University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Returning to the party which they had left, they
found the women in the act of placing their meal before
them, under the apple-tree. There was a patch
of grass there, but no shade; nor was any needed in
that lofty region; the frost had already done it's work
by stripping the trees of their leaves, and letting in
the welcome rays of the sun through the naked
branches. The meal consisted of fresh pork and
venison, roasted or broiled on the coals, which looked
tempting enough, though served up in wooden trays.
There were no knives but such as each hunter carries
in his belt. Our traveller's dirk supplied the place of
one to him. Their plates were truly classical, consisting
of cakes of Indian corn, baked in the ashes,
so that, like the soldiers of æneas, each man ate up
his platter before his hunger was appeased.

Our traveller, though sharp-set, could not help perceiving
a woful inspidity in his food, for which his
entertainer apologized. “We ha'nt got no salt to
give you, stranger,” said he. “The little that's
made on the waters of Holston, is all used there;
and what comes by way of the sound is too dear for

the like of us, that fight one half the year, and work
the other half, and then with our rifles in our hands.
As long as we let the Yankees hold James river, we
must make up our minds to eat our hogs when they
are fat, and to do without salt to our bread. But it
is not worth grumbling about; and bread without
salt is more than men deserve that will give up their
country without fighting for it.”

When the meal was finished, our traveller, expressing
a due sense of the courtesy of his entertainers,
asked what was to pay, and proposed to continue his
journey.

“As to what you are to pay, my friend,” said the
spokesman of the party, in the same cold, quiet tone,
“that is just nothing. If you come here by Captain
Douglas's invitation, you are one of us; and if you
do not, we are bound to find you as long as we keep
you. But, as to your going just yet, it is quite
against our rules.”

“How is that?” asked the traveller, with some
expression of impatience.

“That is what I cannot tell you;” replied the
other.

“But what right,” exclaimed the youth—then
checking himself, he added: “But I see you mean
nothing but what is right and prudent; and you must
take your own way to find out all you wish to know
about me. But I thought you said you did not
doubt me.”

“No more I do,” replied the other; “but that is
not the thing. May be, our rules are not satisfied,
though I am.”

“And what are your rules?”

“It is against rule to tell them,” said the mountaineer,
drily. “But make yourself easy, stranger.
We mean you no harm, and I will see and have
every thing laid straight before sun-rise. You are
heartily welcome. Such as we've got we give you;
and that is better than you will find where you are
going. For our parts, except it be for salt, we are
about as well off here as common; because there is
little else we use that comes from foreign parts.
I dare say, it will go hard with you for a while, sir;
but, if your heart's right, you will not mind it, and
you will soon get used to it.”

“It would be a great shame,” said the youth, “if
I cannot bear for a while what you have borne for
life.”

“Yes,” said the other, “that is the way people
talk. But (axing your pardon, sir,) there an't
no sense in it. Because the longer a man bears a
thing, the less he minds it; and after a while, it an't
no hardship at all. And that's the way with the poor
negroes that the Yankees pretended to be so sorry
for, and tried to get them to rise against their masters.
There's few of them, stranger, but what's
happier than I am; but I should be mighty unhappy,
if you were to catch me now, in my old days, and

make a slave of me. So when the Yankees want to set
the negroes free, and to make me a slave, they want to
put us both to what we are not fit for. And so it
will be with you for a while, among these mountains,
sleeping on the ground, and eating your meat without
salt, or bread either, may be. But after a while
you will not mind it. But as to whether it is to be
long or short, young man, you must not think about
that. You have no business here, if you have not
made up your mind to stand the like of that for life;
and may be that not so mighty long neither.”

At this moment a signal from the road gave notice
of the approach of a traveller; and the leader of the
mountaineers, accompanied by his guest, went forward
in obedience to it. But, before he reached the
fence, he saw several of the party leap it, and run
eagerly forward to meet the new-comer. A little
man now appeared, walking slowly and wearily,
whose dress differed but little from that of the natives;
and who bore, like them, a rifle, with its proper
accompaniments of knife, tomahawk and powderhorn.
His arrival awakened a tumult of joy among
the younger persons present, while he whom I have
designated as the chief stood still, looking toward
him with a countenance in which an expression of
thoughtful interest was mingled with a sort of quiet
satisfaction, and great kindness and good will. Yet
he moved but a step to meet him, and extending his
hand, said, in his usual cold tone, “How is it,

Schwartz?” to which the other, in a voice somewhat
more cherry, replied “Well; how is it with you
Witt?” “Well,” was the grave answer.

The two now drew apart to converse privately together.
Crossing the road, they seated themselves
on the fence in front of the stranger, so that during
their conference they could keep an eye on him.

“Who is this you have got here?” asked Schwartz.

“A young fellow that says he wants to go to the
camp,” replied the other.

“Has he got the word and signs?”

“No. He does not know any thing about it. I
have a notion he is a friend of the captain's.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He has got a paper in the captain's hand-write
to show him the way. But there's no name to it;
and if there was, I could not tell that he was the man.
Sure and sartain the captain wrote the paper, but
then somebody may have stolen it. A man that
knows as much about the country as he does, after
looking at that paper and travelling by it away here,
is the last man we ought to let go any farther, or
know any more, unless he is of the right sort.”

“I should like to see that paper;” said Schwartz.

“Here it is,” replied his companion. “I don't
much mistrust the young fellow; but I did not like
to let him have it again till I knew more.”

Schwartz now looked at the paper and enquired
the stranger's name.

“I did not ask his name,” said Witt, “because
he could just tell me what name he pleased. As
there was no name on the paper, it did not make any
odds. Besides, I wanted to be civil to him, and
your high gentlemen down about Richmond are
affronted sometimes if you ask their names. The
young fellow is all right, or all wrong, any how; and
his name don't make any odds. If the captain
knows him, when he sees him, it's all one what his
name is.”

“But I know,” said Schwartz, “who ought to
have that paper; and if he don't answer to that name
it's no use troubling the captain with him.”

“I should be sorry for any harm to him,” said
Witt, “for he is a smart lad; and if he is not a true
Virginian, then he is the greatest hypocrite that ever
was born.”

They now recrossed the road, and Schwartz, addressing
the stranger, said, “I must make so bold,
young man, as to ask your name.”

The young fellow colored, and, turning to Witt,
said, “I thought you were satisfied, and done asking
questions.”

“So I was,” said Witt, “but there is a reason for
asking your name now, that I did not know of. I
owe you nothing but good will, young man,” added
he with earnest solicitude; “and if your name is
what I hope it is, be sure by all means and tell the
truth; for there is but one name in the world that
will save your neck.”

“Then I shall tell you no name at all,” rejoined
the youth, somewhat appalled at this startling intimation.
“Why did not you ask me at once, when I
was in the humor to keep nothing from you. I was
willing to answer any civil question, or indeed any
question you would have put to me, but I will not submit
to be examined, over and over, by every chance-comer.”

“There's where you are wrong, young man,” replied
Witt. “This is no chance-comer.
He is my
head man, and I am just nobody when he is here.”

Surprised at this ascription of authority to the diminutive
and mean-looking new-comer, our traveller
looked at him again, and was confirmed in a resolution
to resist it. He had patiently borne to be questioned
by Witt, who had something of an air of
dignity. He was a tall, clean-limbed, and powerful
man, of about forty, remarkable for the sobriety of
his demeanor, and the thoughtful gravity of his
countenance. The other was a little, old fellow, not
less than sixty years of age, in whose manner and
carriage there was nothing to supply the want of
dignity in his diminutive form and features. A sharp
little black eye was the only point about him to attract
attention: and in that the youth thought he saw
an impertinent and knowing twinkle, which rendered
his inquiries yet more offensive.

“I thought,” said he to Witt, “that Captain
Douglas was your captain.”

“So he is,” was his reply. “That is, he commands
all here. But that is only so long as we
choose. I did not tell you this was my captain. He
is no captain, nor lieutenant, nor ensign neither. But
all of us here follow him; and, when he is away, the
rest follow me.”

“You all follow him!” said the traveller, looking
contemptuously on the puny figure before him.

“To be sure they do;” said Schwartz, with a
quizzieal smile, and answering the stranger's thoughts.
“To be sure they do. Don't you see I am the likeliest
man here?”

“I cannot say I do,” said the youth, offended at
the impertinent manner of the question.

“Well, I am the strongest man in the whole company.”

“I should hardly think that;” replied the traveller,
scornfully.

“Any how, then, I am the biggest,” rejoined
Schwartz, laughing. “That you must own. What!
do you dispute that too? Well then, look here,
stranger! I ha'nt got no commission, and these
men are as free as I am. What do you think makes
them obey my orders?”

“I really cannot say,” replied the young man.

“Well,” said Schwartz, “it is a curious business,
and well worth your considering; because, you
see, I have a notion if you could find that out, you
would find out a pretty good reason why you ought

to tell me your name. But that is your business.
Some name you must have, and the right one too.
And you see, stranger, it makes no odds whether it is
no name or the wrong one. It is all the same thing;
because, if you are the man that ought to have that
paper, you would tell your name in a minute.”

“Do you know who ought to have it?” asked the
youth.

“May be I do,” said Schwartz.

“Question for question,” said the other. “Do
you know?”

“I do.”

“Well, then, my name is Arthur Trevor. Is that
right?”

“That's as it may be,” said Schwartz. “But
now I want to know how you came by this paper.”

“What need you care about that, if I am the person
that ought to have it.”

“Just because I want to know if you are the one
that ought have it.”

“I tell you,” replied the youth, “that my name is
Arthur Trevor.”

“But I do not know that it is,” replied Schwartz,
carelessly.

“Do you doubt my word, then?” exclaimed the
youth; his eye flashing, and the blood rushing to his
face, as if it would burst through his clear skin.

“Look here, stranger,” said Schwartz, in a tone
of quiet expostulation; “I don't mean no offence,

and you'll think so too, if you'll just look at it rightly;
because, you see, I don't know who you are. I don't
doubt Arthur Trevor's word; and, if you are Arthur
Trevor, I don't doubt your word. Now, if you have
my way to show that you are Arthur Trevor you
have but to do it, and it will set all as straight as if I
had axed you ten thousand pardens.”

“But I have no means of showing it,” said the
young amn, in some perplexity. ”I took care to
bring nothing with me to show who I am. The
name of Trevor might have brought me into trouble
in some parts of the country.”

“That is true enough;” replied Schwartz,” and so
I asked you how you came by the paper, because I
know how Arthur Trevor should have come by it;
and, if you got it that way, why than you are the
very man.”

By this time the youth saw the folly of his anger,
and answered, calmly, that he got it from a man he
never saw before.

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Schwartz.

“Nothing uncommon, except that he was lame”

“Did he give you any thing else at the same
time?”

“Yes; he gave me this;” said the youth, producing
a dirty piece of paper, on which were scrawled
these words:

“Sur. If you hav occashun to go of a jurney, carry
this with you, bekase it mout be of sum sarvice to
you.”

“Well,” said Schwartz, “that will do. You are
Arthur Trevor, sure enough. And I reckon, Witt,
you would have said so too, if you had seen this.”

Witt looked at the paper, and merely nodded assent.

“Well, said the young man, “now I suppose I
may go on to my friend.”

“Not just yet,” said Schwartz.

“Why so?” asked the youth, again relapsing into
petulance.

“Just because you could not get there,” was the
answer.

“Why not,” said he, “after finding my way
thus far.”

“For the same reason that you could not have got
any farther if I had not come. You would meet
with rougher customers than these between here and
the camp. Come, come, my son. You must learn
to take things easy. The captain has not got a better
friend than me in the world; nor you neither, if
you did but know all. And, you see, you are going
to a new trade; and I thought I would just give you
a lesson. Now you may see, that, when you mean
nothing but what is fair and honorable, (and you always
know how that is,) the naked truth is your best
friend; and then, the sooner it comes the better. I
am pretty much of an old fox; and I reckon I have
told more lies than you ever dreamed of, but, for all
that, I have seen the day when the truth was better

than the cunningest lie that ever was told. And
then again, it an't no use to mind what a man says
when he don't know you; because, you see, it an't
you he is talking to, but just a stranger.”

“But I have travelled desperate hard to-day,
Witt,” continued Schwartz; “and I must push on to
the camp to-night. So just give me a mouthful, and
I'll be off, and pilot Mr. Trevor through among the
guards.”

“My horse is at your service, as you are tired,”
said Arthur, whose feelings toward his new acquaintance
were now quite mollified.

“I have had riding enough for one day,” said
Schwartz; “and was glad enough to get to where I
could leave my horse. It an't much good a horse
will do you, or me either, where we are going. By
the time we climb to the top of the Devil's Back-bone,
you'll be more tired than me; and the horse
will be worst off of any.”

He now told one of the boys to make ready Arthur's
horse, and, snatching a hasty morsel, seized his
rifle. “It will not do,” said he, “to starve when
a man is on fatigue, and it will not do to eat too
much. And see here, Witt,” added he, taking him
apart, and speaking in a low tone, “if a long-legged,
red-headed fellow comes along here, and tells
you he is from Currituck, and seems to think he
knows all the signs, never let him find out but what
he does. Only just make an excuse to keep him a

while, and send a runner on to me, that I may have
time to get out of the way, because he must not see
me. Then you can start him off again with a couple
of fellows to show him the way.”