 | CHAPTER VI. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
Leda awakened from her deep sleep to find herself alone with
the child. She was startled and alarmed at the absence of her
husband; but as the child was left—the great, and we may add,
the only, object for which she could have borne so much—she
was satisfied. On assuring herself of the departure of Houston
from the cave, she would unhesitatingly have taken hers also—
but the storm was now raging without, and, persuaded that her
husband had taken advantage of its violence to cross the barriers,
she gathered up the fragments of the last night's supper, and
was busy in giving her boy his little breakfast, when roused by
the voice of Arthur Holt. The story of the Epileptic was soon
told—as he had related it to Arthur. In this story, as there was
nothing improbable, both parties put implicit faith; and, cloaking
mother and child as well as he might, the young farmer bore
them through the close thicket to the place, some three hundred
yards without, where, on account of the denseness of the wood,
he had been compelled to leave the wagon. The horse of
Houston, the “Big Bay,” was next brought forth, but as Acker
could neither be persuaded to mount, or take him in charge, he
was restored to the covert until a better opportunity for removing
him. To the surprise of the young farmer, the Epileptic was
equally firm in refusing to go with him in the wagon. “I don't
mind the rain,” said he, “it can't hurt me.” “He will get his
death,” said Leda. “Not he,” replied Arthur, as Acker scampered
through the woods; “the water always helps him in his
fits.” While the wagon took one course, he took another.
Little did they suspect his route. A terrible feeling carried him
back to Reedy River—to a pitiless watch above that natural tomb
in which he had buried his living victim.
Meanwhile, what of Houston? When he recovered his consciousness,
the vault had been closed upon him; the flat mass,
once set in motion, had slid down the smooth edges of the
him, shutting out light almost equally with hope. But a faint
glimmering reached the interior of the cell, from a crevice on
one side, where, in consequence of some inequality of the edges,
the lid had not settled fairly down upon it. It was the side
opposite to that in which his fingers had been crushed, and
where the stone still maintained its hold upon the mutilated
member. He heard the whistling of the wind, the hoarse rush
of the waters, and the heavy fall of the rain without, and a shuddering
sense of his true situation rushed instantly upon his soul.
For a moment he sank back, appalled, oppressed; but the
numbing pain of his injured hand and wrist, up to his elbow,
recalled him to the necessity of effort. Houston was a man of
strong will and great energies. Though at the first moment of
consciousness oppressed and overcome, the outlaw soon recovered
himself. It was necessary that he should do something
for his extrication. The light shut out, if not entirely the air,
is one of those fearful facts to rouse a man in his situation and
of his character, to all his energies. But the very first movement
was one to awaken him still more sensibly to his dangers.
Having arisen to grasp the sides of the vault, which, in the place
where he had laid his hand was fully five feet high, his position
when fixed there, was that of a man partially supended in the
air. His right hand could barely touch the floor of the chamber.
His left was utterly useless. In this position he could not even
exert the strength which he possessed; and, after an ineffectual
effort, he sank back again in momentary consternation. The
horror of that moment, passed in thought,—the despair which it
occasioned—was the parent of new strength. He came to a
terrible decision. To avail himself of his right hand, it was
necessary that he should extricate the other. He had already
tried to do so, by a vain effort at lifting the massive lid of his
coffin. The heavy plate no longer vibrated upon a pivot. It
had sunk into a natural position, which each upright evenly
maintained. The hand was already lost to him. He resolved
that it should not render the other useless. With a firmness
which might well excite admiration, he drew the couteau de
chasse from his bosom, and deliberately smote off the mutilated
—from the uninjured,—falling heavily back upon the stone floor
the moment the hand was freed. But this time he had not
fainted, though the operation tended to restore the hand, which
had been deadened by the pressure and pain of its position, to
something like sensibility. But such pain was now but slightly
felt; and, wrapping the hand up in his handkerchief, he prepared
with due courage for the difficult task before him. But the very
first effort almost convinced him of its hopelessness. In vain
did he apply the strength of his muscular arm, the force of his
broad shoulders, his sinewy and well-supported frame. Forced
to crouch in his narrow limits, it was not possible for him to
apply, to advantage, the strength which he really possessed; and,
from the extreme shallowness of his cell in the lower extremity,
he was unable to address his efforts to that part where the stone
was thinnest. At the upper part, where he could labour, the
mass was greatly thicker than the rest; and it was the weight
of this mass, rather than the strength of Acker,—the momentum
once given it from above,—that carried the plate along to the foot
of the plane. His exertions were increased as his strength
diminished—the cold sweat poured from his brow,—and, toiling
against conviction—in the face of his increasing terrors,—he at
length sunk back in exhaustion. From time to time, at brief
intervals, he renewed his toils, each time with new hope, each
time with a new scheme for more successful exertion. But the
result was, on each occasion, the same; and, yielding to despair,
he threw himself upon the bottom of his cell and called death to
his relief.
While thus prostrate, with his face pressed upon the chilling
pavement, he suddenly starts, almost to his feet, and a new terror
seizes upon his soul. He is made conscious of a new and
pressing danger. Is it the billows of the river—the torrents
swollen above their bounds—that beat against the walls of his
dungeon? Is it the advancing waters that catch his eye glimmering
faint at his feet, as they penetrate the lower crevice of
the coffin? A terrible shudder shook his frame! He cannot
doubt this new danger, and he who, a moment before, called
upon death to relieve him from his terrors, now shouts, under
shape. It is necessary that he should employ all his
strength—that he should make other and more desperate efforts.
He rises, almost erect. He applies both arms—the maimed as
well as the sound,—almost unconscious of the difference, to the
lid of his tomb. “Buried alive!” he cries aloud—“Buried
alive!” and at each cry, his sinewy arms shoot up—his broad
shoulders are raised:—his utmost powers, concentrated upon the
one point, in the last effort of despair, must surely be successful.
His voice shouts with his straining sinews. He feels the mass
above him yielding. Once more—and once again,—and still he
is encouraged. The lid vibrates—he could not be deceived,—
but oh! how slightly. Another trial—he moves it as before,
but as his strength fails, his efforts relax,—and it sinks down
heavily in its place. Breathless, he crouches in his cell. He
listens! Is it a footstep?—It is a movement!—the stones
fall about the roof of his narrow dwelling. A human agency
is above. “Hurrah!” he cries—“Hurrah! Throw off the
stone—crush it—crush it! There is no time to be lost!”
For a moment he fancies that the movement above is one intended
for his relief. But what mean these rolling stones? A
new apprehension possesses him in the very moment of his
greatest hope. He rises. Once more he extends his arms, he
applies his shoulders; but he labours now in vain. His strength
is not less—his efforts are not more feebler—in this than in
his former endeavours. He cannot doubt the terrible truth!
New stones have been piled above his head. He is doomed!
His utmost powers fail to move the mass from its place. His
human enemy is unrelenting. He cries to him in a voice of
equal inquiry and anguish.
“Who is there? what enemy? who? Speak to me! who is
above me? Who? Who!”
Can it be? He is answered by a chuckle—a fell, fiendish
laugh—the most terrible sort of answer. Can it be that a
mortal would so laugh at such a moment? He tries to recall
those to whom he has given most occasion for vindictiveness and
hate. He names “Arthur Holt!” He is again answered by a
chuckle, and now he knows his enemy.
“God of heaven!” he exclaims, in the bitter anguish of his
discovery, “and can it be that I am doomed to perish by this
most miserable of all my foes!”
Once more he rushes against the mass above him, but this
time with his head alone. He sinks down stunned upon the
floor, and is aroused by the water around him. Inch by inch
it rises. He knows the character of the stream. It will be
above him, unless he is relieved, in less than an hour. The proud
and reckless outlaw is humbled. He condescends to entreat
the wretched creature to whom he owes his situation. He implores
forgiveness—he promises reward. He begs—he threatens
—he execrates. He is answered by a chuckle as before; the
Epileptic sits upon his coffin-lid, and the doomed man can hear
his heels without, as they beat time with the winds and waters,
against the sides of his tomb. Meanwhile, the water presses in
upon him—he feels its advance around him—it is now about his
knees—in another moment it is every where. It has gradually
ascended the plane—it now spreads over the entire floor of his
dungeon. He grasps his pistols, which he had laid down beside
him, and applies their muzzles to his head. He is too late.
They are covered with water, and refuse fire. His knife is
no longer to be found. It had dropped from his right hand
when he smote off the fingers of the left, and had probably
rolled down the plane to the bottom, where, covered with water,
it is impossible to recover it. Hope within, and hope from
without, have failed him equally; and, except in prayer, there
is no refuge from the pang of death. But prayer is not easy to
him who has never believed in the efficacy of its virtues. How
can he pray to be forgiven, who has never been taught to forgive.
He tries to pray! The Epileptic without, as he stoops
his ear, can catch the fragmentary plea, the spasmodic adjuration,
the gasping, convulsive utterance, from a throat around
which the waters are already wreathing with close and unrelaxing
grasp. Suddenly the voice ceases—there is a hoarse
murmur—the struggle of the strong man among the waters,
which press through the crevices between the lid and the sides
of the dungeon. As the convulsion ceases, the Epileptic starts to
his feet, with a terror which he had not felt before; and, looking
hills.
Thus ends our legend of the “Giant's Coffin.” Tradition does
not tell us of the farther fortunes of Leda Houston. Some pages
of the chronicle have dropped. It is very certain, however, that
Arthur Holt, like Benedick, lived to be a married man, and died
the father of several children—the descendants of some of whom
still live in the same region. Of the “Coffin” itself, some fragments,
and, it is thought, one of the sides, may be shown, but it
was “blown up” by the very freshet which we have described,
and the body of Houston drifted down to the opposite shore. It
was not till long after that Acker confessed the share which he
had in the manner of his death and burial.
| CHAPTER VI. The wigwam and the cabin | |