 | CHAPTER XXI.
ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER. The story of Kennett |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER.
A mile or more beyond the spot where Gilbert Potter
had been waylaid, there was a lonely tavern, called the
“Drovers' Inn.” Here he dismounted, more for his horse's
sake than his own, although he was sore, weary, and sick of
heart. After having carefully groomed Roger with his own
hands, and commended him to the special attentions of the
ostler, he entered the warm public room, wherein three or
four storm-bound drovers were gathered around the roaring
fire of hickory logs.
The men kindly made way for the pale, dripping,
wretched-looking stranger; and the landlord, with a shrewd
glance and a suggestion of “Something hot, I reckon?”
began mixing a compound proper for the occasion. Laying
aside his wet cloak, which was sent to the kitchen to be
more speedily dried, Gilbert presently sat in a cloud of his
own steaming garments, and felt the warmth of the potent
liquor in his chilly blood.
All at once, it occurred to him that the highwayman had
not touched his person. There was not only some loose
silver in his pockets, but Mark Deane's money-belt was
still around his waist. So much, at least, was rescued, and
he began to pluck up a little courage. Should he continue
his journey to Chester, explain the misfortune to the holder
of his mortgage, and give notice to the County Sheriff of
this new act of robbery? Then the thought came into his
mind that in that case he might be detained a day or two,
in order to make depositions, or comply with some unknown
the country, no doubt with many exaggerations, and might
possibly reach Kennett — even the ears of his mother.
That reflection decided his course. She must first hear
the truth from his mouth; he would try to give her cheer
and encouragement, though he felt none himself; then,
calling his friends together, he would hunt Sandy Flash
like a wild beast until they had tracked him to his lair.
“Unlucky weather for ye, it seems?” remarked the curious
landlord, who, seated in a corner of the fireplace, had
for full ten minutes been watching Gilbert's knitted brows,
gloomy, brooding eyes, and compressed lips.
“Weather?” he exclaimed, bitterly. “It 's not the
weather. Landlord, will you have a chance of sending to
Chester to-morrow?”
“I 'm going, if it clears up,” said one of the drovers.
“Then, my friend,” Gilbert continued, “will you take a
letter from me to the Sheriff?”
“If it 's nothing out of the way,” the man replied.
“It 's in the proper course of law — if there is any law
to protect us. Not a mile and a half from here, landlord,
I have been waylaid and robbed on the public road!”
There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Gilbert's
story, which he had suddenly decided to relate, in
order that the people of the neighborhood might be put
upon their guard, was listened to with an interest only less
than the terror which it inspired. The landlady rushed
into the bar-room, followed by the red-faced kitchen wench,
and both interrupted the recital with cries of “Dear, dear!”
and “Lord save us!” The landlord, meanwhile, had prepared
another tumbler of hot and hot, and brought it forward,
saying, —
“You need it, the Lord knows, and it shall cost you
nothing.”
“What I most need now,” Gilbert said, “is pen, ink,
and paper, to write out my account. Then I suppose you
soon.”
“Not `a cold check' after all that drenching and mishandling!”
the landlord exclaimed. “We 'll have a hot
supper in half an hour, and you shall stay, and welcome.
Wife, bring down one of Liddy's pens, the schoolmaster
made for her, and put a little vinegar into th' ink-bottle;
it 's most dried up!”
In a few minutes the necessary materials for a letter, all
of the rudest kind, were supplied, and the landlord and
drovers hovered around as Gilbert began to write, assisting
him with the most extraordinary suggestions.
“I 'd threaten,” said a drover, “to write straight to General
Washington, unless they promise to catch the scoundrel
in no time!”
“And don't forget the knife and pistol!” cried the landlord.
“And say the Tory farmers' houses ought to be
searched!”
“And give his marks, to a hair!”
Amid all this confusion, Gilbert managed to write a brief,
but sufficiently circumstantial account of the robbery, calling
upon the County authorities to do their part in effecting
the capture of Sandy Flash. He offered his services
and those of the Kennett troop, announcing that he should
immediately start upon the hunt, and expected to be seconded
by the law.
When the letter had been sealed and addressed, the
drovers — some of whom carried money with them, and
had agreed to travel in company, for better protection —
eagerly took charge of it, promising to back the delivery
with very energetic demands for assistance.
Night had fallen, and the rain fell with it, in renewed
torrents. The dreary, universal hum of the storm rose
again, making all accidental sounds of life impertinent, in
shivered, the walls sweat and streamed, and the wild
wet blew in under the doors, as if besieging that refuge of
warm, red fire-light.
“This beats the Lammas flood o' '68,” said the landlord,
as he led the way to supper. “I was a young man at the
time, and remember it well. Half the dams on Brandywine
went that night.”
After a bountiful meal, Gilbert completely dried his garments
and prepared to set out on his return, resisting the
kindly persuasion of the host and hostess that he should
stay all night. A restless, feverish energy filled his frame.
He felt that he could not sleep, that to wait idly would be
simple misery, and that only in motion towards the set aim
of his fierce, excited desires, could he bear his disappointment
and shame. But the rain still came down with a volume
which threatened soon to exhaust the cisterns of the
air, and in that hope he compelled himself to wait a little.
Towards nine o'clock the great deluge seemed to slacken.
The wind arose, and there were signs of its shifting, erelong,
to the northwest, which would bring clear weather
in a few hours. The night was dark, but not pitchy; a
dull phosphoric gleam overspread the under surface of the
sky. The woods were full of noises, and every gully at
the roadside gave token, by its stony rattle, of the rain-born
streams.
With his face towards home and his back to the storm,
Gilbert rode into the night. The highway was but a streak
of less palpable darkness; the hills on either hand scarcely
detached themselves from the low, black ceiling of sky behind
them. Sometimes the light of a farm-house window
sparkled faintly, like a glow-worm, but whether far or near,
he could not tell; he only knew how blest must be the
owner, sitting with wife and children around his secure
hearthstone, — how wretched his own life, cast adrift in the
darkness, — wife, home, and future, things of doubt!
He had lost more than money; and his wretchedness
will not seem unmanly when we remember the steady
strain and struggle of his previous life. As there is nothing
more stimulating to human patience, and courage, and
energy, than the certain prospect of relief at the end, so
there is nothing more depressing than to see that relief
suddenly snatched away, and the same round of toil thrust
again under one's feet! This is the fate of Tantalus and
Sisyphus in one.
Not alone the money; a year, or two years, of labor
would no doubt replace what he had lost. But he had
seen, in imagination, his mother's feverish anxiety at an
end; household help procured, to lighten her over-heavy
toil; the possibility of her release from some terrible obligation
brought nearer, as he hoped and trusted, and with it
the strongest barrier broken down which rose between him
and Martha Deane. All these things which he had, as it
were, held in his hand, had been stolen from him, and the
loss was bitter because it struck down to the roots of the
sweetest and strongest fibres of his heart. The night
veiled his face, but if some hotter drops than those of the
storm were shaken from his cheek, they left no stain upon
his manhood.
The sense of outrage, of personal indignity, which no
man can appreciate who has not himself been violently
plundered, added its sting to his miserable mood. He
thirsted to avenge the wrong; Barton's words involuntarily
came back to him, — “I 'll know no peace till the villain
has been strung up!” Barton! How came Sandy Flash
to know that Barton intended to send money by him?
Had not Barton himself declared that the matter should
be kept secret? Was there some complicity between the
latter and Sandy Flash? Yet, on the other hand, it
seemed that the highwayman believed that he was robbing
Gilbert of Barton's money. Here was an enigma which
he could not solve.
All at once, a hideous solution presented itself. Was it
possible that Barton's money was to be only apparently
stolen — in reality returned to him privately, afterwards?
Possibly the rest of the plunder divided between the two
confederates? Gilbert was not in a charitable mood; the
human race was much more depraved, in his view, than
twelve hours before; and the inference which he would
have rejected as monstrous, that very morning, now assumed
a possible existence. One thing, at least, was certain;
he would exact an explanation, and if none should
be furnished, he would make public the evidence in his
hands.
The black, dreary night seemed interminable. He
could only guess, here and there, at a landmark, and was
forced to rely more upon Roger's instinct of the road than
upon the guidance of his senses. Towards midnight, as
he judged, by the solitary crow of a cock, the rain almost
entirely ceased. The wind began to blow, sharp and keen,
and the hard vault of the sky to lift a little. He fancied
that the hills on his right had fallen away, and that the
horizon was suddenly depressed towards the north. Roger's
feet began to splash in constantly deepening water, and
presently a roar, distinct from that of the wind, filled the
air.
It was the Brandywine. The stream had overflowed its
broad meadow-bottoms, and was running high and fierce
beyond its main channel. The turbid waters made a dim,
dusky gleam around him; soon the fences disappeared,
and the flood reached to his horse's belly. But he knew
that the ford could be distinguished by the break in the
fringe of timber; moreover, that the creek-bank was a little
higher than the meadows behind it, and so far, at least, he
might venture. The ford was not more than twenty yards
across, and he could trust Roger to swim that distance.
The faithful animal pressed bravely on, but Gilbert
soon noticed that he seemed at fault. The swift water had
time, as if anxious and uneasy. The timber could now be
discerned, only a short distance in advance, and in a few
minutes they would gain the bank.
What was that? A strange rustling, hissing sound, as
of cattle trampling through dry reeds, — a sound which
quivered and shook, even in the breath of the hurrying
wind! Roger snorted, stood still, and trembled in every
limb; and a sensation of awe and terror struck a chill
through Gilbert's heart. The sound drew swiftly nearer,
and became a wild, seething roar, filling the whole breadth
of the valley.
“Great God!” cried Gilbert, “the dam! — the dam has
given way!” He turned Roger's head, gave him the rein,
struck, spurred, cheered, and shouted. The brave beast
struggled through the impeding flood, but the advance wave
of the coming inundation already touched his side. He
staggered; a line of churning foam bore down upon them,
the terrible roar was all around and over them, and horse
and rider were whirled away.
What happened during the first few seconds, Gilbert
could never distinctly recall. Now they were whelmed in
the water, now riding its careering tide, torn through the
tops of brushwood, jostled by floating logs and timbers of
the dam-breast, but always, as it seemed, remorselessly held
in the heart of the tumult and the ruin.
He saw, at last, that they had fallen behind the furious
onset of the flood, but Roger was still swimming with it,
desperately throwing up his head from time to time, and
snorting the water from his nostrils. All his efforts to
gain a foothold failed; his strength was nearly spent, and
unless some help should come in a few minutes, it would
come in vain. And in the darkness, and the rapidity with
which they were borne along, how should help come?
All at once, Roger's course stopped. He became an obstacle
to the flood, which pressed him against some other
out his hand, Gilbert felt the rough bark of a tree.
Leaning towards it and clasping the log in his arms, he
drew himself from the saddle, while Roger, freed from his
burden, struggled into the current and instantly disappeared.
As nearly as Gilbert could ascertain, several timbers,
thrown over each other, had lodged, probably upon a rocky
islet in the stream, the uppermost one projecting slantingly
out of the flood. It required all his strength to resist the
current which sucked, and whirled, and tugged at his body,
and to climb high enough to escape its force, without overbalancing
his support. At last, though still half immerged,
he found himself comparatively safe for a time, yet as far
as ever from a final rescue.
He must await the dawn, and an eternity of endurance
lay in those few hours. Meantime, perhaps, the creek
would fall, for the rain had ceased, and there were outlines
of moving cloud in the sky. It was the night which made
his situation so terrible, by concealing the chances of
escape. At first, he thought most of Roger. Was his
brave horse drowned, or had he safely gained the bank
below? Then, as the desperate moments went by, and the
chill of exposure and the fatigue of exertion began to
creep over him, his mind reverted, with a bitter sweetness,
a mixture of bliss and agony, to the two beloved women to
whom his life belonged, — the life which, alas! he could
not now call his own, to give.
He tried to fix his thoughts on Death, to commend his
soul to Divine Mercy; but every prayer shaped itself into
an appeal that he might once more see the dear faces and
hear the dear voices. In the great shadow of the fate
which hung over him, the loss of his property became as
dust in the balance, and his recent despair smote him with
shame. He no longer fiercely protested against the injuries
of fortune, but entreated pardon and pity for the sake
of his love.
The clouds rolled into distincter masses, and the northwest
wind still hunted them across the sky, until there
came, first a tiny rift for a star, then a gap for a whole constellation,
and finally a broad burst of moonlight. Gilbert
now saw that the timber to which he clung was lodged
nearly in the centre of the channel, as the water swept
with equal force on either side of him. Beyond the banks
there was a wooded hill on the left; on the right an overflowed
meadow. He was too weak and benumbed to trust
himself to the flood, but he imagined that it was beginning
to subside, and therein lay his only hope.
Yet a new danger now assailed him, from the increasing
cold. There was already a sting of frost, a breath of ice,
in the wind. In another hour the sky was nearly swept
bare of clouds, and he could note the lapse of the night by
the sinking of the moon. But he was by this time hardly
in a condition to note anything more. He had thrown
himself, face downwards, on the top of the log, his arms
mechanically clasping it, while his mind sank into a state
of torpid, passive suffering, growing nearer to the dreamy
indifference which precedes death. His cloak had been
torn away in the first rush of the inundation, and the wet
coat began to stiffen in the wind, from the ice gathering
over it.
The moon was low in the west, and there was a pale
glimmer of the coming dawn in the sky, when Gilbert Potter
suddenly raised his head. Above the noise of the
water and the whistle of the wind, he heard a familiar
sound, — the shrill, sharp neigh of a horse. Lifting himself,
with great exertion, to a sitting posture, he saw two
men, on horseback, in the flooded meadow, a little below
him. They stopped, seemed to consult, and presently drew
nearer.
Gilbert tried to shout, but the muscles of his throat were
stiff, and his lungs refused to act. The horse neighed
again. This time there was no mistake; it was Roger that
hoarse, strange, unnatural cry.
The horsemen heard it, and rapidly pushed up the bank,
until they reached a point directly opposite to him. The
prospect of escape brought a thrill of life to his frame; he
looked around and saw that the flood had indeed fallen.
“We have no rope,” he heard one of the men say.
“How shall we reach him?”
“There is no time to get one, now,” the other answered.
“My horse is stronger than yours. I 'll go into the creek
just below, where it 's broader and not so deep, and work
my way up to him.”
“But one horse can't carry both.”
“His will follow, be sure, when it sees me.”
As the last speaker moved away, Gilbert saw a led horse
plunging through the water, beside the other. It was a
difficult and dangerous undertaking. The horseman and
the loose horse entered the main stream below, where its
divided channel met and broadened, but it was still above
the saddle-girths, and very swift. Sometimes the animals
plunged, losing their foothold; nevertheless, they gallantly
breasted the current, and inch by inch worked their way to
a point about six feet below Gilbert. It seemed impossible
to approach nearer.
“Can you swim?” asked the man.
Gilbert shook his head. “Throw me the end of
Roger's bridle!” he then cried.
The man unbuckled the bridle and threw it, keeping the
end of the rein in his hand. Gilbert tried to grasp it, but
his hands were too numb. He managed, however, to get
one arm and his head through the opening, and relaxed his
hold on the log.
A plunge, and the man had him by the collar. He felt
himself lifted by a strong arm and laid across Roger's saddle.
With his failing strength and stiff limbs, it was no
slight task to get into place, and the return, though less
Gilbert was scarcely able to support himself without
help.
“You 're safe now,” said the man, when they reached
the bank, “but it 's a downright mercy of God that you 're
alive!”
The other horseman joined them, and they rode slowly
across the flooded meadow. They had both thrown their
cloaks around Gilbert, and carefully steadied him in the
saddle, one on each side. He was too much exhausted to
ask how they had found him, or whither they were taking
him, — too numb for curiosity, almost for gratitude.
“Here 's your saviour!” said one of the men, patting
Roger's shoulder. “It was all along of him that we found
you. Want to know how? Well — about three o'clock it
was, maybe a little earlier, maybe a little later, my wife
woke me up. `Do you hear that?' she says. I listened
and heard a horse in the lane before the door, neighing, —
I can't tell you exactly how it was, — like as if he 'd call
up the house. 'T was rather queer, I thought, so I got up
and looked out of window, and it seemed to me he had a
saddle on. He stamped, and pawed, and then he gave another
yell, and stamped again. Says I to my wife, `There 's
something wrong here,' and I dressed and went out. When
he saw me, he acted the strangest you ever saw; thinks I,
if ever an animal wanted to speak, that animal does. When
I tried to catch him, he shot off, run down the lane a bit,
and then came back as strangely acting as ever. I went
into the house and woke up my brother, here, and we saddled
our horses and started. Away went yours ahead,
stopping every minute to look round and see if we followed.
When we came to the water, I kind o' hesitated, but 't was
no use; the horse would have us go on, and on, till we
found you. I never heard tell of the like of it, in my born
days!”
Gilbert did not speak, but two large tears slowly gathered
saw his emotion, and respected it.
In the light of the cold, keen dawn, they reached a snug
farm-house, a mile from the Brandywine. The men lifted
Gilbert from the saddle, and would have carried him immediately
into the house, but he first leaned upon Roger's
neck, took the faithful creature's head in his arms, and
kissed it.
The good housewife was already up, and anxiously
awaiting the return of her husband and his brother. A
cheery fire crackled on the hearth, and the coffee-pot was
simmering beside it. When Gilbert had been partially
revived by the warmth, the men conducted him into an
adjoining bed-room, undressed him, and rubbed his limbs
with whiskey. Then, a large bowl of coffee having been
administered, he was placed in bed, covered with half a
dozen blankets, and the curtains were drawn over the windows.
In a few minutes he was plunged in a slumber
almost as profound as that of the death from which he had
been so miraculously delivered.
It was two hours past noon when he awoke, and he no
sooner fully comprehended the situation and learned how
the time had sped, than he insisted on rising, although still
sore, weak, and feverish. The good farmer's wife had kept
a huge portion of dinner hot before the fire, and he knew
that without compelling a show of appetite, he would not
be considered sufficiently recovered to leave. He had but
one desire, — to return home. So recently plucked from
the jaws of Death, his life still seemed to be an uncertain
possession.
Finally Roger was led forth, quiet and submissive as of
old, — having forgotten his good deed as soon as it had
been accomplished, — and Gilbert, wrapped in the farmer's
cloak, retraced his way to the main road. As he looked
across the meadow, which told of the inundation in its
sweep of bent, muddy grass, and saw, between the creekbank
recollection of the night impressed him like a frightful
dream. It was a bright, sharp, wintry day, — the most violent
contrast to that which had preceded it. The hills on
either side, whose outlines he could barely guess in the
darkness, now stood out from the air with a hard, painful
distinctness; the sky was an arch of cold, steel-tinted crystal;
and the north wind blew with a shrill, endless whistle
through the naked woods.
As he climbed the long hill west of Chadd's Ford, Gilbert
noticed how the meadow on his right had been torn
by the flood gathered from the fields above. In one place
a Hessian skull had been snapped from the buried skeleton,
and was rolled to light, among the mud and pebbles.
Not far off, something was moving among the bushes, and
he involuntarily drew rein.
The form stopped, appeared to crouch down for a moment,
then suddenly rose and strode forth upon the grass.
It was a woman, wearing a man's flannel jacket, and carrying
a long, pointed staff in her hand. As she approached
with rapid strides, he recognized Deb. Smith.
“Deborah!” he cried, “what are you doing here?”
She set her pole to the ground and vaulted over the high
picket-fence, like an athlete.
“Well,” she said, “if I 'd ha' been shy o' you, Mr. Gilbert,
you would n't ha' seen me. I 'm not one of them as
goes prowlin' around among dead bodies' bones at midnight;
what I want, I looks for in the daytime.”
“Bones?” he asked. “You 're surely not digging up
the Hessians?”
“Not exackly; but, you see, the rain 's turned out a few,
and some on 'em, folks says, was buried with lots o' goold
platted up in their pig-tails. I know o' one man that dug
up two or three to git their teeth, (to sell to the tooth-doctors,
you know,) and when he took hold o' the pig-tail
to lift the head by, the hair come off in his hand, and out
washed out, there 's no harm in a body 's pickin' of it up,
as I see.”
“What luck have you had?” asked Gilbert.
“Nothin' to speak of; a few buttons, and a thing or two.
But I say, Mr. Gilbert, what luck ha' you had?” She had
been keenly and curiously inspecting his face.
“Deborah!” he exclaimed, “you 're a false prophet!
“You told me that, whatever happened, I was safe from
Sandy Flash.”
“Eh?”
There was a shrill tone of surprise and curiosity in this
exclamation.
“You ought to know Sandy Flash better, before you
prophesy in his name,” Gilbert repeated, in a stern voice.
“Oh, Mr. Gilbert, tell me what you mean?” She grasped
his leg with one hand, while she twisted the other in Roger's
mane, as if to hold both horse and rider until the words
were explained.
Thereupon he related to her in a brief, fierce way, all
that had befallen him. Her face grew red and her eyes
flashed; she shook her fist and swore under her breath,
from time to time, while he spoke.
“You 'll be righted, Mr. Gilbert!” she then cried, “you 'll
be righted, never fear! Leave it to me! Have n't I always
kep' my word to you? You 're believin' I lied the
last time, and no wonder; but I 'll prove the truth o' my
words yet — may the Devil git my soul, if I don't!”
“Don't think that I blame you, Deborah,” he said.
“You were too sure of my good luck, because you wished
me to have it — that 's all.”
“Thank ye for that! But it is n't enough for me.
When I promise a thing, I have power to keep my promise.
Ax me no more questions; bide quiet awhile, and if
the money is n't back in your pocket by New-Year, I give
ye leave to curse me, and kick me, and spit upon me!”
Gilbert smiled sadly and incredulously, and rode onward.
He made haste to reach home, for a dull pain began to
throb in his head, and chill shudders ran over his body.
He longed to have the worst over which yet awaited him,
and gain a little rest for body, brain, and heart.
| CHAPTER XXI.
ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER. The story of Kennett | |