University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE BELEAGUERED CAMP.

The day dawned calm and clear, the
skies were pure and cloudless, the atmosphere
soft, balmy and delicious, and
the light air laden with a thousand odors
gathered from the dew besprent flowers
of the rich prairie land around them. No
sound disturbed the stillness of those vast

solitudes, except the rippling music of
the little rill, trickling over the yellow
pebbles with its swift glancing current.

The night had been one of anxiety
and sleeplessness to all, to Julia of unmixed
apprehension, if not terror. From
the moment in which the wild horde of
the North American desert had swept
like a tornado past the gorge of the small
basin which sheltered them, not a breath
of the delicious night breeze but seemed
to bear to her ears the clatter of returning
horse-hoofs, and the yell of the
exulting savages.

Nor was their position indeed other
than one of extreme perplexity and peril.
Tracked as they had every reason to believe
themselves, by the blood thirsty
lancers of Carrera, whom their lately
escaped captive would surely conduct to
their hiding place; deprived of the
trusty guide and gallant soldier, in whom
their only hope was centered, and now
surrounded by roaming bands of the
bravest, fiercest and most warlike tribe
of Indians in the world, there was indeed
ample cause why bold men should almost
tremble, why women should almost despair.

No further alarm, however, had followed
the passage of the wild Camanches;
and, save the melancholy cry of
a distant owl from one of the many woodland
isles, which dotted the expanse of
the open prairie, no sound had reached
the ears of the anxious watchers.

The moon had set soon after the alarm
was given, and thereafter the little party
had remained in utter darkness, for the
camp fires had been instantly extinguished,
except the faint glimmering of the
stars which were momentarily paling in
the heavens.

Gradually, as the feeble light of the
increasing dawn began to creep up from
the eastern horizon, and to spread its pale
grayish hues over the boundless plains,
the anxiety of the little party grew almost
into agony.

That feeble twilight, which was so
slowly waxing into day, was to be the
harbinger to them of escape, of safety, or
of despairing strife, captivity and outrage.

Eager and penetrating eyes were
strained to pierce the deceptive misty haze
half light half darkness, which brooded
over the level champaign, long before it
was possible to distinguish objects at a
distance of more than two hundred
paces.

An hour passed away, and the skies
grew brighter apace and brighter; and
then the sun heaved the rim of his great
blood-red disk above the waving line,
which formed the low horizon; and the
lurid rust-colored rays streamed long and
level over the undulating plains, tipping
the ridge of every billowy swell with
ruddy gold, and leaving the long hollows
filled with soft purplish shadows.

And still the eye could discern nothing
accurate or certain, whereby to judge of
the presence or absence of their wily and
insidious foes. Several times, one or
other of the party pointed out, here and
there, streaming up from the wide landscape
columns of pure white vapor, which
were pronounced confidentlly to be the
smokes of Indian camp fires; until, one
after another, they melted away under
the increasing warmth of the morning
sun, and proved to be no more than exhalations
from some stagnant pool or
solitary well-head in the boundless waste.
At length the sun had attained such an
altitude that all the lay and surface of
the land for many a league around, with
the exception of the basins of some two
or three deeper valleys, could be surveyed
with ease from the summit of the
low knolls, which surrounded the small
amphitheatre; and as soon as this was
the case, Arthur Gordon mounted the
crest of the highest elevation, carefully
keeping his figure backed by the low
trees and thorny underwood which clothed
the hill, and swept the whole panorama
with a powerful telescope.

The open country, which he surveyed
the first and with the most care, he soon
discovered to be free and unguarded.—
There was no sign of man or his works;
and, what was a yet surer proof that he
was not in the immediate neighborhood,
at many different points of the landscape
the young soldier discovered herds of the
various wild animals, which inhabit those
great plains, pasturing or disporting
themselves in quiet security.

Above a thousand head of wild cattle
were in sight, feeding here and there in
detached groups, or lying on the dewy
grass chewing the cud, undisturbed and
fearless. One great herd of wild horses,
not numbering less than two hundred,

were leisurely traversing a distant headland,
and two other little parties, one
consisting only of four animals, among
which was conspicious the far-famed
white horse of the prairies, were feeding
nearer to the foreground of the picture.

Besides these, several gangs of Elk,
the noblest and most splendid of all the
denizens of the western wilderness, and
countless groups of deer and antelopes,
dotted the grassy plains, all evidently
unconscious of the vicinity of man.

Satisfied thus far, Gordon turned his
glass toward the numerous belts and
clumps of timber, which studded the
whole face of the country, but with far
less success, and to no satisfaction.—
The shadows of the past night still hung
as if it were reluctant to depart, in these
umbrageous haunts, into which, even at
midday the sunbeams penetrate only
with an uncertain and interrupted lustre.

His utmost exertion of eye, aided by
the powerful glass, which had so often
done him good service in the field, here
availed him nothing; and he was many
times in doubt whether, among the dense
chapparal, and between the thickest
stems of the trees, he did not catch fleeting
glimpses of the untamed steeds and
tawny figures of the dreaded savage.

Imagination also was at work; and
often, when in truth it was but a stray
sunbeam, which had lost its way among
the thick green leaves, and was glinted
back by some sylvan lakelet, he saw
the flashing fire of a Camanche camp,
and almost pictured to himself the forms
of the swart barbarians about the ruddy
embers.

By degrees, however, he discovered
that these things were but the creation
of fast coining fancy; and he became
tolerably well assured that nothing of
human shape or mien had as yet met his
eye. Still he could not be satisfied that
the dreaded enemy might not be lurking
within half a mile of his encampment—
nay, that they might not be perfectly
aware of his own whereabouts and numbers,
and waiting for the moment of
his moving to set upon him at advantage.

His heart was notwithstanding somewhat
lighter, and his features had a less
care worn expression, as he closed the
glass and descended the eminence to join
his fair young wife, who waited his arrival
with indescribable anxiety, altho'
she had sufficient self-control and courage
to keep a cheerful face and firm
demeanor.

“Well, Julia,” he exclaimed, as he
came near to join her, “we may rest
tranquil for the present, God be thanked!
There are no Indians in sight on the
praire, and I have surveyed it for leagues
on leagues around; nor is there any sign
of our Mexican pursuers.”

“But what of the Partisan?” cried
the fair girl eagerly. “Can you see
nothing that gives note of him, or of his
coming?”

“Nothing. Indeed, there are many
signs to show that there is no human
being within miles, except ourselves,
unless he be concealed as cunningly as
we are. The plains are alive with elk,
and deer, and wild cattle; and there are
several herds of wild horses in full view
roaming about secure and fearless.”

“That is bad news, indeed,” she answered
gravely, and her countenance
fell as she spoke. “Alas! I fear he has
been taken by those fearful savages
—”

“I trust not,” replied Arthur, “and
what is more, I think not. For, had
they made a prisoner of one so famous,
and so formidable to them, as the Partisan,
they would have halted on the spot
to hold their barbarous orgies. He is
too wary and too wise to be entrapped
so easily.”

“But if he be not, wherefore should
he tarry, when he must know how desperate
is our position, how terrible must
be our anxiety.”

“A hundred things may have occur
red to hinder his return. The savages
may be interposed between him and the
camp; the Mexican runagate, of whom
he is in pursuit, may have led him so
far astray that he could not return.—
In a word, Julia, now that the day has
fairly broken, I do not look for him before
night is again dark over the prairie;
with enemies about on every side, he
is not like to stir abroad by daylight.”

“You do not know him, Arthur,” she
replied quickly, a bright enthusiastic
gleam kindling within her soft blue eye.
“That man would risk a thousand foes
fearless, ere he would leave a woman in

distress and danger. You do not know
him Arthur.'

“I do know him, Julia, and judge of
him even as you do, though perhaps,”
he added with a smile, “a little more soberly
and coolly. The Partisan is certain,
as certain as if he saw us now, that
we have not quitted this hiding place,
and thaat we shall not quit it, until we
may do so with good hope of moving
unmolested; and, should he ride hitherward
in the open day, and be detected
doing so, his coming would bring us ruin
and not safety.”

“And what will you do, now Arthur?”

“Stay where we are till midnight;
then, if he have not joined us, make our
way by the compass toward Monterey,
and trust to God and our good swords
for our safety. Cheer up, beloved one,
I have been in a worse plight than this
ere now, though never with so sweet a
comrade. For we have food in plenty,
and good horses, and stout hearts, and
strong arms to defend us.”

“Nay, I am not afraid,” she answered,
with a faint smile, “not much
afraid, I mean, though I believe the
danger is very great; but I am with
you, Arthur, and that is something always,
and live or die, at least we shall
live or die together. Great God!” she
added, turning her beautiful eyes upward,
“how great would be my agony,
were I at home in luxury and safety,
and know that you were thus, Arthur.”

“I would that you were—I would to
God that you were at home and in safety,
Julia; and I, if need were, even in a
worse plight than this. My heart would
be lighter, though perhaps my arm
would be weaker than it is now, with
your sweet, calm courage kindling me
to exertion. But come, dearest, let us
go down into the camp. I will post a
sentinel on yon hillock, and then we
will pass the day as easily as we can.—
You were better get some sleep if you
can after breakfast, and I and my fellows
will lay poor Sergeant Davis in
the earth, which, if it be not consecrated,
will at least shield him from the
ravening wolf and the loathsome vulure.”

“I will assist! I will assist, too,
Gordon,” she replied, her soft azure
eyes filling with tears. “Poor Davis!
poor, poor fellow! He was as brave as
his own good sword, and so kind and
gentle ever in his bearing towards me.
I have often caught him gazing at me
when he thought I marked him not, as
though he pitied me.”

“He pitied but admired more, my
Julia. He was a man above his station—a
man of worth and education,
before he entered the ranks, and in any
service but ours, in which it seems that
to be a gallant and a veteran soldier is a
bar to promotion, he would have long
since fought his way to a commission.
He won the triple chevrons on
the disastrous field of Okuchobee, and
has been the foremost in every charge
from that day until now. Him shall
the bugle never stir again to deeds of
daring, but his name will live long in
the memory of his comrades—of his superiors,
and the soldier's best epitaph
will be his, `he died in his duty.”'

“Ah,” replied Julia, with a sigh, “is
it the fate of nations in all ages to be
thankless and ungrateful?”

“The fate of free nations,” answered
Arthur Gordon, “the most free,
the least grateful. Tyrants may be
capricious. People are selfish. Those
reward gorgeously and punish cruelly;
these neglect virtues, yet do not pardon
vices. But men who serve their country
best, serve not for guerdon, nor
yet for glory, but for love, conscience,
duty.”

“A hero's speech!” cried Julia,
laughing aloud, and inspirited by the
eager and excited tone in which he
spoke. “May the high speech be parent
to the high achievement, and that to
the high renown.”

“Beautiful prophetess!” he answered,
gazing at her fondly. “This,
at the least is certain, there would be
more heroes if there were more Julias.
But come,” he continued, “a truce to
sentiment and glory, and let us see if
we cannot fare daintily, even though
our camp be beleaguered.”