Chapter Thirty Three
The Runaway
Man rarely yields up his life without an extreme effort to preserve it. Despair is a strong feeling, but there are those whose spirit it cannot prostrate. In later life mine own would not have given way to such circumstances as surrounded me at that time; but I was then young, and little experienced in peril.
The paralysis of my thoughts did not continue long. My senses returned again; and I resolved to make a new effort for the salvation of my life.
I had conceived no plan, further than to endeavour once more to escape out of the labyrinth of woods and morass in which I had become entangled, and make as before for the village. I thought I knew the direction in which it lay, by observing the side at which I had first entered the glade. But, after all, there was no certainty in this. It was mere conjecture. I had entered the glade with negligent steps. I had strayed all around it before lying down to sleep. Perhaps I had gone around its sides before entering it – for I had been wandering all the morning.
While these reflections were passing rapidly through my mind, and despair once more taking possession of my spirits, I all at once remembered having heard that tobacco is a powerful antidote to snake-poison. Strange the idea had not occurred to me before. But, indeed, there was nothing wonderful that it did not, as up to that moment I had only thought of making my way to Bringiers. With no reliance upon my own knowledge, I had thought only of a doctor. It was only when I became apprehensive of not being able to get to him, that I began to think of what resources lay within my reach. I now remembered the tobacco.
Quick as the thought my cigar-case was in my fingers. To my joy one cigar still remained, and drawing it out I proceeded to macerate the tobacco by chewing. This I had heard was the mode of applying it to the snakebite.
Dry as was my mouth at first, the bitter weed soon supplied me with saliva, and in a few moments I had reduced the leaves to a pulp, though nauseated – almost poisoned by the powerful nicotine.
I laid the moistened mass upon my wrist, and at the same time rubbed it forcibly into the wound. I now perceived that my arm was sensibly swollen – even up to the elbow – and a singular pain began to be felt throughout its whole length! O God! the poison was spreading, surely and rapidly spreading! I fancied I could feel it like liquid fire crawling and filtering through my veins!
Though I had made application of the nicotine, I had but little faith in it. I had only heard it casually talked of as a remedy. It might, thought I, be one of the thousand fancies that people love to indulge in; and I had only used it as a “forlorn hope.”
I bound the mass to my wrist – a torn sleeve serving for lint; and then, turning my face in the direction I intended to take, I started off afresh.
I had scarce made three strides when my steps were suddenly arrested. I stopped on observing a man on the edge of the glade, and directly in front of me.
He had just come out of the underwood, towards which I was advancing, and, on perceiving me, had suddenly halted – perhaps surprised at the sight of one of his own kind in such a wild place.
I hailed his appearance with a shout of joy. “A guide! – a deliverer!” thought I.
What was my astonishment – my chagrin – my indignation – when the man suddenly turned his back upon me; and, plunging into the bushes, disappeared from my sight!
I was astounded at this strange conduct. I had just caught a glimpse of the man’s face as he turned away. I had seen that he was a negro, and I had noticed that he appeared to be frightened. But what was there about me to terrify him?
I called out to him to stop – to come back. I shouted in tones of entreaty – of command – of menace. In vain. He made neither stop nor stay. I heard the branches crackle as he broke through the thicket – each moment the noise appearing more distant.
It was my only chance for a guide. I must not lose it; and, bracing myself for a run, I started after him.
If I possess any physical accomplishment in which I have confidence it is my fleetness of foot. At that time an Indian runner could not have escaped me, much less a clumsy, long-heeled negro. I knew that if I could once more got my eyes upon the black, I would soon overhaul him; but therein lay the difficulty. In my hesitation I had given him a long start; and he was now out of sight in the depth of the thicket.
But I could hear him breaking through the bushes like a hog; and, guiding myself by the sound, I kept up the pursuit.
I was already somewhat jaded by my previous exertions; but the conviction that my life depended on overtaking the negro kindled my energies afresh, and I ran like a greyhound. Unfortunately it was not a question of simple speed, else the chase would soon have been brought to an end. It was in getting through the bushes, and dodging round the trunks of the trees, that the hindrance lay; and I had many a struggle among the branches, and many a zigzag turn to make, before I could get my eyes upon the object I was in pursuit of.
However, I at length succeeded in doing so. The underwood came to an end. The misshapen cypress trunks alone stood up out of the miry, black soil; and far off, down one of their dark aisles, I caught sight of the negro, still running at the top of his speed. Fortunately his garments were light-coloured, else under the sombre shadow I could not have made him out. As it was, I had only a glimpse of him, and at a good distance off.
But I had cleared the thicket, and could run freely. Swiftness had now everything to do with the race; and in less than five minutes after I was close upon the heels of the black, and calling to him to halt.
“Stop!” I shouted. “For God’s sake, stop!”
No notice was taken of my appeals. The negro did not even turn his head, but ran on, floundering through the mud.
“Stop!” I repeated, as loudly as my exhausted breath would permit. “Stop, man! why do you run from me? I mean you no harm.”
Neither did this speech produce any effect. No reply was given. If anything, I fancied that he increased his speed; or rather, perhaps, he had got through the quagmire, and was running upon firm ground while I was just entering upon the former.
I fancied that the distance between us was again widening; and began to fear he might still elude me. I felt that my life was on the result. Without him to guide me from the forest, I would miserably perish. He must guide me. Willing or unwilling, I should force him to the office.
“Stop,” I again cried out; “halt, or I fire!”
I had raised my gun. Both barrels were loaded. I had spoken in all seriousness. I should in reality have fired – not to kill, but to detain him. The shot might injure him, but I could not help it. I had no choice – no other means of saving my own life.
I repeated the awful summons: —
“Stop – or I fire!”
This time my tone was earnest. It left no doubt of my intention; and this seemed to be the impression it produced upon the black; for, suddenly halting in his tracks, he wheeled about, and stood facing me.
“Fire! and be dam!” cried he; “have a care, white man – don’t you miss. By Gor-amighty! if ya do, your life’s mine. See dis knife! fire now and be dam!”
As he spoke he stood full fronting me, his broad chest thrown out as if courageously to receive the shot, and in his uplifted hand I saw the shining blade of a knife!
A few steps brought me close up; and in the man that stood before me I recognised the form, and ferocious aspect of Gabriel the Bambarra!
Chapter Thirty Four
Gabriel the Bambarra
The huge stature of the black – his determined attitude – the sullen glare of his lurid bloodshot eyes, set in a look of desperate resolve – the white gleaming file-pointed teeth – rendered him a terrible object to behold. Under other circumstances I might have dreaded an encounter with such a hideous-looking adversary – for an adversary I deemed him. I remembered the flogging I had given him with my whip, and I had no doubt that he remembered it too. I had no doubt that he was now upon his errand of revenge instigated partly by the insult I had put upon him, and partly set on by his cowardly master. He had been dogging me through the forest – all the day, perhaps – waiting for an opportunity to execute his purpose.
But why had he run away from me? Was it because he feared to attack me openly. Certainly it was – he feared my double-barrelled gun!
But I had been asleep. He might have approached me then – he might have – Ha!
This ejaculation escaped my lips, as a singular thought flashed into my mind. The Bambarra was a “snake-charmer” – I had heard so – could handle the most venomous serpents at rail – could guide and direct them! Was it not he who had guided the crotalus to where I lay – who had caused me to be bitten?
Strange as it may appear, this supposition at that moment crossed my mind, and seemed probable; nay, more – I actually believed it. I remembered that I had been struck with a peculiarity about the reptile – its weird look – the superior cunning exhibited in its mode of escape – and not less peculiar the fact of its having stung me unprovoked – a rare thing for the rattlesnake to do! All these points rushing simultaneously into my mind, produced the conviction that for the fatal wound on my wrist I was indebted, not to chance, but to Gabriel the snake-charmer!
Not half the time I have been telling you of it – not the tenth nor the hundredth part of the time, was I in forming this horrid conviction. It was done with the rapidity of thought – the more rapid that every circumstance guiding to such a conclusion was fresh in my memory. In fact the black had not changed his attitude of menace, nor I mine of surprise at recognising him, until all these thoughts had passed through my mind!
Almost with equal rapidity was I disabused of the singular delusion. In another minute I became aware that my suspicions were unjust. I had been wronging the man who stood before me.
All at once his attitude changed. His uplifted arm fell by his side; the expression of fierce menace disappeared; and in as mild a tone as his rough voice was capable of giving utterance to, he said —
“Oh! you mass’ – brack man’s friend! Dam! thought ’twar da cussed Yankee driber!”
“And was that why you ran from me?”
“Ye, mass’; ob course it war.”
“Then you are – ”
“Am runaway; ye, mass’, jes so – runaway. Don’t mind tell you. Gabr’el truss you – He know you am poor nigga’s friend. Look-ee-dar.”
As he uttered this last phrase, he pulled off the scanty copper-coloured rag of a shirt that covered his shoulders, and bared his back before my eyes!
A horrid sight it was. Besides the fleur-de-lis and many other old brands, there were sears of more recent date. Long wales, purple-red and swollen, traversed the brown skin in every direction, forming perfect network. Here they were traceable by the darker colour of the extravasatod blood, while there the flesh itself lay bare, where it had been exposed to some prominent fold of the spirally-twisted cowskin. The old shirt itself was stained with black blotches that had once been red – the blood that had oozed out during the infliction! The sight sickened me, and called forth the involuntary utterance —
“Poor fellow!”
This expression of sympathy evidently touched the rude heart of the Bambarra.
“Ah, mass’!” he continued, “you flog me with hoss-whip – dat nuff’n! Gabr’l bress you for dat. He pump water on ole Zip ’gainst him will– glad when young mass’ druv im way from de pump.”
“Ha! you were forced to it, then?”
“Ye, mass’, forced by da Yankee driber. Try make me do so odder time. I ’fuse punish Zip odder time – dat’s why you see dis yeer – dam!”
“You were flogged for refusing to punish Scipio?”
“Jes so, mass’ Edwad; ’bused, as you see; but – ” here the speaker hesitated, while his face resumed its fierce expression; “but,” continued he, “I’se had rebenge on de Yankee – dam!”
“What? – revenge? What have you done to him?”
“Oh, not much, mass’. Knock im down; he drop like a beef to de axe. Dat’s some rebenge to poor nigga. Beside, I’se a runaway, an’ dat’s rebenge! Ha! ha! Dey lose good nigga – good hand in de cotton-feel – good hand among de cane. Ha! ha!”
The hoarse laugh with which the “runaway” expressed his satisfaction sounded strangely on my ear.
“And you have run away from the plantation?”
“Jes so, mass’ Edward – nebber go back.” After a pause, he added, with increased emphasis, “Nebber go back ’live!”
As he uttered these words he raised his hand to his broad chest, at the same time throwing his body into an attitude of earnest determination.
I saw at once that I had mistaken the character of this man. I had had it from his enemies, the whites, who feared him. With all the ferocity of expression that characterised his features, there was evidently something noble in his heart. He had been flogged for refusing to flog a fellow-slave. He had resented the punishment, and struck down his brutal oppressor. By so doing he had risked a far more terrible punishment – even life itself!
It required courage to do all this. A spirit of liberty alone could have inspired him with that courage – the same spirit which impelled the Swiss patriot to strike down the cap of Gessler.
As the negro stood with his thick muscular fingers spread over his brawny chest, with form erect, with head thrown back, and eyes fixed in stern resolve, I was impressed with an air of grandeur about him, and could not help thinking that in the black form before me, scantily clad in coarse cotton, there was the soul and spirit of a man!
Chapter Thirty Five
The Snake-Doctor
With admiring eyes I looked for some moments on this bold black man – this slave-hero. I might have gazed longer, but the burning sensation in my arm reminded me of my perilous situation.
“You will guide me to Bringiers?” was my hurried interrogatory.
“Daren’t, mass’.”
“Daren’t! Why?”
“Mass’ forgot I’se a runaway. White folk cotch Gabr’l – cut off him arm.”
“What? Cut off your arm?”
“Saten sure, mass’ – dats da law of Loozyaney. White man strike nigga, folk laugh, folk cry out, ‘Lap de dam nigga! lap him!’ Nigga strike white man, cut off nigga’s arm. Like berry much to ’bleege mass’ Edwad, but daren’t go to de clearins. White men after Gabr’l last two days. Cuss’d blood-dogs and nigga-hunters out on im track. Thought young mass’ war one o’ dem folks; dat’s why um run.”
“If you do not guide me, then I must die.”
“Die! – die! why for mass’ say dat?”
“Because I am lost. I cannot find my way out of the forest. If I do not reach the doctor in less than twenty minutes, there is no hope. O God!”
“Doctor! – mass’ Edwad sick? What ail um? Tell Gabr’l. If dat’s da case, him guide de brack man’s friend at risk ob life. What young mass’ ail?”
“See! I have been bitten by a rattlesnake.”
I bared my arm, and showed the wound and the swelling.
“Ho! dat indeed! sure ’nuff – it are da bite ob de rattlesnake. Doctor no good for dat. Tobacc’-juice no good. Gabr’l best doctor for de rattlesnake. Come ’long, young mass’!”
“What! you are going to guide me, then?”
“I’se a gwine to cure you, mass’.”
“You?”
“Ye, mass’! tell you doctor no good – know nuffin’ ’t all ’bout it – he kill you – truss Ole Gabe – he cure you. Come ’long, mass’, no time t’ be loss.”
I had for the moment forgotten the peculiar reputation which the black enjoyed – that of a snake-charmer and snake-doctor as well, although I had so late been thinking of it. The remembrance of this fact now returned, accompanied by a very different train of reflections.
“No doubt,” thought I, “he possesses the requisite knowledge – knows the antidote, and how to apply it. No doubt he is the very man. The doctor, as he says, may not understand how to treat me.”
I had no very great confidence that the doctor could cure me. I was only running to him as a sort of dernier ressort.
“This Gabriel – this snake-charmer, is the very man. How fortunate I should have met with him!”
After a moment’s hesitation – during the time these reflections were passing through my mind – I called out to the black —
“Lead on! I follow you!”
Whither did he intend to guide me? What was he going to do? Where was he to find an antidote? How was he to cure me?
To these questions, hurriedly put, I received no reply.
“You truss me, mass’ Edward; you foller me!” were all the words the black would utter as he strode off among the trees.
I had no choice but to follow him.
After proceeding several hundred yards through the cypress swamp, I saw some spots of sky in front of us. This indicated an opening in the woods, and for that I saw my guide was heading. I was not surprised on reaching this opening to find that it was the glade – again the fatal glade!
To my eyes how changed its aspect! I could not bear the bright sun that gleamed into it. The sheen of its flowers wearied my sight – their perfume made me sick!
Maybe I only fancied this. I was sick, but from a very different cause. The poison was mingling with my blood. It was setting my veins on fire. I was tortured by a choking sensation of thirst, and already felt that spasmodic compression of the chest, and difficulty of breathing – the well-known symptoms experienced by the victims of snake-poison.
It may be that I only fancied most of this. I knew that a venomous serpent had bitten me; and that knowledge may have excited my imagination to an extreme susceptibility. Whether the symptoms did in reality exist, I suffered them all the same. My fancy had all the painfulness of reality!
My companion directed me to be seated. Moving about, he said, was not good. He desired me to be calm and patient, once more begging me to “truss Gabr’l.”
I resolved to be quiet, though patient I could not be. My peril was too great.
Physically I obeyed him. I sat down upon a log – that same log of the liriodendron – and under the shade of a spreading dogwood-tree. With all the patience I could command, I sat awaiting the orders of the snake-doctor. He had gone off a little way, and was now wandering around the glade with eyes bent upon the ground. He appeared to be searching for something.
“Some plant,” thought I, “he expects to find growing there.”
I watched his movements with more than ordinary interest. I need hardly have said this. It would have been sufficient to say that I felt my life depended on the result of his search. His success or his failure were life or death to me.
How my heart leaped when I saw him bend forward, and then stoop still lower, as if clutching something upon the ground! An exclamation of joy that escaped his lips was echoed in a louder key from my own; and, forgetting his directions to remain quiet, I sprang up from the log, and ran towards him.
As I approached he was upon his knees, and with his knife-blade was digging around a plant, as if to raise it by the roots. It was a small herbaceous plant, with erect simple stem, oblong lanceolate leaves, and a terminal spike of not very conspicuous white flowers. Though I knew it not then, it was the famed “snake-root” (Polygala senega).
In a few moments he had removed the earth, and then, drawing out the plant, shook its roots free of the mould. I noticed that a mass of woody contorted rhizomes, somewhat thicker than those of the sarsaparilla briar, adhered to the stem. They were covered with ash-coloured bark, and quite inodorous. Amid the fibres of these roots lay the antidote to the snake-poison – in their sap was the saviour of my rife!
Not a moment was lost in preparing them. There were no hieroglyphics nor Latinic phraseology employed in the prescription of the snake-charmer. It was comprised in the phrase, “Chaw it!” and, along with this simple direction, a piece of the root scraped clear of the bark was put into my hand. I did as I was desired, and in a moment I had reduced the root to a pulp, and was swallowing its sanitary juices.
The taste was at first rather sweetish, and engendered a slight feeling of nausea; but, as I continued to chew, it became hot and pungent, producing a peculiar tingling sensation in the fauces and throat.
The black now ran to the nearest brook, filled one of his “brogans” with water, and, returning, washed my wrist until the tobacco juice was all removed from the wound. Having himself chewed a number of the leaves of the plant into a pulpy mass, he placed it directly upon the bitten part, and then bound up the wound as before.
Everything was now done that could be done. I was instructed to abide the result patiently and without fear.
In a very short time a profuse perspiration broke out over my whole body, and I began to expectorate freely. I felt, moreover, a strong inclination to vomit – which I should have done had I swallowed any more of the juice, for, taken in large doses, the seneca root is a powerful emetic.
But of the feelings I experienced at that moment, the most agreeable was the belief that I was cured!
Strange to say, this belief almost at once impressed my mind with the force of a conviction. I no longer doubted the skill of the snake-doctor.