1. CHAPTER I.
PRELUDE.
It is surely an early hour for the whip-poor-will to begin
her monotonous plainings, sitting on her accustomed hawthorn,
just on the edge of the swamp. The sun has hardly dropped
from sight behind the great pine-thickets. His crimson and
orange robes still flaunt and flicker in the western heavens;
gleams from his great red eyes still purple the tree-tops; and
you may still see a cheerful light hanging in the brave, free
atmosphere; while gray shapes, like so many half-hooded friars,
glide away through the long pine-avenues, inviting you, as it
would seem, to follow, while they steal away slowly from pursuit
into the deeper thickets of the swamp.
That melancholy night-bird is premature with her chant.
She anticipates the night. Emerging from the gloomy harbors
of the Cawcaw, she has not guessed what a delicious twilight
yet lingers along the hills, persuading Humanity to revery, and
inspiring a thousand sweet fancies into cheerful activity.
But no! she is not alone, nor premature. The frogs are in
full concert also, with their various chant; and now you hear
the sudden, deep bellow of the steel-jawed cayman, as, rising
from the turbid pool, he stretches away toward the rushy banks
of the stream.
But for these sounds, how deep were the silence along the
borders of that massed and seemingly impervious thicket — that
dense region of ambush — shrub, bramble, reed, and tree — cypresses
and pines crowding each other from the path, and
stretching upward as if to catch the last gleams of rosy sunlight
— all laced together firmly, fettered like a chain-gang, by the
serpent-like twinings of the insidious vine, which clambers over
their tops, and winds itself about all their limbs!
Very still, very silent all the scene, as if earth, air, and forest,
were all awed to worship. But only for a moment. The frogchant
is resumed, and, for awhile, continues unbroken. Suddenly
you hear the roar of the cayman; then, as the silence
begins to feel heavy upon the ear, almost beside you the night-bird
again complains — this time seemingly in flight, as she
speeds out to the hill-slopes, seeking a higher perch for song,
and other auditories. You hear her now from among the pine-thickets
above.
Down the slopes — for these risings of the ground can scarcely
be called hills — the Night is pitching her dusky tents apace.
The shadows fall in successive clouds. You feel the transitions,
which you can not well see, from light to obscurity. Each instant
brings its quick transition. There is hardly any twilight
here. The day-star sinks. A blood-red or orange flag hangs,
like a signal, for a single moment, from his western tower; is
then suddenly withdrawn, leaving in place only a dusky streamer;
and that as suddenly disappears within the tents of Night.
The gray of twilight thickens magically into darkness. It is a
progress of mysteries, managed in the twinkling of an eye, like
the wondrous changes effected by some matchless wizard.
And how fitting the accompaniment — that chant of the night-bird,
sudden as she flits from shade to shade; that wild, guttural
strain in chorus from the swamp; that hoarse bellow of the
cayman at intervals! These are all ministers to Silence — to
the wild and solemn harmonies of the desolate abode — the
place, the hour — the dusky purposes of Night. They break
not the spell: they rather burden it with an awful significance.
Now, down these slopes, from the eminence of great pines, if
you descend to the thickets of the swamp, you shall take your
steps with a frequent pause, and tread heedfully; for, verily,
your eyes shall now avail you little. Yet there is a growing
light upon the rising ground. The stars begin to steal forth
upon the evening — timidly, one by one, even as scouts of an
army feel their way to security, before they summon the hosts
to follow. But, in another moment, even as you look, they
start up, and out, without trump or drum, and appear by squadrons
and regiments, all in brightest armory. And each division
takes its place in regular array — their watches set severally on
the highest places, and all their camp-fires lighted, and blazing
brightly in the benignant atmosphere. The hosts are bivouacked
in heaven.
But the swamp-recesses darken even as the hilltops of heaven
grow bright. It is not even for such clear-eyed and beautiful
watchers to pierce their gloomy depths. The pitchy tents below
are impenetrable; and frog and cayman exult aloud, in
horrid concert, even because of the dense thickets which keep
them from the loving eyes of the stars.
Hark! there are other sounds than such as issue from throat
of night-bird or reptile. They hold not the empire to themselves.
It is a bugle that speaks shrilly to the night. One
single, sharp note — a signal — and all is again silent, save the
whip-poor-will.
The solitude is broken. There is a light — a torch that flits
through the woods above, and along the narrow ridges, where
the ground slopes toward the swamp. It approaches. You
hear the tramp of steeds. They are descending toward us —
down, even to the deep thickets — and slowly pick their way
along the uneven ledges. You may see them by the torch, as
it waves aloft and onward — some twenty troopers or more, as
they pass in single file down into the gloom — the torch-bearer,
on foot, showing them the narrow trail, which, one by one, they
take in silence. They are now buried from sight, swallowed
up in the close embrace of that wilderness of shadow!
It is a time and a region of many cares, and cruel strifes,
and wild, dark, mortal mysteries. And these gloomy thickets,
and yonder deep recesses, harmonize meetly with the perverse
deeds of man. The cry of beast or reptile, the chant of melancholy
bird, the darkness of night, the awful silence which fills
up the hour — these are all in concert with the actors in the
scene. There is concealment here — a secrecy which may be
full of mischief, perhaps of terror. It may be the outlaw that
now seeks his harborage. It may be the patriot, who would
find temporary refuge from vindictive pursuit. There are armed
legions, heavy of hand, and cruel in their might, not far remote.
Let us follow the footsteps of these strange and silent horsemen,
and see where they hive themselves to-night. We may need
to spy out their mysteries, and report what deeds of ill they do,
or meditate.
We follow the receding light. We descend the little slopes.
The land undulates. Now we are on the swells of hard, red
clay. Now we sink. The way is broken before us into holes
and rivulets. The fallen cypress, half buried in the long grasses,
stretches at our feet. We scramble over it, only to plunge into
the turbid waters of the bayou. Here is a fenny bed of rushes,
where the alligator has found his sleep. We cross a clammy
moat; we scramble up a rugged causeway, at the farther end
of which you may see the torch waving to the horsemen. The
bearer of it stands upon a fallen tree, spanning a gorge, in which
you see a shattered wheel in a half-choked mill-race. The
horsemen wind along below him, near the edge of the causeway.
Now they leap their steeds across the ditch, running
with dark-glistening water; and now they scramble up the
banks opposite.
Ah! there is the ancient mill-seat, half in ruins, and tottering
to its fall. The light sweeps rounds it to the rear. The horsemen
follow, winding out of sight for a moment, and over a pathway
which we do not see. It is among bays and willows, beyond
that lake of cypresses. They disappear from sight. The
bearer of the torch reappears upon a rising ground, and behind
him stands the rude log-house of the miller. The horsemen
join him. They pass beyond the log-house.
Again the bugle sounds. The light now gleams through the
open fissures of the cabin; and you may note the horsemen, as,
one by one, or in small groups, each afoot, they make their
way to the dwelling. They have fastened their horses in the
thicket. They are bearing in their saddles and furniture; some
carry bundles, others but their weapons. There is a hoarse voice
in command; there are others that answer to it. They are all
now within the dwelling, and here will they make their refuge
for the night. Already the fire gleams ruddily from the old
clay chimney-place, and brightens up the rugged apartment.
And all is still without. You can hear but a rill that chafes
against the roots of trees, as it trickles down unseen below. As
you cross the fallen tree that spans the gorge, you feel the sudden
breeze sweep up about you from across the great basin of
the mill-seat. It spreads away on the north and east, surrounded
by gaunt and ghostly cypresses, that wave their heads
mournfully in the starlight. The breeze sways the tops of yonder
green pines, and they murmur back, as if replying in their
sleep.
Hark! an owl in the old millhouse! What strange mood
makes him there, with his wretched whoop, when the cypresses
offer him their arms on every side? But for his discordant cry,
how dead would be the stillness of all the scene, the very stars
keeping in their breath, as they strain, with all their eyes, to
see the deeds which are done in these night-tents upon earth!
