 | CHAPTER VIII. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
It is at least one retributive quality of jealousy, to torment the
mind of the tormentor quite as much, if not more, than it does
that of the victim. The anger of Richard Knuckles kept him
awake the better part of the night; and, in his wakefulness, he
meditated little else than the subject of his present fears. The
indirect reproaches of his wife stung him, and suggested, at the
same time, certain additional reasons for his suspicions. He reflected
that, while he remained a close sentinel at home, it was
impossible that he should obtain sufficient evidence to convict the
parties whom he suspected, of the crime which he feared; for,
by so doing, he must deprive the sooty Paris, who sought his
hovel, of every opportunity for the prosecution of his design.
With that morbid wilfulness of temper which marks the passions
of man aroused beyond the restraints of right reason, he determined
that the negro should have his opportunity; and, changing
his plans, he set forth the next morning before day-peep, obviously
for the purpose of hunting. But he did not remain long absent.
He was fortunate enough just after leaving his cabin to shoot a
fat wild turkey from his roost, on the edge of a little bay that
stood about a mile from his camp; and with this on his shoulder,
he returned stealthily to its neighbourhood, and, hiding himself in
the covert, took such a position as enabled him to keep a keen
watch over his premises and all the movements of Caloya. Until
ten o'clock in the day he saw nothing to produce dissatisfaction
or to alarm his fears. He saw the patient woman come
forth according to custom, and proceed instantly to the “Red Gulley,”
where she resumed her tasks, which she pursued with quite
as much industry, and, seemingly, much more cheerfulness than
when she knew that he was watching. Her lips even broke forth
into song while she pursued her tasks, though the strain was monotonous
and the sentiment grave and melancholy. At ten o'clock,
however, Knuckle's ague returned as he saw the negro make
heaviest shaft upon the string of his bow, and awaited the progress
of events. The movements of Mingo were made with due
circumspection. He did not flatter himself, at first, that the field
was clear, and looked round him with grave anxiety in momentary
expectation of seeing the husband. His salutation of the
wife was sufficiently distant and deferential. He began by asking
after the chief, and received an answer equally cold and unsatisfactory.
He gathered from this answer, however, that
Knuckles was absent; but whether at a distance or at hand, or
for how long a period, were important items of intelligence, which,
as yet, he failed to compass; and it was only by a close cross-examination
of the witness that he arrived at the conclusion, that
Knuckles had at length resumed the duties of the hunter. Even
this conclusion reached him in a negative and imperfect form.
“Shall Ingin woman say to Ingin man, when he shall hunt and
where, and how long he shall be gone?” demanded the woman in
reply to the eager questioning of the negro.
“Certainly not, most angelical!” was the elevated response of
the black, as his lips parted into smiles, and his eyes shot forth
the glances of warmer admiration than ever. The arrow of
Knuckles trembled meanwhile upon the string.
“Certainly not, most angelical!—but Ingin man, ef he lob
and respects Indian woman, will tell her all about his consarns
without her axing. I'm sure, most lubly Caloya, ef you was wife
of mine, you should know all my outgivings and incomings, my
journeyings and backslidings, to and fro,—my ways and my
wishes;—there shouldn't be nothing that I wouldn't let you know.
But there's a mighty difference, you see, twixt an old husband
and a young one. Now, an old man like Knuckles, he's mighty
close—he don't talk out his mind like a young fellow that's full
of infections—a young fellow like me, that knows how to look
'pon a handsome young wife, and treat her with proper respectableness.
Do you think now, ef you was wife of mine, that I'd
let you do all that work by yourself? No! not for all the pots
and jars twixt this and Edisto forks! Ef I did ask you to do the
pans, and round 'em, and smooth 'em, and put the red stain 'pon
em, why that wouldn't be onreasonable, you see, 'cause sich delical
despects better than man's—but then, I'd dig the clay for you,
my gal—I'd work it, ef I hadn't horse, I'd work it with my own
legs—I'd pile it up 'pon the board, and cut the wood to make the
fire, and help you to burn it; and when all was done, I'd bend
my own shoulders to the load, and you should follow me to
Charleston, like a Lady, as you is. That's the way, my gal, that
I'd treat wife of mine. But Ingin don't know much 'bout woman,
and old Ingin don't care;—now, black Gempleman always
has strong infections for the seck—he heart is tender—he eye is
lub for look 'pon beauty—he hab soul for consider 'em in de right
way, and when he sees 'em bright eye, and smood, shiny skin,
and white teet', and long arm, and slender wais', and glossy black
hair, same like you's, ah, Caloya, he strengt' is melt away widin
'em, and he feels like not'ing only so much honey, lub and infections.
He's all over infections, as I may say. Wha' you tink?”
Here the Driver paused, not so much from having nothing more
to say, as from a lack of the necessary breath with which to say
it. Knuckles heard every word, though it would be an error to
assume that he understood one half. Still, the liquorish expression
in the face of the negro sufficiently illustrated his meaning,
to satisfy the husband that the whole speech was pregnant with
the most audacious kind of impertinence. The reflection upon
his weight of years, and the exulting reference to his own
youth and manhood, which Mingo so adroitly introduced, was,
however, sufficiently intelligible and insulting to the Catawba,
and he hesitated whether to draw the arrow to its head at once
and requite this second Paris for his affront, even in the midst of
it, or to await until farther wrong should yield him a more perfect
justification for the deed. He reflected upon the danger of
the attempt, and his resolution was already taken as to the mode
and direction of his flight. But a morbid wish to involve Caloya
in the same fate—a lingering desire to find a sanction in her
weakness and guilt for all his own frequent injustice and brutality,
determined him to await her answer, and see to what extremities
the negro would be permitted to carry his presumption.
Strange to say, the answer of the wife, which was such as must
“Black man is too foolish!” said the woman with equal brevity
and scorn in reply to the long speech of the Driver.
“Don't say so, most lubly of all the Catawba gals—you don't
mean what you say for sartain. Look you—yer is as nice a
pullet as ever was roasted, and yer is some hard biled eggs, and
hoecake. I reckon that old fellow, your husband, aint brung in
your breckkus yet; so you must be mighty hungry by this time,
and there's no better stay-stomach in the worl than hard biled
eggs. It's a mighty hard thing to work tell the sun stands atop
of your head, afore getting any thing to go 'pon: I guessed how
'twould be, and so I brung you these few eatables.”
He set down a small basket as he spoke, but the woman did
not seem to perceive it, and manifested no sort of disposition to
avail herself of his gift and invitation.
“What! you wont take a bite?”
“Enefisto will thank you when he come,” was the answer,
coldly spoken, and the woman toiled more assiduously, while she
spoke, at her potteries.
“Enefisto!—oh, that's only an Ingin name for Knuckles, I
s'pose. But who care for him, Caloya? Sure, you don't care
'bout an old fellow like that—fellow that makes you work and
gives you not eben dry hominey? Prehaps, you're feard he'll
beat you; but don't you feard—neber he kin lay heaby hand
'pon you, so long as Mingo is yer.”
Could Mingo have seen the grin which appeared upon the
mouth of the Indian as he heard these words, and have seen the
deliberateness with which he thrice lifted the shaft and thrust its
point between the leaves so as to bear upon his heart, he might
have distrusted his own securities and strength, and have learned
to be more respectful in estimating the powers of his foe. But
the Indian seemed to content himself with being in a state of preparedness
and in having possession of the entire field. He did
not shoot; his worse feelings remained unsatisfied—he saw nothing
in the deportment of Caloya which could feed the morbid passion
which prevailed over all others in his breast, and he probably
by a little delay he might yet secure another.
“Black man is too foolish. Why he no go to his work?
Catawba woman is do her work.”
“And I will help you, my gal. It's mighty hard to do all by
you self, so here goes. Lor', if I was your husband, Caloya,
instead of that old fellow, Knuckles, you should be a lady—I'd
neber let you touch a pot or a pan, and you should hab a frock
all ob seersuck jist like this.”
As the negro spoke, he threw off his hunting shirt, which he
cast over a bush behind him, rolled up his shirt sleeves, displaying
his brawny and well made arms to the woman—perhaps the
chief motive for his present gallant proceeding—and, advancing to
the pile of clay in which Caloya was working, thrust his hands into
the mass and began to knead with all the energy of a baker, striving
with his dough. The woman shrank back from her place,
as she received this new accession of labour, and much to the annoyance
of Mingo, retired to a little distance, where she seemed
to contemplate his movements in equal surprise and dissatisfaction.
Meanwhile, a change had taken place in the mood and
movements of Knuckles. The sight of the gaudy garment which
Mingo had hung upon the myrtle bushes behind him, awakened
the cupidity of the Catawba. For a time, a stronger passion than
jealousy seized his mind, and he yearned to be the possessor of a
shirt which he felt assured would be the envy of the tribe. It
hung in his eyes like a fascination—he no longer saw Caloya—
he no longer heeded the movements of the negro who had been
meditating so great an injury to his honour and peace of mind;
and, so long as the bright stripes of the seersucker kept waving
before him, he forgot all his own deeply meditated purposes of
vengeance. The temptation at last became irresistible. With the
stealthy movement of his race, he rose quietly from the spot
where he had been lurking, sank back in the depths of the woods
behind him, and, utterly unheard, unobserved and unsuspected
by either of the two in front, he succeeded in making a compass,
still under cover, which brought him in the rear of the myrtles
on which the coat was suspended. Meanwhile, Mingo, with his
face to the kneading trough, and his back upon the endangered
the favourite Seersucker disappeared in the rapid grasp of the husband,
while he was most earnest, though at a respectful distance,
in an endeavour to deprive the Indian of a yet dearer possession.
In this aim his arguments and entreaties were equally fond and
impudent; and with his arms buried to the elbows in the clay,
and working the rigid mass as if life itself depended upon it, he
was pouring forth a more unctuous harangue than ever, when, suddenly
looking up to the spot where Caloya had retreated, his eye
rested only upon the woods. The woman had disappeared from
sight. He had been “wasting his sweetness on the desert air”—
he had been talking to the wind only. Of this, at first, he was not
so perfectly assured.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, “Whare you gone, Caloya? Hello—
hello! Whoo—whoo—whoop!”
He waited in silence until he became convinced that his responses
were those only of the echo.
“Can't be!” he exclaimed, “can't be, he gone and lef' me in
de middle of my talking! Caloya, Caloya,—Hello, gal! hello!
—whay you day? Whoo! whoop!”
Utter silence followed the renewal of his summons. He stuck
his fingers, coated as they were with clay, into his wiry shock of
wool—a not unfrequent habit with the negro when in a quandary,
—and, could the blushes of one of his colour have been seen, those
of Mingo would have been found of a scarlet beyond all comparison
as the conviction forced itself upon him, that he was laughed
at and deserted.
“Cuss de woman!” he exclaimed, “wha make me lub em so.
But he mus'nt tink for git 'way from me wid dis sort of acceedint.
'Speck he can't be too fur; ef he day in dese woods
wha' for keep me from fin' 'em. As for he husband, better he
no meet me now. Ef he stan' in my way tree minutes, I'll tumble
em sure as a stone.”
Thus soliloquizing, he darted into the woods, traversing every
opening and peeping behind every bush and tree for a goodly
hour, but without success. Man and wife had disappeared with
a success and secrecy equally inscrutable. Breathless and angry
he emerged once more, and stood within the camp. His anger
He looked round for the dog, intending to renew the
flogging which he had administered on the first day of his acquaintance,
and in bestowing which he had been so seasonably interrupted
by the owner; but the cur had departed also; and no
signs remained of any intention on the part of the squatters to
resume their temporary lodging place, but the rude specimens of
clay manufacture, some two dozen pots and pans, which stood under
a rude shelter of twigs and bushes, immediately adjoining the wigwam.
These, with foot and fist, Mingo demolished, trampling, with
the ingenious pains-taking of a wilful boy, the yet unhardened
vases out of all shape and character into the earth on which they
rested. Having thus vented his spleen and displayed a less noble
nature than he usually pretended to, the driver proceeded to
resume his coat, in mood of mind as little satisfied with what he
had done in his anger as with the disappointment that had provoked
it. But here a new wonder and vexation awaited him.
His fingers again recurred to his head, but no scratching of which
they were capable, could now keep him from the conviction that
there was “magic in the web of it.” He looked and lingered,
but he was equally unsuccessful in the search after his hunting
shirt, as for his good humour. He retired from the ground in some
doubt whether it was altogether safe for him to return to a spot
in which proceedings of so mysterious a character had taken
place. All the events in connection with his new acquaintance
began to assume a startling and marvellous character in his
eyes;—the lazy dog;—the old husband of a wife so young and
lovely! What could be more strange or unnatural! But her
flight—her sudden disappearance, and that too at a time when he
was employing those charms of speech which heretofore had
never proved ineffectual! Mingo jumped to the conclusion that
Knuckles was a Catawba wizard, and he determined to have
nothing more to do with him:—a determination which he maintained
only until the recollection of Caloya's charms made him
resolve, at all hazards, to screen her from so ugly an enchanter.
| CHAPTER VIII. The wigwam and the cabin | |