Chapter Thirty Nine
The Tree-Cavern
The interior was dark, and it was some time before I could distinguish any object. Presently my eyes became accustomed to the sombre light, and I was enabled to trace the outlines of this singular tree-cavern.
Its dimensions somewhat astonished me. A dozen men could have been accommodated in it, and there was ample room for that number either sitting or standing. In fact, the whole pyramidal mass which supported the tree was nothing more than a thin shell, all the heart having perished by decay. The floor, by the falling of this débris of rotten wood, was raised above the level of the water, and felt firm and dry underfoot. Near its centre I could perceive the ashes and half-burnt embers of an extinct fire; and along one side was strewed a thick covering of dry tillandsia, that had evidently been used as a bed. An old blanket lying upon the moss gave further testimony that this was its purpose.
There was no furniture. A rude block, – a cypress knee that had been carried there – formed, the only substitute for a chair, and there was nothing to serve for a table. He who had made this singular cave his residence required no luxuries to sustain him. Necessaries, however, he had provided. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the light, I could make out a number of objects I had not at first seen. An earthen cooking-pot, a large water gourd, a tin cup, an old axe, some fishing-tackle, and one or two coarse rags of clothing. What interested me more than all these was the sight of several articles that were eatable. There was a good-sized “chunk” of cooked pork, a gigantic “pone” of corn-bread, several boiled ears of maize, and the better half of a roast fowl. All these lay together upon a large wooden dish, rudely carved from the wood of the tulip-tree – of such a fashion as I had often observed about the cabins of the negro quarter. Beside this dish lay several immense egg-shaped bodies of dark-green colour, with other smaller ones of a yellow hue. These were water and musk melons, – not a bad prospect for a dessert.
I had made this reconnoissance while my companion was engaged in fastening his pirogue to the tree. I had finished my survey as he entered.
“Now, mass’,” said he, “dis am ole Gabe’s nest; de dam man-hunter no found ’im yeer.”
“Why, you are quite at home here, Gabriel! How did you ever find such a place?”
“Lor’, mass’, knowd it long time. He not de fust darkie who hid in dis old cypress, – nor de fust time for Gabr’l neider. He runaway afore, – dat war when he libbed with Mass’ Hicks, ’fore ole mass’ bought him. He nebber had ’casion to run away from old Mass ’Sançon. He good to de brack folks, and so war Mass Antoine – he good too, but now de poor nigga can’t stan no longer; de new oberseer, he flog hard, – he flog till do blood come, – he use de cobbin board, an dat pump, an de red cowhide, an de wagon whip, – ebberything he use, – dam! I nebber go back, – nebber!”
“But how do you intend to live? you can’t always exist in this way. Where will you get your provisions?”
“Nebber fear, mass’ Edwad, always get nuff to eat; no fear for dat. Da poor runaway hab some friend on de plantations. Beside he steal nuff to keep ’im ’live – hya! hya!”
“Oh!”
“Gabr’l no need steal now, ’ceptin’ de roasting yeers and de millyuns. See! what Zip fetch im! Zip come las night to de edge ob de woods an’ fetch all dat plunder. But, mass’, you ’skoose me. Forgot you am hungry. Hab some pork some chicken. Chloe cook ’em – is good – you eat.”
So saying he set the wooden platter with its contents before me; and the conversation was now interrupted, as both myself and my companion attacked the viands with right good-will.
The “millyuns” constituted a delicious dessert, and for a full half-hour we continued to fight against the appetite of hunger. We conquered it at length, but not until the store of the runaway had been greatly reduced in bulk.
After dinner we sat conversing for a long time. We were not without the soothing nicotian weed. My companion had several bunches of dry tobacco-leaf among his stores; and a corn-cob with a piece of cane-joint served for a pipe, through which the smoke was inhaled with all the aromatic fragrance of the costliest Havanna.
Partly from gratitude for the saving of my life, I had grown to feel a strong interest in the runaway, and his future prospects became the subject of our converse. He had formed no plan of escape – though some thoughts of an attempt to reach Canada or Mexico, or to get off in a ship by New Orleans, had passed through his mind.
A plan occurred to me, though I did not communicate it to him, as I might never be able to carry it out. I begged of him, however, not to leave his present abode until I could see him again, promising that I should do what I could to find him a kinder master.
He readily agreed to my proposal; and as it was now sunset, I made preparations for my departure from the lake.
A signal was agreed upon, so that when I should return to visit him, he could bring the pirogue to ferry me across; and this being arranged, we once more entered the canoe, and set out for the plantations.
We soon recrossed the lake; and, leaving the little boat safely moored by the fallen tree, started off through the woods. The path, with Gabriel for my guide, was now easy; and at intervals, as we went along, he directed my attention to certain blazes upon the trees, and other marks by which I should know it again.
In less than an hour after, we parted on the edge of the clearings – he going to some rendezvous already appointed – whilst I kept on to the village, the road to which now ran between parallel fences that rendered it impossible for me to go astray.
Chapter Forty
Hotel Gossip
It was yet early when I entered the village. I glided stealthily through the streets, desirous to avoid observation. Unfortunately I had to pass through the bar of the hotel in order to reach my room. It was just before the hour of supper, and the guests had assembled in the bar saloon and around the porch.
My tattered habiliments, in places stained with blood, and profusely soiled with mud, could not escape notice; nor did they. Men turned and gazed after me. Loiterers looked with eyes that expressed their astonishment. Some in the portico, and others in the bar, hailed me as I passed, asking me where I had been to. One cried out: “Hillow, mister! you’ve had a tussle with the cats: hain’t you?”
I did not make reply. I pushed on up-stairs, and found relief in the privacy of my chamber.
I had been badly torn by the bushes. My wounds needed dressing. I despatched a messenger for Reigart. Fortunately he was at home, and in a few minutes followed my messenger to the hotel. He entered my room, and stood staring at me with a look of surprise.
“My dear R – , where have you been?” he inquired at length.
“To the swamp.”
“And those wounds – your clothes torn – blood?”
“Thorn-scratches – that’s all.”
“But where have you been?”
“In the swamp.”
“In the swamp! but how came you to get such a mauling?”
“I have been bitten by a rattlesnake.”
“What! bitten by a rattlesnake? Do you speak seriously?”
“Quite true it is – but I have taken the antidote. I am cured.”
“Antidote! Cured! And what cure? who gave you an antidote?”
“A friend whom I met in the swamp!”
“A friend in the swamp!” exclaimed Reigart, his astonishment increasing.
I had almost forgotten the necessity of keeping my secret. I saw that I had spoken imprudently. Inquisitive eyes were peeping in at the door. Ears were listening to catch every sound.
Although the inhabitant of the Mississippi is by no means of a curious disposition —malgré the statements of gossiping tourists – the unexplained and forlorn appearance I presented on my return was enough to excite a degree of interest even among the most apathetic people; and a number of the guests of the hotel had gathered in the lobby around the door of my chamber, and were eagerly asking each other what had happened to me. I could overhear their conversation, though they did not know it.
“He’s been fightin’ a painter?” said one, interrogatively.
“A painter or a bar,” answered another.
“’Twur some desprit varmint anyhow – it hez left its mark on him, – that it hez.”
“It’s the same fellow that laid out Bully Bill: ain’t it?”
“The same,” replied some one.
“English, ain’t he?”
“Don’t know. He’s a Britisher, I believe. English, Irish, or Scotch, he’s a hull team an’ a cross dog under the wagon. By God! he laid out Bully Bill straight as a fence-rail, wi’ nothin’ but a bit o’ a whup, and then tuk Bill’s pistols away from him! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Jehosophat!”
“He’s jest a feller to whip his weight in wild-cats. He’s killed the catamount, I reckon.”
“No doubt he’s done that.”
I had supposed that my encounter with Bully Bill had made me enemies among his class. It was evident from the tone and tenor of their conversation that such was not the case. Though, perhaps, a little piqued that a stranger – a mere youth as I then was – should have conquered one of their bullies, these backwoodsmen are not intensely clannish, and Bully Bill was no favourite. Had I “whipped” him on any other grounds, I should have gained a positive popularity by the act. But in defence of a slave – and I a foreigner – a Britisher, too – that was a presumption not to be pardoned. That was the drawback on my victory, and henceforth I was likely to be a “marked man” in the neighbourhood.
These observations had served to amuse me while I was awaiting the arrival of Reigart, though, up to a certain point, I took but little interest in them. A remark that now reached my ears, however, suddenly changed the nature of my thoughts. It was this: —
“He’s after Miss Besançon, they say.”
I was now interested. I stepped to the door, and, placing my ear close to the keyhole, listened.
“I guess he’s arter the plantation,” said another; and the remark was followed by a significant laugh.
“Well, then,” rejoined a voice, in a more solemn and emphatic tone, “he’s after what he won’t get.”
“How? how?” demanded several.
“He may get thee lady, preehaps,” continued the same voice, in the same measured tones; “but not thee plantation.”
“How? What do you mean, Mr Moxley?” again demanded the chorus of voices.
“I mean what I say, gentlemen,” replied the solemn speaker; and then repeated again his former words in a like measured drawl. “He may get the lady, preehaps, but not thee plantation.”
“Oh! the report’s true, then?” said another voice, interrogatively. “Insolvent? Eh? Old Gayarre – ”
“Owns thee plantation.”
“And niggers?”
“Every skin o’ them; the sheriff will take possession to-morrow.”
A murmur of astonishment reached my ears. It was mingled with expressions of disapprobation or sympathy.
“Poor girl! it’s a pity o’ her!”
“Well, it’s no wonder. She made the money fly since the old ’un died.”
“Some say he didn’t leave so much after all. ’Twar most part mortgaged before – ”
The entrance of the doctor interrupted this conversation, and relieved me for the moment from the torture which it was inflicting upon me.
“A friend in the swamp, did you say?” again interrogated Reigart.
I had hesitated to reply, thinking of the crowd by the door. I said to the doctor in a low earnest voice —
“My dear friend, I have met with an adventure; am badly scratched, as you see. Dress my wounds, but do not press me for details. I have my reasons for being silent. You will one day learn all, but not now. Therefore – ”
“Enough, enough!” said the doctor, interrupting me; “do not be uneasy. Let me look at your scratches.”
The good doctor became silent, and proceeded to the dressing of my wounds.
Under other circumstances the manipulation of my wounds, for they now felt painful, might have caused me annoyance. It did not then. What I had just heard had produced a feeling within that neutralised the external pain, and I felt it not.
I was really in mental agony.
I burned with impatience to question Reigart about the affairs of the plantation, – about Eugénie and Aurore. I could not, – we were not alone. The landlord of the hotel and a negro attendant had entered the room, and were assisting the doctor in his operations. I could not trust myself to speak on such a subject in their presence. I was forced to nurse my impatience until all was over, and both landlord and servant had left us.
“Now, doctor, this news of Mademoiselle Besançon?”
“Do you not know all?”
“Only what I have heard this moment from those gossips outside the room.”
I detailed to Reigart the remarks that had been made.
“Really I thought you must have been acquainted with the whole matter. I had fancied that to be the cause of your long absence to-day; though I did not even conjecture how you might be engaged in the matter.”
“I know nothing more than what I have thus accidentally overheard. For heaven’s sake tell me all! Is it true?”
“Substantially true, I grieve to say.”
“Poor Eugénie!”
“The estate was heavily mortgaged to Gayarre. I have long suspected this, and fear there has been some foul play. Gayarre has foreclosed the mortgage, and, indeed, it is said, is already in possession. Everything is now his.”
“Everything?”
“Everything upon the plantation.”
“The slaves?”
“Certainly.”
“All – all – and – and – Aurore?”
I hesitated as I put the interrogatory, Reigart had no knowledge of my attachment to Aurore.
“The quadroon girl, you mean? – of course, she with the others. She is but a slave like the rest. She will be sold.”
“But a slave! sold with the rest!”
This reflection was not uttered aloud.
I cannot describe the tumult of my feelings as I listened. The blood was boiling within my veins, and I could scarce restrain myself from some wild expression. I strove to the utmost to hide my thoughts, but scarce succeeded; for I noticed that the usually cold eye of Reigart was kindled in surprise at my manner. If he divined my secret he was generous, for he asked no explanation.
“The slaves are all to be sold then?” I faltered out.
“No doubt, – everything will be sold, – that is the law in such cases. It is likely Gayarre will buy in the whole estate, as the plantation lies contiguous to his own.”
“Gayarre! villain! oh! And Mademoiselle Besançon, what will become of her? Has she no friends?”
“I have heard something of an aunt who has some, though not much, property. She lives in the city. It is likely that Mademoiselle will live with her in future. I believe the aunt has no children of her own, and Eugénie will inherit. This, however, I cannot vouch for. I know it only as a rumour.”
Reigart spoke these words in a cautious and reserved manner. I noticed something peculiar in the tone in which he uttered them; but I knew his reason for being cautious. He was under a mistaken impression as to the feelings with which I regarded Eugénie! I did not undeceive him.
“Poor Eugénie! a double sorrow, – no wonder at the change I had observed of late, – no wonder she appeared sad!”
All this was but my own silent reflections.
“Doctor!” said I, elevating my voice; “I must go to the plantation.”
“Not to-night!”
“To-night, – now!”
“My dear Mr E., you must not.”
“Why?”
“It is impossible, – I cannot permit it, – you will have a fever; it may cost you your life!”
“But – ”
“I cannot hear you. I assure you, you are now on the verge of a fever. You must remain in your room – at least, until to-morrow. Perhaps then you may go out with safety. Now it is impossible.”
I was compelled to acquiesce, though I am not certain but that had I taken my own way it would have been better for my “fever.” Within me was a cause of fever much stronger than any exposure to the night air. My throbbing heart and wildly-coursing blood soon acted upon my brain.
“Aurore the slave of Gayarre! Ha! ha! ha! His slave! Gayarre! Aurore! ha! ha! ha! Is it his throat I clutch? ha, no! It is the serpent! here – help – help! Water! water! I am choking. No, Gayarre is! I have him now! Again it is the serpent! O God! it coils around my throat – it strangles me! Help! Aurore! lovely Aurore! do not yield to him!”
“I will die rather than yield!”
“I thought so, noble girl! I come to release you! How she struggles in his grasp! Fiend! off – off, fiend! Aurore, you are free – free! Angels of heaven!”
Such was my dream, – the dream of a fevered brain.
Chapter Forty One
The Letter
During all the night my sleep was broken at intervals, and the hours divided between dreaming and half delirium.
I awoke in the morning not much refreshed with my night’s rest. I lay for some time passing over in my mind the occurrences of yesterday, and considering what course I should pursue.
After a time I determined upon going direct to the plantation, and learning for myself how matters stood there.
I arose with this intention. As I was dressing, my eye fell upon a letter that lay upon the table. It bore no postmark, but the writing was in a female hand, and I guessed whence it came.
I tore open the seal, and read: —
“Monsieur!
“To-day, by the laws of Louisiana, I am a woman, – and none more unhappy in all the land. The same sun that has risen upon the natal day of my majority looks down upon the ruin of my fortune!
“It was my design to have made you happy: to have proved that I am not ungrateful. Alas! it is no longer in my power. I am, no more the proprietor of the plantation Besançon, —no more the mistress of Aurore! All is gone from me, and Eugénie Besançon is now a beggar. Ah, Monsieur! it is a sad tale, and I know not what will be its end.
“Alas! there are griefs harder to hear than the loss of fortune. That may in time be repaired, but the anguish of unrequited love, —love strong, and single, and pure, as mine is, —must long endure, perchance for ever!
“Know, Monsieur, that in the bitter cup it is my destiny to drink, there is not one drop of jealousy or reproach. I alone have made the misery that is my portion.
“Adieu, Monsieur! adieu, and farewell! It is better we should never meet again. O be happy! no plaint of mine shall ever reach your ear, to cloud the sunshine of your happiness. Henceforth the walls of Sacré Coeur shall alone witness the sorrows of the unfortunate but grateful.
“Eugénie.”
The letter was dated the day before. I knew that that was the birthday of the writer; in common parlance, the day on which she was “of age.”
“Poor Eugénie!” reflected I. “Her happiness has ended with her girlhood. Poor Eugénie!”
The tears ran fast over my cheeks as I finished reading. I swept them hastily away, and ringing the bell I ordered my horse to be saddled. I hurried through with my toilet; the horse was soon brought to the door; and, mounting him, I rode rapidly for the plantation.
Shortly after leaving the village, I passed two men, who were also on horseback – going in the same direction as myself, but riding at a slower pace than I. They were dressed in the customary style of planters, and a casual observer might have taken them for such. There was something about them, however, that led me to think they were not planters, nor merchants, nor men whose calling relates to any of the ordinary industries of life. It was not in their dress I saw this something, but in a certain expression of countenance. This expression I cannot well describe, but I have ever noticed it in the faces and features of men who have anything to do with the execution of the laws. Even in America, where distinctive costume and badge are absent, I have been struck with this peculiarity, – so much so that I believe I could detect a detective in the plainest clothes.
The two men in question had this expression strongly marked. I had no doubt they were in some way connected with the execution of the laws. I had no doubt they were constables or sheriff’s officers. With such a slight glance as I gave to them in passing, I might not have troubled myself with this conjecture, had it not been for other circumstances then in my thoughts.
I had not saluted these men; but as I passed, I could perceive that my presence was not without interest to them. On glancing back, I saw that one of them had ridden close up to the other, that they were conversing earnestly; and from their gestures I could tell that I was the subject of their talk.
I had soon ridden far ahead, and ceased to think any more about them.
I had hurried forward without any preconceived plan of action. I had acted altogether on the impulse of the moment, and thought only of reaching the house, and ascertaining the state of affairs, either from Eugénie or Aurore herself.
Thus impromptu I had reached the borders of the plantation.
It now occurred to me to ride more slowly, in oder to gain a few moments to manage my thoughts. I even halted awhile. There was a slight bend in the river-bank, and the road crossed this like a chord to its arc. The part cut off was a piece of waste – a common – and as there was no fence I forsook the road, and walked my horse out on the river-bank. There I drew up, but remained seated in my saddle.
I endeavoured to sketch out some plan of action. What should I say to Eugénie? what to Aurore? Would the former see me after what she had written? In her note she had said “farewell,” but it was not a time to stand upon punctilious ceremony. And if not, should I find an opportunity to speak with Aurore? I must see her. Who should prevent me? I had much to say to her; my heart was full. Nothing but an interview with my betrothed could relieve it.
Still without any definite plan, I once more turned my horse’s head down the river, used the spur, and galloped onward.
On arriving near the gate I was somewhat surprised to see two saddled horses standing there. I instantly recognised them as the horses I had passed on the road. They had overtaken me again while I was halted by the bend of the river, and had arrived at the gate before me. The saddles were now empty. The riders had gone into the house.
A black man was holding the horses. It was my old friend “Zip.”
I rode up, and without dismounting addressed myself to Scipio. Who were they who had gone in?
I was hardly surprised at the answer. My conjecture was right. They were men of the law, – the deputy sheriff of the parish and his assistant.
It was scarce necessary to inquire their business. I guessed that.
I only asked Scipio the details.
Briefly Scipio gave them; at least so far as I allowed him to proceed without interruption. A sheriff’s officer was in charge of the house and all its contents; Larkin still ruled the negro quarter, but the slaves were all to be sold; Gayarre was back and forward; and “Missa ’Génie am gone away.”
“Gone away! and whither?”
“Don’t know, mass’r. B’lieve she gone to de city. She leab last night in de night-time.”
“And – ”
I hesitated a moment till my heart should still its heavy throbbings.
“Aurore?” I interrogated with an effort.
“’Rore gone too, mass’r; – she gone long wi’ Missa ’Génie.”
“Aurore gone!”
“Yes, mass’r, she gone; daat’s de troof.”
I was astounded by the information, as well as puzzled by this mysterious departure. Eugénie gone and in the night! Aurore gone with her! What could it mean? Whither had they gone?
My reiterated appeal to the black threw no light upon the subject. He was ignorant of all their movements, – ignorant of everything but what related to the negro quarter. He had heard that himself, his wife, his daughter, – “the leetle Chloe,” – with all their fellow-slaves, were to be carried down to the city, and to be sold in the slave-market by auction. They were to be taken the following day. They were already advertised. That was all he knew. No, not all, – one other piece of information he had in store for me. It was authentic: he had heard the “white folks” talk of it to one another: – Larkin, Gayarre, and a “negro-trader,” who was to be concerned in this sale. It regarded the quadroon. She was to be sold among the rest!
The blood boiled in my veins as the black imparted this information. It was authentic. Scipio’s statement of what he had heard, minutely detailed, bore the internal evidence of authenticity. I could not doubt the report. I felt the conviction that it was true.
The plantation Besançon had no more attractions. I had no longer any business at Bringiers. New Orleans was now the scene of action for me!
With a kind word to Scipio, I wheeled my horse and galloped away from the gate. The fiery animal caught my excitement, and sprang wildly along the road. It required all his buoyant spirit to keep pace with the quick dancing of my nerves.
In a few minutes I had consigned him to his groom; and, climbing to my chamber, commenced preparing for my departure.