University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Dora easily understood from the colonel's present,
with its accompanying legend, that he cherished no very
severe intentions with regard either to her or her friends.

Indeed, in thinking over her conversation with him,
she came to the conclusion that he had all along exaggerated
the danger and his resentment, for the purpose of
inducing her to argue against him. Why he should have
taken the trouble to do this she could not understand; but
as one day passed after another, and she found that neither
Captain Karl, Pic, nor herself met with any untoward
fate, she was quite ready to dismiss her fears and
mentally thank the colonel for his forbearance, with no
further attempt to understand it.

Captain Karl was now so entirely recovered as to resume
his regular duties and his own quarters, as was
also the private Merlin, while Judson had been forwarded
to the depot of rebel prisoners at Columbus.

Before leaving hospital the rebel Kentuckian had sought
an interview with Merlin, and the two men finally parted,
if not in renewed friendship, at least in mutual forgiveness
and kindly feeling.

Dora was now left with no especial object of interest
under her charge, although she attended to those who
remained with the same zeal and patient kindness she
had always shown. The hours in the chaplain's tent
and those spent in the open air were now, however, more
precious than ever, and she gradually extended her rambles,
even when quite alone, considerably beyond the
precincts of the camp.

One afternoon, as he stepped from the door of the
hospital, intending to go to Mr. Brown for permission to
read a little, she encountered Picter, looking very mysterious,
and somewhat puzzled.

“I's jes' gwine ter see ye, missy,” said he, in a cautious
tone.

“Was you, Pic? Well, walk along with me to Mr.
Brown's tent, and we can talk as we go.”

“Le's go a leetle furder out o' camp. I doesn' know
who's long ears may be a harkin' roun' here.”

“Well, come this way, then,” assented Dora, good-humoredly,
as she turned down a narrow lane between
the tents, leading to the outskirts of the camp.

Picter walked beside her, apparently buried in the
deepest of reveries.

“Well, Uncle Pic, what have you got to tell me?”
asked Dora, at length, finding the silence not likely to be
broken by her companion.

“Well, missy, I doesn' jus'ly know myse'f. I doesn
understan' de matter; dat am de truf.”

“If it is something about me, you had better tell right
out all you know, and perhaps I can help you to understand
it,” suggested Dora.

“Dat ar's de berry idee dat fotcht me here, missy, an'
yit I doesn' know but I's an old fool to pay any 'tention
to de matter at all. Well, honey, de long an' de short ob
it is, ef we 'cludes it's a sell, w'y, we needn' go.”

“Go where, Pic?”

“Lookin' arter Mas'r Tom.”

“Tom! Have you heard from him?”

“Can't tell 'xactly, missy. Las' night—or rudder
dis mornin'—de guard foun' a brack feller prowlin'
roun' dis yer camp, dat, bein' 'terrogated, said he'd come
to see Picter Darley. So de guard send him long to de
cook-house up dah, an' w'en I gits up dis mornin' I foun'
um waitin' for me. It wor a boy 'bout as ole as you'se'f,
an' he gibs his name as Bony party. But dat's all nonsense,
fer I's seed a many parties as was bonier dan he,
dat didn' make no 'count of it. Now dere was a feller
dat dey called de livin' skilumton—”

“But what did this boy say about Tom?”

“W'y, he came roun' kin' of 'sterious, an' waited till
we was alone 'fore he let on what was his bizness any
way. Den he wanted to know was you in de camp now.
I ax w'y did he want to know. He say he got arrant
fer ye from you brudder. I say, `Gib dat arrant to me,
an' I carry it to de young missus.' `No,' says Bony

party, `I wants ter see her myse'f; I's got a letter fur
'er.' `A letter from who?' says I. `From her own
brudder,' says he; `an' if she misses o' gittin' it, she
won't neber forgib herse'f de longest day she hab to lib.'
`Well,' says I, `if I fotches you to her, an' dere's any
diviltry in your arrant, I reckon you'll fin' de shortes' day
you hab to lib is too long, for I'll fill it jes' as full o' torment
for ye as an egg is full o' meat.' Den he sot to
swearin' he wa'n't up to no tricks, an' swore so hard I
'bout made up my mind not to trus' a word he said; but
den he showed me de letter, an' dough I couldn' read um,
I t'ou't dere mus' be sumfin' buckra 'bout it, dere wor
sech a power o' curlykews to de ends o' de long-tail letters,
an' sech a big splurge under de name dat was at de
bottom.”

“But was that name Tom Darley?” asked Dora,
eagerly.

“Dunno, missy; nor I couldn' 'suade Bony party to
lemme hab de letter to fotch to you. Says he ain't gwine
to deliber it to no one but you'se'f.”

“Well, where is he? Why don't you bring him to
me?”

“Den, agin, he say he couldn' stop anoder night, an'
he mus' git outside de camp right d'rectly while he could;
but he'd be waitin' fer you, jus' at sunset, out by de ole
dead pine on de edge ob de wood.”

“And the sun is just setting now! Dear me, Picter,

why couldn't you have told me faster? Perhaps it isn't
too late though, if I go as quick as I can.”

“But I isn't cl'ar in my min' dat we'd best go at all,
missy.”

“There's no need of your going, Pic, but I shall certainly.
Tom wouldn't have taken so much pains to send
to me, unless there was something important to tell. I
wouldn't fail to go for anything.”

“An' won't ye ax de parson, or de cap'n, or some ob
dem dat knows more'n we does?”

“I would, but there's no time. See, the sun is half
down; there isn't a moment to lose. But I'm not afraid
to go alone; you stay here till I come back.”

“Guess dere's room in de noose fer my neck if dere is
fer yours, chile,” returned Pic, doggedly, as he quickened
his shambling gait to keep pace with the fleet footsteps of
the girl.

They soon passed beyond the precincts of the camp,
and struck into a wild ravine leading down the mountain,
and into the heart of the thick wood at its base.

“There is the blasted pine,” said Dora, after a silent
walk of nearly half a mile.

“Yes, an' orful lonesome it looks,” muttered Pic, with
a visible tremor in his voice. “Reckon dat's de place
whar Ole Nick hol' his council wid Jeff an' de res' ob his
sarvents in de 'federacy. Reckon, arter all, missy, we'd
bes' back out o' dis yer scrape 'fore it's too late.”

“I'm not afraid. Don't shiver so, Pic,” replied Dora,
rather nervously, as she paused to look about her.

The scene was indeed a savage one. The sides of the
ravine, converging towards its lower end, were as precipitous
and bare of vegetation as the walls of a prison.
Overhead, the stormy sky hung low, with great masses
of thunder-cloud resting, apparently, upon the crags at
either hand. Below, the dense wood looked black and
forbidding, while the rising wind moaned fitfully among
its branches. In front of all stood the giant pine, its
scathed skeleton showing ghastly white against the dark
background of the forest.

The negro, impressible as are all his race, stood still,
and shuddered again.

“Don' like de look o' dat place, missy. Dere won't
be no luck in going any nigher dat tree, dat's sartin.
T'ou't I see somefin' brack a-peekin' out dis berry minit.”

“And didn't we come here to meet a black man, you
silly old Pic?” asked Dora, impatiently. “Come, it
will be dark in a minute or two.”

“Dat'll jes suit de powers o' darkness dat ha'nts dis
yer place,” groaned Pic. “How does yer know but dat
ar Bony party was de debil hese'f? De Bible say he go
roun' like a roarin' lion a lookin' arter he prey.”

“Well, this Bonaparte wasn't a roaring lion—was
he?”

“Donno, missy. I neber seed one—p'raps he was
widout my 'ceivin' it,” said Pic, doubtfully.

Dora made no reply, but walked steadily on toward
the wood, followed, at a little distance, by the trembling
Picter.

As they approached the pine, a figure suddenly glided
from behind it, and came to meet them.

“Go 'long wid ye, Satan!” yelled Picter, taking to his
heels without an instant's delay; “yer hain't cotch dis
chile jes' yet.”

Dora paused, and turned a little pale; for the negro
who now approached presented so repulsive an appearance
that Picter's panic extended, in some degree, to his
stouter-hearted mistress.

The face, intensely black in color and brutal in form,
was disfigured by the loss of an eye, and of a part of the
upper lip, leaving the gleaming teeth uncovered. More
than this, the expression was at once servile and savage,
although now overlaid with an assumption of deferential
good nature.

“Glad to see you, mistress,” said the new comer,
glibly. “I was most afraid that foolish nigger wouldn't
give you the message, and Mas'r Darley would be awful
disappointed not to see you.”

“You have a letter from him for me—haven't you?”
asked Dora, coldly.

“Yes, miss; here it is. I had my orders not to give
it into no hands but just your'n.”

“Yes; wait a moment till I read it.” And Dora, anxiously

unfolding the soiled paper, read with some difficulty,
by the faint light, the following words: —

Dora read the note twice through, and then slowly
folded it.

“Wha's de news, missy?” asked a voice at her elbow.

“O, you've come back, Pic,” said she, smiling a little.
“I thought you'd run away.”

“Run 'way, missy! I s'prised you should t'ink dat
way ob yore ole uncle. I jes' 'tired a few steps so's not
ter oberhear yore 'munications wid dis gen'l'man.”

“O, that was it? Well, Pic, this is a letter from poor
Tom; and he's here in the woods somewhere, waiting
for me; and I must go and speak to him. He's sick, and
he's going away off with his regiment, and, perhaps,
may never come back. I am going to meet him now.”

“Is you sot on it, missy?”

“Yes, Pic, I've made up my mind.”

“Well, honey, I tole yer 'fore we sot out dat ef yer
was sot on puttin' yore head inter de lion mouf, he'd hev
to stretch he jaws wide 'nough ter take in ole Pic's poll
long wid it. De Bible say de servent hain't got no call
ter be wiser den his mas'r; an' ef my mist's is a min' ter
act like a plaguy fool, I ain't a gwine ter be no wiser.”

“Then you will come, too?”

“Yis, missy. Go 'head, Bony party; fotch us inter
yer mas'r's jaws as fas' as you can leg it.”

“Go on, Bonaparte; we're all ready,” added Dora,
who felt much comforted, in spite of his grumbling, with
Picter's resolution to accompany her.

Bonaparte, on the contrary, looked as if he found the
company of the negro superfluous; but he made no comment,
and, at Dora's command, he struck immediately
into the wood, and rapidly led the party into its very
depths.