University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE FREEMAN'S DEFENCE.

There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as the
afternoon drew to a close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly
to and fro, collecting from her household stores such needments
as could be arranged in the smallest compass, for the
wanderers who were to go forth that night. The afternoon
shadows stretched eastward, and the round red sun stood
thoughtfully on the horizon, and his beams shone yellow and
calm into the little bed-room where George and his wife were
sitting. He was sitting with his child on his knee, and his
wife's hand in his. Both looked thoughtful and serious, and
traces of tears were on their cheeks.

“Yes, Eliza,” said George, “I know all you say is true.
You are a good child, — a great deal better than I am; and I
will try to do as you say. I 'll try to act worthy of a free
man. I 'll try to feel like a Christian. God Almighty knows
that I 've meant to do well, — tried hard to do well, — when
everything has been against me; and now I 'll forget all the
past, and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and read
my Bible, and learn to be a good man.”

“And when we get to Canada,” said Eliza, “I can help
you. I can do dress-making very well; and I understand fine

washing and ironing; and between us we can find something
to live on.”

“Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy.
O! Eliza, if these people only knew what a blessing it is for
a man to feel that his wife and child belong to him! I 've
often wondered to see men that could call their wives and
children their own fretting and worrying about anything
else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing
but our bare hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for
any more. Yes, though I 've worked hard every day, till I
am twenty-five years old, and have not a cent of money, nor a
roof to cover me, nor a spot of land to call my own, yet, if
they will only let me alone now, I will be satisfied — thankful;
I will work, and send back the money for you and my
boy. As to my old master, he has been paid five times over
for all he ever spent for me. I don't owe him anything.”

“But yet we are not quite out of danger,” said Eliza; “we
are not yet in Canada.”

“True,” said George, “but it seems as if I smelt the free
air, and it makes me strong.”

At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment,
in earnest conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the
door. Eliza started and opened it.

Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother,
whom he introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall
and lathy, red-haired, with an expression of great acuteness
and shrewdness in his face. He had not the placid, quiet,
unworldly air of Simeon Halliday; on the contrary, a particularly
wide-awake and au fait appearance, like a man who
rather prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keeping
a bright look-out ahead; peculiarities which sorted rather
oddly with his broad brim and formal phraseology.

“Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of importance
to the interests of thee and thy party, George,” said
Simeon; “it were well for thee to hear it.”

“That I have,” said Phineas, “and it shows the use of a
man's always sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as
I 've always said. Last night I stopped at a little lone tavern,
back on the road. Thee remembers the place, Simeon,
where we sold some apples, last year, to that fat woman, with
the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving;
and, after my supper, I stretched myself down on a pile of
bags in the corner, and pulled a buffalo over me, to wait
till my bed was ready; and what does I do, but get fast
asleep.”

“With one ear open, Phineas?” said Simeon, quietly.

“No; I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was
pretty well tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found
that there were some men in the room, sitting round a table,
drinking and talking; and I thought, before I made much
muster, I 'd just see what they were up to, especially as I
heard them say something about the Quakers. `So,' says
one, `they are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt,' says
he. Then I listened with both ears, and I found that they
were talking about this very party. So I lay and heard them
lay off all their plans. This young man, they said, was to be
sent back to Kentucky, to his master, who was going to make
an example of him, to keep all niggers from running away;
and his wife two of them were going to run down to New
Orleans to sell, on their own account, and they calculated to
get sixteen or eighteen hundred dollars for her; and the child,
they said, was going to a trader, who had bought him; and
then there was the boy, Jim, and his mother, they were to go
back to their masters in Kentucky. They said that there

were two constables, in a town a little piece ahead, who would
go in with 'em to get 'em taken up, and the young woman
was to be taken before a judge; and one of the fellows, who
is small and smooth-spoken, was to swear to her for his property,
and get her delivered over to him to take south.
They 've got a right notion of the track we are going to-night;
and they 'll be down after us, six or eight strong.
So, now, what 's to be done?”

The group that stood in various attitudes, after this communication,
were worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who
had taken her hands out of a batch of biscuit, to hear the news,
stood with them upraised and floury, and with a face of the
deepest concern. Simeon looked profoundly thoughtful; Eliza
had thrown her arms around her husband, and was looking up
to him. George stood with clenched hands and glowing eyes,
and looking as any other man might look, whose wife was to
be sold at auction, and son sent to a trader, all under the
shelter of a Christian nation's laws.

“What shall we do, George?” said Eliza, faintly.

“I know what I shall do,” said George, as he stepped into
the little room, and began examining his pistols.

“Ay, ay,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon;
“thou seest, Simeon, how it will work.”

“I see,” said Simeon, sighing; “I pray it come not to
that.”

“I don't want to involve any one with or for me,” said
George. “If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I
will drive alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in strength,
and brave as death and despair, and so am I.”

“Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, “but thee 'll need a
driver, for all that. Thee 's quite welcome to do all the fighting,

thee knows; but I know a thing or two about the road,
that thee does n't.”

“But I don't want to involve you,” said George.

“Involve,” said Phineas, with a curious and keen expression
of face. “When thee does involve me, please to let me
know.”

“Phineas is a wise and skilful man,” said Simeon. “Thee
does well, George, to abide by his judgment; and,” he added,
laying his hand kindly on George's shoulder, and pointing
to the pistols, “be not over hasty with these, — young blood
is hot.”

“I will attack no man,” said George. “All I ask of this
country is to be let alone, and I will go out peaceably; but,”
— he paused, and his brow darkened and his face worked, —
“I 've had a sister sold in that New Orleans market. I
know what they are sold for; and am I going to stand by
and see them take my wife and sell her, when God has given
me a pair of strong arms to defend her? No; God help me!
I 'll fight to the last breath, before they shall take my wife
and son. Can you blame me?”

“Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood
could not do otherwise,” said Simeon. “Woe unto the world
because of offences, but woe unto them through whom the
offence cometh.”

“Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?”

“I pray that I be not tried,” said Simeon; “the flesh is
weak.”

“I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in such
a case,” said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the
sails of a windmill. “I an't sure, friend George, that I
should n't hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any accounts to
settle with him.”

“If man should ever resist evil,” said Simeon, “then
George should feel free to do it now: but the leaders of our
people taught a more excellent way; for the wrath of man
worketh not the righteousness of God; but it goes sorely
against the corrupt will of man, and none can receive it save
they to whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be
not tempted.”

“And so I do,” said Phineas; “but if we are tempted too
much — why, let them look out, that 's all.”

“It 's quite plain thee was n't born a Friend,” said Simeon,
smiling. “The old nature hath its way in thee pretty
strong as yet.”

To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted
backwoodsman, a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck;
but, having wooed a pretty Quakeress, had been moved by the
power of her charms to join the society in his neighborhood;
and though he was an honest, sober, and efficient member,
and nothing particular could be alleged against him, yet the
more spiritual among them could not but discern an exceeding
lack of savor in his developments.

“Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said
Rachel Halliday, smiling; “but we all think that his heart
is in the right place, after all.”

“Well,” said George, “is n't it best that we hasten our
flight?”

“I got up at four o'clock, and came on with all speed, full
two or three hours ahead of them, if they start at the time
they planned. It is n't safe to start till dark, at any rate; for
there are some evil persons in the villages ahead, that might
be disposed to meddle with us, if they saw our wagon, and
that would delay us more than the waiting; but in two hours
I think we may venture. I will go over to Michael Cross,

and engage him to come behind on his swift nag, and keep a
bright look-out on the road, and warn us if any company of
men come on. Michael keeps a horse that can soon get ahead
of most other horses; and he could shoot ahead and let us
know, if there were any danger. I am going out now to warn
Jim and the old woman to be in readiness, and to see about
the horse. We have a pretty fair start, and stand a good
chance to get to the stand before they can come up with us.
So, have good courage, friend George; this is n't the first
ugly scrape that I've been in with thy people,” said Phineas,
as he closed the door.

“Phineas is pretty shrewd,” said Simeon. “He will do
the best that can be done for thee, George.”

“All I am sorry for,” said George, “is the risk to you.”

“Thee 'll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more
about that. What we do we are conscience bound to do; we
can do no other way. And now, mother,” said he, turning to
Rachel, “hurry thy preparations for these friends, for we must
not send them away fasting.”

And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake,
and cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the et
ceteras of the evening meal, George and his wife sat in their
little room, with their arms folded about each other, in such
talk as husband and wife have when they know that a few
hours may part them forever.

“Eliza,” said George, “people that have friends, and
houses, and lands, and money, and all those things, can't
love as we do, who have nothing but each other. Till I knew
you, Eliza, no creature ever had loved me, but my poor, heart-broken
mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that morning
the trader carried her off. She came to the corner where I
was lying asleep, and said, `Poor George, your last friend is

going. What will become of you, poor boy?' And I got up
and threw my arms round her, and cried and sobbed, and she
cried too; and those were the last kind words I got for ten
long years; and my heart all withered up, and felt as dry as
ashes, till I met you. And your loving me, — why, it was
almost like raising one from the dead! I 've been a new
man ever since! And now, Eliza, I 'll give my last drop of
blood, but they shall not take you from me. Whoever gets
you must walk over my dead body.”

“O, Lord, have mercy!” said Eliza, sobbing. “If he
will only let us get out of this country together, that is all
we ask.”

“Is God on their side?” said George, speaking less to his
wife than pouring out his own bitter thoughts. “Does he
see all they do? Why does he let such things happen?
And they tell us that the Bible is on their side; certainly all
the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and happy; they
are members of churches, expecting to go to heaven; and they
get along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way;
and poor, honest, faithful Christians, — Christians as good or
better than they, — are lying in the very dust under their
feet. They buy 'em and sell 'em, and make trade of their
heart's blood, and groans and tears, — and God lets them.”

“Friend George,” said Simeon, from the kitchen, “listen
to this Psalm; it may do thee good.”

George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her
tears, came forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:

“But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had
well-nigh slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I
saw the prosperity of the wicked. They are not in trouble like
other men, neither are they plagued like other men. Therefore,

pride compasseth them as a chain; violence covereth
them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness;
they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt, and
speak wickedly concerning oppression; they speak loftily.
Therefore his people return, and the waters of a full cup are
wrung out to them, and they say, How doth God know? and
is there knowledge in the Most High?”

“Is not that the way thee feels, George?”

“It is so, indeed,” said George, — “as well as I could
have written it myself.”

“Then, hear,” said Simeon: “When I thought to know
this, it was too painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary
of God. Then understood I their end. Surely thou didst
set them in slippery places, thou castedst them down to
destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so, oh Lord,
when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless,
I am continually with thee; thou hast holden me by
my right hand. Thou shalt guide me by thy counsel, and
afterwards receive me to glory. It is good for me to draw
near unto God. I have put my trust in the Lord God.”

The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man,
stole like sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of
George; and after he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued
expression on his fine features.

“If this world were all, George,” said Simeon, “thee
might, indeed, ask, where is the Lord? But it is often those
who have least of all in this life whom he chooseth for the
kingdom. Put thy trust in him, and, no matter what befalls
thee here, he will make all right hereafter.”

If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent
exhorter, from whose mouth they might have come
merely as pious and rhetorical flourish, proper to be used to

people in distress, perhaps they might not have had much
effect; but coming from one who daily and calmly risked fine
and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, they had a
weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor, desolate
fugitives found calmness and strength breathing into them
from it.

And now Rachel took Eliza's hand kindly, and led the
way to the supper-table. As they were sitting down, a light
tap sounded at the door, and Ruth entered.

“I just ran in,” she said, “with these little stockings for
the boy, — three pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so
cold, thee knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good
courage, Eliza?” she added, tripping round to Eliza's side of
the table, and shaking her warmly by the hand, and slipping a
seed-cake into Harry's hand. “I brought a little parcel of
these for him,” she said, tugging at her pocket to get out the
package. “Children, thee knows, will always be eating.”

“O, thank you; you are too kind,” said Eliza.

“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,” said Rachel.

“I could n't, any way. I left John with the baby, and
some biscuits in the oven; and I can't stay a moment, else
John will burn up all the biscuits, and give the baby all the
sugar in the bowl. That 's the way he does,” said the little
Quakeress, laughing. “So, good-by, Eliza; good-by, George;
the Lord grant thee a safe journey;” and, with a few tripping
steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.

A little while after supper, a large covered-wagon drew up
before the door; the night was clear starlight; and Phineas
jumped briskly down from his seat to arrange his passengers.
George walked out of the door, with his child on one arm and
his wife on the other. His step was firm, his face settled and
resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them.

“You get out, a moment,” said Phineas to those inside,
“and let me fix the back of the wagon, there, for the womenfolks
and the boy.”

“Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. “Make the
seats as comfortable as may be; it 's hard riding all night.”

Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old
mother, who clung to his arm, and looked anxiously about, as
if she expected the pursuer every moment.

“Jim, are your pistols all in order?” said George, in a
low, firm voice.

“Yes, indeed,” said Jim.

“And you 've no doubt what you shall do, if they come?”

“I rather think I have n't,” said Jim, throwing open his
broad chest, and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I 'll
let them get mother again?”

During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leave
of her kind friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage
by Simeon, and, creeping into the back part with her boy,
sat down among the buffalo-skins. The old woman was next
handed in and seated, and George and Jim placed on a rough
board seat front of them, and Phineas mounted in front.

“Farewell, my friends,” said Simeon, from without.

“God bless you!” answered all from within.

And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the
frozen road.

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the
roughness of the way and the noise of the wheels. The
vehicle, therefore, rumbled on, through long, dark stretches of
woodland, — over wide, dreary plains, — up hills, and down
valleys, — and on, on, on they jogged, hour after hour. The
child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother's lap.
The poor, frightened old woman at last forgot her fears; and,

even Eliza, as the night waned, found all her anxieties insufficient
to keep her eyes from closing. Phineas seemed, on the
whole, the briskest of the company, and beguiled his long
drive with whistling certain very unquaker-like songs, as he
went on.

But about three o'clock George's ear caught the hasty and
decided click of a horse's hoof coming behind them at some
distance, and jogged Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled
up his horses, and listened.

“That must be Michael,” he said; “I think I know the
sound of his gallop;” and he rose up and stretched his head
anxiously back over the road.

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the
top of a distant hill.

“There he is, I do believe!” said Phineas. George and
Jim both sprang out of the wagon, before they knew what they
were doing. All stood intensely silent, with their faces
turned towards the expected messenger. On he came. Now
he went down into a valley, where they could not see him;
but they heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and
nearer; at last they saw him emerge on the top of an
eminence, within hail.

“Yes, that 's Michael!” said Phineas; and, raising his
voice, “Halloa, there, Michael!”

“Phineas! is that thee?”

“Yes; what news — they coming?”

“Right on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy,
swearing and foaming like so many wolves.”

And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of
galloping horsemen towards them.

“In with you, — quick, boys, in!” said Phineas. “If you
must fight, wait till I get you a piece ahead.” And, with

the word, both jumped in, and Phineas lashed the horses to a
run, the horseman keeping close beside them. The wagon
rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the frozen ground; but
plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of pursuing horsemen
behind. The women heard it, and, looking anxiously
out, saw, far in the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party
of men looming up against the red-streaked sky of early
dawn. Another hill, and their pursuers had evidently caught
sight of their wagon, whose white cloth-covered top made it
conspicuous at some distance, and a loud yell of brutal
triumph came forward on the wind. Eliza sickened, and
strained her child closer to her bosom; the old woman prayed
and groaned, and George and Jim clenched their pistols with
the grasp of despair. The pursuers gained on them fast;
the carriage made a sudden turn, and brought them near a
ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that rose in an isolated
ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all around it, quite
clear and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose
up black and heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed
to promise shelter and concealment. It was a place well
known to Phineas, who had been familiar with the spot in his
hunting days; and it was to gain this point he had been racing
his horses.

“Now for it!” said he, suddenly checking his horses, and
springing from his seat to the ground. “Out with you, in a
twinkling, every one, and up into these rocks with me.
Michael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon, and drive ahead to
Amariah's, and get him and his boys to come back and talk
to these fellows.”

In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.

“There,” said Phineas, catching up Harry, “you, each

of you, see to the women; and run, now, if you ever did
run!”

There needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it,
the whole party were over the fence, making with all speed
for the rocks, while Michael, throwing himself from his horse,
and fastening the bridle to the wagon, began driving it rapidly
away.

“Come ahead,” said Phineas, as they reached the rocks,
and saw, in the mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a
rude but plainly marked foot-path leading up among them;
“this is one of our old hunting-dens. Come up!”

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat,
with the boy in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his
trembling old mother over his shoulder, and George and Eliza
brought up the rear. The party of horsemen came up to
the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were dismounting,
to prepare to follow them. A few moments' scrambling
brought them to the top of the ledge; the path then passed
between a narrow defile, where only one could walk at a time,
till suddenly they came to a rift or chasm more than a yard
in breadth, and beyond which lay a pile of rocks, separate
from the rest of the ledge, standing full thirty feet high, with
its sides steep and perpendicular as those of a castle. Phineas
easily leaped the chasm, and sat down the boy on a smooth,
flat platform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the
rock.

“Over with you!” he called; “spring, now, once, for
your lives!” said he, as one after another sprang across.
Several fragments of loose stone formed a kind of breast-work,
which sheltered their position from the observation of
those below.

“Well, here we all are,” said Phineas, peeping over the

stone breast-work to watch the assailants, who were coming
tumultuously up under the rocks. “Let 'em get us, if they
can. Whoever comes here has to walk single file between
those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys, d' ye
see?”

“I do see,” said George; “and now, as this matter is
ours, let us take all the risk, and do all the fighting.”

“Thee 's quite welcome to do the fighting, George,” said
Phineas, chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke;
“but I may have the fun of looking on, I suppose. But see,
these fellows are kinder debating down there, and looking up,
like hens when they are going to fly up on to the roost.
Had n't thee better give 'em a word of advice, before they
come up, just to tell 'em handsomely they 'll be shot if they
do?”

The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the
dawn, consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and
Marks, with two constables, and a posse consisting of such
rowdies at the last tavern as could be engaged by a little
brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of niggers.

“Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed,” said one.

“Yes, I see 'em go up right here,” said Tom; “and
here 's a path. I 'm for going right up. They can't jump
down in a hurry, and it won't take long to ferret 'em out.”

“But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks,”
said Marks. “That would be ugly, you know.”

“Ugh!” said Tom, with a sneer. “Always for saving
your skin, Marks! No danger! niggers are too plaguy
scared!”

“I don't know why I should n't save my skin,” said
Marks. “It 's the best I 've got; and niggers do fight like
the devil, sometimes.”

At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock
above them, and, speaking in a calm, clear voice, said,

“Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you
want?”

“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker.
“One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and
Jim Selden, and an old woman. We 've got the officers, here,
and a warrant to take 'em; and we 're going to have 'em, too.
D'ye hear? An't you George Harris, that belongs to Mr.
Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?”

“I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did
call me his property. But now I 'm a free man, standing on
God's free soil; and my wife and my child I claim as mine.
Jim and his mother are here. We have arms to defend ourselves,
and we mean to do it. You can come up, if you like;
but the first one of you that comes within the range of our
bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next; and so on
till the last.”

“O, come! come!” said a short, puffy man, stepping
forward, and blowing his nose as he did so. “Young man,
this an't no kind of talk at all for you. You see, we 're
officers of justice. We 've got the law on our side, and the
power, and so forth; so you 'd better give up peaceably, you
see; for you 'll certainly have to give up, at last.”

“I know very well that you 've got the law on your side,
and the power,” said George, bitterly. “You mean to take
my wife to sell in New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf
in a trader's pen, and send Jim's old mother to the brute that
whipped and abused her before, because he could n't abuse
her son. You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped
and tortured, and ground down under the heels of them that
you call masters; and your laws will bear you out in it, —

more shame for you and them! But you have n't got us.
We don't own your laws; we don't own your country; we
stand here as free, under God's sky, as you are; and, by the
great God that made us, we 'll fight for our liberty till we
die.”

George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as he
made his declaration of independence; the glow of dawn
gave a flush to his swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation and
despair gave fire to his dark eye; and, as if appealing from
man to the justice of God, he raised his hand to heaven as he
spoke.

If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely
defending in some mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives
escaping from Austria into America, this would have
been sublime heroism; but as it was a youth of African
descent, defending the retreat of fugitives through America
into Canada, of course we are too well instructed and patriotic
to see any heroism in it; and if any of our readers do, they
must do it on their own private responsibility. When despairing
Hungarian fugitives make their way, against all the
search-warrants and authorities of their lawful government,
to America, press and political cabinet ring with applause and
welcome. When despairing African fugitives do the same
thing, — it is — what is it?

Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice,
manner, of the speaker, for a moment struck the party below
to silence. There is something in boldness and determination
that for a time hushes even the rudest nature. Marks was
the only one who remained wholly untouched. He was
deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence
that followed George's speech, he fired at him.

“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE FREEMAN'S DEFENCE. Page 284.

[Description: 709EAF. Illustration page. Illustration of several men, two women, and a small child behind a large boulder; the men have pistols pointed at two men who are coming around a bend.]

Kentucky,” he said, coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve.

George sprang backward, — Eliza uttered a shriek, — the
ball had passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek
of his wife, and struck in the tree above.

“It 's nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly.

“Thee 'd better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying,”
said Phineas; “they 're mean scamps.”

“Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are all
right, and watch that pass with me. The first man that shows
himself I fire at; you take the second, and so on. It won't
do, you know, to waste two shots on one.”

“But what if you don't hit?”

“I shall hit,” said George, coolly.

“Good! now, there 's stuff in that fellow,” muttered
Phineas, between his teeth.

The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a
moment, rather undecided.

“I think you must have hit some on 'em,” said one of the
men. “I heard a squeal!”

“I 'm going right up for one,” said Tom. “I never was
afraid of niggers, and I an't going to be now. Who goes
after?” he said, springing up the rocks.

George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol,
examined it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where
the first man would appear.

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom,
and, the way being thus made, the whole party began pushing
up the rock, — the hindermost pushing the front ones faster
than they would have gone of themselves. On they came,
and in a moment the burly form of Tom appeared in sight,
almost at the verge of the chasm.

George fired, — the shot entered his side, — but, though
wounded, he would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a
mad bull, he was leaping right across the chasm into the
party.

“Friend,” said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front,
and meeting him with a push from his long arms, “thee is n't
wanted here.”

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees,
bushes, logs, loose stones, till he lay, bruised and groaning
thirty feet below. The fall might have killed him, had it not
been broken and moderated by his clothes catching in the
branches of a large tree; but he came down with some force,
however, — more than was at all agreeable or convenient.

“Lord help us, they are perfect devils!” said Marks,
heading the retreat down the rocks with much more of a will
than he had joined the ascent, while all the party came tumbling
precipitately after him, — the fat constable, in particular,
blowing and puffing in a very energetic manner.

“I say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick
up Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse, to go back
for help, — that's you;” and, without minding the hootings
and jeers of his company, Marks was as good as his word,
and was soon seen galloping away.

“Was ever such a sneaking varmint?” said one of the
men; “to come on his business, and he clear out and leave
us this yer way!”

“Well, we must pick up that feller,” said another. “Cuss
me if I much care whether he is dead or alive.”

The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled
through stumps, logs and bushes, to where that hero lay
groaning and swearing, with alternate vehemence.

“Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. “Ye
much hurt?”

“Don't know. Get me up, can't ye? Blast that infernal
Quaker! If it had n't been for him, I 'd a pitched some on
'em down here, to see how they liked it.”

With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted
to rise; and, with one holding him up under each shoulder,
they got him as far as the horses.

“If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern.
Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place,
and stop this infernal bleeding.”

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift
the burly form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three
ineffectual attempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.

“O, I hope he is n't killed!” said Eliza, who, with all the
party, stood watching the proceeding.

“Why not?” said Phineas; “serves him right.”

“Because, after death comes the judgment,” said Eliza.

“Yes,” said the old woman, who had been groaning and
praying, in her Methodist fashion, during all the encounter,
“it 's an awful case for the poor crittur's soul.”

“On my word, they 're leaving him, I do believe,” said
Phineas.

It was true; for after some appearance of irresolution and
consultation, the whole party got on their horses and rode
away. When they were quite out of sight, Phineas began to
bestir himself.

“Well, we must go down and walk a piece,” he said. “I
told Michael to go forward and bring help, and be along back
here with the wagon; but we shall have to walk a piece along
the road, I reckon, to meet them. The Lord grant he be
along soon! It 's early in the day; there won't be much

travel afoot yet a while; we an't much more than two miles
from our stopping-place. If the road had n't been so rough
last night, we could have outrun 'em entirely.”

As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the distance,
along the road, their own wagon coming back, accompanied
by some men on horseback.

“Well, now, there 's Michael, and Stephen, and Amariah,”
exclaimed Phineas, joyfully. “Now we are made, — as safe
as if we 'd got there.”

“Well, do stop, then,” said Eliza, “and do something for
that poor man; he 's groaning dreadfully.”

“It would be no more than Christian,” said George; “let 's
take him up and carry him on.”

“And doctor him up among the Quakers!” said Phineas;
“pretty well, that! Well, I don't care if we do. Here, let 's
have a look at him;” and Phineas, who, in the course of his
hunting and backwoods life, had acquired some rude experience
of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded man, and
began a careful examination of his condition.

“Marks,” said Tom, feebly, “is that you, Marks?”

“No; I reckon 't an't, friend,” said Phineas. “Much
Marks cares for thee, if his own skin 's safe. He 's off, long
ago.”

“I believe I 'm done for,” said Tom. “The cussed
sneaking dog, to leave me to die alone! My poor old mother
always told me 't would be so.”

“La sakes! jist hear the poor crittur. He 's got a
mammy, now,” said the old negress. “I can 't help kinder
pityin' on him.”

“Softly, softly; don't thee snap and snarl, friend,” said
Phineas, as Tom winced and pushed his hand away. “Thee
has no chance, unless I stop the bleeding.” And Phineas

busied himself with making some off-hand surgical arrangements
with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as could be
mustered in the company.

“You pushed me down there,” said Tom, faintly.

“Well, if I had n't, thee would have pushed us down, thee
sees,” said Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage.
“There, there, — let me fix this bandage. We mean well to
thee; we bear no malice. Thee shall be taken to a house
where they 'll nurse thee first rate, — as well as thy own
mother could.”

Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class,
vigor and resolution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze
out with the flowing of the blood; and the gigantic fellow
really looked piteous in his helplessness.

The other party now came up. The seats were taken out
of the wagon. The buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were
spread all along one side, and four men, with great difficulty,
lifted the heavy form of Tom into it. Before he was
gotten in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, in the abundance
of her compassion, sat down on the bottom, and took
his head in her lap. Eliza, George and Jim, bestowed themselves,
as well as they could, in the remaining space, and the
whole party set forward.

“What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by
Phineas in front.

“Well, it 's only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then,
tumbling and scratching down that place did n't help him
much. It has bled pretty freely, — pretty much dreaned
him out, courage and all, — but he 'll get over it, and may be
learn a thing or two by it.”

“I 'm glad to hear you say so,” said George. “It would

always be a heavy thought to me, if I 'd caused his death,
even in a just cause.”

“Yes,” said Phineas, “killing is an ugly operation, any way
they 'll fix it, — man or beast. I 've been a great hunter, in
my day, and I tell thee I 've seen a buck that was shot
down, and a dying, look that way on a feller with his eye, that
it reely most made a feller feel wicked for killing on him; and
human creatures is a more serious consideration yet, bein', as
thy wife says, that the judgment comes to 'em after death.
So I don't know as our people's notions on these matters is
too strict; and, considerin' how I was raised, I fell in with
them pretty considerably.”

“What shall you do with this poor fellow?” said George.

“O, carry him along to Amariah's. There's old Grándmam
Stephens there, — Dorcas, they call her, — she 's most an
amazin' nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and an't
never better suited than when she gets a sick body to tend.
We may reckon on turning him over to her for a fortnight or
so.”

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat
farm-house, where the weary travellers were received to an
abundant breakfast. Tom Loker was soon carefully deposited
in a much cleaner and softer bed than he had ever been in
the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully dressed
and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and shutting his
eyes on the white window-curtains and gently-gliding figures
of his sick room, like a weary child. And here, for the
present, we shall take our leave of one party.