University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Balcombe's tongue was now loosened, and he
talked with all his wonted spirit and animation,
but restraining himself so far as to make the major
a fair partaker in the conversation. James and
Mary sat by in silence, the latter swallowing his
words with a greediness surpassing even that of
Mrs. Balcombe herself. Her excited feelings and
greater readiness of apprehension, made, as I supposed,
this difference. It was only in her countenance
that I saw any token of the powers of mind
of which Balcombe had spoken, and which her
letters displayed. She seemed restrained rather
by humility than by diffidence or modesty. She
scarcely ever spoke that a blush did not suffuse her

whole face immediately after. It seemed as if a
feeling within rebuked her presumption, and what
she feared might be an abuse of the forbearance of
her friends. The day passed rationally and pleasantly,
and was to us weary travellers a day of
welcome rest.

There was no longer anything to agitate or excite
in the difficulties with which we had to contend.
We therefore passed that subject by for the
day, and though my thoughts would wander to
Ann at times, and again would pry into the possible
contents of that mysterious packet, I trust the
day was passed essentially as the Sabbath should
be. I found myself again restored to a trusting
confidence in Providence, and a thorough convert
to Balcombe's doctrine that the difficulties which
we encounter in life are so much unrecompensed
evil, if we do not lay them to heart and study out
the hidden wisdom with which they are fraught.
I was sure I was a wiser, and I trust a better man
for the use he had taught me to make of my trials.

The next day was spent in consulting about our
ulterior measures, and the result of our consultation
was that I should go to Fredericksburg and
take the advice of a lawyer on the subject of the
supposed will. I would gladly have had Balcombe's
company, which now began to seem a
necessary of life to me, but he suggested that
Montague's late attempt made it necessary to keep
an eye upon him. If in the neighbourhood, he
would know that Balcombe and Keizer were there,

and his habitual dread of them would keep him in
check more effectually than anything else.

“This last attempt,” said Balcombe, “shows
that he is becoming desperate. Nothing but
phrensy would make him risk the halter.”

I therefore determined to go alone. Indeed it
was time I should act the man once more, and
attend to my own affairs; but Balcombe's quickness,
perspicacity, and resources, had given me
such a habit of depending on him, that I found
myself hardly able to walk without leadingstrings.
This rendered the effort the more necessary, and
I resolved to make it.

“Before you go,” said Balcombe, “it may be as
well to try if we cannot come at our object by a
shorter road. Montague cannot be far off, and if
by any chance I can once lay my eye upon him,
I should know how to manage the matter at
once.”

“What would you do?” said I.

“Cast a spell upon him,” replied Balcombe,
“and bring him here; give him the packet, and
make him open it with his own hands, and put the
will into mine.”

“This is a strange power you exercise over
him.”

“It is partly habit,” said Balcombe, “and partly
the power of circumstances. He can hardly have
heard of my arrival. He had no means of recognising
me on Saturday night. He probably thinks
me hanged by this time in Missouri, and would

take me for my own ghost. Recollecting his attempts
against me, his fears would hardly be
relieved (superstitious as he is) by finding me a
being of flesh and blood; and a braver man than
he would cower under my eye at such a moment.
Besides, I have but to hint at the fire, and he would
have no doubt that I was prepared to swear to his
identity and bring him to the gallows. Indeed, if,
as I suspect, I have set my mark upon him, I should
have little scruple to speak so decisively as to put
his neck in some jeopardy. To escape this he
would not hesitate to give up the will. It may
perhaps be as well therefore to defer your journey
for a day or two, and let us see if John cannot
strike his trail. Mr. Raby bears your grandfather's
name, William; we must not dishonour
that, if it can be avoided. Let us recover the will,
and we shall have no occasion to go to law for the
purpose of obtaining justice; and no one here or
in England will suspect how we came by it. He
will take care not to ask, and to hush inquiry by
expressing himself to be entirely satisfied.”

John was now summoned, and asked if he saw
which way the incendiary ran.

“Oh, yes, sir,” said he. “You see I hadn't no
notion the house was afire, and I wasn't thinking
of nothing but him. So I run just because I seed
you run, and the minute you fired I jumped on the
wall, and there I sot and looked at him till I heard
the cry of `fire.' I seed him just as plain as I see
you, and I had my rifle, and could have fetched

him down mighty handy, but then I did not know
who he was nor what he had done. I seed which
way he went plain enough.”

“And have you any notion who it was, John?”

“Lord! no, sir. I don't know nobody in these
parts.”

“Yes you do, John. What do you think of
Montague?”

“The dear Lord!” said John, with a start.
“You don't think it was him, colonel? I God! if
I had thought that I'd have fixed him for slow travelling.”

“I do suspect it was he, John,” said Balcombe;
“and I want you to find out what has become of
him.”

“He's got two days start,” said John; “and if
he has any notion we are here, he's a good way off
before now.”

“I dare say,” replied Balcombe; “but he has
no chance to know that; and besides I suspect
that I fixed him for slow travelling, as you call it,
myself, though not so effectually as you would
have done.”

“Why, you don't think you hit him, colonel?”

“Yes, I do. My pistol went off too soon, but
the ball did not go far from his right shoulder.”

“I God! colonel, if you think you hit him, I'm
pretty sure you did; 'cause you an't apt to send
a ball and not know where it's gone to. If he's
got a slug of lead in him just to stop his headway,
I an't so sure but what I could run him down.”

“I am sure you can,” said Balcombe. “And as
there are neither deer nor Indians here to amuse
you, you may as well take a turn to hunt for this
fellow.”

“That I will,” said John; “but it's well for the
folks in our country that the deer an't half so scary
and the Indians an't half so cunning as he is. I
only wish I had him in the prairie or a cane brake,
I'd know what to do him there. But here in the
settlements I am mightily afraid he'll dodge me.
Anyhow, I can but take my rifle, and if I can't
do nothing else, I can burst the heads of a few
squirrels.”

“Well, John,” said Balcombe, “remember by
all means not to let him see you.”

“I'll take care of that, sir; but if he was to see
me, with these things on, I reckon he'd hardly
know me, unless he was near enough to look me
right in the eye. If I know myself it's as much.”

John went off, and did not return till night. As
soon as we retired he came to our room.

“Well, John,” said Balcombe, “what luck?”

“Pretty good, I'm a thinking,” replied the
other.

“Did you see Montague?”

“No, sir. I didn't want to see him, because I
didn't want him to see me; but I think I've found
out where he is.”

“Well, come, John,” said Balcombe, “tell us all
about it.”

“Well, sir, you see I went in the field, and I

took my course just the way I saw him running;
and I looked for a track, but the ground was too
hard frozen that night. Well, I kept on, and I
thought maybe I might see some sign where he got
over the fence. So when I got to the fence, sir, I
looked all along at every pannel as close as if I
had been looking for Indian sign; and at last I
comes to the place where he got over.”

“How did you know it, John?”

“By the blood, sir. There was a good many
drops of blood on the fence, and there was a large
flat rail at top, and there was the mark of his whole
hand as he got over, all bloody; all the four fingers
and the thumb too. And sure enough, as you say,
it was the right hand. So I gets over the fence,
and looks sharp t'other side, where the briers looked
mashed down, almost as if he had fallen on them;
and I do suppose he had, for just there right close
to the fence there was a smart chance of blood,
that looked as if he had laid there some time. So
you see I made pretty sure that he wasn't gone
far. So I keeps right on pretty much the same
course, and looked sharp for blood, but I couldn't
see none; and after a while I comes to a right big
road. So then you see, colonel, I did not know
rightly which end of the road to take, 'cause I
come into it right square. If I had come into it
sorter slantindickler like, I'd have known what to
do. But it wasn't no use standing there, so I starts
on the way my head happened to stand. There
wasn't no occasion to be in any hurry, 'cause, you

see, I knowed if Montague wasn't clean off before
then he must be pretty close by, and could not get
away directly. So I sees a squirrel, and I downs
him, and picks him up and goes along. Lord! I
could hardly help laughing to think of me going
along with a squirrel in my hand, like he was worth
taking home; and I reckon if all the carcasses of
deer, and elk, and buffalo, that I have left in the
prairies after I took their jackets off, were here,
some of these tallow-faced poor devils that I see
about would get right fat. But I hear 'em say
that everything that has life will do to keep life,
and I thought somebody would be glad of the
squirrel in this scarce country, so I just walks
along the road with him in my hand.

“So I walked a good smart bit, and seed nothing
but poor land and pine woods, till at last I meets a
man. And he had a string of wild ducks in his
hand, and a monstrous great gun on his shoulder,
big enough to swallow my rifle, stock, lock, and
barrel. So I stops him for a talk, and I axed
where he killed so many ducks. And he tells me
down in a place I most think he called it a Pocoson.
(I never heard of any such place before.) And
with that he looks at the squirrel, and he sees his
head all smashed, and he just thought I had done
it with a rock; and he axed me what I did that
for, `'cause,' said he, `the brains is amazing good.'
And then I tell'd him how 'twas, and that I never
hit 'em anywhere else, and he looks at my rifle,
and maybe it did not astonish him. So then he

looks at his ducks, and he finds one little bit of a
thing, it wasn't much bigger than a partridge, and
he looks at it, and then he looks at the squirrel, and
then at the duck again, and at last says he,

“`I'll give you this here teal for that squirrel.'

“`You are heartily welcome to the squirrel,'
says I.

“Then he looked sorter shamed and sheepish-like,
and says he,

“`I don't want your squirrel for nothing.'

“`Well,' says I, `that's all fair, but your duck is
worth two squirrels.'

“`I dare say it is,' says he; `but I have a particular
use for the squirrel.'

“`Well, then,' says I, `here he is, for I an't got
no use for him at all, and was just looking for
somebody to give him to.'

“So with that he takes it, and looks at it mighty
pleased and smilinglike, and says he,

“`Well, this will do. This is better than throwing
away a whole handful of powder and shot out
of this drotted old gun of mine that takes half a
pound at a load. I an't sorry,' says he, `that I
didn't find one myself.'

“Says I, `You must have wanted a squirrel
mighty bad. But maybe some of your folks is
sick.'

“`Not rightly one of my own family,' says he.
`But I was going out a ducking, and I promised to
kill a squirrel or a partridge if I could see one,

and I don't make no doubt I'd have got more for
it than would have paid me for my ammunition.'

“So the minute I heard that, says I,

“`Well, if there an't no game this way, it's no
use of my going any further, so I'll just turn back
with you.'

“So we keeps talking as we goes along, and at
last says I,

“`What gentleman is that you say is sick at
your house?'

“With that he started and looked sorter wild-like,
and says he,

“`Sick gentleman! I didn't say there was any
sick gentleman at my house.'

“`Well, maybe you didn't,' says I; for I seed
how it was, colonel, and I didn't want to give the
fellow any scare. So I says no more about that,
and we walks on till I seed where his house was,
and he stops, and I goes on till I was out of sight,
and then I takes the woods and comes home.”

“Did you ask the fellow's name?” said Balcombe.

“No, sir,” replied Keizer; “I hear 'em say it
an't the fashion in this country to ask people's
names; but I reckon I could find out mighty
handy.”

“It's not worth while,” said Balcombe. “Was
he a long-legged, parrot-toed fellow, with a scar on
his right cheek?”

“That's the very fellow,” said John.

“Jim Porter,” said Balcombe. “He is about

my age, and when I lived here his father paid fifty
pairs of canvass-back ducks annually for the exclusive
privilege of hunting ducks and muskrats in
Mr. Raby's marshes. The good old gentleman
gave me the whole benefit of this rent for my table.
I used sometimes to hunt with Jim; and often
when he has come with his weekly tribute, without
hat or shoes, I have made him happy by telling
him to sell the ducks for his own benefit. I see
that he is somehow bound to Montague, but I think
my hold on him will prove the stronger.”

In the morning Balcombe led the conversation
from a fine brandered duck which smoked on the
table to the marsh from which it had been taken;
and soon learned that Jim Porter had fallen heir to
his father's cottage and occupation. He therefore
needed no guide, and he could never want aid in
a conflict with Montague face to face. I felt it,
however, to be my duty to accompany him, and
as he made no objection, we walked out together
soon after breakfast. Balcombe, who had worn
arms until they were as familiar to him as his
garments, had no occasion to add anything to his
equipment, so that we did nothing to attract observation.
A walk of two or three miles brought us
to Porter's cottage.

He was in act to go out to the marsh, the tide
being then at the proper stage. Balcombe gave
him to understand that his visit was to the gentleman
who was sick there, and was at once told that
there was no such gentleman.

“Gone!” said Balcombe, quietly. “Well, I have
not lost my labour, Jim, for I am right glad to see
you again. I suppose the poor old man is gone,
and you are just living here in the old place, and
at the old business.”

While he said this, the poor fellow gazed at him
with intense curiosity, and at length exclaimed,

“Why, good Lord! To be sure now! This
an't Mr. Balcombe?”

“Yes it is, Jim,” said Balcombe, extending his
hand. “Your old friend George Balcombe come
back again once more.”

The man seemed much moved, and exhibited an
amusing struggle between habitual respect and
the desire to give free utterance to his pleasure at
seeing Balcombe. After some few kind inquiries,
Balcombe asked Jim when his guest had left him.
The fellow looked a little queer, but at last said,

“I suppose it don't make no difference talking
to you, Mr. Balcombe; but he didn't want anybody
to know he was here, or where he was
gone.”

“He is gone, then?” said Balcombe.

“Oh, yes, sir. He started this morning at daylight.”

“How did he travel?” said Balcombe. “I
thought he had been badly hurt.”

“I don't know about that, sir,” said Jim. “He
did keep a mighty moaning, and he didn't seem to
have the use of his right arm; but he just said he
was sick, and kept his bed.”

“How long has he been sick?” asked Balcombe.

“Only since Sunday morning. He came in
after I was gone to bed, and in the morning he
said he had caught a mighty bad cold the overnight;
and sure enough he did look desperate
bad.”

“And how long had he been here?”

“He came here little more than a week ago,
sir, and said he wanted to stay with me a while
just to see how things was going on. You know,
sir, he was mighty fond of the old man of all, and
the old man of him. Ah, Lord! I wish we had
him back here again. If you please to believe me,
Mr. Balcombe, they make me pay more now for
hunting in the Pocoson than I used to do when there
were ten times as many ducks; and the devil a
one do they give me back again, but send them all
away to Fredericksburg and them places. Well,
sir, you see Mr. Montague gave me sort of a hint
that maybe all wasn't right, and if every one had
their own, he wasn't sure that poor Miss Fanny
that married Mr. Napier, and has not got a house
over her head, they say, would not be right well
off. So he said he had come here to see if he could
not find out something, and when he went to the
hall they sorter suspicioned him and drove him
away. So he went away a while, and then come
back and staid here so with me.”

“And what made him go away in such a
hurry?”

“Why that's what I cannot find out rightly,”

said Jim. “I don't believe he had any notion of
it yesterday morning; but when I went out a ducking
he said he would be glad to get a squirrel, and
axed me to kill one for him. So I went, sir, but
never saw one; and as I come back I meets a man
with one, and I wanted to buy it, but he gave it to
me. And he had a gun that he called a rifle. I
never saw one before; and he talked about putting
a ball into a squirrel's eye just as if he had put it
there with his finger and thumb. And sure enough
he had hit the poor thing right in the eye, and scattered
all its brains. So he turned back with me,
and we had a heap of talk, and when we got here
he went on, and I don't know what became of him.
So when I went in says Mr. Montague,

“`Well, Jim, did you kill me a squirrel?'

“`No,' said I, `but I have brought you one I got
from another man.'

“And with that I showed him the squirrel, and
how the fellow had hit him just where he pleased
with a single ball. And as soon as he seed it I
thought he looked uneasy, and says he,

“`That was the very rifle I heard two hours
ago.'

“`Why,' says I, `there's been a good many
people out to-day, and I have heard guns myself
where by good rights nobody ought to shoot but
me.'

“`I reckon they were shot guns,' said he; `but
that I heard was a rifle.'

“`And what's the difference?' says I.

“Oh,' says he, `they an't no more alike than the
bark of a dog and the howl of a wolf.' And says
he, `Does not anybody about here use a rifle?'

“`No,' says I; `and I never seen or heard of
one before to-day.'

“`Then the man that shot the squirrel had a
rifle?' says he.

“`To be sure,' says I, `else he never could
have done that,' says I, pointing to the squirrel's
head.

“`Did you see it?' says he.

“`Yes,' says I, `and the sorriest, rustiest looking
old thing it was I ever saw. My old gun's a beauty
to it,' says I. `But then the man said she was the
real stuff, and he would give her, he said, for ne'er
a shooting iron in the whole country.'

“And with that, sir, I seed Mr. Montague begin
to look worse than he did, and I thought maybe he
talked too much, and so I told him, and was going
away.

“`No,' says he, `Jim, talking don't do me no
harm, only the light hurts my eyes.'

“And so, sir, he laid back his head upon the
pillow, and puts his hand over his eyes, and then
says he,

“`What sort of a looking man was that, that
had the rifle?'

“So I tells him, sir, he was a little dark-skinned
man, with black eyes.

“`Did he look like a gentleman?' says he.

“`I can't say he did,' says I, `for all he had on

pretty good clothes, but he didn't look like he was
used to them; and as to his talk,' says I, `sir, he
didn't talk no better than me, nor so well neither.'

“And while I was talking, Mr. Balcombe, I
could not see Mr. Montague's eyes, but the lower
part of his face was as pale as a corpse, and he got
right black about the mouth, and I was scared, and
asked him what was the matter, but he just motioned
me to go away. So after a while he calls
me back, and says he,

“`Jim, is there any chance to hire any sort of a
carriage in the neighbourhood?'

“`No,' says I, `sir, except it be old Tom that
old Mr. Raby set free, and he has got just an old
rattletrap of a gig that he sometimes rides in when
he carries cakes to musters and the like.'

“`Well,' says he, `that must do, if there's no
better to be had. And I have no doubt,' says he,
`old Tom would be glad to oblige me by taking me
as far as Tapahannock.'

“`Why, Lord!' says I, `Mr. Montague, you are
too sick to go.'

“`That's the very reason,' says he. `Besides,
my business wants me at Fredericksburg, and
there I can see a doctor and get help; and,' says
he, `it an't so far to Tapahannock, and there I can
get a carriage. So now, Jim,' says he, `I want to
get to Fredericksburg to-morrow night, and old
Tom must be here before light, and I must be at
Tapahannock a little after sunrise.'

“`Won't that be too much of a journey?' says I.

“`I cannot help it,' says he; `it's better than
stopping on the road.'

“So with that, sir, I speaks to old Tom, and sure
enough he was here by a little after light, and off
they went.”