University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE STRANGE MEETING.

Although the living target at which a dozen muskets were discharged,
and as many hatchets thrown, Edward providentially
escaped them all—though more than one of them rent his clothes—
and he went down his long leap, feet foremost, uninjured, and suddenly
found himself buried far below the placid surface of the dark
rolling Miami. Being an excellent swimmer, and having great presence
of mind, he soon rose to the air, and kept perfectly quiet,
floating along on the slow-moving current, well knowing that any
sound indicating an attempt to escape, would be heard by his enemies
above, and bring down a hundred of them, all fierce and eager
for his capture; while he had a faint hope, if they heard nothing,
they would believe he had perished, and give over all thoughts of
search. He heard their yells of disappointment at his loss, and his
heart began to beat quick again with renewed hope. There was
still a chance of escape, where a few minutes before he had looked
for none; and from self his thoughts now reverted to his friends;
and his anxiety for their safety gradually increased, as he recalled
the numbers that had gone in pursuit of them, till it amounted to a
degree so intense as to be really painful. And even should they
escape, how was he to join them again? and how were Lucy and
her companions to be found and delivered from the Haunted Cave,
as Posetha termed it, but of the whereabouts of which he had no
knowledge? And to return without Lucy, amounted to nothing
in his view; for it was to rescue her he had perilled his life; and
not to succeed, was to render that life valueless.

“Ah!” he sighed, mentally, as all these thoughts rapidly floated
through his brain, “since I can accomplish nothing, may I not as
well die where I am, and put an end to this feverish, unquiet existence,
so full of vexatious disappointment, and heart-rended
woe?”

But though Edward reasoned thus with himself, nature gave no
sanction to the false logic; but still urged him to live on, and hope
on, by causing a cold shudder to pass through his frame at the
very thought of approaching the confines of that great and mysterious
Beyond by his own act, and with all his senses in full and
active play; and when, in floating down the stream, he heard the
cries of the Indians suddenly changed to those of terror and dismay,
as if some great calamity had befallen them, and at the same moment
felt his hand touch the trunk of a drift-tree, one end of which
was imbedded in the sands of the shore, it must be confessed he

grasped it with a firmness, and listened with an eagerness, that ill-befitted
one who, tired of life, was about to throw off its mortal
coil and pass the dread portals of eternity.

The fact is, the feelings of our hero, by the uniting of these two
events, experienced a wonderful change; and he was now as eager
to live as at any moment of his eventful existence. Chilled to the
very bone with his rather long immersion in the water, considering
the season of the year, and in consequence hardly able to use his
limbs, he now made vigorous efforts to reach the shore, by dragging
himself along the trunk of the prostrate tree. He at length succeeded;
but on touching land, found it almost impossible for him
to stand; and when the thought flashed across his mind, that his
only chance of avoiding his enemies would be by swimming the
river, his heart sunk, and for a time hope again gave way to despair.
But the excitement still continuing among the Indians, the
idea occurred to him that he might take advantage of it, and, by
keeping along under the high bank, soon reach an easy ford; but
then again, it was possible that what he had taken to be an alarm,
was only a universal wail for the loss of some distinguished warrior
or chief, whom his friends, the fugitives, had slain in a close engagement;
and if such proved to be the case, was it not likely his
trail would be discovered when the morning sould break, and that,
weak and faint, he would fall an easy prey to his blood-thirsty foe,
from whom he could never hope to make the third escape?

But notwithstanding all objections to the course he intended to
pursue, one thing was certain, that to remain where he was would
not better his condition; and so he set off up stream, keeping along
the edge of the water. A few steps brought him to the base of the
cliff, from which he had made his leap; but finding it too precipitous
to admit of a foot-hold, he was forced to return. He now
attempted to go down stream; but some twenty yards below where
he first emerged from the water, he again found his progress checked,
and this time by the rapids already more than once referred to. The
bank here was steep, but not precipitous, down which the water
dashed with foam and fury, and with a much heavier body than
usual, owing to the recent rains—for the streamlet was very
fluctuating, and in some seasons of the year exhibited a dry bed.

To think of crossing this, at the point where Edward now was,
was wholly out of the question; for no foot, however sure, could
stand a single instant in such a current; to ascend the steep bank,
to where a crossing could be made, was, for our hero, a proceeding
even more rash and dangerous, as he would thus be certain to expose
himself to his enemies; and to remain inactive, with the hope
of freedom before him, was, in his view, little short of madness.
Thus hemmed in as he was, on every side, there was no alternative;
and his only means of escape, was to betake himself once more to
the water, and either swim around the rapids, and come out below

them, or across the river, to the shore he was so anxious to
reach.

For several reasons Edward decided on the latter course; and
again consigning himself to the care of that watchful Providence,
which had so far befriended him in his moments of greatest peril,
he dropped quietly into the river, at the foot of the rapids, and was
quickly borne out upon its bosom, some eight or ten yards, or until
the rushing force of the smaller stream was lost in the stillness of the
greater. Then nerving himself for the tedious task, Edward struck
boldly out for the opposite shore; but what was his surprise, when
he had gone some ten or twelve yards further, to see a bold cliff
rising high above him, and almost at the same moment feel his
hands touch land. As he crawled out upon the narrow beach dividing
the base of the steep cliff from the water, his first impression
was that his head had somehow become turned in swimming, and
that he had actually swam back to the bank whence he started;
but a little reflection and observation put him right in this particular,
and he then came to the rightful conclusion that he had touched
upon a small island. This proved a source of much gratification to
him, as it would form a resting point on his short voyage, and enable
him to gain the western bank with greater safety and ease. But
that he might be ready to set forth again ere too chilled and benumbed
by the cold, he began to move along the bank, in search
of the point projecting farthest westward, so as to save as much
swimming as possible.

He had not gone many steps, keeping close under the cliff, when
his foot, striking a stone, caused him to stumble toward the rock.
He threw out his hands to prevent his head from striking, but to his
surprise they touched nothing, and the next moment he found himself
prostrated within a deep and narrow fissure. Feeling carefully
around in the dark, as he attempted to rise, that he might make no
fatal mistake—as, for all he knew to the contrary, there might be a
yawning chasm on one side or the other—his hand encountered
something smooth and soft, in what appeared to be a small recess to
the right; and judge of his surprise and delight, on examining it
with the sense of touch, to find it a regularly constructed canoe of
the largest class.

“Surely,” thought Edward, as he drew it forth from its hiding
place; “surely, Providence favors me in all my adversity; and to
God will I give thanks for this unlooked-for means of deliverance.”

He kneeled upon the stony ground, and although his lips did not
move, and no sound was heard, yet his heart sent up to the great
Giver of Mercies an acceptable prayer of fervent thanks.

As Edward finished his silent orison, there came to his ear a low,
faint, almost inaudible murmur, like the sound of a distant human
voice, or far-off running water. He listened, and still the faint

murmur continued; and under the impression that it could be traced
to the latter cause, he was about to turn away for the purpose of
embarking in his canoe, when the sound ceased; and while he was
still listening, began again.

“Surely,” thought he, “if it were water, as I supposed, there
would be no cessation. No! it must be made by a human tongue
—ay, more than one—for it varies, and is not monotonous. Ha!
it stops again, and is now again renewed.”

A sudden idea now flashed through the brain of Edward, and
springing to his feet, he mentally exclaimed: “Oh! if only my
surmises prove correct!” and he disppeared into the dark opening
of the rocks.

Slowly and cautiously he threaded his way along the narrow,
winding, zig-zag passage, and at length arrived at its farther terminus,
or where it entered the cavern. For the last few yards, a faint,
soft, lurid light shone into the dark passage, and enabled him to
pick his way with greater ease; and as he turned the last sharp
angle, the bright light of a blazing fire flashed full in his face, and
revealed to him ten female figures seated around it, and among the
rest, the only being of his heart's devotion. Fixing his eyes upon
her, for a few moments Edward stood and gazed, as one who beholds
a something more than earthly, while his heart beat wildly,
and he feared to move, lest a single motion should dispel the enchanting
vision, and prove the images before him to be but the airy
creations of a floating phantasmagoria of the mind. But, he
reasoned, it is impossible that the senses of seeing and hearing should
both be so deceived at the same time—for loud wailings at their
hard fate, from many of the females, smote upon his ear; and the
words, “Oh! my poor father!—and—and—Edward!” uttered in
guileless innocence, and with every feeling of anguish, by the being
he loved, broke the spell which a first sight had thrown around
him; and, unable to be a quiet and unobserved spectator any longer,
he bounded forward, exclaiming:

“Edward at least is free, and God has sent him to your deliverance.”

All started to their feet at this unexpected apparition, and screams
of joy resounded through the cave.

As for Lucy, she was unable to speak; and as Edward, singling
her out, rushed forward, caught her in his arms, and wildly strained
her to his beating heart, inexpressible happiness made her senses
reel, and she fainted in his embrace.

Great was the scene of confusion and excitement which followed,
and a thousand questions were asked that never had an answer, or
at least that were not answered then. Among others, Mrs. Danforth
and Mrs. Wilkes were urgent to know what had become of their
respective partners; and the first words of Lucy, as she revived,
were:

“Oh! Edward, it is like a dream to behold you here.” Then
hurriedly looking around: “But my father—my dear, dear father—
I do not see him—where is he?—what has befallen him?—is he
free?—is he safe? Oh! speak, Edward, speak!”

“Alas!” sighed Edward, pressing his lips reverently and affectionately
upon the noble brow of the lovely questioner, and gazing
fondly but sadly upon the liquid orbs upturned to him: “Alas!
my dearest Lucy, I cannot answer. You see me here, alone, by
accident—after passing through a hundred perils, where hope
became extinct, and life seemed forfeited;” and he hurriedly
related what had transpired.

During his recital, Lucy clung to him with a nervous grasp;
and her lustrous, dark eyes looked into his—sometimes in anguish,
sometimes in terror—while her lips half apart, made her seem as
if every word he uttered was about to draw forth some exclamation
of pity, surprise, pain, sorrow, or fear.

But she spoke but once, and that when he described his wonderful
escape over the cliff. Then she closed her eyes, a cold shudder
passed through her delicate frame, and she cried:

“Oh! how fearful! how terrible!” and she clung to him still
more nervously, as if she fancied he was even then making the
awful descent.

As Edward told his tale, the scene was one worthy the pencil
of a great artist. Erect in the centre he stood, with the gentle
Lucy half reclining in his arms and on his breast, gazing up intently
in his countenance, with the expression we have described on her
own sweet features; while, completely surrounding them, were
grouped the nine other females—every eye fixed upon the speaker,
every face as pale as death, and varying with the feelings which the
thrilling narrative of our hero excited—over which the fire, burning
near, threw a lurid, flickering light, penetrating far into the gloomy
recesses of the cavern, and throwing strange, fantastic, dancing
shadows upon the ground, upon the walls, and upon the ceiling.

“Come,” said Edward, as soon as he had finished, “we have
no time to spare. For all I know, the savages may be even now
on the search for us. Daylight may put a hundred upon our trail,
and morning must be near. Come! there is a boat without, and I
can take a part of you away at once, and then return for the
others.”

“We came here in three boats, lashed together, side-by-side,”
said Mrs. Mervale, who now took it upon herself, as before, to act
as leader to the females; “and it is hardly probable, since our
guide left any, that he took away more than one. Did you make
any search for another, Major Allen?”

“I did not, but will now do so, and doubt not we shall find
your surmises correct. Come, let us all hasten to the mouth of this
cavern, and, if possible, take our departure before we are discovered.

Heaven grant there may be another boat!” and taking
Lucy's arm, and breathing in her ear a few words of love and
hope, Edward led the way through the narrow, tortuous passage
to the open air.

A brief search proved the correctness of Mrs. Mervale's conjectures,
and another large canoe was found and drawn from its
hiding place. Both being placed in the water, and the females
seated in them, another unexpected difficulty now arose. There
was no paddle; for Posetha had taken away with him the only one
wherewith he had guided and propelled the boats hither. This
threw a heavy damper on the spirits that had already began to feel
comparatively buoyant; but as there was nothing to be done but
to make the best of their circumstances, the boats were pushed
from the shore, and allowed to float down the current, with no
other guide and propelling power than the hands of the respective
parties.

Fortunately, the bend of the river was such as to drift them
towards the western shore; but the stream ran so slow, that the
best part of an hour was consumed ere the canoes touched land—
which they finally did at the first projecting point in the river above
the fall, where Edward and Carnele had crossed only the night previous,
on their way to the Indian town. What strange events had
happened since then!—events of such vast importance, that none
who had participated in them, would ever forget them, to the latest
day of their existence; and as Edward reflected on them, he shuddered,
and wondered if the next twenty-four hours would be as
full of perils to himself and her he loved.

The Indian town, late the theatre of such wild excitement, alarm,
and confusion, was now as quiet as if no human being were in it;
and in this stillness, under the circumstances, was something terribly
ominous, like the oppressive calm which precedes the awful
tempest.

But though Edward trembled for the safety of the beings so singularly
placed under his charge, he made not his fears known, but
whispered words of comfort and hope in their ears. As the canoes
touched the shore, he bade his companions not to speak nor move,
while he went in search of something wherewith to guide and
steady the boats over the fall in the river below.

But scarcely had he advanced a dozen paces on land, when the
heavy tramping of a large body of horse, caused him to hurriedly
retrace his steps; and drawing the canoes behind a dense cluster
of bushes, he whispered; “Be still as death, or all is lost! Our
foes are upon us—God send us deliverance!”

And every listener in her heart prayed “Amen!”