University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
INGLEHARDT DISCOVERS THE EVIL CONSEQUENCES OF READING
“PILGRIM'S PROGRESS” AMONG THE SATANICS.

The next day, at about ten o'clock, Captain Inglehardt
arrived with his troop at the place of encampment, and found
Dick of Tophet honestly busied in the task of drilling his raw
recruits into some knowledge of their new duties. These, at
present, involved no mystery more profound than that of obedience
to discipline — the word of a master — the docility of the
man-machine. The recruits were all, in some degree, accustomed
to arms, to rough services, and were all good horsemen.
To bring them into the regular harness was the one great
essential, and Dick of Tophet, however deficient in other virtues,
was a good drill-sergeant — something, indeed, of a martinet
when on duty. He was minutely exacting, no matter
how small the concern, when his men were on parade, in the
case of the very individuals with whom he got drunk the night
before.

Inglehardt approved of the recruits, seven or eight in number.
His corps was reduced, and greatly needed even this
small increase. It brought his force up to forty-four men. He
ordered his commissariat to clothe them, as nearly in uniform
as possible; and this worthy, who rode with a great pack behind
his saddle — one almost as large as that which Poor Pilgrim
was compelled to carry on his own shoulders, proceeded
at once to rig out his new customers. Coats and breeches were
ready made in his pack; but it was soon evident that they had
been made to do service in the professional use of other wearers.
They had survived their wearers; and, as the recruits tried on

this or that garment, they occasionally happened upon a hole
in the breast or body, somewhere, that seemed very much like
that which a musket-bullet might work, under the moderate impulsion
of two drachms of gunpowder. Here and there, too,
the sleeve of a coat, or the back, exhibited a long slit, which it
was no strained supposition to conjecture might have been the
work of a hasty broadsword, unnecessarily sharpened for the
mutilation of good worsted. And, not unfrequently, dark ominous
stains, disfigured the bright green of the material, showing
the passage of a thick fluid, which the most simple understanding
readily conceived to have flowed once through the veins of
a living man.

Our raw recruits did not suffer these signs to escape them;
but, after the first glance, they did not find them any sufficient
cause of objection to the garment, so that it fitted snugly. They
were soon equipped; and a few suits were left with the commissariat,
for the conversion of other recruits into goodly-mounted
men.

Our captain and his worthy sergeant — this duty done, and
the corps properly transferred to the lieutenant — retired from
the observation of the rest, and made their way circuitously to
the dusky recesses of Muddicoat Castle. They had many subjects
to discourse about by the way; and each unfolding his
discoveries, to the degree in which he was prepared to submit
them to the other, a great deal of small intelligence was procured
by both, which it was important that both should know,
in respect to the progress of the war. But both of them had
reason to observe the caution urged by the canny Scot, and
each

But of the details given on both hands, we need report nothing.
Some of them we already know; others may perchance reach
us from purer sources of intelligence. We shall report only
those portions of the dialogue which more immediately affect
the parties to our little drama.

“Well, Andrews, what says Captain Travis now? Have
you been with him?”

“Yes, cappin: but he's tough.”

“What! stubborn as ever?”

“As a lightwood knot.”

“Have you taken pains to show him his danger?”

“I tell'd him jest what you said.”

“But not that I said it?”

“Oh, no! jest as ef I said it myself.”

“You let him understand that the boy's life would pay for
his stubbornness?”

“Says I, `Cappin, don't you see we has to make you come
to it?' And says I, `Cappin, we knows you're tough, and kin
stand a great deal yourself; but the boy kaint stand it; and
don't you see, cappin,' says I, `that he's a-gitting thinner and
weaker every day?'”

“And you let him see the boy?”

“No; I rether reckon he'd seen enough before, and know'd
well what to look for; and he know'd us, you see; and I reckon'd
his fears would make it out a great deal worse from not
seeing.”

“Did he ask to see him?”

“Oh, yes! but I tell'd him, `The boy's too weak to be dragging
about from place to place.'”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He fairly howl'd agin, and said, `You're a-murdering the
child!'”

“Ah! well?”

“Then says I, `Cappin, don't you see how you're to save
him?'”

“Well?”

“Then says he, `Better that the boy should perish, than that
the gal should be a sacrifice. She, at least, is safe!' Then he
swore, down upon his knees, never to give in — never to consent
to let his da'ter be your wife.”

“We must make him unswear it, Andrews.”

“Ah, I don't quite see how you're to do that, cappin. He's
tough as the lightwood, I tell you; and I'm a-thinking it's only
right and sensible to try some other path through the woods —
try some better sarcumventions.”

“What other?”

“Oh, I don't quite see myself. That's for you to consider.”

“I see no other way. We must take the toughness out of
him. We must be more and more tough ourselves, The wood
is tough, but the axe tougher. He hardens himself against us;
we must make ourselves harder upon him.”

“Well, jest as you say; and ef you kin show's how to work
into his tender feelin's, I'm the man to work. I owes him no
favor. But I reckon we've done jest as much as we kin do, to
the young chap. He kaint stand much more of the hardship,
and the poor little fellow looks so bad it a-most makes me sorry
for him.”

“You sorry!”

“Well, yes, cappin; for you see he's a mere brat of an infant
sarcumstance, not hardly worth while for a grown man to handle.
I'd rether a thousand times scorch the daddy to his very
intrails, than jest give the suckling a scald.”

“Eh! this is a new humor, most tender-hearted of all the
Satanics!” said Inglehardt, eying the ruffian with a sudden
sharpness of glance. “How long, pray, Joel Andrews, since
you began to recover the taste of your mother's milk?”

“Well!” laughed the ruffian hoarsely — “it's precious little
milk of any sort I cares about onless it's the milk of Jimmaker;
but I'm a-thinking, cappin, that it's quite a pitiful business for
strong grown men like we, to be harnessing down a leetle brat
of an infant cub, that ain't altogether loosened yit from his
mother's apun strings. Now, I'm willing to give it like blazes
to the old rascal, his daddy — but —”

“You're not so willing to give it to the boy, eh?”

“N-o — not so edzackly, captain — for you see —”

“Yes, yes, I see! You are getting tender-hearted in your
old age, Andrews — meek and Christianlike.”

“No, not Christianlike edzackly.”

“Oh! yes, Joel, though you may not know it yourself. You
are growing saintly. I see it in your eyes. They wear a most
benign and Christian expression of benevolence.”

“Now, cappin, you're a poking fun at me.”

“Poking fun! God forbid that I should deal so irreverently
with one who is getting grace so rapidly. No! what you say
impresses me. It offers some new views of the subject. It is
clear that, when you urge considerations of humanity, the policy

of our practice is questionable. Still, it may be that this sort
of life is not consistent with your genius, and that your mind
has grown a little blunt and dull, from the want of proper association
with the camp. I fancy, Joel, you must have renounced
Jamaica altogether.”

“I see you're poking fun at me, cappin. But you're mistaken
ef you thinks I ain't fit for the old business. Only I'm
a thinking, you ain't in the right way for bringing old Travis
to a settlement.”

“Can you teach a better?”

“Well, I'd sooner you'd try a haul upon his own neck with
a tight rope, a few times up to a swinging limb, rather than
harness the boy any more tightly.”

“The cub seems to have found favor in your eyes.”

“Oh! no — only—”

“Only, you're getting pious, Joel. In a little while, I apprehend,
you will grow thoroughly ashamed of the title of `Hell-fire
Dick.' Nay, you'll be getting angry with any one who
should call you by that epithet. You will prefer to be called
`A Brand-from-the-burning Joel!'”

“I don't think. Es for the burning, cappin—”

“Have you seen the boy lately?”

“Oh! yes.”

“Ah! Have you talked with him?”

“A leetle! We've had a consultation.”

“Ah! a consultation! a good word. Well!”

“Well, cappin, he's a poor boy, very quite down-hearted and
sort o' sickish.”

“We shall have to physic him. We do not want him to die
— not just yet. Though such cubs, if let alone, are apt to grow
into very fierce, strong wolves, wild and savage, and sometimes
too strong for their keepers. Now, had the `harnessing' been
a little tighter and heavier, and had some signs of it been shown
to the father, as I ordered, I fancy we should have seen the
fruits of it before this. Why was not this done?”

“He couldn't stand it, cappin.”

“Pshaw, an occasional scoring of hickories on his bare shoulders,
would only have roused the urchin, and such a sight, to

the father, would have taken the toughness out of him. I bade
you try the experiment.”

“It went agin me, cappin. I couldn't do it.”

“I'm sorry, Andrews, that your taste for asses' milk, has
somewhat lessened the value of your services in affairs of
men.”

“Ef it's a fight, cappin, and with grown men, I'm as good a
man as ever.”

“Well, we must exercise you in that field, since the other
seems only calculated to develop the Christian virtues, which
are just now absolutely useless. You can go back to the camp,
good Joel, and betake yourself to the more genial employments
of the drill. I will see the boy myself. I must try and find
out some less saintly operator on the fears of the father.”

And thus they separated, Inglehardt pressing on to Muddicoat
Castle, and Dick of Tophet worming his way through the
thickets to the camp which they had left. He had lost his captain's
favor. He was conscious of that. But Joel had a sort
of philosophy of his own.

“And who cares! He kaint do without me in the field.
He's got no man, I knows, to take my place. Let him find
somebody to do that leetle business for him; I kaint and won't!
I'm not a Christian — that I knows. I'm as bad a fellow as
most; and worse, I'm willing to say, than most I knows! But,
though my heart is black, and bad, and bloody as hell, yit, by
the Etarnal, thar's some heart in my body yit; and that's what
you kaint say for your own, Cappin Inglehardt. Ef 'tain't
stone, then it's iron, or 'tain't nothing. No, no! I wouldn't
mind giving the father a h'ist to a swinging limb; but I couldn't
hurt a hair of the boy's head now, for nothing, nor for anybody.
He had me at his marcy — me drunk — asleep — and he with
my own knife standing over me! And he didn't stick! More
fool he, I says! For, I desarved nothing better. By rights,
he ought to ha' made mincemeat of me: but he didn't; and my
hand sha'n't be raised agin him — never agin!”

The idea that suggested itself to the mind of Inglehardt, by
which to account for the sudden change in the humors of the
ferocious Dick of Tophet, was that he had been bribed in some
way — corrupted by the son or the father, to, at least, a partial

treachery. He gave him no credit for any increase of humanity,
and never could have conceived the relation which had
been established between the parties, by Poor Pilgrim. Dick,
himself, had only indirectly indicated this plea, and had never
himself dreamed of any right that he had to make it.

The inspection of Henry Travis was calculated to confirm
this impression of Inglehardt. The boy, though still pale, and,
of course, unhappy, was yet considerably improved in his appearance.
He had certainly lost no flesh. Some inquiries,
which were then made, of Brunson, the Trailer, and Pete Blodgit,
led to the discovery of the occasional suppers of meat, which
Dick had provided for the boy; and to the more curious revelation
still, of the nightly processes, by which, through Henry
and Poor Pilgrim, the ruffian was endeavoring to remedy his
deficiencies in “book-learning.” The whole history struck Inglehardt
as exhibiting an equal degree of stupidity and treachery
in his agent. It was not difficult to procure additional testimony
that, on all of these nightly visits of the jailer, to his
prisoner, the former was very decidedly drunk; a fact which
greatly helped the morals of the offender, in the estimation of
his superior; for, if drunk, he could scarcely suppose him deliberate;
and, lacking in deliberation, he could hardly suspect
him of any treacherous design. Of course, he heard nothing of
the scene, in which, the boy, having the drunken man at his
mercy, spared his life; a fact which might better have accounted
to Inglehardt, for the human change which had taken place
in the nature of his emissary.

The result of his investigations, was to transfer the charge
of Henry Travis to Brunson; to whom he gave such instructions
as were best calculated to carry out his policy, by which
the sufferings of the boy were to be made to act upon the sympathies
of the father; so as to produce the concessions which
were demanded of him, by his captor. Inglehardt had an interview
with Travis, in which he was at some pains to let the father
know that his son was too ill to be seen; a communication
which filled the soul of the old man with fresh agony, but did
not move his resolution. Inglehardt exhibited great coolness,
amounting to indifference, in regard to the subject; his whole
deportment being that of one assured of his power, and of the

ultimate attainments of his objects. He did not linger in the
interview; nor long in the recesses of Muddicoat. Having
arranged the future government of the precinct to his own satisfaction,
he rejoined the camp, and now, taking Dick of Tophet
along with him, as more useful in the field than in the camp —
certainly more to be trusted when removed from the temptation
to treachery, which might be found at Muddicoat Castle, Inglehardt
rode on his progress — foraying equally on British and
his own account.

He had not been gone half an hour from the place where the
encampment had been made, when Nelly Floyd might be seen
to emerge from the deep thickets in the rear, where she had
found safe harborage, quite unsuspected, and in a situation
where she could see a good deal that was going on, and hear
perhaps quite as much that was spoken. She had made some
discoveries both in camp and castle, and it was wonderful with
what instinct — if this indeed be the proper word in the case of
one so curiously gifted — she could find and pursue the clues to
the secrets of other people. She had certainly found the secret
passage, over log, and fallen tree, and through sinuous pathways
of a seemingly interminable and impervious swamp, which
conducted to the recesses of the castle. What other discoveries
she had made there must be reserved for future study and
report. At present she prepares to canter after the troop of
Inglehardt, which, from this moment, she is sworn to follow —
haunting the footsteps of her wretched and undeserving brother
— as devoutly as she followed him, when he served under the
guidance of Lem Watkins, and the outlaw, Rhodes. We shall
not accompany this party, now, but, at a future stage of our
narrative, will make the necessary report of their progress.
Enough, here, that Nelly Floyd keeps them in sight, but with
wonderful dexterity so manages her own and the movements
of her little pony, Aggy, that her following footsteps are never
once suspected by any of the troop, unless, indeed, by her
brother; who, if he does suspect has at least sufficient prudence
to keep his suspicions secret.

She disappears from the scene; and, that very afternoon, we
find Jim Ballou prowling about the encampment which Inglehardt
has deserted — counting and inspecting horse-tracks —

turning from one clue to another, and finding himself, at the
close of the day, in as great a state of bewilderment as ever.

“Here's the pony track,” quoth Ballou. “Here, and here,
and here; but here it stops. Here's the troop, every horse
counted — where they were hitched, and where they stamped
through a three hours' feed or more. It's clear this is not the
first, nor the second time either, that the same party's camped
in this very place. They've been here, now, more than three
times, this very body. Here's the track of Inglehardt, and this
is Devil Dick. I can't find the Trailer's. I reckon he's on a
tramp. But where, and what after? Now what should make
the troop camp here, three several times at least; camp here
for a matter of three hours for a time, that's the question. Here
the tracks lead directly on; no turning one side or the other.
Of course I know there's a secret — and it's there — there, and
nowhere else but there — the secret's there, nowhere else but
there — there!”

And the scout's eyes ranged over, while his arm was extended
toward, the vast, yet utterly blank and silent waste of dense
swamp thicket which spread away on all sides but one, seeming
everywhere equally impenetrable, and rendering the attempt to
enter it a madness, particularly in the dog-days, unless one
could be sure of a clue to some already beaten pathway.

“If I could take the wind of that pony!” quoth the scout,
“that pony — she's brought me a step farther than anything
else. And it's mighty curious too. The person that rides that
pony is tracking the party just as I'm doing. He don't hitch
and halter with the rest; always half a mile ahead or behind,
and then in the closest thicket. And I catch the track when
they're a moving, always separate, and half the time it's in the
woods, even when there's a high road to travel. It's a little
creature too, must be ridden by a boy, I reckon; and it takes a
pretty long lope too, as if 'twas quick and didn't need the whip
and spur. Here it is you see — and here — and here. Now it
goes off on one side round them bushes; and now it comes out on
the track of the party. But it don't keep it long, the same; it
works cautious, and on the watch always. Well, it's my conclusion,
thar's a spy upon Inglehardt's heels, and it's a boy-spy,
or some mighty light person. And what to make of that —

make of that! I'm bothered all to bits! It's a shame to me
that a brat of a boy-spy should be better able to fasten upon
the heels of that troop than an old swamp-sucker, and woodborer
like myself!

“But, I must even follow the pony so long as it follows the
party. There's nothing better to be done! There's a secret
about here; that I see; but it's hunting for a needle in a haystack,
to poke into that wilderness of swamp thicket without
some little finger-point along the route. It's a waste of time
and patience. No! The shortest way is to take after the
pony. How if the rider is Henry Travis! If he's got off
from Inglehardt, and has picked up some marsh tackey, and is
close following after his father? By Jupiter, that's a sensible
notion. And yet, if it's him, he's more of a born scout than I
ever reckoned him to be. He's got a genius for it, if it's him.
A genius for it — a genius! He beats me. I ain't altogether
what I was. I'm a doing nothing — nothing. I'm just as
stupid as a fat turkey. If I only had a mouthful of Jamaica
now — but one mouthful — mouthful — I reckon my sense would
come back to me. I hain't had my right senses ever since I
gave up Jamaica, I hain't! Yet I've sworn a monstratious oath
agin the creature — the Lord forgive me — and keep me from
temptation!”

Ballou was jaded, and not a little mortified. The reader
understands, we trust, the peculiar difficulties in the way of
his further discoveries at the present moment. He has had
none but cold tracks of Inglehardt and his troopers to pursue;
and the trail has been that of horsemen; and has been cut,
whenever the horsemen have reached the camp, within a mile
of the swamp fastness. The further connection between the
one place and the other has been found only on foot, and is
known to only a few of Inglehardt's party. The foot trail has
eluded the search of our scout for sufficient reasons. It has
been so contrived that there shall be no foot trail. The labyrinth
in which Travis and his son were hidden away, have
never been sought by any of the parties on horseback; and the
route, penetrating the swamp at one point only, in a front of
several miles, has not a single salient feature by which to arrest
the eye. To find it requires a clue, which, as yet, our scout has

entirely failed to gain. The nearest approach to this swamp
fastness was made by Nelly Floyd's pony, which was sheltered
on the very edge of the thicket, but fully a mile from the spot
where the entrance was effected. Ballou must wait events.
But he resumes his journey with spirit, and if scout is ever to
be successful, in finding sign, where sign is none, you may be
sure he is the man for it.