 | CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Somewhat wondering that the major should have turned aside
from the track, though without attaching to it any importance at
that particular moment, James Grayling took up the borrowed
axe and hurried back to the encampment, where the toil of cutting
an extra supply of light-wood to meet the exigencies of the
ensuing night, sufficiently exercised his mind as well as his body,
to prevent him from meditating upon the seeming strangeness of
the circumstance. But when he sat down to his supper over the
fire that he had kindled, his fancies crowded thickly upon him,
and he felt a confused doubt and suspicion that something was to
happen, he knew not what. His conjectures and apprehensions
were without form, though not altogether void; and he felt a
strange sickness and a sinking at the heart which was very unusual
with him. He had, in short, that lowness of spirits, that
cloudy apprehensiveness of soul which takes the form of presentiment,
and makes us look out for danger even when the skies are
without a cloud, and the breeze is laden, equally and only, with
balm and music. His moodiness found no sympathy among his
companions. Joel Sparkman was in the best of humours, and his
mother was so cheery and happy, that when the thoughtful boy
went off into the woods to watch, he could hear her at every moment
breaking out into little catches of a country ditty, which the
gloomy events of the late war had not yet obliterated from her
memory.
“It's very strange!” soliloquized the youth, as he wandered
along the edges of the dense bay or swamp-bottom, which we
have passingly referred to,—“it's very strange what troubles me
so! I feel almost frightened, and yet I know I'm not to be frightened
easily, and I don't see anything in the woods to frighten me.
It's strange the major didn't come along this road! Maybe he
took another higher up that leads by a different settlement. I
wish I had asked the man at the house if there's such another
have gone?”
The unphilosophical mind of James Grayling did not, in his
farther meditations, carry him much beyond this starting point;
and with its continual recurrence in soliloquy, he proceeded to
traverse the margin of the bay, until he came to its junction with,
and termination at, the high-road. The youth turned into this,
and, involuntarily departing from it a moment after, soon found
himself on the opposite side of the bay thicket. He wandered on
and on, as he himself described it, without any power to restrain
himself. He knew not how far he went; but, instead of maintaining
his watch for two hours only, he was gone more than four;
and, at length, a sense of weariness which overpowered him all
of a sudden, caused him to seat himself at the foot of a tree, and
snatch a few moments of rest. He denied that he slept in this
time. He insisted to the last moment of his life that sleep never
visited his eyelids that night,—that he was conscious of fatigue
and exhaustion, but not drowsiness,—and that this fatigue was so
numbing as to be painful, and effectually kept him from any sleep.
While he sat thus beneath the tree, with a body weak and nerveless,
but a mind excited, he knew not how or why, to the most
acute degree of expectation and attention, he heard his name
called by the well-known voice of his friend, Major Spencer.
The voice called him three times,—“James Grayling!—James!
—James Grayling!” before he could muster strength enough to
answer. It was not courage he wanted,—of that he was positive,
for he felt sure, as he said, that something had gone wrong, and
he was never more ready to fight in his life than at that moment,
could he have commanded the physical capacity; but his throat
seemed dry to suffocation,—his lips effectually sealed up as if
with wax, and when he did answer, the sounds seemed as fine
and soft as the whisper of some child just born.
“Oh! major, is it you?”
Such, he thinks, were the very words he made use of in reply;
and the answer that he received was instantaneous, though the
voice came from some little distance in the bay, and his own
voice he did not hear. He only knows what he meant to say.
The answer was to this effect.
“It is, James!—It is your own friend, Lionel Spencer, that
speaks to you; do not be alarmed when you see me! I have
been shockingly murdered!”
James asserts that he tried to tell him that he would not be
frightened, but his own voice was still a whisper, which he himself
could scarcely hear. A moment after he had spoken, he
heard something like a sudden breeze that rustled through the
bay bushes at his feet, and his eyes were closed without his effort,
and indeed in spite of himself. When he opened them, he saw
Major Spencer standing at the edge of the bay, about twenty
steps from him. Though he stood in the shade of a thicket, and
there was no light in the heavens save that of the stars, he was
yet enabled to distinguish perfectly, and with great ease, every
lineament of his friend's face.
He looked very pale, and his garments were covered with
blood; and James said that he strove very much to rise from the
place where he sat and approach him;—“for, in truth,” said the
lad, “so far from feeling any fear, I felt nothing but fury in my
heart; but I could not move a limb. My feet were fastened to
the ground; my hands to my sides; and I could only bend forward
and gasp. I felt as if I should have died with vexation
that I could not rise; but a power which I could not resist, made
me motionless, and almost speechless. I could only say, `Murdered!'—and
that one word I believe I must have repeated a
dozen times.
“ `Yes, murdered!—murdered by the Scotchman who slept
with us at your fire the night before last. James, I look to you
to have the murderer brought to justice! James!—do you hear
me, James?'
“These,” said James, “I think were the very words, or near
about the very words, that I heard; and I tried to ask the major
to tell me how it was, and how I could do what he required; but
I didn't hear myself speak, though it would appear that he did,
for almost immediately after I had tried to speak what I wished
to say, he answered me just as if I had said it. He told me that
the Scotchman had waylaid, killed, and hidden him in that very
bay; that his murderer had gone to Charleston; and that if I
made haste to town, I would find him in the Falmouth packet,
He farther said that everything depended on my making
haste,—that I must reach town by to-morrow night if I wanted to
be in season, and go right on board the vessel and charge the
criminal with the deed. `Do not be afraid,' said he, when he
had finished; `be afraid of nothing, James, for God will help and
strengthen you to the end.' When I heard all I burst into a flood
of tears, and then I felt strong. I felt that I could talk, or fight,
or do almost anything; and I jumped up to my feet, and was just
about to run down to where the major stood, but, with the first
step which I made forward, he was gone. I stopped and looked
all around me, but I could see nothing; and the bay was just as
black as midnight. But I went down to it, and tried to press in
where I thought the major had been standing; but I couldn't get
far, the brush and bay bushes were so close and thick. I was
now bold and strong enough, and I called out, loud enough to be
heard half a mile. I didn't exactly know what I called for, or
what I wanted to learn, or I have forgotten. But I heard nothing
more. Then I remembered the camp, and began to fear that
something might have happened to mother and uncle, for I now
felt, what I had not thought of before, that I had gone too far
round the bay to be of much assistance, or, indeed, to be in time for
any, had they been suddenly attacked. Besides, I could not think
how long I had been gone; but it now seemed very late. The
stars were shining their brightest, and the thin white clouds of
morning were beginning to rise and run towards the west. Well,
I bethought me of my course,—for I was a little bewildered and
doubtful where I was; but, after a little thinking, I took the back
track, and soon got a glimpse of the camp-fire, which was nearly
burnt down; and by this I reckoned I was gone considerably
longer than my two hours. When I got back into the camp, I
looked under the wagon, and found uncle in a sweet sleep, and
though my heart was full almost to bursting with what I had
heard, and the cruel sight I had seen, yet I wouldn't waken him;
and I beat about and mended the fire, and watched, and waited,
until near daylight, when mother called to me out of the
wagon, and asked who it was. This wakened my uncle, and
then I up and told all that had happened, for if it had been to
mother said it was very strange, Uncle Sparkman considered that
I had been only dreaming; but he couldn't persuade me of it;
and when I told him I intended to be off at daylight, just as the
major had told me to do, and ride my best all the way to Charleston,
he laughed, and said I was a fool. But I felt that I was no
fool, and I was solemn certain that I hadn't been dreaming; and
though both mother and he tried their hardest to make me put off
going, yet I made up my mind to it, and they had to give up.
For, wouldn't I have been a pretty sort of a friend to the major,
if, after what he told me, I could have stayed behind, and gone on
only at a wagon-pace to look after the murderer! I dont think
if I had done so that I should ever have been able to look a white
man in the face again. Soon as the peep of day, I was on horse-back.
Mother was mighty sad, and begged me not to go, but
Uncle Sparkman was mighty sulky, and kept calling me fool
upon fool, until I was almost angry enough to forget that we were
of blood kin. But all his talking did not stop me, and I reckon I
was five miles on my way before he had his team in traces for a
start. I rode as briskly as I could get on without hurting my
nag. I had a smart ride of more than forty miles before me, and
the road was very heavy. But it was a good two hours from
sunset when I got into town, and the first question I asked of
the people I met was, to show me where the ships were kept.
When I got to the wharf they showed me the Falmouth packet,
where she lay in the stream, ready to sail as soon as the wind
should favour.”
| CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin | |