THE CAVE IN THE FOREST
When the light that came in by the narrow cleft in the ledge had grown
dim, the Indians produced food, dried fish that smelled none too good
and parched corn, and shared them with the captive. David was not
hungry, but ate as he might, for the idea of making his escape ere the
night was over had come to him, and should he find an opportunity to
make the attempt he would be better for food in his stomach. After the
brief meal one of the Indians disappeared and presently returned with
water in a fold of birch bark. By then the cave was utterly black and
David could no longer see his companions. The latter, who had spoken
to each other but seldom during the afternoon, now became talkative,
and David amused himself in trying to understand something of their
conversation. But it was no use, for, although now and then a sound
that was familiar came to him, the most of it was gibberish. Perhaps
two hours passed, and then once more the entrance to the cave was
illumined, though but dimly, as the starlight flooded the open wood.
David was resolved to let no chance go by, and for that reason fought
hard against the sleep that weighted his eyelids. If, he reasoned, he
could in some manner get past the Indians and through the entrance
without their knowledge, he might elude them in the gloom of the forest
and, by traveling eastward, discover the trail leading to Sudbury and
there lie in wait for the returning party of his friends. The Indians
gradually ceased their talk and silence fell again. At last one of them
stirred and spoke briefly. The other responded with a grunt and the
entrance was darkened momentarily as the first speaker slipped out of
the cavern.
David lay down then and simulated slumber, breathing regularly. He
would have given much to have known whither the other savage had gone;
whether back to the village or only to some post of watching near
by. Peering across the cave, he saw the glow of the Indian’s pipe at
intervals. Then it went out and silence settled more deeply. After
a long while the Indian muttered, sighed, and then began to breathe
heavily and with a rasping sound. David’s heart beat fast while he
waited for his jailer to sink more deeply in slumber. Ten minutes
passed, and then, with only such sound as was caused by his knees and
toes on the gravel floor, he started to creep toward the entrance. To
reach it he must pass close to the Indian, for the latter was near the
middle of the cave, his form discernible against the faint light of the
opening. He had not laid himself down, but had fallen asleep where he
sat, his head fallen forward on his chest.
A few inches at a time was all David dared attempt, ready to sink to
the ground and pretend sleep at the first token of wakefulness on the
part of the savage. When he had brought himself to within arm’s reach
of the sleeper, the latter’s breathing broke in a mutter and the boy
dropped to the floor and lay very still. The Indian stirred, changed
his position slightly, it seemed, and then, when a long moment had
passed, sank back to sleep. David’s heart was beating so hard and so
fast that the sound of it, like the ticking of a great clock, seemed
to fill the cavern, and he almost expected that the noise of it would
awaken the Indian.
At last he was well past and the ground sloped upward to the narrow
crevice beyond which the purple night sky lay. He paused long and
listened. The Indian still breathed regularly. He took a deep breath
and went forward, rising now to his feet and guiding himself by his
hands along the narrowing walls. Once a stone, disturbed by his tread,
trickled downward with a noise that, to David, sounded loud enough to
wake the very dead, and it was only by a great effort of will that he
held himself silent there and did not, in a sudden panic, rush up the
rest of the ascent.
The noise failed to disturb the sleeper. An Indian, although David did
not know it then, sleeps deeply and is difficult to awake, and to that
fact he doubtless owed the moment’s escape. After an instant, during
which his heart gradually sank back from his throat, or seemed to, he
went on. By turning sidewise he had no great difficulty in getting
through the mouth of the crevice, and as his body brushed the ferns
aside a flood of warm air enveloped him. He crouched motionless at the
entrance and gazed sharply about him in the confusion of starlight and
shadow.
Under the great oaks which were spaced well apart as though planted by
man, the gloom was deep and impenetrable. In the open spaces the light
of a million twinkling stars made blue pools of dim radiance wherein
David could make out the shapes of fern patches or the crouching form
of a rock. Somewhere in the higher branches of a tree a bird twittered
sleepily. Afar off an owl hooted. For the rest only the silence of a
hot, breathless night.
He dared not stay where he was for long lest the Indian behind should
awake and, seeking him, discover his flight, while to move forward
meant risking recapture in case the other savage, he who had gone
from the cave earlier in the evening, was on guard near by. But once
well away from his prison, David believed he would be safe so long
as darkness lasted, and to get away he must risk the presence of the
second savage. Moving cautiously, testing each step that he took, he
drew himself away from the cavern entrance and the edge of the shadowed
patch beneath the twisted oak. Monapikot had taught him the skill
that takes one through the woods in silence, even in the night when
the other senses must make up for sight, and David caused scarce the
swaying of a fern frond as he made his slow way up the gentle slope,
keeping always to the shadows. Fortunately there was little underbrush
save patches of fern and brake, and the ground was soft in most places
with its carpet of dead and rotting leaves and took his footfalls in
silence. Only once ere he drew nigh the edge of the oak forest did
he make a sound. Then, for the moment neglecting caution, he set his
foot on a dead twig and it snapped beneath his weight with the sudden
report of a tiny pistol. He stopped short and crouched back amongst the
black shadows and listened anxiously. And it was well that he did so,
for when an instant had passed there came to him the sound of a man’s
sleepy yawn from some spot not many paces away to his left!
The Indian who had left the cave was watching from above, watching,
perhaps, lest the English find the tracks they had left and approach by
the open ground!
David, appalled by the narrow margin of his escape from walking almost
straight into the hands of the enemy, trembled a little as he sank back
on his heels and, scarcely daring to breathe, stared intently in the
direction of the sound. But the Indian was not visible to him, although
he searched every foot of gloomy forest above the cave until his eyes
ached. He had meant to gain the open space whereby they had approached
in the afternoon, and thus, following, as well as memory would allow,
their trail, come within distant sight of the palisade and then dip
down the lower slope of the mountain and so reach the trail to the
south. But to do that now he must pass below the cave and keep to the
forest until well beyond the position of the sentinel and not until
then emerge into the open. At all hazards, he told himself, he would
put much space between himself and the Indian there, even if in so
doing he lost all sense of direction. It were better to risk being lost
than recapture.
Acting on this resolve, he slipped around the great bole of an oak and,
keeping it between him and the spot from whence the sound of the yawn
had come, stole obliquely down the slope. He made but slow progress,
for in the hush of the woods even the flicking of a branch or the
crunch of an acorn might arouse the suspicions of the sentinel. The
Indian hearing is very acute and David had heard amazing instances of
it. Slowly, stealthily he went, and not until a full two hundred paces
had been traversed did he turn at something less than a right angle
to his course and make along the hill well below the cave. The forest
was less park-like here, and saplings, whether of oak or maple he was
not able to say, made travel more difficult. Low branches must be felt
for and carefully bent aside and as carefully released, while the
earth beneath held more litter of fallen twigs. Absolute silence was
well-nigh impossible now, and he must trust to the distance between him
and his foe. It was warm in the forest, warm and humid, and the boy’s
body was soon bathed in perspiration and his hands sweated so that his
grasp on the impeding branches sometimes slipped and they whipped his
face cruelly and seemed determined to reveal his presence. But after a
while he breathed more freely and stopped to rest.
He was very weary now and would have asked nothing better than to have
lain himself down and slept. But in spite of all his painful travel,
he was still but a short distance from the cave, and had he failed to
awaken before dawn would of a certainty been soon found. He reckoned on
at least four hours yet before the light and in those four hours meant
to put as many miles between him and his Indian guards. That they
would find him eventually, unless he were fortunate enough to intercept
the English party on their way back, was certain, for they would find
his tracks in the forest and follow them as a hound follows the scent
of a fox. His hope, therefore, lay in reaching the Indian trail to
the south while darkness still held and there lying in wait for his
friends. After that his fate was in the hands of Providence. If his
pursuers came first, his efforts would have been in vain.
Midges or some other small insects annoyed him while he rested, and
once a prowling animal, no larger than a small dog, slunk out of the
gloom but a pace away and startled him with the green fires of its
staring eyes. David moved but his foot and the beast was gone with a
snarl. Up the slope he went then, from shadow patch to shadow patch,
the trees thinning, and presently the open ground, rock-strewn,
bush-grown, lay before him in the soft radiance of the stars. He
heaved a deep sigh of relief, for somehow emerging from the gloom of
the forest seemed like stepping from a dark prison into freedom. But
freedom was not yet his, as he well knew, and, glancing uneasily to
the left toward where, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the sentinel
watched, he made off with swift steps toward the village, keeping
always to the dark marge of the forest.
He speedily found that haste and quiet would not agree, for in the
gloom he caught a foot in a tangle of root or vine and measured his
length, exclaiming in spite of himself when his chin came rudely down
on a stone. Thereafter he went more slowly. When a half-hour had gone
by, a faint flush of light met his sight. It was, he believed, the
dim yellow glare of a fire in the village showing above the wall. He
went on more cautiously, the light drawing nearer yet becoming more
faint, as if the fire were dying. At last he imagined that he could
when crouching to the ground make out the fort perhaps a quarter of a
mile away. He dared go no closer lest there be guards set outside the
palisade, and so he turned into the forest, first fixing his gaze on a
great star more brilliant than its fellows and burning with a redder
light that hung in the heavens to the southeast. He would be guided by
that, he thought. But once in the forest the orb was instantly lost to
him, for here there were pines and hemlocks growing so closely together
that only now and again could he glimpse a bit of the sky between
their clustering branches. Smaller trees and bushes fought for life
beneath the evergreens and ever he must step aside this way or that
until before long all sense of direction had left him and he went on in
a blackness that had no relief, trusting to fortune.
That he would know the trail should he come to it seemed too much to
hope for now. It seemed far more likely that, if his progress, indeed,
led him in the right direction, he would cross the forest path without
knowledge. And so, when some time had passed, he became doubly watchful
for a thinning out of the underbrush, and when the trees seemed less
closely set he went no farther until he had satisfied himself that he
had not reached the trail. It was difficult going for more reasons than
the forest growth, for fallen trees barred his way and clutched at his
clothing with stark and splintered hands. He had lost all knowledge
of time. It seemed to him that he had been fighting through the woods
for hours and that daylight must now be no more than just beyond the
world’s rim. But the thick, velvety blackness continued and the sky,
when infrequently seen, looked no lighter than before. He grew hopeless
and despondent, certain that he had fallen into the easy error of
circling, not sure that the trail was not behind him instead of before.
Weariness took toll of hope. Every muscle in his body ached and his
lungs grew sore. Pauses for rest, during which he leaned against a
tree or subsided on a fallen log, fighting for breath and against the
languor that threatened to bring sleep upon him, became more and more
frequent.
In the end he grew to care no whit what fate befell him if only he
might sleep. And yet some voice at the back of his tired brain called
him awake whenever his eyes closed and sent him staggering on again.
And thus, at length, what wits remained to him stayed his steps and
sent him feeling about in the darkness, while hope surged back to his
heart. Behind him were trees, but to the right and to the left were
none until he had twice stepped forward! Turning to the right he went
cautiously ahead. Nothing impeded him. More, his feet trod hard earth
between the crawling roots of the pines. He dropped to his knees and
felt the ground. Clean it was, and the roots that crossed it were worn
with many feet. He had found the trail!