 | The wigwam and the cabin |  |
THOSE OLD LUNES!
OR, WHICH IS THE MADMAN?
1. CHAPTER I.
“I am but mad, North—North-West: when the wind is southerly, I know
a hawk from a handsaw.”
—Hamlet.
We had spent a merry night of it. Our stars had paled their
not ineffectual fires, only in the daylight; and while Dan Phœbus
was yet rising, “jocund on the misty mountain's top,” I was busy
in adjusting my foot in the stirrup and mounting my good steed
“Priam,” to find my way by a close cut, and through narrow
Indian trails, to my lodgings in the little town of C.—,on the very
borders of Mississippi. There were a dozen of us, all merry
larks, half mad with wine and laughter, and the ride of seven
miles proved a short one. In less than two hours, I was snugly
snoozing in my own sheets, and dreaming of the twin daughters
of old Hansford Owens.
Well might one dream of such precious damsels. Verily, they
seemed, all of a sudden, to have become a part of my existence.
They filled my thoughts, excited my imagination, and,—if it be
not an impertinence to say any thing of the heart of a roving lad
of eighteen,—then were they at the very bottom of mine.—Both of
them, let me say,—for they were twins, and were endowed with
equal rights by nature. I was not yet prepared to say what was
the difference, if any, between their claims. One was fair, the
other brown; one pensive, the other merry as the cricket of
Venus. Susannah was meek as became an Elder's daughter;
Emmeline so mischievous, that she might well have worried the
I confess, though I thought constantly of Susannah, I always
looked after Emmeline the first. She was the brunette—
one of your flashing, sparkling, effervescing beauties,—perpetually
running over with exultation—brimfull of passionate fancies
that tripped, on tiptoe, half winged, through her thoughts. She
was a creature to make your blood bound in your bosom,—to
take you entirely off your feet, and fancy, for the moment, that
your heels are quite as much entitled to dominion as your head.
Lovely too,—brilliant, if not absolutely perfect in features—she
kept you always in a sort of sunlight. She sung well, talked
well, danced well—was always in air—seemed never herself to
lack repose, and, it must be confessed, seldom suffered it to any
body else. Her dancing was the crowning grace and glory. She
was no Taglioni—not an Ellsler—I do not pretend that. But she
was a born artiste. Every motion was a study. Every look
was life. Her form subsided into the sweetest luxuriance of attitude,
and rose into motion with some such exquisite buoyancy,
as would become Venus issuing from the foam. Her very affectations
were so naturally worn, that you at length looked for them
as essential to her charm. I confess—but no! Why should I
do any thing so foolish?
Susannah was a very different creature. She was a fair girl
—rather pale, perhaps, when her features were in repose. She
had rich soft flaxen hair, and dark blue eyes. She looked rather
than spoke. Her words were few, her glances many. She was
not necessarily silent in silence. On the contrary, her very silence
had frequently a significance, taken with her looks, that
needed no help from speech. She seemed to look through you at
a glance, yet there was a liquid sweetness in her gaze, that disarmed
it of all annoyance. If Emmeline was the glory of the
sunlight—Susannah was the sovereign of the shade. If the song
of the one filled you with exultation, that of the other awakened
all your tenderness. If Emmeline was the creature for the
dance,—Susannah was the wooing, beguiling Egeria, who could
snatch you from yourself in the moments of respite and repose.
For my part, I felt that I could spend all my mornings with the
former, and all my evenings with the latter. Susannah with her
accents, shone out upon me at nightfall, as that last star that
watches in the vault of night for the coming of the sapphire dawn.
So much for the damsels. And all these fancies, not to say
feelings, were the fruit of but three short days acquaintance with
their objects. But these were days when thoughts travel merrily
and fast—when all that concerns the fancies and the affections,
are caught up in a moment, as if the mind were nothing but a
congeries of instincts, and the sensibilities, with a thousand delicate
antennæ, were ever on the grasp for prey.
Squire Owens was a planter of tolerable condition. He was a
widower, with these two lovely and lovable daughters—no more.
But, bless you! Mine was no calculating heart. Very far from
it. Neither the wealth of the father, nor the beauty of the girls,
had yet prompted me to think of marriage. Life was pleasant
enough as it was. Why burden it? Let well enough alone, say
I. I had no wish to be happier. A wife never entered my
thoughts. What might have come of being often with such damsels,
there's no telling; but just then, it was quite enough to
dance with Emmeline, and muse with Susannah, and—vive la
bagatelle!
I need say nothing more of my dreams, since the reader sufficiently
knows the subject. I slept late that day, and only rose in
time for dinner, which, in that almost primitive region, took place
at 12 o'clock, M. I had no appetite. A herring and soda water
might have sufficed, but these were matters foreign to the manor.
I endured the day and headache together, as well as I could,
slept soundly that night, with now the most ravishing fancies of
Emmeline, and now the pleasantest dreams of Susannah, one or
other of whom still usurped the place of a bright particular star in
my most capacious fancy. Truth is, in those heydey days, my
innocent heart never saw any terrors in polygamy. I rose a new
man, refreshed and very eager for a start. I barely swallowed
breakfast when Priam was at the door. While I was about to
mount, with thoughts filled with the meek beauties of Susannah,
—I was arrested by the approach of no less a person than Ephraim
Strong, the village blacksmith.
“You're guine to ride, I see.”
“Yes.”
“To Squire Owens, I reckon.”
“Right.”
“Well, keep a sharp look out on the road, for there's news
come down that the famous Archy Dargan has broke Hamilton
gaol.”
“And who's Archy Dargan?”
“What! don't know Archy? Why, he's the madman that's
been shut up there, it's now guine on two years.”
“A madman, eh?”
“Yes, and a mighty sevagerous one at that. He's the cunningest
white man going. Talks like a book, and knows how to
get out of a scrape,—is jest as sensible as any man for a time,
but, sudden, he takes a start, like a shying horse, and before you
knows where you are, his heels are in your jaw. Once he blazes
out, it's knife or gun, hatchet or hickory—any thing he can lay
hands on. He's kill'd two men already, and cut another's throat
a'most to killing. He's an ugly chap to meet on the road, so look
out right and left.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“In looks?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I reckon, he's about your heft. He's young and tallish,
with a fair skin, brown hair, and a mighty quick keen blue eye,
that never looks steddily nowhere. Look sharp for him. The
sheriff with his `spose-you-come-and-take-us'—is out after him,
but he's mighty cute to dodge, and had the start some twelve hours
afore they missed him.”
2. CHAPTER II.
The information thus received did not disquiet me. After the
momentary reflection that it might be awkward to meet a madman,
out of bounds, upon the highway, I quickly dismissed the matter
from my mind. I had no room for any but pleasant meditations.
The fair Susannah was now uppermost in my dreaming fancies,
and, reversing the grasp upon my whip, the ivory handle of which,
lined with an ounce or two of lead, seemed to me a sufficiently
effective weapon for the worst of dangers, I bade my friendly
blacksmith farewell, and dashed forward upon the high road. A
smart canter soon took me out of the settlement, and, once in the
woods, I recommended myself with all the happy facility of youth,
to its most pleasant and beguiling imaginings. I suppose I had
ridden a mile or more—the story of the bedlamite was gone
utterly from my thought—when a sudden turn in the road showed
me a person, also mounted, and coming towards me at an easy
trot, some twenty-five or thirty yards distant. There was nothing
remarkable in his appearance. He was a plain farmer or woodman,
clothed in simple homespun, and riding a short heavy chunk
of an animal, that had just been taken from the plough. The
rider was a spare, long-legged person, probably thirty years or
thereabouts. He looked innocent enough, wearing that simple,
open-mouthed sort of countenance, the owner of which, we
assume, at a glance, will never set any neighbouring stream on
fire. He belonged evidently to a class as humble as he was simple,—but
I had been brought up in a school which taught me that
the claims of poverty were quite as urgent upon courtesy as those
of wealth. Accordingly, as we neared each other, I prepared to
bestow upon him the usual civil recognition of the highway.
What is it Scott says—I am not sure that I quote him rightly—
They pass not as in peaceful street.”
and got ready my salutation. To account somewhat for its effect
when uttered, I must premise that my own personal appearance
at this time, was rather wild and impressive. My face was full
of laughter and my manners of buoyancy. My hair was very
long, and fell in masses upon my shoulder, unrestrained by the
cap which I habitually wore, and which, as I was riding under
heavy shade trees, was grasped in my hand along with my riding
whip. As the stranger drew nigh, the arm was extended, cap
and whip lifted in air, and with free, generous lungs, I shouted
—“good morning, my friend,—how wags the world with you
to-day?”
The effect of this address was prodigious. The fellow gave no
answer,—not a word, not a syllable—not the slightest nod of the
head,—mais, tout au contraire. But for the dilating of his amazed
pupils, and the dropping of the lower jaw, his features might have
been chiselled out of stone. They wore an expression amounting
to consternation, and I could see that he caught up his bridle with
increased alertness, bent himself to the saddle, half drew up his
horse, and then, as if suddenly resolved, edged him off, as closely
as the woods would allow, to the opposite side of the road. The
undergrowth was too thick to allow of his going into the wood at
the spot where we encountered, or he certainly would have done
so. Somewhat surprised at this, I said something, I cannot now
recollect what, the effect of which was even more impressive upon
him than my former speech. The heads of our horses were
now nearly parallel—the road was an ordinary wagon track, say
twelve feet wide—I could have brushed him with my cap as we
passed, and, waving it still aloft, he seemed to fancy that such
was my intention,—for, inclining his whole body on the off side
of his nag, as the Cumanche does when his aim is to send an arrow
at his enemy beneath his neck—his heels thrown back, though
spurless, were made to belabour with the most surprising rapidity,
the flanks of his drowsy animal. And, not without some effect.
The creature dashed first into a trot, then into a canter, and
finally into a gallop, which, as I was bound one way and he the
other, soon threw a considerable space between us.
“The fellow's mad!” was my reflection and speech, as, wheeling
driving his heels still into the sides of his reluctant hack. The
next moment gave me a solution of the matter. The simple
countryman had heard of the bedlamite from Hamilton jail. My
bare head, the long hair flying in the wind, my buoyancy of
manner, and the hearty, and, perhaps, novel form of salutation
with which I addressed him, had satisfied him that I was the person.
As the thought struck me, I resolved to play the game out,
and, with a restless love of levity which has been too frequently
my error, I put the whip over my horse's neck, and sent him forward
in pursuit. My nag was a fine one, and very soon the space
was lessened between me and the chase. As he heard the foot-falls
behind, the frightened fugitive redoubled his exertions. He
laid himself to it, his heels paddling in the sides of his donkey
with redoubled industry. And thus I kept him for a good mile,
until the first houses of the settlement grew visible in the distance.
I then once more turned upon the path to the Owens',
laughing merrily at the rare chase, and the undisguised consternation
of the countryman. The story afforded ample merriment
to my fair friends Emmeline and Susannah. “It was so ridiculous
that one of my appearance should be taken for a madman.
The silly fellow deserved the scare.” On these points we were
all perfectly agreed. That night we spent charmingly. The
company did not separate till near one o'clock. We had fun and
fiddles. I danced by turns with the twins, and more than once
with a Miss Gridley, a very pretty girl, who was present. Squire
Owens was in the best of humours, and, no ways loth, I was made
to stay all night.
3. CHAPTER III.
A new day of delight dawned upon us with the next. Our
breakfast made a happy family picture, which I began to think it
would be cruel to interrupt. So snugly did I sit beside Emmeline,
and so sweetly did Susannah minister at the coffee urn, and
so patriarchally did the old man look around upon the circle,
that my meditations were all in favour of certain measures for
perpetuating the scene. The chief difficulty seemed to be, in the
way of a choice between the sisters.
Were t'other dear charmer away.”
The lively glance and playful remark of Emmeline, her
love smiling visage, and buoyant, unpremeditative air, were triumphant
always while I beheld them; but the pensive, earnest
look of Susannah, the mellow cadences of her tones, seemed always
to sink into my soul, and were certainly remembered longest.
Present, Emmeline was irresistible; absent, I thought
chiefly of Susannah. Breakfast was fairly over before I came
to a decision. We adjourned to the parlour,—and there, with
Emmeline at the piano, and Susannah with her Coleridge in hand
—her favourite poet—I was quite as much distracted as before.
The bravura of the one swept me completely off my feet. And
when I pleaded with the other to read me the touching poem of
“Genevieve”—her low, subdued and exquisitely modulated utterance,
so touching, so true to the plaintive and seductive sentiment,
so harmonious even when broken, so thrilling even when
most checked and hushed, was quite as little to be withstood.
Like the ass betwixt two bundles of hay, my eyes wandered from
one to the other uncertain where to fix. And thus passed the
two first hours after breakfast.
The third brought an acquisition to our party. We heard the
windows, to see the new comer. We had but a glimpse of him—
a tall, good-looking personage, about thirty years of age, with
great whiskers, and a huge military cloak. Squire Owens met
him in the reception room, and they remained some half hour or
three quarters together. It was evidently a business visit. The
girls were all agog to know what it was about, and I was mortified
to think that Emmeline was now far less eager to interest me
than before. She now turned listlessly over the pages of her music
book, or strummed upon the keys of her piano, with the air of
one whose thoughts were elsewhere. Susannah did not seem so
much disturbed,—she still continued to draw my attention to the
more pleasing passages of the poet; but I could see, or I fancied,
that even she was somewhat curious as to the coming of the stranger.
Her eyes turned occasionally to the parlour door at the slightest
approaching sound, and she sometimes looked in my face with
a vacant eye, when I was making some of my most favourable
points of conversation.
At length there was a stir within, a buzz and the scraping of
feet. The door was thrown open, and, ushered by the father, the
stranger made his appearance. His air was rather distingué.
His person was well made, tall and symmetrical. His face was
martial and expressive. His complexion was of a rich dark
brown; his eye was grey, large, and restless—his hair thin, and
dishevelled. His carriage was very erect; his coat, which was
rather seedy, was close buttoned to his chin. His movements were
quick and impetuous, and seemed to obey the slightest sound,
whether of his own, or of the voices of others. He approached
the company with the manner of an old acquaintance; certainly,
with that of a man who had always been conversant with the best
society. His ease was unobtrusive,—a polite deference invariably
distinguishing his deportment whenever he had occasion to
address the ladies. Still, he spoke as one having authority.
There was a lordly something in his tones,—an emphatic assurance
in his gesture,—that seemed to settle every question; and,
after a little while, I found that, hereafter, if I played on any fiddle
at all, in that presence, it was certainly not to be the first.
Emmeline and Susannah had ears for me no longer. There was
I spoke, as if I had only interrupted much pleasanter sounds;
and, even Susannah, the meek Susannah, put down her Coleridge
upon a stool, and seemed all attention, only for the imposing
stranger.
The effect upon the old man was scarcely less agreeable. Col.
Nelson,—so was the stranger called—had come to see about the
purchase of his upper mill-house tract—a body of land containing
some four thousand acres, the sale of which was absolutely necessary
to relieve him from certain incumbrances. From the
conversation which he had already had with his visitor, it appeared
that the preliminaries would be of easy adjustment, and
Squire Owens was in the best of all possible humours. It was
nothing but Col. Nelson,—Col. Nelson. The girls did not seem
to need this influence, though they evidently perceived it; and,
in the course of the first half hour after his introduction, I felt
myself rapidly becoming de trop. The stranger spoke in passionate
bursts,—at first in low tones,—with halting, hesitating manner,
then, as if the idea were fairly grasped, he dilated into a torrent
of utterance, his voice rising with his thought, until he started
from his chair and confronted the listener. I cannot deny
that there was a richness in his language, a warmth and colour in
his thought, which fascinated while it startled me. It was only when
he had fairly ended that one began to ask what had been the provocation
to so much warmth, and whether the thought to which we
had listened was legitimately the growth of previous suggestions.
But I was in no mood to listen to the stranger, or to analyze what
he said. I found my situation quite too mortifying—a mortification
which was not lessened, when I perceived that neither of the two
damsels said a word against my proposed departure. Had they
shown but the slightest solicitude, I might have been reconciled
to my temporary obscuration. But no! they suffered me to rise
and declare my purpose, and made no sign. A cold courtesy
from them, and a stately and polite bow from Col. Nelson, acknowledged
my parting salutation, and Squire Owens attended
me to the threshold, and lingered with me till my horse was got
in readiness. As I dashed through the gateway, I could hear the
rich voice of Emmeline swelling exultingly with the tones of her
hanging over her on one hand, while the meek Susannah on
the other, was casting those oblique glances upon him which had
so frequently been addressed to me. “Ah! pestilent jades,” I
exclaimed in the bitterness of a boyish heart; “this then is the
love of woman.”
4. CHAPTER IV.
Chewing such bitter cud as this, I had probably ridden a good
mile, when suddenly I heard the sound of human voices, and
looking up, discovered three men, mounted, and just in front of
me. They had hauled up, and were seemingly awaiting my approach.
A buzzing conversation was going on among them.
“That's he!” said one. “Sure?” was the question of another.
A whistle at my very side caused me to turn my head, and as I
did so, my horse was caught by the bridle, and I received a severe
blow from a club above my ears, which brought me down,
almost unconscious, upon the ground. In an instant, two stout
fellows were upon me, and busy in the praiseworthy toil of roping
me, hands and feet, where I lay. Hurt, stung, and utterly confounded
by the surprise, I was not prepared to suffer this indignity
with patience. I made manful struggle, and for a moment succeeded
shaking off both assailants. But another blow, taking effect upon
my temples, and dealt with no moderate appliance of hickory,
left me insensible. When I recovered consciousness, I found myself
in a cart, my hands tied behind me, my head bandaged with
a red cotton handkerchief, and my breast and arms covered with
blood. A stout fellow rode beside me in the cart, while another
drove, and on each side of the vehicle trotted a man, well armed
with a double-barrelled gun.
“What does all this mean?” I demanded. “Why am I here?
Why this assault? What do you mean to do with me?”
“Don't be obstropolous,” said one of the men. “We don't
mean to hurt you; only put you safe. We had to tap you on
the head a little, for your own good.”
“Indeed!” I exclaimed, the feeling of that unhappy tapping
upon the head, making me only the sorer at every moment—“but
will you tell me what this is for, and in what respect did my good
require that my head should be broken?”
“It might have been worse for you, where you was onbeknown,”
sarved you off easily. Be quiet now, and—”
“What do you mean—what is my situation?”
“Well, I reckon we know. Only you be quiet, or we'll have
to give you the skin.”
And he held aloft a huge wagon whip as he spoke. I had sufficient
proof already of the unscrupulousness with which my
companions acted, not to be very chary of giving them farther
provocation, and, in silent misgiving, I turned my head to the opposite
side of the vehicle. The first glance in this quarter revealed
to me the true history of my disaster, and furnished an ample
solution of the whole mystery. Who should I behold but the
very fellow whom I had chased into town the day before. The
truth was now apparent. I had been captured as the stray bed-lamite
from Hamilton jail. It was because of this that I had been
“tapped on the head—only for my own good.” As the conjecture
flashed upon me, I could not avoid laughter, particularly as
I beheld the still doubtful and apprehensive visage of the man beside
me. My laughter had a very annoying effect upon all parties.
It was a more fearful sign than my anger might have been.
The fellow whom I had scared, edged a little farther from the
cart, and the man who had played spokesman, and upon whom
the whole business seemed to have devolved, now shook his whip
again—“None of that, my lad,” said he, “or I'll have to bruise
you again. Don't be obstroplous.”
“You've taken me up for a madman, have you?” said I.
“Well, I reckon you ought to know what you are. There's
no disputing it.”
“And this silly fellow has made you believe it?”
“Reckon!”
“You've made a great mistake.”
“Don't think it.”
“But you have: Only take me to C—, and I'll prove it by
General Cocke, himself, or Squire Humphries, or any body in
the town.”
“No! no! my friend,—that cock won't fight. We aint misdoubting
at all, but you're the right man. You answer all the
descriptions, and Jake Sturgis here, has made his affidavy that
dry September, for an hour by sun yesterday. We don't want
no more proof.”
“And where do you mean to carry me?” I enquired, with
all the coolness I was master of.
“Well, we'll put you up in a pen we've got a small piece
from here; and when the sheriff comes, he'll take you back to
your old quarters at Hamilton jail, where I reckon they'll fix you
a little tighter than they had you before. We've sent after the
sheriff, and his `spose-you-come-and-take-us,' and I reckon they'll
be here about sun-down.”
5. CHAPTER V.
Here was a “sitiation” indeed. Burning with indignation, I
was yet sufficiently master of myself to see that any ebullition of
rage on my part, would only confirm the impressions which they
had received of my insanity. I said little therefore, and that little
was confined to an attempt to explain the chase of yesterday,
which Jake Sturgis had made the subject of such a mischievous
“affidavy.” But as I could not do this without laughter, I incurred
the danger of the whip. My laugh was ominous.—Jake
edged off once more to the roadside; the man beside me, got his
bludgeon in readiness, and the potent wagon whip of the leader
of the party, was uplifted in threatening significance. Laughter
was clearly out of the question, and it naturally ceased on my
part, as I got in sight of the “pen” in which I was to be kept secure.
This structure is one well known to the less civilized regions
of the country. It is a common place of safe keeping in
the absence of gaols and proper officers. It is called technically
a “bull pen,” and consists of huge logs, roughly put together,
crossing at right angles, forming a hollow square,—the logs too
massy to be removed, and the structure too high to be climbed,
particularly if the prisoner should happen to be, like myself, fairly
tied up hand and foot together. I relucted terribly at being
put into this place. I pleaded urgently, struggled fiercely, and
was thrust in neck and heels without remorse; and, in sheer hopelessness
and vexation, I lay with my face prone to the earth, and
half buried among the leaves, weeping, I shame to confess it, the
bitter tears of impotence and mortification.
Meantime, the news of my capture went through the country;
—not my capture, mark me, but that of the famous madman,
Archy Dargan, who had broke Hamilton jail. This was an
event, and visitors began to collect. My captors, who kept watch
on the outside of my den, had their hands full in answering questions.
Man, woman and child, Squire and ploughboy, and, finally,
of eyes as pierced the crevices of my log dungeon, to see the
strange monster by whom they were threatened, now disarmed of
his terrors, were,—to use the language of one of my keepers—“a
power to calkilate.” This was not the smallest part of my annoyance.
The logs were sufficiently far apart to suffer me to
see and to be seen, and I crouched closer to my rushes, and buried
my face more thoroughly than ever, if possible, to screen my dishonoured
visage from their curious scrutiny. This conduct
mightily offended some of the visitors.
“I can't see his face,” said one.
“Stir him with a long pole!”—and I was greatly in danger of
being treated as a surly bear, refusing to dance for his keeper;
since one of mine seemed very much disposed to gratify the spectator,
and had actually begun sharpening the end of a ten foot
hickory, for the purpose of pricking me into more sociableness.
He was prevented from carrying his generous design into effect
by the suggestion of one of his companions.
“Better don't, Bosh; if ever he should git out agen, he'd put
his ear mark upon you.”
“Reckon you're right,” was the reply of the other, as he laid
his rod out of sight.
Meanwhile, the people came and went, each departing visitor
sending others. A couple of hours might have elapsed leaving
me in this humiliating situation, chained to the stake, the beast of
a bear garden, with fifty greedy and still dissatisfied eyes upon me.
Of these, fully one fourth were of the tender gender; some pitied
me, some laughed, and all congratulated themselves that I was
safely laid by the heels, incapable of farther mischief. It was not
the most agreeable part of their remarks, to find that they all universally
agreed that I was a most frightful looking object. Whether
they saw my face or not, they all discovered that I glared
frightfully upon them, and I heard one or two of them ask in under
tones, “did you see his teeth—how sharp!” I gnashed them
with a vengeance all the while, you may be sure.
6. CHAPTER VI.
The last and worst humiliation was yet to come—that which
put me for a long season out of humour with all human and woman
nature. Conscious of an unusual degree of bustle without, I
was suddenly startled by sounds of a voice that had been once
pleasingly familiar. It was that of a female, a clear, soft, transparent
sound, which, till this moment, had never been associated
in my thoughts with any thing but the most perfect of all mortal
melodies. It was now jangled harsh, like “sweet bells out of
tune.” The voice was that of Emmeline. “Good heavens!” I
exclaimed to myself—`can she be here?” In another instant, I
heard that of Susannah—the meek Susannah,—she too was among
the curious to examine the features of the bedlamite, Archy Dargan.”
“Dear me,” said Emmeline, “is he in that place?”
“What a horrid place!” said Susannah.
“It's the very place for such a horrid creature,” responded
Emmeline.
“Can't he get out, papa?” said Susannah. “Isn't a mad person
very strong?”
“Oh! don't frighten a body, Susannah, before we have had a
peep,” cried Emmeline; “I declare I'm afraid to look—do, Col.
Nelson, peep first and see if there's no danger.”
And there was the confounded Col. Nelson addressing his eyes
to my person, and assuring his fair companions, my Emmeline,
my Susannah, that there was no sort of danger,—that I was evidently
in one of my fits of apathy.
“The paroxysm is off for the moment, ladies,—and even if he
were violent, it is impossible that he should break through the
pen. He seems quite harmless—you may look with safety.”
“Yes, he's mighty quiet now, Miss,”—said one of my keepers
encouragingly, “but it's all owing to a close sight of my whip.
He was a-guine to be obstroplous more than once, when I shook
the roaring fit is coming on—for he breaks out in such a dreadful
sort of laughing.”
“Ha! Ha!—he laughs does he—Ha! Ha!” such was the
somewhat wild interruption offered by Col. Nelson himself. If my
laugh produced such an effect upon my keeper, his had a very disquieting
effect upon me. But, the instinctive conviction that
Emmeline and Susannah were now gazing upon me, prompted
me with a sort of fascination, to lift my head and look for them.
I saw their eyes quite distinctly. Bright treacheries! I could
distinguish between them—and there were those of Col. Nelson
beside them—the three persons evidently in close propinquity.
“What a dreadful looking creature!” said Susannah.
“Dreadful!” said Emmeline, “I see nothing so dreadful in
him. He seems tame enough. I'm sure, if that's a madman, I
don't see why people should be afraid of them.”
“Poor man, how bloody he is!” said Susannah.
“We had to tap him, Miss, a leetle upon the head, to bring him
quiet. He's tame and innocent now, but you should see him
when he's going to break out. Only just hear him when he
laughs.”
I could not resist the temptation. The last remark of my keeper
fell on my ears like a suggestion, and suddenly shooting up my
head, and glaring fiercely at the spectators, I gave them a yell of
laughter as terrible as I could possibly make it.
“Ah!” was the shriek of Susannah, as she dashed back from
the logs. Before the sounds had well ceased, they were echoed
from without, and in more fearful and natural style from the practised
lungs of Col. Nelson. His yells following mine, were
enough to startle even me.
“What!” he cried, thrusting his fingers through the crevice,
“you would come out, would you,—you would try your strength
with mine. Let him out,—let him out! I am ready for him,
breast to breast, man against man, tooth and nail, forever and forever.
You can laugh too, but—Ha! Ha! Ha!—what do you say
to that? Shut up, shut up, and be ashamed of yourself. Ha!
Ha! Ha!”
There was a sensation without. I could see that Emmeline
into an attitude, had grappled the logs of my dungeon, and
exhibited a degree of strange emotion, which, to say the least,
took every body by surprise. My chief custodian was the first to
speak.
“Don't be scared, Mr.—there's no danger—he can't get out.”
“But I say let him out—let him out. Look at him, ladies—
look at him. You shall see what a madman is—you shall see
how I can manage him. Hark ye, fellow,—out with him at once.
Give me your whip—I know all about his treatment. You shall
see me work him. I'll manage him,—I'll fight with him, and
laugh with him too—how we shall laugh—Ha! Ha! Ha!”
His horrible laughter,—for it was horrible—was cut short by
an unexpected incident. He was knocked down as suddenly as
I had been, with a blow from behind, to the astonishment of all
around. The assailant was the sheriff of Hamilton jail, who had
just arrived and detected the fugitive, Archy Dargan—the most
cunning of all bedlamites, as he afterwards assured me,—in the
person of the handsome Col. Nelson.
“I knew the scamp by his laugh—I heard it half a mile,” said
the sheriff, as he planted himself upon the bosom of the prostrate
man, and proceeded to leash him in proper order. Here was a
concatenation accordingly.
“Who hev' I got in the pen?” was the sapient inquiry of my
captor—the fellow whose whip had been so potent over my imagination.
“Who? Have you any body there?” demanded the sheriff.
“I reckon!—We cocht a chap that Jake made affidavy was
the madman.”
“Let him out then, and beg the man's pardon. I'll answer for
Archy Dargan.”
My appearance before the astonished damsels was gratifying to
neither of us. I was covered with mud and blood,—and they
with confusion.
“Oh! Mr.—, how could we think it was you, such a
fright as they've made you.”
Such was Miss Emmeline's speech after her recovery. Susannah's
was quite as characteristic.
“I am so very sorry, Mr.—.”
“Spare your regrets, ladies,” I muttered ungraciously, as I
leapt on my horse. “I wish you a very pleasant morning.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” yelled the bedlamite, writhing and bounding
in his leash—“a very pleasant morning.”
The damsels took to their heels, and went off in one direction
quite as fast as I did in the other. Since that day, dear reader, I
have never suffered myself to scare a fool, or to fall in love with
a pair of twins; and if ever I marry, take my word for it, the
happy woman shall neither be a Susannah, nor an Emmeline.
| The wigwam and the cabin | |