Atlantic Monthly, Volume 8, Issue 45, July, 1861 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 8, Issue 45, July, 1861

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It never came into my mind to charge the family with being the authors
of these phenomena: their care and distress were too evident. There was
certainly no other human being but myself in or near the shanty.
My senses of sight and touch availed me nothing, and I confined my
attention, at last, to simply noting the manifestations, without
attempting to explain them. I began to experience a feeling, not of
terror, but of disturbing uncertainty. The solid ground was taken from
beneath my feet.

Still the man and his wife groaned and muttered, as if in a nightmare
sleep, and the boy tossed restlessly on his low bed. I would not disturb
them, since, by their own confession, they were accustomed to the
visitation. Besides, it would not assist me, and, so long as there was
no danger of personal injury, I preferred to watch alone. I recalled,
however, the woman's remarks, remembering the mysterious blame she had
thrown upon her husband, and felt certain that she had adopted some
explanation of the noises, at his expense.

As the confusion continued, with more or less violence, sometimes
pausing for a few minutes, to begin again with renewed force, I felt an
increasing impression of somebody else being present. Outside the shanty
this feeling ceased, but every time I opened the door I fully expected
to see some one standing in the centre of the room. Yet, looking through
the little windows, when the noises were at their loudest, I could
discover nothing. Two hours had passed away since I first heard the
drum-beat, and I found myself at last completely wearied with my
fruitless exertions and the unusual excitement. By this time the
disturbances had become faint, with more frequent pauses. All at once,
I heard a long, weary sigh, so near me that it could not have proceeded
from the sleepers. A weak moan, expressive of utter wretchedness,
followed, and then came the words, in a woman's voice,--came I know not
whence, for they seemed to be uttered close beside me, and yet far, far
away,--"How great is my trouble! How long shall I suffer? I was married,
in the sight of God, to Eber Nicholson. Have mercy, O Lord, and give him
to me, or release me from him!"

These were the words, not spoken, but rather moaned forth in a slow,
monotonous wail of utter helplessness and broken-heartedness. I have
heard human grief expressed in many forms, but I never heard or imagined
anything so desolate, so surcharged with the despair of an eternal woe.
It was, indeed, too hopeless for sympathy. It was the utterance of a
sorrow which removed its possessor into some dark, lonely world girdled
with iron walls, against which every throb of a helping or consoling
heart would beat in vain for admittance. So far from being moved or
softened, the words left upon me an impression of stolid apathy. When
they had ceased, I heard another sigh,--and some time afterwards,
far-off, retreating forlornly through the eastern darkness, the wailing
repetition,--"I was married, in the sight of God, to Eber Nicholson.
Have mercy, O Lord!"

This was the last of those midnight marvels. Nothing further disturbed
the night except the steady sound of the wind. The more I thought of
what I had heard, the more I was convinced that the phenomena were
connected, in some way, with the history of my host. I had heard his
wife call him "Ebe," and did not doubt that he was the Eber Nicholson
who, for some mysterious crime, was haunted by the reproachful ghost.
Could murder, or worse than murder, lurk behind these visitations? It
was useless to conjecture; yet, before giving myself up to sleep, I
determined to know everything that could be known, before leaving the
shanty.

My rest was disturbed: my hip-bones pressed unpleasantly on the hard
bench; and every now and then I awoke with a start, hearing the
same despairing voice in my dreams. The place was always quiet,
nevertheless,--the disturbances having ceased, as nearly as I could
judge, about one o'clock in the morning. Finally, from sheer weariness,
I fell into a deep slumber, which lasted until daylight. The sound of
pans and kettles aroused me. The woman, in her lank blue gown, was
bending over the fire; the man and boy had already gone out. As I rose,
rubbing my eyes and shaking myself, to find out exactly where and who
I was, the woman straightened herself and looked at me with a keen,
questioning gaze, but said nothing.

"I must have been very sound asleep," said I.

"There's no sound sleepin' here. Don't tell me that."

"Well," I answered, "your shanty is rather noisy; but, as I'm neither
scared nor hurt, there's no harm done. But have you never found out what
occasions the noise?"

Her reply was a toss of the head and a peculiar snorting interjection,
"Hngh!" (impossible to be represented by letters,) "it's all _her_
doin'."

"But who is _she_?"

"You'd better ask _him_."

Seeing there was nothing to be got out of her, I went down to the
stream, washed my face, dried it with my pocket-handkerchief, and then
looked after Peck. He gave a shrill whinny of recognition, and, I
thought, seemed to be a little restless. A fresh feed of corn was in the
old basket, and presently the man came into the stable with a bunch of
hay, and commenced rubbing off the marks of Peck's oozy couch which were
left on his flanks. As we went back to the shanty I noticed that he
eyed me furtively, without daring to look me full in the face. As I was
apparently none the worse for the night's experiences, he rallied at
last, and ventured to talk _at_, as well as to, me.

By this time, breakfast, which was a repetition of supper, was ready,
and we sat down to the table. During the meal, it occurred to me to make
an experimental remark. Turning suddenly to the man, I asked,--

"Is your name Eber Nicholson?"

"There!" exclaimed the woman, "I knowed he'd heerd it!"

He, however, flushing a moment, and then becoming move sallow than ever,
nodded first, and then--as if that were not sufficient--added, "Yes,
that's my name."

"Where did you move from?" I continued, falling back on the first plan I
had formed in my mind.

"The Western Reserve, not fur from Hudson."

I turned the conversation on the comparative advantages of Ohio and
Illinois, on farming, the price of land, etc., carefully avoiding the
dangerous subject, and by the time breakfast was over had arranged,
that, for a consideration, he should accompany me as far as the
Bloomington road, some five miles distant.

While he went out to catch an old horse, ranging loose in the
creek-bottom, I saddled Peck, strapped on my valise, and made myself
ready for the journey. The feeling of two silver half-dollars in her
hard palm melted down the woman's aggressive mood, and she said, with a
voice the edge whereof was mightily blunted,--

"Thankee! it's too much fur sich as you had."

"It's the best you can give," I replied.

"That's so!" said she, jerking my hand up and down with a pumping
movement, as I took leave.

I felt a sense of relief when we had climbed the rise and had the open
prairie again before us. The sky was overcast and the wind strong,
but some rain had fallen during the night, and the clouds had lifted
themselves again. The air was fresh and damp, but not chill. We rode
slowly, of necessity, for the mud was deeper than ever.

I deliberated what course I should take, in order to draw from my guide
the explanation of the nightly noises. His evident shrinking, whenever
his wife referred to the subject, convinced me that a gradual approach
would render him shy and uneasy; and, on the whole, it seemed best to
surprise him by a sudden assault. Let me strike to the heart of the
secret, at once,--I thought,--and the details will come of themselves.

While I was thus reflecting, he rode quietly by my side. Half turning
in the saddle, I looked steadily at his face, and said, in an earnest
voice,--

"Eber Nicholson, who was it to whom you were married in the sight of
God?"

He started as if struck, looked at me imploringly, turned away his eyes,
then looked back, became very pale, and finally said, in a broken,
hesitating voice, as if the words were forced from him against his
will,--

"Her name is Rachel Emmons."

"Why did you murder her?" I asked, in a still sterner tone.

In an instant his face burned scarlet. He reined up his horse with a
violent pull, straightened his shoulders so that he appeared six inches
taller, looked steadily at me with a strange, mixed expression of anger
and astonishment, and cried out,--

"Murder her? _Why, she's livin' now!_"

My surprise at the answer was scarcely less great than his at the
question.

"You don't mean to say she's not dead?" I asked.

"Why, no!" said he, recovering from his sudden excitement, "she's not
dead, or she wouldn't keep on troublin' me. She's been livin' in Toledo,
these ten year."

"I beg your pardon, my friend," said I; "but I don't know what to think
of what I heard last night, and I suppose I have the old notion in my
head that all ghosts are of persons who have been murdered."

"Oh, if I had killed her," he groaned, "I'd 'a' been hung long ago, an'
there 'd 'a' been an end of it."

"Tell me the whole story," said I. "It's hardly likely that I can help
you, but I can understand how you must be troubled, and I'm sure I pity
you from my heart."

I think he felt relieved at my proposal,--glad, perhaps, after long
silence, to confide to another man the secret of his lonely, wretched
life.

"After what you've heerd," said he, "there's nothin' that I don't care
to tell. I've been sinful, no doubt,--but, God knows, there never was a
man worse punished.

"I told you," he continued, after a pause, "that I come from the Western
Reserve. My father was a middlin' well-to-do farmer,--not rich, nor yit
exactly poor. He's dead now. He was always a savin' man,--looked after
money a _leetle_ too sharp, I've often thought sence: howsever, 't isn't
my place to judge him. Well, I was brought up on the farm, to hard work,
like the other boys. Rachel Emmons,--she's the same woman that haunts
me, you understand,--she was the girl o' one of our neighbors, an' poor
enough _he_ was. His wife was always sickly-like,--an' you know it
takes a woman as well as a man to git rich farmin'. So they were always
scrimped, but that didn't hinder Rachel from bein' one o' the likeliest
gals round. We went to the same school in the winter, he an' me, ('t
isn't much schoolin' I ever got, though,) an' I had a sort o' nateral
hankerin' after her, as fur back as I can remember. She was different
lookin' then from, what she is now,--an' me, too, for that matter.

"Well, you know how boys an' gals somehow git to likin' each other afore
they know it. Me an' Rachel was more an' more together, the more we
growed up, only more secret-like; so by the time I was twenty an' she
was nineteen, we was promised to one another as true as could be. I
didn't keep company with her, though,--leastways, not reg'lar: I was
afeard my father 'd find it out, an' I knowed what _he_ 'd say to it. He
kep' givin' me hints about Mary Ann Jones,--that was my wife's maiden
name. Her father had two hundred acres an' money out at interest, an'
only three children. He'd had ten, but seven of 'em died. I had nothin'
agin Mary Ann, but I never thought of her that way, like I did towards
Rachel.

"Well, things kep' runnin' on; I was a good deal worried about it, but
a young feller, you know, don't look fur ahead, an' so I got along. One
night, howsever,--'t was jist about as dark as last night was,--I'd been
to the store at the Corners, for a jug o' molasses. Rachel was
there, gittin' a quarter of a pound o' tea, I think it was, an' some
sewin'-thread. I went out a little while after her, an' follered as fast
as I could, for we had the same road nigh to home.

"It weren't long afore I overtook her. 'T was mighty dark, as I was
sayin', an' so I hooked her arm into mine, an' we went on comfortable
together, talkin' about how we jist suited each other, like we was cut
out o' purpose, an' how long we'd have to wait, an' what folks 'd say.
O Lord! don't I remember every word o' _that_ night? Well, we got quite
tender-like when we come t' Old Emmons's gate, an' I up an' giv' her a
hug and a lot o' kisses, to make up for lost time. Then she went into
the house, an' I turned for home; but I hadn't gone ten steps afore I
come agin somebody stan'in' in the middle o' the road. 'Hullo!' says
I. The next thing he had a holt o' my coat-collar an' shuck me like a
tarrier-dog shakes a rat. I knowed who it was afore he spoke; an' I
couldn't 'a' been more skeered, if the life had all gone out o' me. He'd
been down to the tavern to see a drover, an' comin' home he'd follered
behind us all the way, hearin' every word we said.

"I don't like to think o' the words he used that night. He was a
professin' member, an' yit he swore the awfullest I ever heerd."--Here
the man involuntarily raised his hands to his ears, as if to stop them
against even the memory of his father's curses.--"I expected every
minute he'd 'a' struck me down. I've wished, sence, he _had_: I don't
think I could 'a' stood _that_. Howsever, he dragged me home, never
lettin' go my collar, till we got into the room where mother was settin'
up for us. Then he told _her_, only makin' it ten times harder 'n it
really was. Mother always kind o' liked Rachel, 'cause she was mighty
handy at sewin' an' quiltin', but she'd no more dared stan' up agin
father than a sheep agin a bull-dog. She looked at me pityin'-like, I
must say, an' jist begun to cry,--an' I couldn't help cryin' nuther,
when I saw how it hurt her.

"Well, after that, 't wa'n't no use thinkin' o' Rachel any more. I _had_
to go t' Old Jones's, whether I wanted to or no. I felt mighty mean when
I thought o' Rachel, an' was afeard no good 'd come of it; but father
jist managed things _his_ way, an' I couldn't help myself. Old Jones had
nothin' agin me, for I was a stiddy, hard-workin' feller as there was
round,--an' Mary Ann was always as pleasant as could be, _then_;--well,
I oughtn't to say nothin' agin her now; she's had a hard life of it,
'longside o' me. Afore long we were bespoke, an' the day set. Father
hurried things, when it got that fur. I don't think Rachel knowed
anything about it till the day afore the weddin', or mebby the very day.
Old Mr. Larrabee was the minister, an' there was only the two families
at the house, an' Miss Plankerton,--her that sewed for Mary Ann. I never
felt so oneasy in my life, though I tried hard not to show it.

"Well, 't was all jist over, an' the kissin' about to begin, when I
heerd the house-door bu'st open, suddent. I felt my heart give one jump
right up to the root o' my tongue, an' then fall back ag'in, sick an'
dead-like.

"The parlor-door flew open right away, an' in come Rachel without a
bunnet, an' her hair all frowzed by the wind. She was as white as a
sheet, an' her eyes like two burnin' coals. She walked straight through
'em all an' stood right afore me. They was all so taken aback that they
never thought o' stoppin' her. Then she kind o' screeched out,--'Eber
Nicholson, what are you doin'?' Her voice was strange an'
onnatural-like, an' I'd never 'a' knowed it to be hern, if I hadn't 'a'
seen her. I couldn't take my eyes off of her, an' I couldn't speak: I
jist stood there. Then she said ag'in,--'Eber Nicholson, what are you
doin'? You are married to me, in the sight of God. You belong to me an'
I to you, forever an' forever!' Then they begun cryin' out,--'Go 'way!'
'Take her away!' 'What d's she mean?' an' old Mr. Larrabee ketched holt
of her arm. She begun to jerk an' trimble all over; she drawed in her
breath in a sort o' groanin' way, awful to hear, an' then dropped down
on the floor in a fit. I bu'st out in a terrible spell o' cryin';--I
couldn't 'a' helped it, to save my life."

The man paused, drew his sleeve across his eyes, and then timidly looked
at me. Seeing nothing in my face, doubtless, but an expression of the
profoundest commiseration, he remarked, with a more assured voice, as if
in self-justification,--

"It was a pretty hard thing for a man to go through with, now, wasn't
it?"

"You may well say that," said I. "Your story is not yet finished,
however. This Rachel Emmons,--you say she is still living,--in what way
does she cause the disturbances?"

"I'll tell you all I know about it," said he,--"an' if you understand
it _then_, you're wiser 'n I am. After they carried her home, she had a
long spell o' sickness,--come near dyin', they said; but they brought
her through, at last, an' she got about ag'in, lookin' ten year older.
I kep' out of her sight, though. I lived awhile at Old Jones's, till I
could find a good farm to rent, or a cheap un to buy. I wanted to git
out o' the neighborhood: I was oneasy all the time, bein' so near
Rachel. Her mother was wuss, an' her father failin'-like, too. Mother
seen 'em often: she was as good a neighbor to 'em as she dared be. Well,
I got sort o' tired, an' went out to Michigan an' bought a likely farm.
Old Jones giv' me a start. I took Mary Ann out, an' we got along well
enough, a matter o' two year. We heerd from home now an' then. Rachel's
father an' mother both died, about the time we had our first boy,--him
that you seen,--an' she went off to Toledo, we heerd, an' hired out to
do sewin'. She was always a mighty good hand at it, an' could cut out as
nice as a born manty-maker. She'd had another fit after the funerals,
an' was older-lookin' an' more serious than ever, they said.

"Well, Jimmy was six months old, or so, when we begun to be woke up
every night by his cryin'. Nothin' seemed to be the matter with him:
he was only frightened-like, an' couldn't be quieted. I heerd noises
sometimes,--nothin' like what come afterwards,--but sort o' crackin' an'
snappin', sich as you hear in new furnitur', an' it seemed like somebody
was in the room; but I couldn't find nothin'. It got wuss and wuss: Mary
Ann was sure the house was haunted, an' I had to let her go home for a
whole winter. When she was away, it went on the same as ever,--not every
night,--sometimes not more 'n onst a week,--but so loud as to wake me
up, reg'lar. I sent word to Mary Ann to come on, an' I'd sell out an' go
to Illinois. Good perairah land was cheap then, an' I'd ruther go furder
off, for the sake o' quiet.

"So we pulled up stakes an' come out here: but it weren't long afore the
noise follered us, wuss 'n ever, an' we found out at last what it was.
One night I woke up, with my hair stan'in' on end, an' heerd Rachel
Emmons's voice, jist as you heerd it last night. Mary Ann heerd it too,
an' it's little peace she's giv' me sence that time. An' so it's been
goin' on an' on, these eight or nine year."

"But," I asked, "are you sure she is alive? Have you seen her since?
Have you asked her to be merciful and not disturb you?"

"Yes," said he, with a bitterness of tone which seemed quite to
obliterate the softer memories of his love, "I've seen her, an' I've
begged her on my knees to let me alone; but it's no use. When it got to
be so bad I couldn't stan' it, I sent her a letter, but I never got no
answer. Next year, when our second boy died, frightened and worried to
death, I believe, though he _was_ scrawny enough when he was born, I
took some money I'd saved to buy a yoke of oxen, an' went to Toledo o'
purpose to see Rachel. It cut me awful to do it, but I was desprit. I
found her livin' in a little house, with a bit o' garden, she'd bought.
I s'pose she must 'a' had five or six hundred dollars when the farm was
sold, an' she made a good deal by sewin', besides. She was settin' at
her work when I went in, an' knowed me at onst, though I don't believe
I'd ever 'a' knowed _her_. She was old, an' thin, an' hard-lookin'; her
mouth was pale an' sot, like she was bitin' somethin' all the time; an'
her eyes, though they was sunk into her head, seemed to look through an'
through an' away out th' other side o' you.

"It jist shut me up when she looked at me. She was so corpse-like I was
afraid she'd drop dead, then and there: but I made out at last to say,
'Rachel, I've come all the way from Illinois to see you.' She kep'
lookin' straight at me, never sayin' a word. 'Rachel,' says I, 'I know
I've acted bad towards you. God knows I didn't mean to do it. I don't
blame you for payin' it back to me the way you're doin', but Mary Ann
an' the boy never done you no harm. I've come all the way o' purpose
to ask your forgiveness, hopin' you'll be satisfied with what's _been_
done, an' leave off bearin' malice agin us.' She looked kind o'
sorrowful-like, but drawed a deep breath, an' shuck her head, 'Oh,
Rachel,' says I,--an' afore I knowed it I was right down on my knees at
her feet,--'Rachel, don't be so hard on me. I'm the onhappiest man that
lives. I can't stan' it no longer. Rachel, you didn't use to be so
cruel, when we was boys an' girls together. Do forgive me, an' leave
off' hauntin' me so.'

"Then she spoke up, at last, an' says she,--

"'Eber Nicholson, I was married to you, in the sight o' God!'

"'I know it,' says I; 'you say it to me every night; an' it wasn't my
doin's that you're not my wife now: but, Rachel, if I'd 'a' betrayed
you, an' ruined you, an' killed you, God couldn't 'a' punished me wuss
than you're a-punishin' me.'

"She giv' a kind o' groan, an' two tears run down her white face. 'Eber
Nicholson,' says she, 'ask God to help you, for I can't. There might 'a'
been a time,' says she, 'when I could 'a' done it, but it's too late
now.'

"'Don't say that, Rachel,' says I; 'it's never too late to be merciful
an' forgivin'.'

"'It doesn't depend on myself,' says she; 'I'm _sent_ to you. It's th'
only comfort I have in life to be near you; but I'd give up that, if I
could. Pray to God to let me die, for then we shall both have rest.'

"An' that was all I could git out of her.

"I come home ag'in, knowin' I'd spent my money for nothin'. Sence then,
it's been jist the same as before,--not reg'lar every night, but sort o'
comes on by spells, an' then stops three or four days, an' then comes
on ag'in. Fact is, what's the use o' livin' in this way? We can't be
neighborly; we're afeard to have anybody come to see us; we've got no
peace, no comfort o' bein' together, an' no heart to work an' git ahead,
like other folks. It's jist killin' me, body an' soul."

Here the poor wretch fairly broke down, bursting suddenly into an
uncontrollable fit of weeping. I waited quietly until the violence of
his passion had subsided. A misery so strange, so completely out of the
range of human experience, so hopeless apparently, was not to be reached
by the ordinary utterances of consolation. I had seen enough to enable
me fully to understand the fearful nature of the retribution which had
been visited upon him for what was, at worst, a weakness to be pitied,
rather than a sin to be chastised. "Never was a man worse punished," he
had truly said. But I was as far as ever from comprehending the secret
of those nightly visitations. The statement of Rachel Emmons, that they
were now produced without her will, overturned--supposing it to be
true--the conjecture which I might otherwise have adopted. However, it
was now plain that the unhappy victim sobbing at my side could throw no
further light on the mystery. He had told me all he knew.

"My friend," said I, when he had become calmer, "I do not wonder at your
desperation. Such continual torment as you must have endured is enough
to drive a man to madness. It seems to me to spring from the malice of
some infernal power, rather than the righteous justice of God. Have you
never tried to resist it? Have you never called aloud, in your heart,
for Divine help, and gathered up your strength to meet and defy it, as
you would to meet a man who threatened your life?"

"Not in the right way, I'm afeard," said he. "Fact is, I always tuck it
as a judgment hangin' over me, an' never thought o' nothin' else than
jist to grin and bear it."

"Enough of that," I urged,--for a hope of relief had suggested itself to
me,--"you have suffered enough, and more than enough. Now stand up to
meet it like a man. When the noises come again, think of what you have
endured, and let it make you indignant and determined. Decide in your
heart that you _will_ be free from it, and perhaps you may be so. If
not, build another shanty and sleep away from your wife and boy, so
that they may escape, at least. Give yourself this claim to your wife's
gratitude, and she will be kind and forbearing."

"I don't know but you're more 'n half right, stranger," he replied, in
a more cheerful tone. "Fact is, I never thought on it that way. It's
lightened my heart a heap, tellin' you; an' if I'm not too broke an'
used-up-like, I'll try to foller your advice. I couldn't marry Rachel
now, if Mary Ann _was_ dead, we've been druv so fur apart. I don't know
how it'll be when we're _all_ dead: I s'pose them 'll go together that
belongs together;--leastways, 't ought to be so."

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