University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

It is unnecessary for me to dwell upon
this rapturous meeting, one of the most
joyful I had ever experienced. No one
can conceive our feelings, but such as have
been placed in like situations. Each party
had looked upon the other as dead, and
mourned their loss accordingly; and it
was with tears of gratitude for our deliverance
from an awful fate, that we narrated
to each other the manner of escape.
That of Charles and Evaline was briefly
as follows:

At the time they discovered the fire, they
were some four miles in our rear, and at
least two behind the hindmost of the party.
Made aware of their danger, they
sought to avert it by flight; and as the hill
behind them was the nearest elevated
point, they had striven to gain it in advance
of the flames. In this they had
been disappointed. The fire, driven by a
strong breeze of its own creating, rushed
forward with such frightful velocity, that
when within a mile or so of the desirable
point, they found, to their dismay and horror,
all hope of escape in that quarter cut
off.

“Imagine my feelings,” said Huntly, as
he told me the tale, “when, all hope of
escape over, I threw my arm around the
waist of Evaline, and pointing to the
flames, which, driven forward by a strong
breeze, had already passed the hill to the
westward and were fast sweeping around
to enclose it with a fiery wall—when, I
say, viewing all this, with the calmness of
utter despair, I whispered:

“`At least, dear Evaline, we will die
together.'

“`Rather say live together,' she exclaimed,
`if you have any means of striking
fire.'

“`Only a pistol,' I replied.

“`That will do,' she answered. `Quick!
let us dismount, tear up the grass around
us, and fire it.'

“In an instant,” pursued Huntly, “I
comprehended all; and springing from my
horse, with hope renewed, labored as a
man may, when his own life and that of
another more valuable are depending on
his exertions. In two minutes a small
spot was cleared, and placing my pistol
within a bunch of torn up grass, I fired.
The flash ignited it, and a bright flame
shooting upward, caught on all sides, and
sped away on its work of death, leaving a
blackened circle, within which we stepped
and remained unharmed, As soon as the
fire had passed, we remounted and dashed
over the heated earth to the hill before us,
where, like yourselves, we passed a terrible
night of agonized suspense. Not having
seen any signs of you or the rest of the
party during the day, we finally came to
the melancholy conclusion that all were
lost, and at daybreak this morning set off
for the Indian village with the heart-rending
intelligence. Some twenty of the tribe
at once volunteered to go back with us,
and on this sad journey we had already
set out, when, to our unspeakable joy, we
espied you galloping over the plain, and
hastened to meet you.”

“Strange!” said I, in reply, “that I
should have overlooked a means of escape
so simple as firing the prairie! It would
have saved a world of trouble; but from
the first I lost my presence of mind, and
thought of nothing but escape by flight.
Alas! for our companions! Have you
seen any of them, Charles?”

“Not one,” he answered with a sigh.

“Then I fear all have perished!”

“What are we to do under the circumstances?”
he inquired.

“Why, I think we had better set out
for Fort Laramie at once; for our friends
there, even now, are doubtless becoming
exceedingly uneasy at our long absence.”

“And leave the bones of our late companions
to bleach on the open prairie,
Frank?”

“No! We must get the Indians to

hunt up their bodies and give them decent
burial.”

This plan was finally adopted; and in
the course of a couple of hours we had again
parted with the Wahsochees, and were on
our return to the fort.

The journey proved a tedious one, for
all were sad and silent with gloomy
thoughts. Traveling some thirty miles
we encamped, and resuming our route the
next morning, reached the fort in the afternoon
of the same day.

As we rode into the area, the inmates
all rushed out to greet and welcome us,
and among them came Mrs. Huntly and
Madame Mortimer, almost frantic with
joy. At first we were at a loss to comprehend
the cause of this strong ebulition of
feeling; but did not long remain in ignorance;
for the next moment descrying two
of our late companions in the crowd, the
whole truth flashed upon us.

“Oh, my children! my children!” exclaimed
Mrs. Huntly; and overcome with
her feelings, she could only first clasp one
and then the other to her heart in silence.

“My daughters! and do I indeed see
you alive again?” cried Madame Mortimer,
pressing Eva and Evaline to her
panting breast. “Oh! could you but know
a mother's agony for the last twenty-four
hours, during which she has mourned you
as dead, you would never leave her again.”

But not to dwell upon this affectionate
meeting, it will only be necessary to state,
that two of the party whom we supposed
dead, had escaped, by flying from the field
and taking refuge on the ridge to the north.
Here they had paused for a few minutes,
to gaze upon the sublime scene of the
burning plain; and then, believing all save
themselves had perished, had made the
best of their way back to the fort and so
reported. No wonder, then, there was
surprise, and joy, and unusual commotion,
on beholding in us the dead alive, the lost
ones found.

The second day following our return,
we again set out on our homeward journey,
in company with a small party of
emigrants who had recently crossed over
the mountains from California. For several
days my friends and myself were unusually
thoughtful and serious; but as we
neared the confines of civilization, and felt
we were about to quit the wilderness,
with all its hardships and perils, to mingle
with scenes more suited to our tastes, our
spirits gradually grew buoyant with the
seemingly unalloyed happiness of youthful
days.

Never shall I forget the singular feelings
we experienced—I speak of Huntly
and myself—as we rode into the small
town of Independence, Missouri, and recalled
the many striking events of the long
period which had intervened since last we
beheld the place. Then giddy with the
wildness of youth—alone—free from restraint—with
no tie stronger than the filial,
binding us to any one particular spot—we
were just setting forth upon a new world
of adventure! Now, sobered by painful
experience, and in company with those we
loved, we were retracing our steps, perfectly
satisfied there was “no place like
home,” and no scenes so dear to us as
those of our native land. We had seen
danger in every form, suffered all that we
could suffer and live, had had our souls
tried by the sternest tests, been miraculously
preserved through all, blessed beyond
our deserts, and now felt contented
to leave the field forever, to such as might
fancy it, and retire to the sweet seclusion
of domestic life.

The countenance of Evaline, as day by
day we progressed toward the East, gradually
brightened with a sweeter happiness
than she had ever known—the happiness
of being with her mother and sister—of
knowing she was not a nameless being,
cast astray by some untoward freak of fortune—of
feeling she loved and was in turn
beloved. She was now entering a world
where everything, opening up new and
strange, filled her with wonder, excited her
curiosity, and kept her in a continual state
of pleased excitement. Eva was happy
in the company of one who could appreciate
her noble qualities, and lend her those
affectionate and tender sympathies which
the ardent soul ever craves, and without
which it languishes, and droops, and feels
there is a mighty void within. Lilian was
happy, and my vanity sometimes whispered
me a reason therefor. In sooth, by
the time we reached St. Louis, there was
not a sad heart in the party—unless, in a
reflective mood, a dark shadow from the

past might chance to sweep across it for a
moment—only, as it were, to make it seem
more bright in the glorious sunshine of the
present.

With what emotions of wonder and joy
did Evaline view those mighty leviathans,
that, by the genius and mechanism of man,
are made to play upon the mighty rivers
of the Great West, and bear him on his
journey as he passes to and fro to all portions
of the habitable globe! And then
the delight we all felt, as we glided down
the turbid waters of the great Mississippi,
and steered up the beautiful Ohio, past
villages, and towns, and cities, where the
pleasing hum of civilization, in every breast
save one, awoke sweet memories of former
days, and made our hearts bound with
pleasing anticipations of what was yet to
come.

On, on we swept up the Ohio, past the
flourishing cities of Louisville and Cincinnati,
(making only a short stay at each) to
that of Pittsburgh, where our steamer was
exchanged for another, that for the stage,
to bear us over the romantic Alleghanies,
and that in turn for the rushing car, to
land us in Baltimore, again in Philadelphia,
and lastly in that great emporium of
the western continent, New York. And
so on, on—ever changing, continually progressing—toward
the golden haven of our
desires—which, Heaven be praised! we at
last reached in safety.

During the latter part of the journey,
my feelings became very sad. I was nearing
the home of my youth—the abode of
my dearly-loved parents—after many long
years of painful and eventful separation.
What changes might not have occurred
in the interval! Changes, peradventure,
to rend my heart with anguish. My parents—my
affectionate mother—my kind
and indulgent father—how I trembled to
think of them! What if, as in the case
of my friends, one or both had been called
from the scenes of earth, and were now
sleeping their last sleep in the moldering
church-yard—never to bless me more with
the soft light of their benign eyes! Oh!
what a heart-sickening feeling, of almost
utter desoiation, the very thought of it
produced! until I forced myself to think
no more, lest I should lack physical strength
to bear me on to the knowledge I longed
yet dreaded to gain.

Pressing invitations from us, and I
scarcely need add a more eloquent persuasion
from the soft, dark eyes of another,
had induced Elmer Fitzgerald to extend
his journey a few hundred miles beyond
his original intention. Arrived in the city,
we all took rooms at a hotel, until such
time as we could notify our friends of our
presence—or rather, until I could see my
parents, if living, in advance of the others.

With a heart palpitating with hope and
fear, I hurried into a carriage, and ordering
the driver not to spare his horses,
leaned back on my seat, and gave myself
up to the most intense and painful meditations—occasionally
listening to the rumbling
of the swift whirling wheels, and
wondering when they would cease their
motion at their present destination — or
gazing from the window at the thousand
objects flitting past me, with that vague
look of the occupied mind, which takes in
each thing distinctly, and yet seems to see
nothing whatever.

“Crack went the whip, round went the
wheels,” and on we sped at the same rapid
pace. At length my attention was arrested
by objects familiar from my boyhood,
and my heart seemed to creep to my
throat, for I knew I was close upon the
mansion of my father. A few moments
of breathless suspense, and the carriage
stopped suddenly, the door swung open,
and, leaping out, I rushed up the steps
and into the dwelling of my parents.

Two minutes later, unannounced, I
stood in the presence of both, but saw I
was not recognized.

“Mother! father!” I cried, “have you
forgotten your long absent son?”

There was a brief moment of speechless,
joyful amazement, and the next I was
in my mother's arms, while my father
stood by, pressing my hand and weeping
as a child.