Dora Darling the daughter of the regiment |
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| 28. | CHAPTER XXVIII. |
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 | CHAPTER XXVIII. Dora Darling |  |
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
At the end of ten minutes of reflection, Dora suddenly
thrust her hand into the pocket of her cloak, then
into one after the other of those in her skirt, and finally
from that of her jacket drew a stout, double-bladed knife,
a present to the little vivandière from one of her numerous
friends among the men.
“Good!” whispered she; “I was afraid I had left it
at home. That will do, I know. But where can I
begin?”
Placing her eye at one of the cracks of the floor, the
prisoner next reconnoitred the position of her jailers.
Clarkson had already thrown himself on the floor,
wrapped in his blanket, and was soundly sleeping; but
Dick had resumed his seat beside the fire, and seemed
resolved to watch.
Dora noiselessly regained the bed of leaves where she
had been sitting, and drawing from it the thick double
blanket, proceeded to cut it into strips of about a foot in
width, and six feet or more in length. Carefully tying
these together in square knots, Dora found herself possessed
of a strong band of woollen, twenty-four feet in
and then, coiling it upon her right arm, she
nestled herself into her nest of leaves, and resigned herself
to wait until Dick should be tired of his watch and
fall asleep. That he should keep awake all night after his
long and active day, she considered impossible, although
she herself felt confident of being able to do so. And
while confirming for the hundredth time her resolution to
resist, at all events, the drowsiness stealing over her, the
poor little maid fell fast asleep.
In about an hour, however, she suddenly awoke, gasping
for breath, and in total darkness, except where one
angry spot of fire close beside her couch glared up at
her like the eye of a wild beast. It was the resinous
torch burned down to the strip of leather placed around
it as a safeguard, and expiring amid volumes of smoke
combined from both wood and leather.
Dora's quick wits soon recovered from the bewilderment
of her sudden awakening, and she rapidly and
noiselessly extinguished the torch before thinking of anything
else. Her next care was to ascertain her cousin's
condition; but the room below was now in total darkness,
and no sound was audible except the regular breath
of the sleepers; for a few moments of attentive listening
satisfied Dora that these must be at least two in number.
Before going to sleep, Dora had not failed to carefully
note the position of her bed in reference to the other
plan of action. She now, therefore, felt her way carefully
along the rough wall until she reached the chimney.
This chimney, following the usual traditions of backwoods
architecture, was built upon the outside of the
house; but all along the line of contact, the boards of
the slight shanty had so shrivelled and warped under the
influence of the unequal heat, as to leave large cracks,
through which the rough stones of the chimney were
plainly visible. Below one of the largest of these cracks,
Dora's sharp eyes had noticed that the wood was already
considerably decayed, from the combined effect of heat
and moisture; and at this spot she had resolved to make
her desperate attempt to escape.
With the strongest blade of her pocket-knife she now
began cutting away the soft pine as rapidly, and at the
same time as cautiously, as possible, often pausing to listen
for any movement below, as well as to take breath
for renewed effort. The work soon became laborious,
and the progress seemed painfully slow; but still the
little hands toiled bravely on, and the stout heart beat
higher and higher, as through the increasing aperture
the pure night air stole sweetly in, and the bright stars
looked encouragement.
An hour passed thus, and Dora, trembling from
fatigue and excitement, saw that this part of her task
was ended. The hole was of ample size to allow her
length of her rope from the ground.
The next step was to fasten this rope, or rather band,
securely inside. To do this, Dora returned to her bed,
and standing upon it, felt carefully along the wall for a
stout hook that she had noticed driven there, probably by
Bonaparte for some purpose of his own. To this she
firmly attached one end of the strip of woollen still
wound upon her arm, and satisfied herself that both
were strong enough to bear more weight than she should
impose upon them. She next made her cloak into a
bundle, and tying it to the other end of the strip, lowered
it silently to the ground, and then, creeping through
the hole, commenced her own descent. This was soon
accomplished, although not without pain and terror, and
Dora, with a throbbing heart, found herself once more
at liberty. Detaching her cloak from the rope, she next
cut off the latter as high up as she could reach, thinking
it might prove useful in releasing Picter, whom she was
resolved not to leave behind.
Gliding cautiously round the end of the house, she
approached the shed where she had been told he was
to spend the night. The door stood partially open, and
as Dora came in sight, the ungainly form of the negro
was seen in the starlight, creeping cautiously out to meet
her.
“Bress you, missy, so you done got cl'ar widout de
hard to work myse'f, an' hain't but jes' got frew, else I'd
'a been roun' ter help ye. Now, come; we'm got to make
tracks 'fore mornin.”
“Yes, come, as fast as you can. That horrid wolf
may be after us any minute,” replied Dora, in the same
tone, looking fearfully about her.
“Hi! Guess dat ar varmint ain't gwine ter trouble us
much. I 'sposed ob him,” chuckled the negro. “An'
here's toder varmint, de one what turned agin he own
kind, an' led anoder nigger into a trap,” continued Pic,
severely, as he stooped to raise on his broad shoulders a
shapeless mass of something lying under a tree at some
little distance from the hovel.
“Why, what is that?” asked Dora, in great astonishment.
“De varmint called Bony party, missy,” grunted Picter,
as he settled his load upon his back.
“Now, come 'long, missy. I know de way fus' rate.
Tell yer, dis chil' kept he eye skun w'en dey was fotchin'
us in; an' while de star shine dis a way, dey'll be better
dan daylight fer show de path.”
“But what are you going to do with this poor fellow,
Pic? And why don't he move or call out?” asked Dora,
pityingly, as they moved rapidly forward among the trees.
“I's gwine to make a 'xample ob him ter all traitors,
missy,” said the negro, sternly. “An' he don't sing out,
sla'ter, as de good book say, on'y dis ar am more of a
young wolf dan a lamb. An' as fer singin' out, he got
he mouf too full ob stick to 'varse much.”
“But, Picter, what do you mean by making an example
of him? You mustn't kill him.”
“Yes, I will, missy, sure an' sartain,” replied Pic,
decidedly. “I hain't got no pinion ob de breed, an'
I ain't gwine ter hab it kep' up. De nigger dat 'ould
sell anoder nigger ter be licked to def, as dem Wilsons
'ould 'a licked me, am too mean ter sell ter a Georgy
trader, an I's a gwine ter red the aarth on him.”
“Picter, I never, never will consent to your killing this
man in cold blood. I forbid it!” exclaimed Dora, pausing,
and speaking in a more peremptory tone than she
had ever used before.
Picter jogged doggedly on, and made no reply. With
a bound Dora overtook him, and laid a hand upon his
arm.
“Stop, and answer me, Picter, before we go any
farther. Will you give up your plan of killing this
man?”
“No, missy,” replied the negro. “I hates ter go agin
ye any way; but dis time I's made up my min' what ter
do, an' I reckon I'll 'bide by it.”
“And you will murder him?”
“I'll exercute him for a traitor, missy.”
“Then my mind is made up, too. I shall go straight
back to the shanty, call Dick and the other man, and tell
them just where you are and what you are going to do.
They'll chase you, and perhaps kill you, and they'll keep
me; but it is all I can do to prevent this murder, and I
shall do it. Speak quick, and say if you keep the same
mind. In a minute it will be too late.”
As she spoke, she sprang backward, and stood out of
reach, and out of sight of the negro, who, pausing where
he stood, in the middle of a little star-lit glade, looked
anxiously back at her.
“Now, missy,” began he, coaxingly, as he caught sight
of a slender figure within the shadow of the wood,
“wha's de use ob good frien's like we fallin' out dis
fashion? I wasn' gwine ter 'spatch de feller 'fore you
face an' eyes. I'll wait till we gets nigh home, an' den
you'll go 'long forrad an' neber know noffin' 'bout w'at
comd ob 'im.”
“No, Picter. You must promise me not to hurt him
in any way, and to let him go as soon as is safe for ourselves,
or I shall do as I said,” returned Dora, firmly.
“Now, chile, dat's w'at I calls contrairy. W'at diff'ence
does it make ter you weder dere's a Bony party
more or a Bony party less in de worl'? You won't neber
see him agin.”
“No; but I shall see you, Picter, and I never could
bear to look at you, or speak to you, or even think of
almost hate you, Picter.”
“Sho! Should you dat, missy?” inquired the negro,
with more concern than he had yet exhibited. “Dat
'ould make old Pic feel awful bad.”
“And so it would make me feel bad; but it would be
so, I am sure. I couldn't help it,” said Dora, earnestly.
Pic dropped his burden to the ground, and Dora now
saw by the feeble light that the unfortunate captive had
been enveloped in some large cloth or bag completely
shrouding the outline of his form.
“Missy, I's got sumfin' ter say to you,” began Pic,
limping towards the spot where she stood.
“Wait, then, and promise not to try to catch me, before
you come any nearer.”
“Lor', missy, I hasn't got no f'outs ob it. All I wants
is a 'sultation.”
“You promise not to touch me?”
“Yes, missy, I promises.”
“Well, then, what is it?” asked the girl, allowing
her companion to approach close to her.
“W'y, missy, we can make a kin' ob a compermise, I
reckon. Sence you's so dead sot agin it, I'll gib up takin'
de life ob de varmint, but I wants ter gib him a scare
dat 'll be mos' as bad, I reckon.”
“What is it?”
“You'll see, missy. I hasn' jes' made up my own
him.”
“Well,” said Dora, reluctantly, “you must promise
that, at any rate, and if the other plan is cruel, you must
change it.”
“We shan't quarrel 'bout it, missy; but it won't do
ter stop here much longer. We'll go ahead a piece, an
w'en de daylight's up I'll 'spose ob him.”
Picter, as he spoke, bent over the burden at his feet,
and began to raise it upon his shoulders, when he was
interrupted by a low exclamation from Dora.
“Wha's de matter, chile? Am dey comin'?”
“What is that noise? Hark! There it is again!”
Both listened eagerly, and through the hushed air of
the forest night was distinctly heard the sound of a large
body brushing through the undergrowth in the direction
of the hut. This was suddenly interrupted by a snarling
bark, followed by an angry howl.
“It's the wolf!” exclaimed Dora, in much alarm.
Picter let fall the unwiedly burden already upon his
shoulders, and crouched in terror beside it.
“O Lor'!” gasped he. “It's he ghos', fer sure. It's
a comin' fer ha'nt us, an' I's noffin' bud a pore ole sinner
as full ob handles fer de debil as a hedgehog 's full ob
quills. I shan't neber get shet ob him in dis worl', dat's
cl'ar.”
“Nonsense, Pic. There ain't any such thing as a
Lope wasn't really killed, or it's some other wolf. Any
way, he's coming after us. Hark!”
The sounds of pursuit indeed indicated that the animal,
whatever he might be, was close at hand; but still
Picter remained crouched in the middle of the little glade,
a victim to superstitious terror.
“I hung de varmint wid my own han's,” muttered he.
“Cotcht um nappin,' an got um noose roun' um neck
'fore he'd time 'o say he prayers. Strung um up, tie um
rope, an' now —”
“But, Pic, we must defend ourselves! Quick! he's
here! Haven't you any knife or anything?” cried Dora,
springing to the negro's side, and seizing him by the arm.
“No knife, no gun, no silber bullet. Wha's de use o'
fightin' de debil, missy?” groaned he.
Dora, without further parley, hastily untied the cloak
that she carried in a bundle over her shoulder, and
opened the strongest blade of the knife which had once
before that night done her so good service.
“If you won't do anything but talk that way, I shall
have to fight the wolf myself,” said she, quietly.
“'Tain't no wolf, missy; bud I'll do de bes' I can agin
it,” said Pic, gloomily, as he struggled to his feet and
grasped more firmly a stout oaken cudgel that he had
appropriated at the shanty.
| CHAPTER XXVIII. Dora Darling | |