at bay, she
cried,–
David Wooster, hear me! Stop these proceedings
this moment, and spare the life of that boy, or by the
God that made you, I'll go this very day and let the
whole of it be known, the robbery and the murder
both. Yes, Captain Graham, I'll have the rebels hold
of you before night, if you touch a hair of his head
again. See if I don't!
The loud tones of the excited woman, accompanied
by the shrieks of her daughter, were irresistible,
Wooster himself relented, for he knew the spirit and
resolution of his wife, and saw that informers from his
own family would be more dangerous than the testimony
of the young man himself, while the added
crime of murder would bring the entire party to the
gallows.
Well, Captain, he said, a willful woman must
have her own way. You will have to give up to her.
It is a rather hard case, I own, and you'd better keep
him with you as long as you can. It you get into
straits so that you must, why then you must. But
may be you will get away safely, after all; and if you
do you'll be glad you had not done it.
The robbers submitted, but with an ill grace, and
muttered curses upon women that couldn't mind
their own business, and returned to the kitchen, leaving
Chauncey with his deliverers. His gratitude to
them knew no bounds. He said that God had sent
them to him in answer to his prayer, and be poured
out his thanksgiving both to them and his heavenly
Father, whose messengers they were. The reaction
from the intense excitement of the few minutes before,
together with the moving utterances of the youth,
were too much for their fortitude, and they burst into
tears. Chauncey begged them still to befriend him,
but they said they could do no more than to see that
he was safe while there. They did not believe, however,
that the crime would be attempted again, and
encouraged him to trust that God, who, as he
thought, had twice interfered to save him, would protect
him still, and finally bring him to his friends in
safety.
It was but a few moments after this when the door
from the room above opened, and William Seeley appeared
at the head of the stairs.
I've come to tell you, he cried, that you had
better take care of yourselves. There's a party of
men coming up the road yonder that I suspect are
looking for you; you can see them plainly from the
east window – up here.
There, he continued, as several of the men sprang
up the stairs to reconnoiter, look for yourselves!
There are Mr. Judd and two or three of his sons, Reuben
and Daniel Williams, Sam Hickox. Jude Hoadley,
and a dozen more. Some are on horseback and some
afoot, and it won't be long before they are here!
This announcement threw the party into instant
confusion. Their first impulse was to spring to their
arms and stand upon self-defense, but a moment's reflection
showed them that it would be madness to
think of contending with many times their own number
equally determined with themselves. Happily for
them, the road from the Longmeadow valley ascended
a long hill, which somewhat retarded their advance
and partially concealed the house. Hastily slipping
their packs upon their shoulders and seizing their
weapons, they brought their prisoner from below, and
fled through the wood-shed into the street westward,
where they were out of sight of the approaching
party, and after running a few rods in that direction,
they sprang over the fence into the woods. Mr.
Wooster and Seeley repaired with equal celerity to the
barn, which stood by the road-side in the opposite direction,
where they vigorously resumed their threshing,
expecting that the pursuers would call first upon
them, and might be detained a few moments in conversation
until the fugitives should have time to
escape.
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