University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

“Dat mighty pooty story, missy; but I reckon dem
lions had got a bite ob sumfin' 'fore Dan'l was frowed in,
or they wouldn't ha' been so 'commodatin' as ter hold off
till de ole king change he mind.”

“Why, Picter, it was a miracle that made them,” explained
Dora, earnestly.

“Meracle, missy? Well, it seems to dis ole fool dat
meracles mos'ly has got two sides to 'em; an' some folks,
mos'ly chillen an' women, on'y look to one side, whilst
we dat am men folks 'sider bof.”

Dora, rather offended both at the incredulity and the
line of argument, said nothing, but, turning over the
leaves of her Bible, read here and there a verse to herself.
Picter watched her furtively for a while, and then
added, coaxingly, —

“Bud, den, missy, yore mammy tole me once dat we
wasn' to be saved by our own wisdom, bud by faith; so,
p'r'aps, after all, you stan's a better chance dan I does.”

To Picter's surprise, Dora abruptly closed her book,
and laughed outright — a merry, girlish laugh, such as
had not come from her pale lips for many a week before;

but the idea of Picter's wisdom standing in the way of
his spiritual advancement, struck her as an uncommonly
funny one.

“Well, dear old Uncle Pic,” said she, after a moment
of merriment, “if your wisdom will get us safely out of
this valley, and to the Union camp, I won't ask it to do
any more. We can talk about Daniel and the lions
another time.”

“Yes, missy, I specs 'tis 'bout time to be movin',”
replied Pic, with such readiness one would almost have
suspected him to be glad of an excuse for withdrawing
from the argument.

Dora, with a quiet smile, occupied herself in putting
together the things they were to carry with them, and
leaving the cabin in such order as must have much surprised
the next comer.

Pic, meantime, went out to reconnoitre, and at the
end of about half an hour returned with a beaming countenance.

“All right, missy,” said he, joyfully. “Dey's cl'ared,
horse, foot, an' dragons, as we says in de army. We're
all right now; bud it's comin' on awful cold, an' you
mus' take de branket to wrop roun' your lilly shoul'ers.
Tell 'e what, missy; 'tain't a loaf, bud a hull bakin' o'
white bread we's a gittin' fer dat corn-cake yer mammy
frowed inter de water w'en she gib 'um branket to Captain
Charley.”

“Well, then, I'll put it on for a shawl; but what will
you do, Pic? Won't you be cold?”

“Neber fear fer dis chile, missy. I got big sojer
coat, dat one ob our fellers pick up arter de battle ob de
Elk Water. De ole rebs didn' stay to pack up dey trunks
dat time, dey lef' in sech a hurry. Now here's de saddle
for de ole hoss. Guess I'll frow it down fus'.”

“And here are the bread and meat in this bundle, and
there are some cold roasted sweet potatoes. Shall we
want them, do you think?”

“Lors, yis, missy, dem's fus' rate; I'd like to eat ha'f
a dozen dis bressed minit. Here, I'll put dem in my
pocket, an' you can carry de bundle till I gits red o' dis
saddle, — after dat I'll take it; and de branket we'll frow
'long o' de saddle. We don' want noffin' to carry w'en
we gits to scram'lin' down dem rocks.”

All was now ready for departure, and Picter, after
standing at the door a few minutes to listen for any
alarming sound, announced that all was safe; and, carefully
closing the door of the cabin, he proceeded, followed
by Dora, to the edge of the cliff, and threw down into
the valley the various articles carried by each, including
Dora's shoes and stockings and Picter's brogans.

He then stepped down to the first ledge, and, so soon as
his feet were set upon the second, directed Dora to follow,
he remaining near enough to help and protect her
very considerably in the perilous descent. The child,

with neither complaint nor exclamation of any kind, did
exactly as she was bid; and, after ten or fifteen minutes
of anxious exertion, the two found themselves in safety
upon the dry ground at the foot of the fall.

“Now, den, missy, dat's all ober, an' you's de bestest
lilly lady in dese U-nited State fer doin' it so nice and
quiet. I's 'fraid you'd holler; an' dat 'ud ha' scared me,
and spilte us bof. Now, here's de branket, an' you jes'
wrop youse'f all up in it, an' set down here till I gits de
hoss ready. Isn' you awful wet?”

“No, I'm not very wet; but I wan't to see how you'll
catch the horse. I don't believe you can,” said Dora,
slyly.

“Dat 'cause you don' know, chile,” said Picter, a little
indignantly. “Dere ain't no bother 'bout cotchin' dis
yer hoss, any way, w'en dis yer nigger is de one to
cotch um.”

So saying, Picter picked up the bridle, which he had
thrown down with the saddle, and marched directly up
to the horse, who had left off feeding, and stood with
head erect watching him.

“Here, ole Jump, I's gwine to put on yer bridle, now.
Specs yer hasn' had sech a bellyful sence yer come to de
war, 'fore. Now's de time to pay for it, ole boy.”

But Jump, although he may have agreed with his temporary
master's opinion as to the abundance of his two
days' feast, was disposed to differ with him as to the

propriety of leaving it. As Picter boldly approached, bridle
in hand, Jump, with a wild snort, suddenly wheeled,
and lashed out with his hind legs in a decidedly dangerous
manner.

“W'y, you ole cuss!” exclaimed Picter in great wrath,
as he sprang backward to escape the kick. “Am dat
all de manners you got, arter I's been so good to ye?
Jes' you wait till I gits back ter camp, and see if I
doesn' borry de biggest pa'r o' spurs dere is goin', an'
ride ye up an' down dat mountain till ye hollers, `Nuff
said.”'

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Dora, gleefully. “O, Pic,
you'll kill me right out! O, Pic! the horse hallooing
`Nuff said'! Do the Yankee horses talk, Picter?”

“Don't ee, missy, don't!” expostulated Picter, almost
crossly. “How can I talk sense w'en you keeps a
'stractin' my 'tention? You jes' creep inter de tree dah,
out de way, chile. Mabbe de ole fool 'll go ter kickin'
dat way nex'.”

“But why don't you catch him, Picter, the same way
you always do? I thought there wasn't any bother about
it, you said,” continued Dora, mischievously, while she
nestled herself into the branches of the pine that closed
the passage.

To this little jibe Pic made no reply, while, with alternate
threats and coaxing, he applied himself seriously to
the task of catching the horse.

But Jump, on this occasion if never before, made good
his claim to his peculiar name, and indulged in a series
of leaps, curvets, plunges, rearings, and prancings, that
would have done credit to a mustang of the prairies.

At last, however, he seemed suddenly to consider that
this course, although pleasant at the time, might not be
of advantage to his future comfort, when he should
finally be obliged to submit to the halter; or else he had
become tired of the performance. At any rate, he all
at once stood still, and allowed Picter to approach and
put the bridle over his head without making the slightest
resistance.

“Now, den, you ole brack debil!” exclaimed the
wrathful negro, so soon as he could gather breath enough
to speak. “W'at you spec I's gwine to do wid ye, now?
You 'sarve to hab ebery bone you's got broke inter
twenty t'ousan' pieces, an' hab yer skin all cut off ob
dem arterwards; an' I's a great mind ter do it.”

“But how should we get to the camp, if you did, Picter?”
asked a merry voice from the pine tree.

“Shore 'nough, chile; an', arter all, de pore beast
didn' mean no harm; but lors, how he did cut up! Real
r'dic'lous, now, wa'n't it?” replied the good-natured negro,
in whose mind the laughable side of the little skirmish
between himself and Jump had already overcome the annoyance,
and before he had finished buckling the saddle-girths
he was obliged to stop and roll on the grass in a

paroxysm of laughter at the memory of some of the
horse's gambols.

Dora joined in the laugh, but presently recalled to
Picter's attention the necessity of getting started, at least,
upon their journey, before it should be quite dark, as the
first miles of their road lay through the forest, and among
the mountains, where it would be very easy to get lost,
especially by night.

“Neber fear, missy; de star gwine to be orful bright,
an' dey's jes' de same as hebenly guide-boards, 'specially
to us cullud folks, dat couldn' read de guide-board, an'
can read de stars, 'specially de norf star. Spec dat star
was made o' purpose ter help de poor niggers to dere
freedom. How many Gospels is dere in de New Tes'ament,
missy?”

“Four.”

“Well, de norf star makes five; and seein' dat, makes
it easy to berieve all the res',” said Picter, meditatively.

“Come, then, Uncle Pic, let's set out to travel towards
it,” replied Dora, gently.

“Dat you, missy. We's trabellin' for de norf star, all
ob us, brack an' w'ite; fer dere's many a mas'r an'
mist's dat don' git dere freedom till dey's trabelled clear
off de earth, an' git 'mongst de stars. Yore own mammy
was one o' dat sort, honey.”

“Don't let us talk about that, Picter,” said Dora, softly;
for although she knew, even better than the negro, that

her mother's married life and associations had been little
better than bondage, she felt it a profanation and an indelicacy
to speak of it, or even to allow the faithful old
servant to do so.

Picter, with native tact, understood her feeling, and
made no reply.

The horse was now ready, and the pine tree being
thrown aside, he quietly allowed himself to be led through
the bed of the stream, and into the valley that lay beyond.

Dora followed, and sat down upon the bank to put on
again her shoes and stockings.

“Now then, Uncle Pic, all ready for the line of
march,” said she gayly, as she sprang to her feet.

“All ready, honey,” replied the negro, lifting her to
an extemporized pillion behind the saddle, and then
heavily mounting himself.

“Now den, ole Jump! Hol' fas', missy!” and through
the clear twilight of the October evening the weatherbeaten
old slave and the slender, bright-eyed little girl
set out together to travel towards the north star.