University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

The freight of furs had hardly retired from sight, and
the last Indian stragglers departed, when Mr. Moxon
appeared at his door, and walked briskly towards the residence
of the newly elected constable, John Searles. Calling
Searles to the door, he inquired in regard to the disposition
that had been made of Peter Trimble. He had heard
of it before, but from the constable he learned all the particulars.

“It seems to me that it was extremely unwise in Mr.
Pynchon to place that boy with so vile a man as Woodcock,”
said Mr. Moxon.

The new constable was a man of few words, large frame,
and a practical turn of mind; and, instead of enlarging upon
the fact, or joining in any discussion in regard to it, he
simply said, “I know my duty, Mr. Moxon, and I do it,”—
having reference to his agency as an instrument of the law
in placing Peter with his temporary master.

“I am blaming no one,” said Mr. Moxon, blandly—“it
is a question of wisdom and policy.”

“I didn't ask it—I never ask it—it's none of my business,”
responded Searles, without moving a muscle of his
body.

Mr. Moxon saw that Searles half suspected the nature of
his errand, and that conciliation was out of the question in
general, and out of that question in particular. There was,
therefore, no way for him but to come directly to the point,
and he did this the more readily as he knew his man, and
had entire confidence in his courage and efficiency. Turning

slowly on his heel, and walking off a few steps, as if in
thought, he came back and said, “I believe, John, you
have a warrant from Mr. Pynchon to attach the body of
John Woodcock, who has failed to pay the damages in the
slander case.”

“I have, sir,” replied Searles, drawing the document from
his pocket, and reading a sentence from it: “and that you
keep the body of John Woodcock in prison of irons until
he shall take some course to satisfy the said George
Moxon.”

“You may execute that as soon as you choose.”

“No sooner?”

“You will execute that to-day, sir.”

“Very well, sir; just as you say.”

“And in regard to Peter Trimble?”

“I know my duty, sir.”

“I leave you to do it,” said the minister drily, and turned
and walked away.

John Searles walked into his house, and read over the
warrant again, sentence by sentence. “In prison of irons,”
said he to himself. “I hav'n't any prison of irons except a
log chain, and I shall have to use a rope,” and the constable
busied himself for half an hour in finding and properly
splicing a rope. This, after coiling it into the smallest possible
space, he thrust into his coat pocket, in company with
the warrant, and shouldering his carefully loaded gun, he
walked coolly to the bank of the river.

Nearly all the planters had crossed the river immediately
after Mr. Pynchon's departure, to labor in their corn-fields,
and Woodcock was among them. Stepping into his canoe
the constable pushed from the shore, and transported himself
across the river. Fastening his boat, and taking his
gun, he ascended the bank, and sought the field where
Woodcock and his new apprentice were at work; and
before the former could fairly look up, he felt a light tap

on his shoulder, and heard the words, “You are my
prisoner.”

“How do you make out that figur'?” inquired Woodcock.

“In black and white,” replied the constable, drawing the
warrant from his pocket. “Do you want me to read it to
you?”

Peter Trimble was all eyes and ears, until suddenly
reminded of his duty by a side cut from Woodcock's hoe-handle.
Searles looked through the document, and then
read as follows:

“John Searles,” said Woodcock (hitting Peter an entirely
incidental rap, that brought both of the boy's hands to his
legs as if he had caught a weasel running up his trousers),
“you and I never had a gruff, but I don't stand any o' that
sort o' nonsense; so you'd better scull your dug-out over
the drink again, and go to splittin' oven wood.”

“Woodcock, you don't know much about me, or you

know I shan't cross the river without you as my prisoner.”

“Well, you don't know much about me or you'd know
there wasn't boats enough on this side to take me over agin
my will, 'cept in small slices.”

The constable was puzzled. He had calculated upon
intimidating Woodcock, but he saw at once that the man
was determined, and that he would never submit until compelled
by brute force.

“Don't you think you'd better go over t'other side,”
inquired Woodcock, “and stand on your head and read
that thing back'ards?”

Searles made him no reply, and shouldering his gun
walked off towards a group of planters on a neighboring
field. He found there Henry Smith, Jehu Burr, John
Cabel, and several others, to whom he explained his errand,
and upon whom he called for assistance.

It may be readily guessed that he did not call in vain.
All dropped their implements, and taking their guns,
accompanied the constable to assist him in making the
arrest. Woodcock saw them coming, and taking his gun,
he carefully examined the priming, rubbed the flint, and,
cocking his piece, threw his hat upon the ground and
assumed the defensive.

“If any of you fellers want to know jest how a sieve
feels,” said Woodcock, as they approached him, “you'd
better undertake to feel of me. I'll show you the samp you
had for breakfast. You can't scare me. You darsn't fire,
any one on you.”

The constable and his force huddled together for a consultation,
but had hardly closed their circle when Woodcock's
gun was discharged into the air, and turning suddenly,
they saw him wheel upon his foot and fall at his
whole length upon the ground. The first impression was
that he had shot himself, but, upon seeing Peter Trimble

extricating himself from his feet, the constable comprehended
the whole trick, and dropping his gun he leaped
upon Woodcock before he could rise, and by having immediate
assistance was enabled to secure his capture. Peter,
who imagined he saw in this arrest his own release, had,
while Woodcock's attention was entirely engaged, stepped
slyly behind him, and reaching around pulled the trigger
of his gun. He then dropped directly upon the ground, so
that when Woodcock impulsively turned to strike or pursue
him, he tumbled over him instead.

The rage and mortification of the poor victim of circumstances
was intense. He had never been thus humiliated
before, and he felt that death would have been far better.
As he lay in the dust, and heard the sly boasts of Peter,
and the cough of John Cabel, and the coarse jokes of
others who had gathered around, he raved and gnashed his
teeth, in his torture.

The next question was in regard to taking him over the
river. Woodcock had determined within himself that he
would never be taken bound to the village. He was desperate,
and cared nothing for life; and he knew that the
canoes in use were of such form that even when bound he
could upset one of them with perfect ease. His hands were
tied behind him, and his feet were allowed only play sufficient
for a limping and laborious locomotion. The constable
took him by his arms and assisted him to rise. He looked
at no one—spoke to no one—and made no reply to petty
insults, but allowed himself to be conducted to a canoe.

The constable was no coward, and though he had but
little confidence in Woodcock's silence and apparent submission,
he determined to undertake the task of rowing him
over the river alone. The prisoner took his seat in the boat
with considerable difficulty, and while Searles assumed the
oar, a friend pushed the frail vessel from the beach, and
with a single sweep of the oar it shot into the stream.

The transport had proceeded but a third of the way
across, when Woodcock, by a sudden movement of his
body, turned the boat upside down, and leaving the constable
blowing lustily, and holding to the boat that persevered
in lying bottom upwards, he pushed easily off upon
his back and floated down the river towards the Indian
village.

The movement was observed from the shore, and every
man dashed into his canoe and struck for the swimmer.
The chase was an animated one, but the advantage was
altogether with the pursuers, and their object was speedily
overtaken. The first canoe that approached was waited
for by Woodcock, who managed to give it a kick with
both feet and upset it, but the effort came near to drowning
him, as it sent his head under the water and he came
up half-strangled. While the other boats were taking care
of those who had thus been treated to a bath, Woodcock
managed to get under headway again, but he was at last
overhauled, and, notwithstanding his struggles, a rope was
passed under his shoulders and secured across his chest.
They were then in the middle of the river and rapidly
floating downwards.

As they were consulting upon the proper method to be
pursued, a canoe pushed rapidly out from the Eastern shore,
and approached them. It contained a solitary Indian, who
swept a rapid circuit around the group of boats, comprehended
at a glance the position of affairs, and, without
uttering a word, moved as quickly back to the point from
whence he had issued, and disappeared among the bushes
upon the bank.

“Well,” said John Cabel, pulling up after Woodcock
was fairly hooked, and graciously assuming a share in the
sport when it had been safely completed, “we have caught
the fish, and now how shall we cook it?”

“That's the question,” replied the constable.

“That's the question,” responded Burr.

“Rather a serious question,” said Henry Smith, gravely.

“I know what I should do,” said Peter Trimble, squirting
a mouthful of water through his teeth that he had just
taken from a canteen.

“Out with it, boy,” said the constable.

“I should stick this canteen under his neck, and tow him
ashore,” answered Peter.

The expedient was adopted at once. The canteen was
emptied and stopped, and by its own strap it was so fastened
to the captive's neck that it easily kept his face out of the
water. The canoes were then fastened together, and each
man bent to his oar. The tow was soon under full headway
up the stream, and a rapid passage brought the fleet to the
land.

It was well for Woodcock that he had escaped thus
easily, for he had become very much chilled in the water,
and was nearly exhausted. He was dragged up on the
shore almost unconscious, but the heated sand beneath, and
the kind sun above, lent him their warmth, and he had become
so far restored to himself as to feel the indignity inflicted
upon him as he was loaded upon a rough sled or
hurdle, and drawn by a yoke of cattle to the house of the
constable.

Peter Trimble, who had done more than any other one
to effect the arrest, was the first to leap on shore when the
canoes landed, and half a dozen steps placed him beyond
the sight of his companions. Mounting the bank, he made
directly for the house of Mr. Pynchon. Mary was glad to
see his face, for she had heard shouts in the distance, and
did not doubt that Peter knew the whole story, though she
was not prepared for so terrific a “row” as he represented
had taken place.

Unfortunately for Peter's reputation as a liar, the incidents
which formed the basis of his story were quite equal

to any he could manufacture, and he found himself in a
state of perfect helplessness, telling a correct story. She
questioned him closely, and was confirmed in her apprehensions
of the correctness of his narrative, by seeing from
her window the poor man drawn along the street, amid rude
jests and swaggering boasts, like a slaughtered bear.

Mary watched the rude crowd as it retired, and felt more
lonely for the moment than ever, but her resolution was
quickly taken, and, throwing a handkerchief upon her head,
she half walked, half ran to Woodcock's cabin, and found
his daughter at the door, hacking a stick of pine, which she
was endeavoring to reduce to kindling-wood.

The girl dropped her axe, and looked up brightly and
affectionately as her friend approached. Mary Pynchon
had started from home with no definite intentions in regard
to her. It was simply an impulse to a good deed which she
had neither conceived nor planned, so that when she came
fairly upon the child, she had nothing to say, and could only
exclaim, “poor child!” and burst into tears.

“Is he dead?” said Mary Woodcock, with a strange
suspicion that something must have befallen the man she
had recently seen so frequently with her benefactress, and
with an idea that nothing less than that should so distress
her.

“No, I trust not,” replied Mary, recovering herself, and
then she led the girl into the cabin. Peter had told her of
the nature of the warrant on which Woodcock was arrested,
and she saw that some one would be obliged to assume the
charge of his daughter; so, sitting down in the cabin, with
the girl before her, she told her very plainly of her father's
situation. The child did not weep—she did not speak. A
strange perception of propriety deterred her from the expression
of feelings which mingled joy and grief in equal
proportions. She felt that to be near Mary Pynchon, to
live in the light of her smile, to feel her soft hand upon her

face, to hear the rustle of her garments as they brushed past
her, to listen to her speech, and do her bidding, was the
greatest joy earth could bestow; and poor Woodcock
would have felt a new pang could he have seen with what
willingness and alacrity his daughter brought out her clothes,
tied them up, and fastened the cabin, preparatory to a removal
to the house of the Pynchons.

Woodcock, still bound, was, when he had arrived at the
house of the constable, thrown upon a bed of loose straw,
in the shed, and left alone. He had no more a tongue for
contempt or bravado. He had been beaten, conquered,
humiliated. He had suffered torture the most terrible he
had ever known. He had been enraged and outraged, and
he had been importent in evasion and defence. Exhausted
in body by his long submersion in the river, and by the
excitement through which he had passed, and half-stupefied
and crazed by the harsh reaction of his mental excitement,
he lay all day, taking no food, replying to no question, and
apparently conscious of no one's presence.

A river, bright in the sunlight, was rolling through his
dreams, and phantom boats were chasing each other over
its surface. For long, long hours, he lay upon the air above
them, floating on the wings of his own will, listening to the
clatter of their oars, and the confused shouts of those who
swung them, and looking far up into the sky, and seeing
the clouds as they changed into cornfields, and the corn-fields
as they changed back to clouds, and catching glimpses
of huge wheels that rolled singly and noiselessly across the
heavens, and hid their glitter in a cloud with a faint crash,
like that which splashes the ears in a nightmare.

And then a whirlwind caught him in its folds, and rolled
him furiously in black darkness, until strange lights flashed
upon him, and fiery faces met his eyes at every turn. Then
the whirlwind lifted him swiftly up, up far above the clouds,
and held him there, as if in a grasp of iron, through a long

hour of unrelieved breathlessness, until, in an instant, the
grasp was relaxed, and he fell with terrific rapidity through
the air, every nerve in his body becoming charged with an
awful sense of imminent violence, only half relieved, at last,
by coming softly down, and, on a breathless curve, floating
far off, and striking noiselessly upon the bosom of the river.
There upon the river he lay, borne by the current through
the remainder of the day and into the night.

Sometimes the waves leaped up, as if to cover his face, and
then parted and retired with hollow laughter. And the ripples
came up, one after another, and whispered and snickered in
his ears, and red-eyed fishes nibbled at his feet, but he had no
power to move—and could only lie pulseless, breathless, and
passive, on the strange cold water, floating somewhither,
anywhither, like a forsaken hulk on a wide unknown sea.

At times, he almost extricated himself from this dream,
and thought he saw standing above him a huge form like
that of the minister, and heard the words, “the way of
transgressors is hard.” Then he subsided again to the
river, and the waves grew brighter, and fair trees waved
their arms from the banks, and a sweet warmth spread
through his limbs. A soft hand touched his temples and
grasped his wrist, and the fancy that Mary Pynchon was
over him was so precious as to half waken him with a suspicion
that it was an illusion. But he would not open his
eyes and dissipate it.

The day wore away thus, and the night came on. For a
long time confused voices mingled with his dream, and they
at last died away. When all was silent, he began for the
first time to come fairly into the possession of consciousness,
and became immediately aware that he was not alone. He
felt some one at work upon his hands, and they were then
pulled out from under his back, so stiff and helpless that he
could not move them. His legs were then loosed from
their fastenings, and a pair of strong arms lifted him to his

feet. He only knew it was a friend, and leaning upon his
shoulder hobbled off with him through the street, and
beyond the limits of the village.

Early upon the following morning the constable sought
for his prisoner where he had left him the night previous.
He was gone. The news of his disappearance flew rapidly
over the village, and while some were disappointed at his
escape, others, and among them the Pynchons, experienced
only joy. Mary had been shocked at the brutal manner in
which he had been treated, and was thankful for his
release.

Many were the speculations indulged in, in regard to his
disappearance. He was not known to have a friend in the
plantation, and yet the constable declared it impossible for
him to have been released without assistance. The minister
had his own opinions upon the subject, which he kept to
himself. He had heard at midnight a scream from the
bed where his children lay, and had hurriedly risen only to
find them both sleeping quietly in each other's arms.