 | CHAPTER V. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
Pursuit under present circumstances was pretty much out of
the question—yet Arthur Holt determined upon it. John Houston
was mounted upon one of the most famous horses of the
country. He had enjoyed a rest of a couple of hours before the
troopers came upon him. The steeds of the latter, at all times
inferior, were jaded with the day's journey. Any attempt at
direct pursuit would, therefore, in all probability, only end in
driving the Tory out of the neighbourhood, thus increasing the
chances of his final escape. This was by no means the object
of the party, and when Arthur ordered the pursuit, some of his
men remonstrated by showing, or endeavouring to show, that such
must be the effect of it. Arthur Holt, however, had his own
objects. But his commands were resisted by no less a person
than Leda herself.
“Do not pursue, Arthur, for my sake, do not pursue. My
child!—he will slay my child if you press him hard. He is desperate.
You know him not. Press him not, for my sake,—for
the child's sake,—but let him go free.”
The entreaty, urged strenuously and with all those tears and
prayers which can only flow from a mother's heart, was effectual—at
least to prevent that direct pursuit which Arthur had
meditated. But, though his companions favoured the prayers of
the wife and mother, they were very far from being disposed to
let the Tory go free. On the contrary, when, a little after, they
drew aside to the copse for the purpose of farther consultation,
Arthur Holt found, to his chagrin, that his course with regard
to Houston was certainly suspected. His comrades assumed a
decision in the matter which seemed to take the business out of
his hands. Young Fletchall did not scruple to say, that he was
not satisfied with the spirit which Arthur had shown in the pursuit;
and the hints conveyed by more than one, in the course of
the discussion, were of such a nature, that the mortified Arthur
no regret or dissatisfaction. Fletchall was immediately invested
with it, and proceeded to exercise it with a degree of acuteness
and vigour which soon satisfied the party of his peculiar fitness
for its duties. His plan was simple but comprehensive. He
said: “We cannot press the pursuit, or we drive him off; but
we can so fix it as to keep him where he is. If we do not press
him, he will keep in the woods, near abouts, till he can find some
chance of getting the child to the mother again. There's no
doubt an understanding between them. She knows where to find
him in the woods, or he'll come back at night to the farm. We
must put somebody to watch over all her movements. Who will
that be?”
The question was answered by the epileptic, Acker, who, unasked,
had hung upon the skirts of the party.
“I will watch her!”
“You!”
“Yes! I'm as good a one as you can get.”
“Very well! but suppose you have one of your fits, Acker!”
“I won't have one now for two weeks. My time's over for
this month.”
“Well, in two weeks, I trust, his time will be over too. We
will get some twenty more fellows and make a ring round him.
That's my plan. Don't press, for I wouldn't have him hurt the
child; but mark him when he aims to pass the ring.”
The plan thus agreed on, with numerous details which need
not be given here, was immediately entered upon by all parties.
Arthur Holt alone took no share in the adventure. The design
was resolved upon even without his privity, though the general
object could not be concealed from his knowledge. On throwing
up his commission he had withdrawn from his comrades, under a
show of mortification, which was regarded as sufficiently natural
by those around him to justify such a course. He returned to
his farm on Reedy River, but he was no indifferent or inactive
spectator of events.
Meanwhile, John Houston had found a temporary retreat some
six miles distant from the dwelling of his wife. It was a spot
seemingly impervious, in the density of its woods, to the steps of
deepened, in all probability, by the bear, who had left it as a
heritage to the hunter to whom he had yielded up his ears.
The retreat was known to the hunter only. He had added, from
time to time, certain little improvements of his own. Cells were
opened on one side, and then the other. These were strewn with
dried leaves and rushes, and, at the remote inner extremity,
a fourth hollow had been prepared so as to admit of fire, the
smoke finding its way through a small and simple opening
at the top. All around this rude retreat the woods were dense,
the hunter being at particular pains to preserve it as a place of
secrecy and concealment. Its approach was circuitous, and the
very entrance upon it, one of those happy discoveries, by which
nature is made to accomplish the subtlest purposes of art. Two
gigantic shafts, shooting out from the same root, had run up in
diverging but parallel lines, leaving between them an opening
through which, at a moderate bound, a steed might make his
way. On each side of this mighty tree the herbage crowded
closely; the tree itself seemed to close the passage, and behind
it care was taken, by freely scattering brush and leaves, to remove
any traces of horse or human footsteps. In this place
John Houston found refuge. To this place, in the dead of night,
the unhappy Leda found her way. How she knew of the spot
may be conjectured only. But, prompted by a mother's love
and a mother's fears, she did not shrink from the task of exploring
the dreary forest alone. Here she found her miserable
husband, and was once more permitted to clasp her infant to
her bosom. The little fellow slept soundly upon the rushes, in
one of the recesses of the cave. The father sat at the entrance,
keeping watch over him. His stern eye looked upon the embrace
of mother and child with a keen and painful interest; and
when the child, awakened out of sleep, shrieking with joy, clung
to the neck of the mother, sobbing her name with a convulsive
delight, he turned from the spectacle with a single sentence,
muttered through his closed teeth, by which we may see what
his meditations had been—“Had the brat but called me father!”
The words were unheard by the mother, too full of joy to be
conscious of any thing but her child and her child's recovery.
him and take the child with her, she was confounded to meet
with denial.
“No!” said the brutal father. “He remains with me. If he
is my child, he shall remain as my security and yours. Hear
me, woman! Your ruffians have not pursued me; your Arthur
Holt knows better than to press upon me; but I know their aims.
They have covered the outlets. They would make my captivity
secure. I wish but three days; in that time, Cunningham will
give them employment, and I shall walk over them as I please.
But, during that time, I shall want food for myself and horse—
perhaps you will think there is some necessity for bringing food
to the child. I do not object to that. Bring it then yourself,
nightly, and remember, the first show of treachery seals his
fate!”
He pointed to the child as he spoke.
“Great God!” she exclaimed. “Are you a man, John
Houston! Will you keep the infant from me!”
“Ay!—you should thank heaven that I do not keep you from
him also. But away! Bring the provisions! Be faithful, and
you shall have the child. But, remember! if I am entrapped,
he dies!”
We pass over the horror of the mother. At the dawn of day,
as she was hurrying, but not unseen, along the banks of Reedy
River, she was encountered by Arthur Holt.
“I went to your house at midnight, Leda, to put you on your
guard,” was the salutation of the farmer. “I know where you
have bee, and can guess what duty is before you. I must also
tell you its danger.”
He proceeded to explain to her the watch that was put upon
her movements, and the cordon militaire by which her husband
was surrounded.
“What am I to do!” was her exclamation, as, wringing her
hands, the tears for the first time flowed freely from her eyes.
“I will tell you! Go not back to your cottage, till you can
procure the child. Go now to the stone heap on the river bank
below, which they call the `Giant's Coffin.' There, in an hour
from now, I will bring you a basket of provisions. The place
will have got the child. Nightly, I will fill the basket in the
same place, which, at the dawn, you can procure. Go now, before
we are seen, and God be with you!”
They separated—the young farmer for his home, and Leda
for the gloomy vault which popular tradition had dignified with
the title of the “Giant's Coffin.” This was an Indian giant, by
the way, whose exploits, in the erection of Table Mountain, for
gymnastic purposes, would put to shame the inferior feats of the
devil, under direction of Merlin or Michael Scott. But we have
no space in this chapter for such descriptions. Enough if we
give some idea of the sort of coffin and the place of burial which
the giant selected for himself, when he could play his mountain
pranks no longer. The coffin was a vaulted chamber of stone,
lying at the river's edge, and liable to be overflowed in seasons
of freshet. It took its name from its shape. Its area was an
oblong square, something more than twelve feet in length, and
something less than five in breadth. Its depth at the upper end
was about six feet, but it sloped gradually down, until, at the
bottom, the ends lay almost even with the surrounding rocks.
The inner sides were tolerably smooth and upright—the outer
presented the appearance of huge boulders, in no way differing
from the ordinary shape and externals of such detached masses.
The separate parts had evidently, at one period, been united.
Some convulsion of nature had fractured the mass, and left the
parts in a position so relative, that tradition might well be permitted
to assume the labours of art in an achievement which was
really that of nature alone. To complete the fancied resemblance
of this chamber to a coffin, it had a lid; a thin layer of
stone, detached from the rest, which, as the earth around it had
been loosened and washed away by the rains, had gradually
slid down from the heights above, and now in part rested upon
the upper end of the vault. The boys at play, uniting their
strength, had succeeded in forcing it down a foot or more, so
that it now covered, securely from the weather, some four or
five feet of the “Giant's Coffin.” It was at this natural chamber
that Arthur Holt had counselled Leda Houston to remain, until
he could bring the promised supply of provisions. This he did,
ceased to be necessary; to this spot did the wretched wife and
mother repair before dawn of every morning, bearing her burden
with all the uncomplaining meekness of a broken heart. We
must suppose, in the meantime, that the cordon has been drawn
around the tract of country in which it was known that Houston
harboured. The news was spread, at the same time, that an
attack might be expected from Bloody Bill Cunningham, or
some of his men; and the consequence was, that the country
was every where in arms and vigilant. A feeling of pity for
Leda Houston, who was generally beloved, alone prevented the
more daring young men from pressing upon the fugitive, hunting
him, with dog and fire, and bringing the adventure to a fierce
and final issue. Meanwhile, the epileptic, Acker, was active
in the business which he had undertaken. He was partially
successful—but of his proceedings we must speak at another
moment.
The situation of Leda Houston was in no ways improved by
the diligence, the patience, the devotion which she displayed in
her servitude. She did not seem to make any progress in subduing
the inexorable nature of her husband. She was permitted
to be with and to feed her child; to clasp him to her bosom
when she slept, and to watch over his sleep with that mixed
feeling of hope and fear, which none but a mother knows. But
these were all her privileges. The brutal father, still insinuating
base and unworthy suspicions, declared that the child should
remain, a pledge of her fidelity, and a partial guaranty for his
own safety.
Four days had now elapsed in this manner. On the morning
of the fifth, at a somewhat later hour than usual, she re-appeared
with her basket, and, having set down her stores, proceeded to
tell her husband of the arrival of a certain squad of troopers,
“Butler's men,” known for the fierce hostility with which they
hunted the men of “Cunningham.” The tidings gave him some
concern. He saw in it the signs of a dogged determination
of the neighbourhood to secure him at all hazards; since, from
what he knew of the present condition of the war, these men
could be required in that quarter only for some such purpose.
question, which she answered in the negative. “Who told
you then of their arrival?” She was silent! Her countenance
underwent a change. “Woman! you have spoken with
Holt! These are his provisions!” With a blow of his foot he
struck the basket from her hand, and, in his fury, trampled
upon the scattered stores. It was with difficulty that the unhappy
woman gathered up enough to pacify the hunger of the
child. That day was passed in sullen and ferocious silence on
his part—on hers in mute caresses of her boy. His darker
suspicions were in full force, and darker thoughts came with
them. “Could I but know!” he muttered. “The child has
my mouth and nose; but the forehead, the hair, the eyes,—are
his!” Convulsed with terrible fancies, the miserable man hurried
to the entrance of the cavern, and throwing himself upon
the earth, leaned back, and looked up through the leafy openings
at the bits of sky that were suffered to appear above. In this
gloomy mood and posture, hours passed by as moments. It was
midnight. A change of weather was at hand. The stars were
hidden—the sky overcast with clouds, while the winds, seeming
to subside, were moaning through the woods as one in a deep
and painful sleep. The sound, the scene, were congenial with
the outlaw's soul. It was full of angry elements that only
waited the signal to break forth in storm. Suddenly, he was
roused from his meditations by the cessation of all sounds from
within the cave. The mother slept there, she had been playing
with the child, and he upon her bosom. Nature, in her case,
had sunk, in spite of sorrow, under fatigue. And she slept
deeply, her slumbers broken only by a plaintive moaning of
those griefs that would not sleep. With a strange curiosity
Houston seated himself quietly beside the pair, while his eyes
keenly perused the calm and innocent features of the child.
Long was the study, and productive of conflicting emotions. It
was interrupted with a start, and his eyes involuntarily turned,
with even a less satisfied expression, upon the features of his
wife.
But it was not to watch or to enjoy the beauty which he beheld,
that John Houston now bent his dark brows over the sleeping
of a wild and fearful curiosity suddenly aroused. She had spoken
in her sleep. She had uttered a word—a name—which, of
all others, was most likely, from any lips, to awaken his most
angry emotions,—from her lips, most terrible. The name was
that of Arthur Holt,—and she still murmured. The ears of the
suspicious husband were placed close to her lips, that none of
the whispered sounds might escape him. He heard enough to open
to him a vista, at the extremity of which his diseased imagination
saw the worst shapes of hate and jealousy. With the pressing
thought in her memory of the tasks before her, she spoke of the
little basket—the bread—the bottle of milk, the slender slices of
ham or venison—which she had been accustomed to receive and
bring. Then came the two words, “Giant's Coffin,” and the
quick fancy of the outlaw, stimulated by hate and other passions,
immediately reached, at a bound, the whole narrative of her dependence
upon Holt and her meetings with him at the “Giant's
Coffin!”
A dark smile passed over his countenance. It was the smile
of a demon, who is at length, after long being baffled, in possession
of his prey. Leda slept on—soundly slept—for nature had at
length coerced the debtor, and compelled her rights—and the
hour was approaching when it was usual for her to set out on
her nightly progress. The resolution came, quick as lightning,
to the mind of the ruffian. He rose stealthily from the rushes,
—drew his pistols from his belt, silently examined the flints, and,
looking at the knife in his bosom, stole forth from the cavern.
With a spirit exulting with the demonaic hope of assuring himself
of a secret long suspected, and of realizing a vengeance
long delayed,—and familiar, night and day, with every step in
his progress, he hurried directly across the country to the banks
of Reedy River. The night, by this time, had become tempestuous.
Big drops of rain already began to fall; but these caused
no delay to the hardy outlaw. He reached the river, and,
moving now with cautious steps from rock to rock, he approached
the “Giant's Coffin” with the manner of one who expects
to find a victim and an enemy. One hand grasped a pistol,
the other a knife!—and, stealing onward with the pace of the Indian,
chamber with his keenest eyes. It was untenanted. “I am too
soon,” he muttered. “Well! I can wait!” And where better
to await the victim—where more secure from detection—than in
the vault which lay before him!—one half covered from the
weather and shut in from all inspection,—that alone excepted, for
which he had come prepared. The keen gusts of wind which
now came across the stream laden with rain, was an additional
motive to this movement. He obeyed the suggestion, passed into
the mouth of the “Coffin;” and, crouching from sight, in a sitting
posture, in the upper or covered part of the chamber, he sat
with the anxiety of a passion which did not, however, impair its
patience, awaiting for his foe.
He had not reached this position unseen or unaccompanied.
We have already intimated that Acker, the epileptic, had made
some progress in his discoveries. With the singular cunning,
and the wonderful acuteness which distinguish some of the
faculties, where others are impaired in the same individual, he
had contrived, unseen and unsuspected, to track Leda Houston
to the place of her husband's concealment. He had discovered
the periods of her incoming and departure, and, taking his rest
at all other periods, he was always prepared to renew his surveillance
at those moments when the wife was to go forth. He had
barely resumed his watch, on the night in question, when he
was surprised to see Houston himself and not his wife emerging
from the cave. He followed cautiously his footsteps. Light of
foot, and keeping at convenient distance, his espionage was
farther assisted by the wind, which, coming in their faces,
effectually kept all sounds of pursuit from the ears of the outlaw.
His progress was not so easy when the latter emerged from the
woods, and stood upon the banks of the river. His approach
now required more caution; but, stealing on from shrub to shrub,
and rock to rock, Acker at length stood—or rather crouched—
upon the brink of the river also, and at but small distance from
the other. But of this distance he had ceased to be conscious.
He was better informed, however, when, a moment after, he
heard a dull, clattering, but low sound, which he rightly conjectured
to have been caused by some pressure upon the lower lid
vibrate slightly, in spite of its great length and weight, under
any pressure from above. This sound apprised Acker of the
exact whereabouts of the outlaw, and his keen eyes at length
detected the dim outline of the latter's form, as he stood upon
the lid of the Coffin, the moment before he disappeared within its
recesses. Encouraged to advance, by the disappearance of the
other, the Epileptic did so with extreme caution. He was
favoured by the hoarse tumbling of the water as it poured its
way among the rocks, and by the increasing discords of the
wind and rain, which now came down in heavy showers. As
he crawled from rock to rock, with the stealthy movement of a
cat along some precipitous ledge, shrinking and shivering beneath
the storm, his own desire for shelter led him suddenly to the
natural conclusion that Houston had found his within the vault.
The ideas of Acker came to him slowly; but, gradually, as he
continued to approach, he remembered the clattering of the Coffin-lid,—he
remembered how, in his more youthful days, the boys,
with joint strength, had forced it to its present place, and he
conceived the sudden purpose of making the Coffin of the Giant,
that also of the deadly enemy whose boyish persecutions he had
neither forgot nor forgiven. To effect his present object, which,
suddenly conceived, became for the time an absorbing thirst, a
positive frenzy, in his breast,—he concentrated all his faculties,
whether of mind or of body, upon his task. His pace was
deliberate, and, so stealthy, that he reached the upper end of
the Coffin, laid himself down beside it, and, applying his ear to
one of the crevices, distinctly heard the suppressed breathings of
the man within. Crawling back, he laid his hands lightly and
with the greatest care upon the upper and heavier end of the
stone. His simple touch, so nicely did it seem to be balanced,
caused its vibration; and with the first consciousness of its
movement, Houston, whom we must suppose to have been lying
down, raising his pistol with one hand, laid the other on one of
the sides of the vault, with the view, as it was thought, to lift
himself from his recumbent position. He did so just as the
huge plate of stone was set in motion, and the member was
caught and closely wedged between the mass and the side of the
The fingers were crushed, the hand was effectually secured. But
for this, so slow was the progress of the stone, that it would
have been very easy for Houston to have scrambled out before the
vault was entirely closed in. Slowly, but certainly, the lid went
down. Ignorant of the peculiar occasion of the outlaw's groans,
the Epileptic answered them with a chuckle, which, had the
former been conscious, would have taught him his enemy. But
he had fainted. The excruciating agony of his hurt had been
too much for his strength. Acker finished his work without
interruption; then piling upon the plate a mountain of smaller
stones, he dashed away in the direction of Holt's cottage. Here
he encountered the young farmer, busy, as was usual about that
hour, in making up his little basket of provisions. A few words
from the Epileptic sufficed to inform him that they were no longer
necessary—that Houston was gone—fled—utterly escaped, and
now, in all probability, beyond pursuit. Such was the tale he
told. He had his policy in it. The characteristic malignant
cunning which had prompted him to the fearful revenge which
he had taken upon his enemy, was studious now to keep it
from being defeated. To have told the truth, would have been
to open the “Giant's Coffin,” to undo all that had been done,
and once more let free the hated tyrant upon whose head he had
visited the meditated retribution of more than twenty years.
Acker well knew the generous nature of the young farmer, and
did not doubt that, if he declared the facts, Arthur would have
proceeded at once to the rescue of the common enemy. He
suppressed all show of exultation, made a plausible story—it
matters not of what sort—by which to account for the flight of
Houston; and, the consequence was, that, instead of proceeding
as before to the “Giant's Coffin,” Arthur Holt now prepared to
set out for the “Hunter's Cave.” But the day had broke in
tempest. A fearful storm was raging. The windows of heaven
were opened, the rain came down in torrents, and the wind went
forth with equal violence, as if from the whole four quarters of
the earth. The young farmer got out his little wagon, and
jumping in, Acker prepared to guide him to the place of retreat.
“The river is rising fast, Peter,” was the remark of Arthur
its way.
“Yes!” said the other, with a sort of hiccough, by which he
suppressed emotions which he did not venture to declare: “Yes!
I reckon 'twon't be many hours afore it fills the `Coffin.' ”
“If it keeps on at this rate,” returned the other, “one hour
will be enough to do that.”
“Only one, you think?”
“Yes! one will do!”
Another hiccough of the Epileptic appropriately finished the
dialogue.
| CHAPTER V. The wigwam and the cabin | |