Nick of the woods, or, The Jibbenainosay a tale of Kentucky |
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| 12. | CHAPTER XII. |
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 | CHAPTER XII. Nick of the woods, or, The Jibbenainosay |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
The distance at which Roland with his party
followed the guides, and the gloom of the woods,
prevented his making any close observations upon
their motions, unless when some swelling ridge,
nearly destitute of trees, brought them nearer the
light of the upper air. At other times, he could
do little more than follow with his eye the tall
figure of Nathan, plunging from shadow to shadow,
and knoll to knoll, with a pace both free and
rapid, and little resembling the shambling, hesitating
step with which he moved among the haunts
of his contemners and oppressors. As for the dog,
little Peter, he was only with difficulty seen when
ascending some such illuminated knoll as has been
mentioned, when he might be traced creeping
along with unabated vigilance and caution.
It was while ascending one of these low, and
almost bare swells of ground, that the little animal
gave the first proof of that sagacity, or wisdom,
as Nathan called it, on which the latter
seemed to rely for safety so much more than on
his own experience and address. He had no
sooner reached the summit of the knoll than he
abruptly came to a stand, and by and by cowered
to the earth, as if to escape the observation of
enemies in front, whose presence he indicated in
no other way, unless by a few twitches and flourishes
of his tail, which, a moment after, became
as rigid and motionless as if, with his body, it had
action, as far as Roland could note it, was similar
to that of a well-trained spaniel marking game,
and such was the interpretation the soldier put
upon it, until Nathan, suddenly stopping, waved
his hand as a signal to the party to halt, which
was immediately obeyed. The next moment, Nathan
was seen creeping up the hill, to investigate
the cause of alarm, which he proceeded to do
with great caution, as if well persuaded there was
danger at hand. Indeed, he had not yet reached
the brow of the eminence, when Roland beheld
him suddenly drop upon his face, thereby giving
the best evidence of the existence of peril of an
extreme and urgent character.
The young Virginian remembered the instructions
of his guide to seek shelter for his party, the
moment this signal was given; and, accordingly,
he led his followers without delay into a little
tangled brake hard by, where he charged them
to remain in quiet, until the cause of the interruption
should be ascertained and removed. From
the edge of the brake he could see the guide, still
maintaining his position on his face, yet dragging
himself upward like a snake, until he had reached
the top of the hill and looked over into the maze
of forest beyond. In this situation he lay for several
moments, apparently deeply engaged with the
scene before him; when Forrester, impatient of
his silence and delay, anxiously interested in every
turn of events, and perhaps unwilling at a season
of difficulty, to rely altogether on Nathan's unaided
observations, gave his horse in charge of Emperor,
and ascended the eminence himself; taking
care, however, to do as Nathan had done, and
throw himself upon the ground, when near its
summit. In this way, he succeeded in creeping
soon made manifest.
The forest beyond the ridge was, for a considerable
distance, open and free from undergrowth,
the trees standing wide apart, and thus admitting
a broad extent of vision, though now contracted
by the increasing dusk of evening. Through this
expanse, and in its darkest corner, flitting dimly
along, Roland's eyes fell upon certain shadows, at
first vague and indistinct, but which soon assumed
the human form, marching one after the other in
a line, and apparently approaching the very ridge
on which he lay, each with the stealthy yet rapid
pace of a wild-cat. They were but five in number;
but the order of their march, the appearance
of their bodies seemingly half naked, and the
busy intentness with which they pursued the trail
left so broad and open by the inexperienced wanderers,
would have convinced Roland of their savage
character, had he possessed no other evidence
than that of his own senses.
“They are Indians!” he muttered in Nathan's
ear.
“Shawnee creatures,” said the latter, with edifying
coolness;—“and will think no more of taking
the scalps of thee two poor women than of
digging off thee own.”
“There are but five of them, and—” The
young man paused, and the gloom that a spirit so
long harassed by fears, though fears for another,
had spread over his countenance, was exchanged
for a look of fierce decision that better became
his features. “Harkee, man,” he abruptly resumed,
“we cannot pass the ridge without being seen
by them; our horses are exhausted, and we cannot
hope to escape them by open flight?”
“Verily,” said Nathan, “thee speaks the
truth.”
“Nor can we leave the path we are now pursuing,
without fear of falling into the hands of a
party more numerous and powerful. Our only
path of escape, you said, was over this ridge, and
towards yonder Lower Ford?”
“Truly,” said Nathan, with a lugubrious look
of assent,—“what thee says is true: but how we
are to fly these evil-minded creatures, with poor
frightened women hanging to our legs—”
“We will not fly them!” said Roland, the frown
of battle gathering on his brows. “Yonder crawling
reptiles,—reptiles in spirit as in movement,—
have been dogging our steps for hours, waiting for
the moment when to strike with advantage at my
defenceless followers; and they will dog us
still, if permitted, until there is no escape from
their knives and hatchets, for either man or woman.
There is a way of stopping them,—there
is a way of requiting them!”
“Truly,” said Nathan, “there is no such way;
unless we were wicked men of the world and
fighting-men, and would wage battle with them.”
“Why not meet the villains in their own way?
There are but five of them,—and footmen too!
By heavens, man, we will charge them,—cut them
to pieces, and so rid the wood of them! Four
strong men like us, fighting, too, in defence of
women,—”
“Four!” echoed Nathan, looking wonder and
alarm together; “does thee think to have me do
the wicked thing of shedding blood? Thee should
remember, friend, that I am a follower of peaceful
doctrines, a man of peace and amity.”
“What!” said Roland, warmly, “would you
not defend your life from the villains? Would you
when a touch of the trigger under your finger, a
blow of the knife at your belt, would preserve
the existence nature and heaven alike call on you
to protect? Would you lie still, like a fettered
ox, to be butchered?”
“Truly,” said Nathan, “I would take myself
away; or, if that might not be, why then, friend,
—verily, friend, if I could do nothing else,—truly,
I must then give myself up to be murdered.”
“Spiritless, mad, or hypocritical!” cried Roland,
with mingled wonder and contempt. Then
grasping his strange companion by the arm, he
cried, “Harkee, man, if you would not strike a
blow for yourself,—would you not strike it for
another? What if you had a wife, a parent, a
child, lying beneath the uplifted hatchet, and you
with these arms in your hands,—what! do you
tell me you would stand by and see them murdered?—I
say, a wife or child!—the wife of your
bosom,—the child of your heart!—would you see
them murdered?”
At this stirring appeal, uttered with indescribable
energy and passion, though only in a whisper,
Nathan's countenance changed from dark to pale,
and his arm trembled in the soldier's grasp. He
turned upon him also a look of extraordinary
wildness, and muttered betwixt his teeth an answer
that betokened as much confusion of mind
as agitation of spirits: “Friend,” he said, “whoever
thee is, it matters nothing to thee what
might happen, or has happened, in such case made
and provided. I am a man, thee is another; thee
has thee conscience, and I have mine. If thee will
fight, fight: settle it with thee conscience. If thee
don't like to see thee kinswoman murdered, and
thee thinks thee has a call to battle, do thee best
and slay to thee liking: if thee conscience finds no
fault with thee, neither will I. But as for me, let
the old Adam of the flesh stir me as it may, I
have no one to fight for,—wife or child, parent or
kinsman, I have none: if thee will hunt the world
over, thee will not find one in it that is my kinsman
or relative.”
“But I ask you,” said Roland, somewhat surprised
at the turn of Nathan's answer, “I ask
you, if you had a wife or child—”
“But I have not,” cried Nathan, interrupting
him vehemently; “and therefore, friend, why
should thee speak of them? Them that are dead,
let them rest: they can never cry to me more.—
Think of thee own blood, and do what seems best
to thee for the good thereof.”
“Assuredly I would,” said Roland, who, however
much his curiosity was roused by the unexpected
agitation of his guide, had little time to
think of any affairs but his own,—“Assuredly I
would, could I only count upon your hearty assistance.
I tell you, man, my blood boils to look
at yonder crawling serpents, and to think of the
ferocious object with which they are dogging at
my heels; and I would give a year of my life,—
ay, if the whole number of years were but ten,—
one whole year of all,—for the privilege of paying
them for their villany beforehand.”
“Thee has thee two men to back thee,” said
Nathan, who had now recovered his composure;
“and with these two men, if thee is warlike
enough, thee might do as much mischief as thee
conscience calls for. But, truly, it becomes not a
man of peace like me to speak of strife and bloodshed—Yet,
truly,” he added, hastily, “I think
there must mischief come of this meeting; for,
and coming towards us!”
“They stop!” said Forrester, eagerly,—“they
look about them,—they have lost the track,—they
are coming this way! You will not fight, yet you
may counsel.—What shall I do? Shall I attack
them? What can I do?”
“Friend,” replied Nathan, briskly, “I can't tell
what thee can do; but I can tell thee what a man
of Kentucky, a wicked fighter of Injuns, would
do in such a case made and provided. He would
betake him to the thicket where he had hidden his
women and horses, and he would lie down with
his fighting men behind a log; and truly, if these
ill-disposed Injun-men were foolish enough to approach,
he would fire upon them with his three
guns, taking them by surprise, and perhaps, wicked
man, killing the better half of them on the spot:
and then—”
“And then,” interrupted Roland, taking fire at
the idea, “he would spring on his horse, and make
sure of the rest with sword and pistol?”
“Truly,” said Nathan, “he would do no such
thing; seeing that, the moment he lifted up his
head above the log, he would be liker to have an
Injun bullet through it than to see the wicked
creature that shot it. Verily, a man of Kentucky
would be wiser. He would take the pistols thee
speaks of, supposing it were his good luck to have
them, and let fly at the evil-minded creatures with
them also; not hoping, indeed, to do any execution
with such small ware, but to make the Injuns believe
there were as many enemies as fire-arms:
and, truly, if they did not take to their heels after
such a second volley, they would be foolisher Injuns
than were ever before heard of in Kentucky.”
“By Heaven,” said Forrester, “it is good advice;
and I will take it!”
“Advice, friend! I don't advise thee,” said Nathan,
hastily: “truly, I advise to nothing but peace
and amity.—I only tell thee what a wicked Kentucky
fighting-man would do,—a man that might
think it, as many of them do, as lawful to shoot a
prowling Injun as a skulking bear.”
“And I would to Heaven,” said Roland, “I had
but two,—nay, but one of them with me this instant.
A man like Bruce were worth the lives of
a dozen such scum.—I must do my best.”
“Truly, friend,” said Nathan, who had listened
to the warlike outpourings of the young soldier
with a degree of complacency and admiration one
would have scarce looked for in a man of his
peaceful character, “thee has a conscience of
thee own, and if thee will fight these Injun-men
from an ambush, truly, I will not censure nor exhort
thee to the contrary. If thee can rely upon
thee two men, the coloured person and the other,
thee may hold the evil creatures exceeding uneasy.
“Alas,” said Roland, the fire departing from
his eyes, “you remind me of my weakness. My
men will not fight, unless from sheer desperation.
Emperor I know to be a coward, and Dodge, I
fear, is no braver.”
“Verily,” said Nathan, bluffly, “it was foolish
of thee to come into the woods in such company,
foolisher still to think of fighting five Injun-men
with such followers to back thee; and truly,” he
added, “it was foolishest of all to put the safekeeping
of such helpless creatures into the hands
of one who can neither fight for them nor for himself.
Nevertheless, thee is as a babe and suckling
in the woods, and Peter and I will do the best we
fight, thee has the power to fly; and, truly, for
the poor women's sake, it is better thee should
leave the woods in peace.”
With that, Nathan directed the young man's attention
to the pursuing foes, who, having by some
mischance, lost the trail, had scattered about in
search of it, and at last recovered it; though not
before two of them had approached so nigh the
ridge on which the observers lay as to give just
occasion for fear lest they should cross it immediately
in front of the party of travellers. The
deadly purpose with which the barbarians were
pursuing him Roland could infer from the cautious
silence preserved while they were searching
for the lost tracks; and even when these were
regained, the discovery was communicated from
one to another merely by signs, not a man uttering
so much as a word. In a few moments, they
were seen again, formed in single file, stealing
through the woods with a noiseless but rapid
pace, and, fortunately, bending their steps towards
a distant part of the ridge, where Roland and his
companions had so lately crossed it.
“Get thee down to thee people,” said Nathan;
“lead them behind the thicket, and when thee sees
me beckon thee, carry them boldly over the hill.
Thee must pass it, while the Shawnee-men are
behind yonder clump of trees, which is so luckily
for thee on the very comb of the swell. Be quick
in obeying, friend, or the evil creatures may catch
sight of thee: thee has no time to lose.”
The ardour of battle once driven from his mind,
Roland was able to perceive the folly of risking
a needless contest betwixt a superior body of wild
Indian warriors and his own followers. But had
his warlike spirit been at its height, it must have
his party, left in the thicket, during his brief absence
on the hill, to feed their imaginations with
terrors of every appalling character; in which occupation,
as he judged at a glance, the gallant
Dodge and Emperor had been even more industrious
than the females, the negro looking the
very personification of mute horror, and bending
low on his saddle as if expecting every instant a
shower of Indian bullets to be let fly into the
thicket; while Pardon expressed the state of his
feelings by crying aloud, as soon as Roland appeared,
“I say, capting, if you seed 'em, a'n't
there no dodging of 'em no how?”
“We can escape, Roland!” exclaimed Edith,
anticipating the soldier's news from his countenance;
“the good man can save us?”
“I hope, I trust so,” replied the kinsman: “we
are in no immediate danger. Be composed, and
for your lives, all now preserve silence.”
A few words served to explain the posture of
affairs, and a few seconds to transfer the party
from its ignoble hiding-place to the open wood
behind it; when Roland, casting his eyes to where
Nathan lay motionless on the hill, awaited impatiently
the expected signal. Fortunately, it was
soon given; and, in a few moments more, the
party, moving briskly but stealthily over the eminence,
had plunged into the dark forest beyond,
leaving the baffled pursuers to follow afterwards as
they might.
“Now,” said Nathan, taking post at Roland's
side, and boldly directing his course across the
track of the enemy, “we have the evil creatures
behind us, and, truly, there we will keep them.
And now, friend soldier, since such thee is, thee
must make thee horses do duty, tired or not; for
closes on us, we may find but ill fortune crossing
the waters.—Hark, friend! does thee hear?” he
exclaimed, coming to a pause, as a sudden and
frightful yell suddenly rose in the forest beyond
the ridge, obviously proceeding from the five foes,
and expressing at once surprise, horror, and lamentation:
“Did thee not say thee found a dead Injun
in the wood?”
“We did,” replied the soldier, “the body of an
Indian, horribly mangled; and, if I am to believe
the strange story I have heard of the Jibbenainosay,
it was some of his bloody work.”
“It is good for thee, then, and the maidens that
is with thee,” said Nathan; “for, truly, the evil
creatures have found that same dead man, being
doubtless one of their own scouting companions;
and, truly, they say the Injuns, in such cases made
and provided, give over their evil designs in terror
and despair; in which case, as I said, it will
be good for thee and thee companions. But follow,
friends, and tarry not to ask questions. Thee
poor women shall come to no harm, if Nathan
Slaughter or little dog Peter can help them.”
With these words of encouragement, Nathan,
bounding along with an activity that kept him
ever in advance of the mounted wanderers, led
the way from the open forest into a labyrinth of
brakes and bogs, through paths traced rather by
wolves and bears than any nobler animals, so
wild, so difficult, and sometimes, in appearance, so
impracticable to be pursued, that Roland, bewildered
from the first, looked every moment to find
himself plunged into difficulties from which neither
the zeal of Nathan nor the sagacity of the unpretending
Peter could extricate his weary followers.
The night was coming fast, and coming with
of new tempests; and how the journey was to be
continued, when darkness should at last invest
them, through the wild mazes of vine and brake
in which they now wandered, was a question
which he scarce durst answer. But night came,
and still Nathan led the way with unabated confidence
and activity, professing a very hearty contempt
for all perils and difficulties of the woods,
except such as proceeded from “evil-minded
Shawnee creatures;” and, indeed, averring that
there was scarce a nook in the forest for miles
around, with which he was not as well acquainted
as with the patches of his own leathern garments.
“Truly,” said he, “when I first came to this land,
I did make me a little cabin in a place hard by;
but the Injuns burned the same; and, verily, had
it not been for little Peter, who gave me a hint of
their coming, I should have been burned with it.
Be of good heart, friend: if thee will keep the ill-meaning
Injun-men out of my way, I will adventure
to lead thee any-where thee will, within
twenty miles of this place, on the darkest night,
and that through the thickest cane, or deepest
swamp, thee can lay eyes on,—that is, if I have
but little dog Peter to help me. Courage, friend;
thee is now coming fast to the river; and, if we
have but good luck in crossing it, thee shall, peradventure,
find theeself nearer thee friends than
thee thinks for.”
This agreeable assurance was a cordial to the
spirits of all, and the travellers now finding themselves,
though still in profound darkness, moving
through the open woodlands again, instead of the
maze of copses that had so long confined them,
Roland took advantage of the change to place
himself at Nathan's side, and endeavour to draw
causes that had brought him into a position and
way of life so ill suited to his faith and peaceful
habits. To his questions, however, Nathan seemed
little disposed to return satisfactory answers, except
in so far as they related to his adventures since
the period of his coming to the frontier; of which
he spoke very freely, though succinctly. He had
built him cabins, like other lonely settlers, and
planted cornfields, from which he had been driven,
time after time, by the evil Shawnees, incurring
frequent perils and hardships; which, with the
persecutions he endured from his more warlike
and intolerant neighbours, gradually drove him
into the forest to seek a precarious subsistence
from the spoils of the chase. As to his past life,
and the causes that had made him a dweller of the
wilderness, he betrayed so little inclination to
satisfy the young man's curiosity, that Roland
dropped the subject entirely, not however without
suspecting, that the imputations Bruce had cast
upon his character might have had some foundation
in truth.
But while conning these things over in his
mind, on a sudden the soldier stepped from the
dark forest into a broad opening, canopied only
by the sky, sweeping like a road through the
wood, in which it was lost behind him; while, in
front, it sank abruptly into a deep hollow or gulf,
in which was heard the sullen rush of an impetuous
river.
| CHAPTER XII. Nick of the woods, or, The Jibbenainosay | |