University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
GAINING FREEDOM.

In so much as concerned the treatment of the
prisoners left with the main party of savages, the
departure of Blodget was a blessing to them—for
rude, brutal and cruel though these children of the
forest might be, they at least could not torture the
souls of their captives with maddening words more
difficult to be borne than blows.

These Indians, however, in justice to them be it
said, did not in the present instance seem disposed
to conduct themselves with any undue severity
toward those under their charge. They shared their
morning meal with them—unbinding their hands so
that they might feed themselves—standing guard
over them while they did so—and then, as a necessary
act of prudence, securing them again, but in a
manner to give them far less pain than before.
Colburn and Hampton, both extremely dejected,
though with feelings perhaps as different as light
and darkness, ate little, and that rather through force
than desire; but Tom bolted his portion with a gusto
and zeal that amused the savages not a little. True
to his assertion, Blodget had spoken some favorable
words of the old woodman; and the savages, elated

with their success since coming into the country, and
having no personal ill-will laid up against him, were
now in the humor to treat him with comparative
leniency. They tied his hands behind his back
again, it is true; but they took care to put the cord
in a new place, where it would not give him so much
pain as before, and only drew it reasonably tight.
And then one of the chiefs went so far as to pat him
on the head, and say, in his broken English:

“White brudder good Injun make!”

Ef I couldn't make a thundering sight better one
nor some of the white hellyuns you've got amongst
ye,” grinned Tom, “I'd guv you leave to roast me
fust and bile me arterward! Wagh!”

The Indian laughed, though he only imperfectly
understood him; and turning to his companions, he
said something to them, at which they laughed also.

In the course of half-an-hour after the departure
of Blodget and his party, the main body of savages,
numbering about twenty in all, resumed their route
to the northward, all riding except the prisoners
and a couple who kept along on foot with them to
act as a special guard. To the left of them, at no
great distance, was the Kentucky River. They did
not attempt to follow the windings of that stream,
however, but rather aimed for a middle course between
that and the Licking, as leading more directly
through a wilderness where there were no formidable
stations, and only at the most a few isolated
settlers. They had no purpose in view now except

to reach the Ohio without molestation and cross over
to the safer shore, which they expected to do by
means of a raft, to be constructed on the bank after
their arrival, for the journey back to where they had
left their canoes was too far and difficult to be
thought of at all.

The prisoners were now allowed to walk near
enough together to converse with each other, which,
thanks to the lenient disposition of their guard, was
not forbidden, and Tom was the first to avail himself
of the liberty. Looking at the distressed and
haggard face of Henry, he attempted in his rude
way to offer him what consolation he could.

“It's powerful hard, lad,” he said, in a sympathetic
tone, and with his rough features softening and his
eyes filling with tears, “for you to bear up ag'in all
the trouble that's come upon you; but cheer up,
Harry, and never say die! for whar's the use?”

“Oh, Tom,” groaned Henry, in a low, tremulous
voice, with his bloodless lips fairly quivering, but
still keeping under, by a master effort of his will,
emotions that seemed as if they would rend his soul
from its earthly tenement: “oh, Tom, only to think,
after all my pain, peril, anxiety and suffering, of
mind and body, beyond even the tortures which
savages have power to inflict, that I should again
have her in my arms, and experience a few minutes
of such earthly happiness as I had never before
known, and then see her suddenly snatched from me,
and subsequently borne off to a doom a thousand

times worse than death, without the power to even
so much as lift a hand in her defence! Oh, my
God! my God! how do I bear up against it and
live!”

“It's powerful hard, Harry, I know,” returned
Tom; “powerful hard; but then I s'pect it arn't
quite so bad as you makes it out—no, sir! Ef the
gal war dead, thar'd be a eend to hoping, you see;
but now thar's a chance as so'thing 'll turn up and
fotch it all out right at last. That thar devil as tuk
her off won't kill her—and t'other devil as went
arter her won't—and so (lowering his voice till only
Henry's ear could catch the words) when we gits
away we'll hunt her up, and you'll see happy times
yit.”

“When we get away!” repeated Henry, in a low,
guarded tone, looking wonderingly at Tom; “have
you any hope of that?”

“In course I has,” answered Tom, with confidence;
“d'yer think these yere ripscallion niggers is agwine
to keep us all our lives? Not ef I knows myself!
Shagh!”

At this moment Hampton, who had been walking
some distance ahead of our friends, observing
them in close and confidential conversation, slackened
his pace till they came up with him.

“Git out, you infarnal white nigger devil you,”
growled Tom, “or I'll smash your skull in the fust
chance I git! All this yere devilish business we

owes to you; and all the satisfaction I gits out of it
ar', that you'll git what belongs to you afore long!”

“It was you that drove me to it!” muttered Hampton.
“In a moment of anger, at the manner I had
been treated, I was tempted to join the Indians; but
I subsequently repented, and the first opportunity I
got I ran off from them, with the young lady, intending
to take her home to her father; but she, being
distrustful of me, frustrated my good intentions, and
ran away from me; and in following her I was
caught, as it seems she and you were too shortly
afterward.”

“Go away!” said Tom, quietly but sternly, accompanying
the words with a look there was no
mistaking; “go away, or I shall hurt you! for ef
my hands is bound my feet arn't, and I'm a rigelar
hoss at kicking. Go away! I don't want to speak
to you, and I don't want you to speak to me!
Whar's the use?”

Evidently Hampton thought his company not
wanted, and that something disagreeable might possibly
happen should he venture to remain; and so,
with a drooping head and downcast look, he moved
sullenly away, and walked on by himself—the Indian
guard not interfering with either of the parties,
but keeping them under a sharp surveillance.

“Tell me, Tom,” said Henry, as soon as he could
again speak without being overheard by a third
party, “what chance there can possibly be of our
getting away from our captors!”

“Oh, thar'll so'thing turn up, Harry, arter a while,”
answered the other, rather from a hope than from
any settled plan of his own. “You see these yere
savages is beginning to let up on us a lettle; and ef
we keeps along kind o' docile, they'll let up on us a
lettle more, and a lettle more, by degrees like, till
thar'll so'thing come on't sure!”

“Then it is into the far future you are looking!”
groaned Henry; “and the awful present is so all important
to me! Oh, God give me strength to bear
up under this weight of misery that is crushing me!”
he prayed.

“Well, you see, my dear feller,” pursued Tom, “it
mayn't be so fur off as you thinks, arter all! My
hands arn't tied so tight as they war; and ef I kin
jest manage so's to git 'em free, without the red niggers
knowing on't, I'll guv'em the dodge somewhar;
and then good-by, old Injun; for the two-legged
critter as kin cotch and hold me, arter I've had ten
rod the start, kin set hisself up in the chain-lightning
business—yes, sir!”

“But then, Tom, if you were free, I should still be
a prisoner!”

“Would ye? how long? Heaven and 'arth,
younker! d'yer think I wouldn't hev the half of
Kaintuck arter these yere devils, but what I'd fotch
you out cl'ar?”

“And meantime what would become of poor Isaline?”
groaned Henry. “No, no, Tom, my good,
stanch friend, if ever you get away, give not a thought

to me till you have saved Isaline Holcombe! for
what is life to me without her! Nothing! nothing!
Oh, Tom, I do not think of myself, only for her sweet
sake! I would gladly lay down my life now, at any
moment, to save and restore her to the arms of her
father!”

“And does you s'pect she keers as much for you
as you does for her?” asked the other.

“Oh, yes, I cannot doubt it, after the evidence I
have received!”

“Then,” rejoined the sagacious woodman, “what
does you s'pect her life 'ud be wo'th to her ef you
was dead, hey?”

“True! true! she would be miserable!” sighed
Henry.

“Then don't talk about dying, like a sick calf,
younker, fur whar's the use?”

“Still, Tom, you must save her first—promise me
that you will!”

“Ef you could git away too, Harry, it would all
be right!”

“Oh, if I could!”

Tom mused, and remained silent for some time.
At length he seemed to start, as if with a happy
thought.

“I've got a idee!” he said; “but may be it's like
a good many more I've had in my time—not good
for nothing!”

“What is it?” asked Henry.

“You knows you is some on finikies, hey?”

“Drawing—sketching—you mean?”

“Yes, pictur' finikies.”

“Well?”

“Wall, what become of all them as you had?”

“I do not know. They were in the pocket of my
hunting-frock, and my first captors took possession
of that. Probably they were thrown away.”

“What become of your coat?”

“I cannot say. It was worn a while, and then I
lost sight of it. In fact I had enough else to think
of besides that.”

“I don't believe it war throwed away,” mused
Tom, “and arter them niggers jined these, it mought
hev been pitched into the gineral pile.”

“But why do you ask about it?”

“Was your finiky fixings along with the pictur's?”

“My drawing materials were.”

“Wall, you see, Harry, I've got a idee, that ef you
could git them things showed up afore the Injuns
somehow, so's to make 'em curi's about 'em, and then
git 'em to free your hands and you tickle 'em up
with some o' thar cussed ugly faces, they mought
make a pet o' you.”

“Tom, it is a good idea!” said Henry, brightening.

“Ef you could git your finikies to work a lettle
he-yar, and git away from these imps by sich like
arterwards, it mought pay up for some of the time
you've fooled away afore this!” said Tom, with the

satisfied air of a man who was turning a worthless
matter to some account.

“If I only had my liberty, I could do something
with a burnt stick and a piece of bark, even without
my drawing materials,” said Henry; “and if the Indians
would only give me some of their paints and a
chance to work, I would soon astonish them.”

“Nothing like trying it on,” returned Tom; “and
so s'pose you opens on these yere foot-niggers fust,
and sees what you kin do with them.”

“I hardly know how to begin, but the first opportunity
I have I will try,” said Henry.

He did try with his guard; but as they could only
understand and speak a few of the most simple and
common English words, and as his hands were
bound so that he could make no explanatory gestures,
he did not succeed in getting them to comprehend
him, and again became terribly depressed with
grief and despair.

“Shagh!” grunted Tom, in one of his efforts to
raise his spirits; “never say die, man! whar's the
use? I tell you thar'll so'thing turn up, or else I'll
swaller myself!”

The Indians kept steadily on, over a rough section
of the country—up hill and down—through
thickets and open woods—now and then crossing a
small creek or stream, and never once halting for
rest till the sun was within an hour of the horizon.
Then they tethered and put their horses to graze,
and the most expert hunters flew off in different directions

to shoot game, there being but little meat
left and that not in the best condition. By dark the
hunters had all returned, bringing with them a
sufficient quantity of venison, some bear meat, and
also some corn, which had been collected from a
field they had chanced upon. A large fire was now
kindled, and soon the savages were in good humor
over what they considered a feast.

When they had finished their own meal, they unbound
their prisoners again and offered them all
they could eat. It was now that, taking advantage
of his liberty, Henry addressed them in the
most simple words he could find, accompanied with
appropriate gestures, describing his power of drawing,
not only scenes but faces. They did not altogether
comprehend him at first; but they understood
something—enough to excite their curiosity to know
more; and taking advantage of this favorable impression,
he advanced to the fire, selected the stick
best suited to his purpose, drew it forth, put out the
blaze, and, using the charred end on the inside of a
large strip of bark that he found lying on the ground,
with a few artistic strokes, sketched a rough but
unmistakable outline of the whole savage group. It
was a mere rude delineation, which rather suggested
to the fancy than brought to the view; but it surprised
and delighted the Indians, who (not being now
in council and required to keep up an austere dignity)
expressed their wonder and admiration freely,

and desired the artist to proceed and give them something
more of the same kind.

It now occurred to Henry that his coat might
possibly be among the pile of clothing they had been
bringing along as a part of their plunder, and that
possibly some of his former sketches and drawing
materials might be in the pocket still, and so by
words and signs he made the savages understand
enough to grant him the privilege of searching. To
his great joy he found his coat, thus proving that
his captors had preserved it even during their hurried
flight and had afterward thrown it among the
general stock. He eagerly thrust his hand into the
pocket—but, to his great disappointment, found nothing
there—and he was about to lay the garment
down, with a pang of sorrow, when he heard something
like the rustling of papers, and discovered a
bulky mass between the outer cloth and the lining,
at the bottom of one of the skirts. Instantly thrusting
his hand back into the pocket, he still found it
whole; but near it was a rent in the lining, through
which, in his haste, when on the little island, he had
probably dropped the articles. Quickly pushing his
hand through this, down to the bottom of the skirt,
he now, with inexpressible joy, because of his hope
of ultimate freedom, drew forth a bundle of his pictures,
with two or three pencils and some white
paper. Neither the drawings nor the paper were in
a good condition, for they had been somewhat damaged
by the long time they had remained submerged

in the waters of the Licking; but still they would
answer his purpose; and when he showed them to
the Indians, they evinced a delight, in looks, gestures,
and words, that perfectly satisfied him.
Among these sketches was the one, not quite finished,
which he was drawing at the time he first discovered
the Indians who subsequently became his captors;
and the sight of that beautiful scene, with the recollection
of his dear Isaline, now filled his soul with
such emotions as made his brain reel and his whole
frame quiver. Among these sketches, also, was the
one of the night-duel, with the so-called Phantom leaping
down from the tree in pursuit of Hampton, and
this interested the savages very much. They readily
guessed at the meaning of the mysterious figure
—for one of the chiefs said to the artist, putting his
finger on it as he spoke:

“Watchemenetoc! Devil!”

“Yes,” said Henry, tapping his own breast, “and I
saw it!”

Having examined all the pictures, with such signs
of approbation as might have flattered a more ambitious
man, the savages intimated that they wanted
to see him do something new; and though his hands
were somewhat swollen and sore, from the manner
in which they had been corded, he was not slow to
comply with their request.

He selected the principal or oldest chief, and made
a sketch of his face and figure by the fire-light; and
with such success that it was immediately recognized

by all the warriors; who were so delighted that they
laughed, and tapped Henry on the shoulder, and
grunted out the English word “Good!” which they
many times repeated.

The chief was quite proud of the drawing, and
carried it around in triumph, and then each of the
others wanted to have his likeness taken in the same
way.

Henry drew two more of the head warriors, or
chiefs, with quite as much success as the first, and
then signified that he was very much fatigued and
sleepy.

Though the savages would gladly have kept him
employed all night, they now forbore to press him
any further, but gave him his supper, and treated
him with something like respect. They were evidently
highly pleased with him, and already the idea
of adopting him had begun to take the place of
burning him; and when he signified his wish to lie
down, they seemed to hesitate about securing him
in so ignominious and cruel a manner as before.
They finally, after a brief consultation, pointed to a
spot in the centre of the camp, and permitted him
to lie down without any bonds at all, though some
half-a-dozen warriors stretched themselves out on
every side of him.
He had no opportunity to exchange
any further words with Tom; but he managed
to get a glance at his friend's eye, and saw by
its gleam that the old woodman was highly delighted
with his success thus far.

Tom, too, was treated with more leniency than
before—for instead of having his hands bound
behind his back, a ligature was merely passed
around each wrist, and the other end of each cord
fastened to the wrist of a warrior on each side of
him, so that the slightest movement of his arms
would draw upon theirs and give them timely notice
—while, on the contrary, Hampton was as effectually
and painfully secured as on the previous night.

When the camp had finally become still, Henry
pretended to fall asleep, though never wider awake
and with all his senses more keenly on the alert. He
had already, he felt, made a great stride toward
freedom; and he was now resolved, if there should
be any opportunity for escape, to take advantage of
it at whatever risk. He listened to every sound and
noted every breath, his heart the while beating
wildly with hope and fear.

About midnight, as near as he could judge, he
gently raised himself to a sitting posture and looked
over the still forms of his foes, stretched out all
around him. The fire had gone down, the night
was cloudy, and everything seemed favorable to his
escape, provided he could get beyond the sleeping
warriors without disturbing them. But though
wildly eager for liberty—even more on Isaline's account
than his own—he could not bear the thought
of leaving behind him his faithful friend Tom—for
the anger of the savages at his escape might be
vented on the brave woodman and his life be sacrificed;

and yet for both to get away, under the circumstances,
seemed next to an impossibility. If
Tom were free of his bonds, it would be a different
matter; but what chance was there that he could
liberate him without rousing some of the usually
light sleepers? And yet he was tempted, strongly
tempted, to make the dangerous attempt. He knew
where Tom was lying—only a few feet divided them;
but then, between the two, were several grim warriors;
and how hope to pass over them without disturbing
them? and how set his friend free, even
if he should reach him? If he only had a knife!
But then why not have one? since every savage
on either side of him had one in his belt.

With this thought and this hope, Henry quietly
sunk back to his place on the ground and stretched
himself out at full length as at first. Then he stole
his hand, very slowly and softly, to the belt of the
nearest Indian, and, with a wonderful delicacy of
touch, felt for the weapon. When at length his fingers
came in contact with what he sought, he fancied
he could hear his own heart beat; and as he slowly,
slowly, slowly drew forth the sharp steel, he fairly
held his breath. At last it was in his hand, and the
savage had not stirred; and then what an earnest
prayer of thanksgiving he breathed; and how fervently
he prayed that God would aid him to accomplish
a purpose of which the holiest angels must
approve! Then he sat up again and looked around
him in the dim light; and still finding all quiet, he

slowly rose to his feet and began to step over the
sleeping bodies with the greatest care. Now some
two or three of the savages turned over, with the
peculiar grunts or groans of disturbed sleepers, and
Henry stopped, with his heart in his mouth. His
purpose though was fixed. If discovered, he would
fly—bound away for his chances in the dark, surrounding
wood, come life or come death! But no
one discovered him. Stealthily his feet were carried
over the prostrate forms, and silently brought
down beside them, till he reached Tom, who quietly
lifted and nodded his head, to show that he was
awake and saw him. Here was the critical point—
now was the critical moment. If he could only liberate
Tom, and both gain the wood, then farewell to
Indian captivity, even though death should meance
in a thousand different forms. He bent down over his
friend, with his knife in his hand. He felt carefully
for the cord on one side, found it, and severed it.
One arm was free, and that arm was instantly raised
and the knife grasped by Tom. Henry understood
him, yielded up his weapon, and glided away. Just
beyond the circle of sleeping warriors, the young
artist paused and looked back. His heart beat almost
audibly as he saw a shadowy figure gliding
toward him; and the next moment his very soul
was thrilled with joy as he felt the cordial pressure
of Tom's hand in his.

Both were free, thank God! both!