Dora Darling the daughter of the regiment |
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| 10. | CHAPTER X. |
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 | CHAPTER X. Dora Darling |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
The breakfast was a merry meal, and proved excellent
in quality. When it was finished, Dora insisted on
washing the few utensils and scouring them as clean as
she could, although Pic grumbled at both operations as
useless labor, and added, as a final argument, —
“'Sides, dey ain't use to it, and w'en dey gits it once
dey'll olluz be spectin' ob it, an' be jes' like dat ole hoss
doctor's darters in de Bible, dat was olluz singin' out,
`Gib! Gib!' so I spec's dere poor daddy had to go
roun' nights an' pizen de hosses, so's to cure 'em up nex'
day and get de pay fer doin' it.”
“Why, Pic!” exclaimed Dora, pausing in her labor
upon the coffee-kettle, and looking up at the negro's
grotesque face. “What makes you call it a horse
doctor? It says `horse leech' in the Bible.”
“Well, chile, I ax mas'r one day what a leech mean,
an' he say it mean doctor; so hoss leech mean hoss
doctor — don' you see?”
“Why, I don't believe that is it,” said Dora, meditatively.
“But, any way,” continued she, shaking the
heavy chestnut curls out of her eyes, “I'll scour the
“Well, den, de pore ole nig mus' take holt too, I
specs,” said Picter, grumbling good-naturedly, as he
grasped his great paw full of ashes, and began to scour
lustily at the soup-kettle.
“Ah, ha, Pic! That was the real reason you thought
it wasn't best for me to do them,” laughed Dora; “you
didn't want to help.”
“Well, chile, dis ole nig 'ud full as lieves rest afore
de fire, an' dat's a fac', an' he kin' o' hate ter see lilly
missy's pooty hands all grimmed up wid ashes an' soot,
jes' like ole Dinah's. But dat all go wid washin' yore
face ebery mornin'. Can't be help, I specs, w'en a body
has had a eddication. Dey's buckra ways, I reckons.”
By the time the vessels were thoroughly scoured and
washed, Pic declared that it was time for dinner, and he
proceeded to cook all the remainder of the provisions,
that Dora and he might not only eat at that time, but
have something to carry as support in the long night
march before them.
Dinner over, and the vessels once more cleansed and
set aside, Pic suggested that they should each take a nap,
and sleep, if possible, until the time should come to start
upon their journey.
Dora consented, and lay down upon her bed of leaves,
while Picter, as before, curled himself beside the hearth,
and was in a few moments fast asleep.
But Dora could not so easily seize irregular repose
For an hour or more she lay almost motionless, watching
the fitful firelight that played among the projections
and recesses of the irregular walls a fantastic game of
“I spy.” Then the fire went down, and only curls of
thin blue smoke arose from its embers.
Dora softly arose, and was about to lay more wood
upon the fire, when a distant sound arrested her attention.
It was a confused noise, and Dora could not
determine whether it came from the direction of the
waterfall, or the tunnel through which they had entered
the valley. But it appeared to be approaching, and as
any unusual sound was a subject of alarm to the fugitives,
Dora hastened to arouse Picter.
“Eh, what? What's 'e matter, chile? Tain't time yit
to be movin'. Let 'e ole feller sleep a leetly long'r,”
muttered the negro, lazily, as he turned upon the other
side and prepared to drop off again.
“But, Picter, Uncle Pic, I say, there's something
coming; there's danger, perhaps.”
“Somefin' comin'! Danger!” repeated Picter, starting
to his feet and rubbing his eyes. “Whar! whar's
de danger, missy? Reckon you foolin' you ole uncle,
honey, ain't you! 'Fraid he obersleep hese'f.”
“No, no, indeed, Picter. Just listen now — there,
what is that sound in the tunnel?”
Picter now listened anxiously enough, for the sounds
direction of the tunnel. Carefully leaving the cabin, he
crossed the little glade to the entrance of the subterranean
passage, and stood for some minutes with his neck
outstretched and his ears alert, while his eyes wildly
rolled first towards the hut and Dora's watchful little
figure standing in the doorway, and then within the
gloomy chasm at whose entrance he stood.
Presently he softly entered the tunnel, and disappeared
from sight.
A few minutes passed, and Dora, almost holding her
breath from anxiety, softly approached the dark passage,
and peered within. She saw nothing; but in another
moment Picter noiselessly crept to her side, and hoarsely
whispered, —
“'Tis de Philistums, honey! Dey is upon us, an' dis
ole fool 'ould ha' laid still till dey come an' cut off ebery
ha'ar he's got, same's dey did to Samson, ef 't hadn' been
for lilly missy. But de wus ob de whole is, dey's got a
dog. Spec dey's been way down to Pete Flanders, and
borried his'n. Dere ain't no one else 'bout here has got
one —”
“No one got a dog?”
“Not a bloodhoun', missy. Dat's what dey's got up
dah. I knows his bay. It's diff'ent from any oder dog.
Spec God made all de dogs, and de debil made bloodhoun's.
Don' know else how it happen dat he's de only
one dat'll eat a nigger.”
“But, Pic, we ain't going to stay here and wait for
them — are we?” said Dora, impatiently. “Come, let us
go to the waterfall, and get out on the ledge, and then,
when they are in the tunnel here, we can climb down to
where the horse is, and so get off. I can climb any
where that you can, I know. Come, here's the bundle
of food — we must take that. Why don't you start,
Pic?”
The negro looked at her with admiring wonder.
“Lors, now,” said he, “how many pooty lilly gals, I
won'er, 'ould talk dat a way, sich a time as dis. Mos'
all on 'em would screech an' holler fit to kill deyse'fs,
an' let all de folks out dah know jes' who's inside here.
Dis is what comes o' eddication, I reckon.”
“But, Pic, I say,” reiterated Dora, almost angrily,
“why don't you do something?”
“W'y, honey, 'tain't time yet. Dat's w'y. Ef dem
fools up dah sen's in de dog — golly, dey's done it a'
ready.”
Dropping to his hands and knees, Pic began to creep
up the tunnel as he spoke, and Dora followed more cautiously.
About half way, as well as she could judge,
she overtook him lying motionless and listening intently.
The sounds now distinctly heard were the voices of men
talking eagerly, and the occasional hoarse sound of a
muffled howl from the hound.
“Dey's muzzlin' him. I 'specs dey knows you's in
muzzle um w'en dey's chasin' niggers,” muttered Picter.
“Well, what are you going to do? He'll be down
here in a minute, and the men after him. Can't I do
something — can't you tell me, Picter?”
“Put out you han', missy. Here, dis way.”
Dora did as directed, and found that the tunnel beyond
Pic's position was closed by a barrier, made apparently
of small saplings, bound together closely with
withes.
“But this won't stop him long,” whispered she; “he'll
jump at it till he knocks it down, or at any rate till the
men come up. It won't stop them.”
“Wait, den, honey. Feel here, now.”
“A rope — two ropes! What are they for?”
“Now I'll tell you, missy. W'en dat howlin', tearin'
debil up dah gets to dis gate, he'll be as mad as hops,
an' he'll howl, an' yelp, an' run back'ards and for'ards.
Bud dat ain't de wust dat'll happen to um; fer w'en he
begins to do dat ar', dis chile will pull de rope, jus' like
um hangman pull de leetly cord dat let de drop fall, an'
wow! whar dat debil's pup fin' hese'f den?”
“Why, what will happen to him, Pic?”
“Jes you wait a lilly minit, missy, an' you'll see,”
replied the negro, who had all the taste of his race for
melodrama, and did not intend to spoil the grand “effect”
he was preparing, by describing it beforehand.
Dora was too breathless and too excited to insist upon
an explanation, and waited silently beside Pic, grasping
the hurdle with one cold little hand, and listening with
both her ears.
The voices above, confused by the distance into one
hoarse sound, reverberated sullenly along the sides of
the tunnel; but no single voice or words could be distinguished.
The hound bayed no longer, but his fierce
growl was distinctly audible. All at once a sudden shout
was heard, followed by a profound silence.
Then came the patter of the dog's feet, mingled with
exultant yelps, as he pressed forward upon the scent.
He was evidently approaching fast.
“Now, den, chile. Here um debil, an' hear um
mas'r hangmana' ready for um,” whispered Picter, hoarsely,
as he grasped the ropes in either hand, and braced
his foot against the centre of the hurdle.
The hound reached the spot. He paused a moment,
whining impatiently, and running from side to side.
Then scenting his prey close at hand, he became furious,
bounding against the gate with all his force, growling
fiercely, and tearing at the ground with his paws.
Through the hurdle Dora could see the red gleam of his
eyeballs, and smell his fetid breath.
“Dat right, you debil dog,” muttered the negro, in
great excitement. “Dat de way to dance; golly! Don'
dis chile want to see yer dancin' roun' in de fire down
ter home dah, 'long wid you daddy. Dat's it! Scratch
um groun'; tear 'im wid you paw! Don' you jes' wish
'twas ole nig you war tearin'! Now, den, trot back a
leetly mite, take fresh start! Dat's it; now um time fer
mas'r hangman! He-o!”
As he uttered the last exclamation, Picter, bracing his
foot afresh, pulled suddenly and strongly at the two ropes
twisted about his brawny hands.
A crash, a heavy fall, the rattle and plunge of an avalanche
of stones and earth, accompanied by suffocating
clouds of dust, followed the action.
A yelp of agony, a smothered whine from the hound,
ensued, and then all was still, and even darker than
before.
Picter seized Dora by the arm, and hurried her back
into the open air, where they were pursued by the pungent
dust of the earth-fall.
“Dah! Tank de Lor' dat all done safe!” gasped
Picter, as he sank upon the withered grass. “Now we'm
got noffin' ter do but wait till dem folks is gone, and den
get out t'oder way.”
“But if they find the other way?” whispered Dora,
after they were safe once more in the hut, with the door
closed.
“Dey won't, chile. Dey neber 'ud ha' foun' dis, on'y
fer de houn'. T'oder way, de houn'couldn' help um if
reckon dat houn' won't neber t'ar down a nigger agin,
not if he was clost afore 'im.”
“What was it, Picter? What did the ropes do?”
asked Dora, with a sort of breathless terror in her
voice.
“Well, honey, w'en dis place was fix up fer a sort
o' refuge fer us poor col'ud folks, eber so long ago, we
t'aut like enough some day we might be tracked in wid
houn's. An' so, in de tunnel, we fix a kin' ob trap-door
ober head, wid lots o' dirt an' big stones atop, an' big
sticks a holdin' it up underneaf. Den we tied ropes to
de foot o' dem big sticks, an' fix de gate jes' dis side ob
de trap.
“So w'en I went up fus' time, an' foun' out w'at was
to pay, I jes' put up de gate, an' fotch de ends ob de ropes
trew. So den, w'en de ole houn' wor jes' about under
de middle, I gib um hangman pull, an' wow! down he
come ker-smash, de trap fus', an' all de stones an' dirt
atop. Reckon dat dog am flatter dan a hoe-cake 'bout
dis time. Hi! I'd like 'o look at um.”
“O, Picter, how can you!” cried Dora, in horror.
“Can what, missy? Kill um?”
“No, that was all right. But to want to see him
now.”
“W'y not den, missy. I hate um like de bery debil
hese'f. I kill um; I want ter see um dead, an' kick um
a leetly bit p'raps.”
“But, Pic, how can you want to see him all mashed
and mangled as he is? O, I wouldn't look at him for a
hundred dollars.”
“Wouldn' you now? Lors, dat kin' o' curus. Dat
goes 'long wid washin' you face, and scourin' de coffee-kettle,
I specs. Buckra ways, all buckra ways,” said
Picter, looking at Dora with the same sort of admiring
wonder that he frequently displayed for her.
“Well, nigger ways is good enough fer ole Pic, but
he like to see buckra ways in lilly missy. Dat all right,
I specs.”
“O, yes, that's all right, Uncle Pic; but don't you
think there's any danger at all now?” asked the child,
rather anxiously.
“No, honey. Dey couldn' fin' out de oder way, not
if dey was lookin' a week; not even if dey got inter de
hosses' paster down by de waterfall, fer yer can't see
noffin' w'en yer look up from de foot.”
“Well, then, we have only to wait till these men have
gone, and it is dark.”
“Dat's um, honey. Now, s'pose yer tell ole Pic some
ob dem pooty stories yer mammy use ter tell you an'
Mas'r Tom in de winter ebenin's.”
“Well, I will. Or, Picter, wouldn't you rather have
me read a little to you out of the Bible? I have got
mother's own little Bible here in my bosom.”
“Yes, missy, I like dat fus' rate. Dere ain't no stories
as fairy story.”
“You ought to like them better, Picter,” said Dora,
earnestly, “because they are all true, and it is God's
own book, the Bible is.”
“Lors, yes, missy, I know dat. I knows heaps 'bout
de Bible — lots o' pooty sayin's out ob it. Read me 'bout
Dan'l in de lion den, missy. Spec's dat ar houn' wus
dan any dem lions. Wouldn' ha' cotcht 'im lettin' Dan'l
alone!”
| CHAPTER X. Dora Darling | |