The two women reached the fence that separated the cornfield from the
pine woods.
"How is I gwine ter git ovuh dat fence, chile?" asked the old woman.
"Wait a minute, granny," said Cicely; "I 'll take it down."
It was only an eight-rail fence, and it was a matter of but a few
minutes for the girl to lift down and lay to either side the ends of the
rails that formed one of the angles. This done, the old woman easily
stepped across the remaining two or three rails. It was only a moment
before they stood by the wounded man. He was lying still, breathing
regularly, and seemingly asleep.
"What is he, granny," asked the girl anxiously, "a w'ite man, or not?"
Old Dinah pushed back the matted hair from the wounded man's brow, and
looked at the skin beneath. It was fairer there, but yet of a decided
brown. She raised his hand, pushed back the tattered sleeve from his
wrist, and then she laid his hand down gently.
"Mos' lackly he 's a mulatter man f'om up de country somewhar. He don'
look lack dese yer niggers roun' yere, ner yet lack a w'ite man. But de
po' boy's in a bad fix, w'ateber he is, an' I 'spec's we bettah do w'at
we kin fer 'im, an' w'en he comes to he 'll tell us w'at he is--er w'at
he calls hisse'f. Hol' 'is head up, chile, an' I 'll po' a drop er dis
yer liquor down his th'oat; dat 'll bring 'im to quicker 'n anything
e'se I knows."
Cicely lifted the sick man's head, and Dinah poured a few drops of the
whiskey between his teeth. He swallowed it readily enough. In a few
minutes he opened his eyes and stared blankly at the two women. Cicely
saw that his eyes were large and black, and glistening with fever.
"How you feelin', suh?" asked the old woman.
There was no answer.
"Is you feelin' bettah now?"
The wounded man kept on staring blankly. Suddenly he essayed to put his
hand to his head, gave a deep groan, and fell back again unconscious.
"He 's gone ag'in," said Dinah. "I reckon we 'll hafter tote 'im up ter
de house and take keer er 'im dere. W'ite folks would n't want ter fool
wid a nigger man, an' we doan know who his folks is. He 's outer his
head an' will be fer some time yet, an' we can't tell nuthin' 'bout 'im
tel he comes ter his senses."
Cicely lifted the wounded man by the arms and shoulders. She was strong,
with the strength of youth and a sturdy race. The man was pitifully
emaciated; how much, the two women had not suspected until they raised
him. They had no difficulty whatever, except for the awkwardness of such
a burden, in lifting him over the fence and carrying him through the
cornfield to the cabin.
They laid him on Cicely's bed in the little lean-to shed that formed a
room separate from the main apartment of the cabin. The old woman sent
Cicely to cook the dinner, while she gave her own attention exclusively
to the still unconscious man. She brought water and washed him as though
he were a child.
"Po' boy," she said, "he doan feel lack he 's be'n eatin' nuff to feed a
sparrer. He 'pears ter be mos' starved ter def."
She washed his wound more carefully, made some lint,--the art was well
known in the sixties,--and dressed his wound with a fair degree of
skill.
"Somebody must 'a' be'n tryin' ter put yo' light out, chile," she
muttered to herself as she adjusted the bandage around his head. "A
little higher er a little lower, an' you would n' 'a' be'n yere ter tell
de tale. Dem clo's," she argued, lifting the tattered garments she had
removed from her patient, "don' b'long 'roun' yere. Dat kinder weavin'
come f'om down to'ds Souf Ca'lina. I wish Needham 'u'd come erlong. He
kin tell who dis man is, an' all erbout 'im."
She made a bowl of gruel, and fed it, drop by drop, to the sick man.
This roused him somewhat from his stupor, but when Dinah thought he had
enough of the gruel, and stopped feeding him, he closed his eyes again
and relapsed into a heavy sleep that was so closely akin to
unconsciousness as to be scarcely distinguishable from it.
When old Needham came home at noon, his wife, who had been anxiously
awaiting his return, told him in a few words the story of Cicely's
discovery and of the subsequent events.
Needham inspected the stranger with a professional eye. He had been
something of a plantation doctor in his day, and was known far and wide
for his knowledge of simple remedies. The negroes all around, as well as
many of the poorer white people, came to him for the treatment of common
ailments.
"He 's got a fevuh," he said, after feeling the patient's pulse and
laying his hand on his brow, "an' we 'll hafter gib 'im some yarb tea
an' nuss 'im tel de fevuh w'ars off. I 'spec'," he added, "dat I knows
whar dis boy come f'om. He 's mos' lackly one er dem bright mulatters,
f'om Robeson County--some of 'em call deyse'ves Croatan Injins--w'at's
been conscripted an' sent ter wu'k on de fo'tifications down at
Wimbleton er some'er's er nuther, an' done 'scaped, and got mos' killed
gittin' erway, an' wuz n' none too well fed befo', an' nigh 'bout
starved ter def sence. We 'll hafter hide dis man, er e'se we is lackly
ter git inter trouble ou'se'ves by harb'rin' 'im. Ef dey ketch 'im yere,
dey 's liable ter take 'im out an' shoot 'im--an' des ez lackly us too."
Cicely was listening with bated breath.
"Oh, gran'daddy," she cried with trembling voice, "don' let 'em ketch
'im! Hide 'im somewhar."
"I reckon we 'll leave 'im yere fer a day er so. Ef he had come f'om
roun' yere I 'd be skeered ter keep 'im, fer de w'ite folks 'u'd prob'ly
be lookin' fer 'im. But I knows ev'ybody w'at's be'n conscripted fer ten
miles 'roun', an' dis yere boy don' b'long in dis neighborhood. W'en 'e
gits so 'e kin he'p 'isse'f we 'll put 'im up in de lof an' hide 'im
till de Yankees come. Fer dey 're comin', sho'. I dremp' las' night dey
wuz close ter han', and I hears de w'ite folks talkin' ter deyse'ves
'bout it. An' de time is comin' w'en de good Lawd gwine ter set his
people free, an' it ain' gwine ter be long, nuther."
Needham's prophecy proved true. In less than a week the Confederate
garrison evacuated the arsenal in the neighboring town of Patesville,
blew up the buildings, destroyed the ordnance and stores, and retreated
across the Cape Fear River, burning the river bridge behind them,--two
acts of war afterwards unjustly attributed to General Sherman's army,
which followed close upon the heels of the retreating Confederates.
When there was no longer any fear for the stranger's safety, no more
pains were taken to conceal him. His wound had healed rapidly, and in a
week he had been able with some help to climb up the ladder into the
loft. In all this time, however, though apparently conscious, he had
said no word to any one, nor had he seemed to comprehend a word that was
spoken to him.
Cicely had been his constant attendant. After the first day, during
which her granny had nursed him, she had sat by his bedside, had fanned
his fevered brow, had held food and water and medicine to his lips. When
it was safe for him to come down from the loft and sit in a chair under
a spreading oak, Cicely supported him until he was strong enough to walk
about the yard. When his strength had increased sufficiently to permit
of greater exertion, she accompanied him on long rambles in the fields
and woods.
In spite of his gain in physical strength, the newcomer changed very
little in other respects. For a long time he neither spoke nor smiled.
To questions put to him he simply gave no reply, but looked at his
questioner with the blank unconsciousness of an infant. By and by he
began to recognize Cicely, and to smile at her approach. The next step
in returning consciousness was but another manifestation of the same
sentiment. When Cicely would leave him he would look his regret, and be
restless and uneasy until she returned.
The family were at a loss what to call him. To any inquiry as to his
name he answered no more than to other questions.
"He come jes' befo' Sherman," said Needham, after a few weeks, "lack
John de Baptis' befo' de Lawd. I reckon we bettah call 'im John."
So they called him John. He soon learned the name. As time went on
Cicely found that he was quick at learning things. She taught him to
speak her own negro English, which he pronounced with absolute fidelity
to her intonations; so that barring the quality of his voice, his
speech was an echo of Cicely's own.
The summer wore away and the autumn came. John and Cicely wandered in
the woods together and gathered walnuts, and chinquapins and wild
grapes. When harvest time came, they worked in the fields side by
side,--plucked the corn, pulled the fodder, and gathered the dried peas
from the yellow pea-vines. Cicely was a phenomenal cotton-picker, and
John accompanied her to the fields and stayed by her hours at a time,
though occasionally he would complain of his head, and sit under a tree
and rest part of the day while Cicely worked, the two keeping one
another always in sight.
They did not have a great deal of intercourse with other people. Young
men came to the cabin sometimes to see Cicely, but when they found her
entirely absorbed in the stranger they ceased their visits. For a time
Cicely kept him away, as much as possible, from others, because she did
not wish them to see that there was anything wrong about him. This was
her motive at first, but after a while she kept him to herself simply
because she was happier so. He was hers--hers alone. She had found him,
as Pharaoh's daughter had found Moses in the bulrushes; she had taught
him to speak, to think, to love. She had not taught him to remember; she
would not have wished him to; she would have been jealous of any past to
which he might have proved bound by other ties. Her dream so far had
come true. She had found him; he loved her. The rest of it would as
surely follow, and that before long. For dreams were serious things, and
time had proved hers to have been not a presage of misfortune, but one
of the beneficent visions that are sent, that we may enjoy by
anticipation the good things that are in store for us.