 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE PHANTOM HUNTER.
A stormy night in December, just such a time as makes the
red lights in the homestead windows doubly significant of comfort,
as perchance we catch in passing a glimpse of the fireside
group, or the tea-table with its steaming cups, short cakes, and
dish filled to the brim with golden honey, to say nothing of the
ample ball of yellow butter, or of the great pitcher of new
milk.
The sun, whose warmth was scarcely felt, even while in the
blue middle heavens, has been down an hour, and from the
edges of the barn roof and the ends of the pendant boughs the
icicles are shining again, rough and ridged with the drops that
melted in the bright noontide.
On the sides of the hills, sloping away from the wind, the
flocks and their young are huddled closely; may the winds be
tempered to them, for the night is cold! and the cattle gather
under the sheds and about the stacks: that is, the most peaceably
disposed—there are some that lean their horns into forbidden
enclosures, and steal now and then a mouthful of wheat or
rye, which, weather beaten and rusty as it is, doubtless is sweeter
to them than the fragrant hay strewn all about the yard.
Neither instinct in beast nor reason in man is strong enough to
divest of their charm whatever things are obtained with difficulty
or peril. I have no quarrel to make with nature; were
it not so, what sluggards we should become! And were it not
for this, too, the destiny of Lydia Heath might have been very
different.
A winter night, I said: an hour after sunset; gusts of wind
sweep across the northern hills, through the withered woods and
the owl, with all his feathers, is chilled, indeed, but he keeps
snugly muffled in the hollow stub, and comes not once forth to
fill the valley with his desolate cry: perhaps that no one is
to-night wandering near his sacred bower; perhaps that there
is no moon to which he may complain, for one dull mass of
leaden clouds spreads over all the sky. And the snow has been
steadily sifting down since the clock in the village steeple
struck three, and the urchins, out at play in the school-yard,
tossed up their caps and clapped their hands for joy: perhaps
they might get a sleigh ride, at any rate they could slide down
hill, and chase the little snow birds here and there; but without
defining their feelings, they were happy, from a new sensation.
The snow is being heaped on the tops of the fences, on
the boughs of the trees; it blows against the face of the traveller,
who trudges along with his bundle on the end of a stick
which is swung over his shoulder; there is even a ridge of
snow on his staff, so steadily he carries it, and all over the rim
of his hat; he walks as one very tired, but as though he had
much of his journey to accomplish yet and did not mean to
stop till it was finished. “How far is it to Clovernook?” he asks
of a boy who is riding past without any saddle, and who holds
in one hand a jug; “To Clovernook, did you say, mister?”
the boy says, with an impish sort of look; the traveller nods
assent, and he replies, “Just as far again as half;” and striking
his horse with the heels of his boots, the animal starts forward,
throwing the snow in the face of the tired questioner. He looks
discouraged, sorrowful for a moment, and then, with his head
bent forward, to keep the snow as much as possible from his
face, walks on till, at the foot of a long ascent called Jonathan's
Hill, he reaches the great oak. Close about the trunk the ground
is bare, for the gray leaves hang thick on the boughs and interrupt
the snow. A little higher than his head there is a guideboard
nailed on this tree—white, with black letters—and
straining his eyes, he endeavors to read the direction, but it is
too dark. Before him it looks desolate, for on either side of
the road there are thick woods, and just on the slope of the hill,
and bordering the forest and the western roadside, he can see
of burial stones. It is a lonely scene, as I said, but he is weary,
and placing his bundle on the ground, he sits down to rest.
In the distance he hears the rumble of the stage coach—how
hollow it sounds as the horses trot across the bridge; and now
it comes nearer and nearer, so that the glimmer of the lamps is
seen; and now it is very near; the two forward horses are
white—how they toss their manes, and how high they hold their
heads! yet they are tired, gay and full of life as they seem,
and the driver pauses at the foot of the hill, that they may
recover themselves before the effort necessary to its ascent.
From the buffalo robe that is wrapt about him, he shakes the
snow, and claps his hands together, once or twice, to lessen
their numbness; he has stopt but a minute, but the travellers
inside seem impatient, and one and another head is thrust forth
from the window, and several voices ask what is the matter?
“Make yourselves easy,” he says, “this is a haunted hill, and
I must give my horses a little rest, so that they may get over
it fast as possible.”
“I perceive a ghost at the foot of this tree,” cries one of the
passengers, pointing to the oak, for the coach lamp shines on
the pedestrian, who sits within a circle of snow.
“Driver, keep your eye to the mail bags,” says one; “My
baggage all safe?” another; “Drive on, drive on!” a third, to
none of which requests or questions responds the lord of the
four horses, but gently brings his whip-lash down on the flank
of one of the leaders, and with a suden plunge, and then a
falling backward again, there is a general strain on the traces,
and the team goes forward, at a steady and even pace—
while the passengers enter into a thousand speculations about
an exhausted and harmless traveller: “Some drunken fellow, I
suspect,” one says; “No, no, he is some evil disposed person,
evidently,” another, “else why didn't he speak? he must have
heard us talking of him;” “Perhaps,” a third joins in, “he has
perished in the snow-storm, or he may have been murdered, or
even spirited from his way: who knows? this is a haunted hill;
didn't you say so, driver?” and the questioner put his head
from the window and laughed incredulously. “Don't freeze us
up his overcoat. “Don't you find the window annoyingly
cold, Miss?” inquires a small gentleman in a frockcoat and
black gloves, to the lady next him. “Not at all, sir,” she replies,
“the fresh air is agreeable to me.” “Well, ma'am,” says
an old woman with a bundle in her lap, “I wish them that
likes it had enough of it.” “Will thee have my cloak?” asks
a quiet looking gentleman in drab, “and then thee will be
pleased, and thee will be pleased,” nodding to both women.
“Don't let my preference inconvenience any one,” the young lady
remarks in a singularly sweet voice, and the old one reaches for
the cloak in silence. “I should think there was chance enough to
freeze with the window closed,” says the first speaker, shrugging
his shoulders. “I wonder how the deuce this chanced to be
called Jonathan's Hill?” put in a little wiry man, probably with
intent of changing the conversation; and a gentleman with a long
red neck, a clumsy hat very much over his eyes, and a yellow
handkerchief smelling strongly of snuff, responds as follows:
“When my father came to this country, sir, some thirty-five
years ago, this was about as rough a piece of road as you
could find: full of stumps, without any bridges, and never
having been graded at all, you can imagine, sir, something of
its condition. And this wood was then so dense that it was
almost impossible for a man to find his way through, and infested
with all sorts of wild beasts, as you may suppose. I
have heard my father say, he shot a bear once, just where
Squire Higgins's barn stands:” “Ah, indeed!” interrupted one
or two persons, though probably no one in the coach knew that
there was such a squire or barn; “Yes,” continued the narrator,
“right where the barn of Squire Higgins now stands, my father
shot a bear. I have heard him tell the story to Uncle Mike, a
number of times.” “Is it possible!” said the nearest listener,
by way of courtesy. “Yes, I've heard him tell Uncle Mike
more than once,” went on the man with the snuff scented
handkerchief, “and it's only last week I heard him tell it when
Eunice was at our house.” “And was this called Jonathan's
road then?” asked some one, by way of recalling him; and
having been brought back, he resumed: “When Jonathan
employ—mostly wild young men they were, but Jonathan was
as much a boy as any of them; so I have heard my father say;
and once I remember he told tailor John so, when tailor John
came to measure him for a new coat; and another time, when I
went with him to Irish Patrick's to buy some steers, he told
Irish Patrick the same thing. Well, Jonathan proposed to his
men a hunting expedition into these woods; so, early one September
morning they set out, and dividing into parties of two
or three, pursued whatever game they chanced to find, till
towards sunset, at which time it was agreed that the party comprising
the largest number should fire their guns in quick succession,
for the calling together of the straggling parties, with
so much of their game as they might be able to carry. A fire
was to be kindled, supper prepared, and the night passed in
true hunter style. The party of which Jonathan made one,
could not prevent him from straying apart, and in spite of repeated
remonstrances, he strolled farther and farther, until they
finally lost sight of him, and at night, when the signal was
made, party after party came in, but no Jonathan. They were
a jovial set, as may be supposed, and for some time felt no
alarm. A log-heap fire was kindled, supper cooked, with many
a jest, and after some little delay, eaten with keen enjoyment.
Cloaks and blankets were spread on the dry leaves under a
large tree, and with the game strewed all about, and swinging
from the branches of trees, they were about to lie down for the
night, when it was proposed by some one to fire another signal.
It was accordingly done, and contrary to expectation a reply
was heard in a minute afterward. `Ah, no fear of Jonathan, I
knew,' said one to another, and the embers were heaped
together, and a fresh surloin of venison was laid on the coals
in order to give him good cheer on his arrival.
“The mirth, which was flagging, grew louder again, and the red
sparkles ran far along the darkness, but not so far as the laughter.
At last the steak was done, and over-done, and the flame
flickering among the ashes, but Jonathan was not there. They
began to think they had been deceived as to the response to
their signal; `It didn't sound to me precisely like a gun,' said
again. Very eagerly they listened, but the sound had no sooner
fairly subsided, than the answer came clear and distinct, and all,
this time, professed to recognise the tone of Jonathan's piece.
But, nevertheless, after waiting half an hour, they began to feel
less positive, and another half hour was consumed in telling
stories of phantom ships and phantom guns, at the expiration
of which time the woods rung with a third signal, followed, like
the preceding ones, with a quick return; and this time it was
pretty generally agreed, that it was not Jonathan's gun at all,
and that he was doubtless murdered by savages, who responded
to the signals, to delay search. This question speedily woke
up a spirit of bravery, and all the company equipt themselves,
and set out to ransack that portion of the woods whence the
sound seemed to proceed. When the spot, or somewhere near
it, was supposed to be gained, another gun was fired, and to the
astonishment of all, the answering gun seemed just as far from
them as before. Some of the more timid, now proposed to return
to the camp, and even to get out of the woods if possible,
but others vowed that it would be a great shame to forsake a
distressed companion, whom they were probably even then
very near, and the search was renewed, but though it was kept
up for hours, they came no nearer to the mysterious gun of
which they heard the reports.
“About midnight, the moon rose full and bright, and just at
the foot of this hill, where old Major Hays is buried, the party,
tired, discouraged, and half afraid, it may be, struck into the
road, or all the road there then was—a sort of trail through
the wilderness. `Come, boys, let us fire a farewell signal,' said
one, emboldened by the moonlight, and a certain knowledge of
his whereabouts. `No, no,' was replied, `for I'll be shot, if he
hastn't been playing us a trick after all; just look there!' and
he pointed to a man, walking slowly, a little in advance of them,
whom all were ready to swear, was Jonathan Sumner. Very
slowly he walked, and as one in great pain; `but he sees us,'
they said, `and is seeking to palm on us a new trick; let us
not seem to notice him;' so, for a time, they walked as slowly
as the man in advance, but at length, they grew tired of their
him, but to express no surprise at meeting him thus, nor suffer
him to know they had felt the least uneasiness about him; and
thus, they thought, he will have had his pains for nothing.
`Haloo! Jonathan, won't you wait a little for us?' called one;
but Jonathan, with his gun pointed over his shoulder, made
no reply, but dragged himself forward as before, on which they
quickened their pace, with intent to overtake him as soon as
possible. But though Jonathan was so near, as they protested,
that they could see his gun distinctly, and the color of his coat,
on first mending their pace, they walked five minutes without
coming in the least nearer. Seeing this they began to run, and
at the end of five minutes were no nearer than before. Next,
they sat down, resolved to baffle him in some way, but after
waiting half an hour, the mysterious man was observed to be
standing stock still, precisely the same distance from them.
Frightened not a little, they proceeded again, but whether they
walked fast or slow, it mattered not, the phantom, or Jonathan,
or whatever it was, kept just as far away from them during
the whole journey home. Nearly opposite the new house, on
which they were at work, their attention was withdrawn from
the strange sight, by perceiving that a bright light burned in
one of the chambers, and on looking again, he was no where to
be seen; nor” concluded the story-teller, “has he ever been heard
of till now, and in this way, Jonathan's Hill got its name.”
“Is Mr. Timothy Sumner any way related to this strange person?”
asked the young lady who liked the air. “Only a
brother!” was the reply, and the speaker laughed, evidently
thinking he had said a witty thing. “And does the brother
inherit the estate?” asked the young lady. The gentleman said,
he didn't know, as to that, but that Timothy lived in Jonathan's
house, because other folks were afraid of the haunted
chamber, and he added, “Timothy has a son, a good deal like
his uncle, from all accounts.”
On hearing this, she asked the entertaining passenger if he
would be kind enough to stop the coach at the house of Mr.
Timothy Sumner. “No,” he said, “I stop at Uncle David's, but
I'll speak to the driver,” and looking from the window, he requested
added, “you may just leave me at Uncle David's.” Reseating
himself, he saw, he said, “an individual, a little in the rear
of the coach, and it might be Jonathan's ghost, for all he knew.”
There was a general strain to look out, and one devil-me-care
youth, called, “Ha, Jonathan Summer! is that you, or your
ghost?”
“It's me, myself,” exclaimed the man, “and a great many
years it is, since I went down this hill on the famous hunt.”
They had now gained the summit of the hill, and the passengers,
certainly, a little startled, were not sorry to hear the
smart crack of the whip, which sent the horses forward, almost
to the extent of their speed. There was a general buzz of animated
conversation, one asking, how soon they would be at Clovernook;
another wondering whether they would stop there to
supper; another, how soon they would reach the next station, &c.;
but the young lady remained silent and thoughtful. Presently
the stage stopt, and the gentleman with the snuff-scented handkerchief,
made his exit.
“I hope Uncle David's folks will be glad to see him,” said
the youth, who had spoken to the ghost, and before the laughter
had fully subsided, the reins were drawn up again, and the driver
called out, “Is there a passenger inside for Tim Sumners?”
and hearing the low-voiced response of a lady, he leapt to the
ground, and brushing aside the snow with his boot, assisted her
to alight, for coach-drivers are not without gallantry. At the
open gate, stood an elderly man with an umbrella over his head,
and holding a lantern, who received her with old fashioned courtesy.
The snow was still falling fast, but a path had been
cleared from the front gate to the piazze, and lights were burning
in various parts of the house—one, which the young lady was
sorry to see, in an upper chamber. “All right!” said the driver,
having deposited the bandbox within the gate, and the coach
rattled on again, while the gentleman conducted his charge
into the house, asking her, by the way, if she were not very
cold, how long the coach had been in coming up, &c.—unimpor
tant, but manifesting a kindly interest.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |