In an instant Courtland had regained complete possession of himself. His
distracting passion--how distracting he had never before realized--was
gone! His clear sight--no longer distorted by sentiment--had come back;
he saw everything in its just proportion--his duty, the plantation, the
helpless freedman threatened by lawless fury; the two women--no longer
his one tantalizing vision, but now only a passing detail of the work
before him. He saw them through no aberrating mist of tenderness or
expediency--but with the single directness of the man of action.
The shot had clearly been intended for Cato. Even if it were an act
of mere personal revenge, it showed a confidence and security in the
would-be assassin that betokened cooperation and an organized plan.
He had availed himself of the thunderstorm, the flash and long
reverberating roll of sound--an artifice not unknown to border
ambush--to confuse discovery at the instant. Yet the attack might be
only an isolated one; or it might be the beginning of a general raid
upon the Syndicate's freedmen. If the former he could protect Cato from
its repetition by guarding him in the office until he could be conveyed
to a place of safety; if the latter, he must at once collect the negroes
at their quarters, and take Cato with him. He resolved upon the latter
course. The quarters were half a mile from the Dows' dwelling--which was
two miles away.
He sat down and wrote a few lines to Miss Dows stating that, in view
of some threatened disturbances in the town, he thought it advisable
to keep the negroes in their quarters, whither he was himself going. He
sent her his housekeeper and the child, as they had both better remain
in a place of security until he returned to town. He gave the note to
Zoe, bidding her hasten by the back garden across the fields. Then he
turned to Cato.
“I am going with you to the quarters tonight,” he said quietly, “and you
can carry your pistol back to the armory yourself.” He handed him the
weapon. The negro received it gratefully, but suddenly cast a searching
glance at his employer. Courtland's face, however, betrayed no change.
When Zoe had gone, he continued tranquilly, “We will go by the back way
through the woods.” As the negro started slightly, Courtland continued
in the same even tone: “The sulphur you smelled just now, Cato, was the
smoke of a gun fired at YOU from the street. I don't propose that the
shot shall be repeated under the same advantages.”
The negro became violently agitated. “It was dat sneakin' hound, Tom
Higbee,” he said huskily.
Courtland looked at him sharply. “Then there was something more than
WORDS passed between him and you, Cato. What happened? Come, speak out!”
“He lashed me with his whip, and I gib him one right under the yeah, and
drupped him,” said Cato, recovering his courage with his anger at the
recollection. “I had a right to defend myse'f, sah.”
“Yes, and I hope you'll be able to do it, now,” said Courtland calmly,
his face giving no sign of his conviction that Cato's fate was doomed by
that single retaliating blow, “but you'll be safer at the quarters.”
He passed into his bedroom, took a revolver from his bedhead and a
derringer from the drawer, both of which he quickly slipped beneath his
buttoned coat, and returned.
“When we are in the fields, clear of the house, keep close by my side,
and even try to keep step with me. What you have to say, say NOW; there
must be no talking to betray our position--we must go silently, and
you'll have enough to do to exercise your eyes and ears. I shall stand
between you and any attack, but I expect you to obey orders without
hesitation.” He opened the back door, motioned to Cato to pass out,
followed him, locked the door behind them, and taking the negro's arm
walked beside the low palings to the end of the garden, where they
climbed the fence and stood upon the open field beyond.
Unfortunately, it had grown lighter with the breaking of the heavy
clouds, and gusty gleams of moonlight chased each other over the
field, or struck a glitter from standing rain-pools between the little
hillocks. To cross the open field and gain the fringe of woods on the
other side was the nearest way to the quarters, but for the moment was
the most exposed course; to follow the hedge to the bottom of the field
and the boundary fence and then cross at right angles, in its shadow,
would be safer, but they would lose valuable time. Believing that Cato's
vengeful assailant was still hovering near with his comrades, Courtland
cast a quick glance down the shadowy line of Osage hedge beside them.
Suddenly Cato grasped his arm and pointed in the same direction, where
the boundary fence he had noticed--a barrier of rough palings--crossed
the field. With the moon low on the other side of it, it was a mere
black silhouette, broken only by bright silver openings and gaps along
its surface that indicated the moonlit field beyond. At first Courtland
saw nothing else. Then he was struck by the fact that these openings
became successively and regularly eclipsed, as with the passing of some
opaque object behind them. It was a file of men on the other side of
the fence, keeping in its shelter as they crossed the field towards his
house. Roughly calculating from the passing obscurations, there must
have been twelve or fifteen in all.
He could no longer doubt their combined intentions, nor hesitate how to
meet them. He must at once make for the quarters with Cato, even if he
had to cross that open field before them. He knew that they would avoid
injuring him personally, in the fear of possible Federal and political
complications, and he resolved to use that fear to insure Cato's safety.
Placing his hands on the negro's shoulders, he shoved him forwards,
falling into a “lock step” so close behind him that it became impossible
for the most expert marksman to fire at one without imperiling the
other's life. When half way across the field he noticed that the shadows
seen through the openings of the fence had paused. The ambushed men
had evidently seen the double apparition, understood it, and, as he
expected, dared not fire. He reached the other side with Cato in safety,
but not before he saw the fateful shadows again moving, and this time in
their own direction. They were evidently intending to pursue them. But
once within the woods Courtland knew that his chances were equal.
He breathed more freely. Cato, now less agitated, had even regained
something of his former emotional combativeness which Courtland had
checked. Although far from confident of his henchman's prowess in an
emergency, the prospect of getting him safe into the quarters seemed
brighter.
It was necessary, also, to trust to his superior wood-craft and
knowledge of the locality, and Courtland still walking between him and
his pursuers and covering his retreat allowed him to lead the way. It
lay over ground that was beginning to slope gently; the underbrush
was presently exchanged for springy moss, the character of the trees
changed, the black trunks of cypresses made the gloom thicker. Trailing
vines and parasites brushed their faces, a current of damp air seemed to
flow just above the soil in which their lower limbs moved sluggishly as
through stagnant water. As yet there was no indication of pursuit. But
Courtland felt that it was not abandoned. Indeed, he had barely time
to check an exclamation from the negro, before the dull gallop of
horse-hoofs in the open ahead of them was plain to them both. It was a
second party of their pursuers, mounted, who had evidently been sent
to prevent their final egress from the woods, while those they had just
evaded were no doubt slowly and silently following them on foot. They
were to be caught between two fires!
“What is there to the left of us?” whispered Courtland quickly.
“De swamp.”
Courtland set his teeth together. His dull-witted companion had
evidently walked them both into the trap! Nevertheless, his resolve was
quickly made. He could already see through the thinning fringe of timber
the figures of the mounted men in the moonlight.
“This should be the boundary line of the plantation? This field beside
us is ours?” he said interrogatively.
“Yes,” returned the negro, “but de quarters is a mile furder.”
“Good! Stay here until I come back or call you; I'm going to talk to
these fellows. But if you value your life, don't YOU speak nor stir.”
He strode quickly through the intervening trees and stepped out into the
moonlight. A suppressed shout greeted him, and half a dozen mounted
men, masked and carrying rifles, rode down towards him, but he remained
quietly waiting there, and as the nearest approached him, he made a step
forward and cried, “Halt!”
The men pulled up sharply and mechanically at that ring of military
imperiousness.
“What are you doing here?” said Courtland.
“We reckon that's OUR business, co'nnle.”
“It's mine, when you're on property that I control.”
The man hesitated and looked interrogatively towards his fellows. “I
allow you've got us there, co'nnle,” he said at last with the lazy
insolence of conscious power, “but I don't mind telling you we're wanting
a nigger about the size of your Cato. We hain't got anything agin YOU,
co'nnle; we don't want to interfere with YOUR property, and YOUR ways,
but we don't calculate to have strangers interfere with OUR ways and
OUR customs. Trot out your nigger--you No'th'n folks don't call HIM
'property,' you know--and we'll clear off your land.”
“And may I ask what you want of Cato?” said Courtland quietly.
“To show him that all the Federal law in h-ll won't protect him when
he strikes a white man!” burst out one of the masked figures, riding
forward.
“Then you compel me to show YOU,” said Courtland immovably, “what any
Federal citizen may do in the defense of Federal law. For I'll kill the
first man that attempts to lay hands upon him on my property. Some of
you, who have already tried to assassinate him in cold blood, I have met
before in less dishonorable warfare than this, and THEY know I am able
to keep my word.”
There was a moment's silence; the barrel of the revolver he was holding
at his side glistened for an instant in the moonlight, but he did not
move. The two men rode up to the first speaker and exchanged words. A
light laugh followed, and the first speaker turned again to Courtland
with a mocking politeness.
“Very well, co'nnle, if that's your opinion, and you allow we can't
follow our game over your property, why, we reckon we'll have to give
way TO THOSE WHO CAN. Sorry to have troubled YOU. Good-night.”
He lifted his hat ironically, waved it to his followers, and the next
moment the whole party were galloping furiously towards the high road.
For the first time that evening a nervous sense of apprehension passed
over Courtland. The impending of some unknown danger is always more
terrible to a brave man than the most overwhelming odds that he can
see and realize. He felt instinctively that they had uttered no vague
bravado to cover up their defeat; there was still some advantage on
which they confidently reckoned--but what? Was it only a reference to
the other party tracking them through the woods on which their enemies
now solely relied? He regained Cato quickly; the white teeth of the
foolishly confident negro were already flashing his imagined triumph to
his employer. Courtland's heart grew sick as he saw it.
“We're not out of the woods yet, Cato,” he said dryly; “nor are they.
Keep your eyes and ears open, and attend to me. How long can we keep
in the cover of these woods, and still push on in the direction of the
quarters?”
“There's a way roun' de edge o' de swamp, sah, but we'd have to go back
a spell to find it.”
“Go on!”
“And dar's moccasins and copperheads lying round here in de trail! Dey
don't go for us ginerally--but,” he hesitated, “white men don't stand
much show.”
“Good! Then it is as bad for those who are chasing us as for me. That
will do. Lead on.”
They retraced their steps cautiously, until the negro turned into a
lighter by-way. A strange mephitic odor seemed to come from sodden
leaves and mosses that began to ooze under their feet. They had picked
their way in silence for some minutes; the stunted willows and cypress
standing farther and farther apart, and the openings with clumps of
sedge were frequent. Courtland was beginning to fear this exposure
of his follower, and had moved up beside him, when suddenly the negro
caught his arm, and trembled violently. His lips were parted over
his teeth, the whites of his eyes glistened, he seemed gasping and
speechless with fear.
“What's the matter, Cato?” said Courtland glancing instinctively at the
ground beneath. “Speak, man!--have you been bitten?”
The word seemed to wring an agonized cry from the miserable man.
“Bitten! No; but don't you hear 'em coming, sah! God Almighty! don't you
hear dat?”
“What?”
“De dogs! de houns!--DE BLOODHOUNS! Dey've set 'em loose on me!”
It was true! A faint baying in the distance was now distinctly audible
to Courtland. He knew now plainly the full, cruel purport of the
leader's speech,--those who could go anywhere were tracking their game!
Every trace of manhood had vanished from the negro's cowering frame.
Courtland laid his hand assuringly, appealingly, and then savagely on
his shoulder.
“Come! Enough of this! I am here, and will stand by you, whatever comes.
These dogs are no more to be feared than the others. Rouse yourself,
man, and at least help ME make a fight of it.”
“No! no!” screamed the terrified man. “Lemme go! Lemme go back to de
Massas! Tell 'em I'll come! Tell 'em to call de houns off me, and I'll
go quiet! Lemme go!” He struggled violently in his companion's grasp.
In all Courtland's self-control, habits of coolness, and discipline, it
is to be feared there was still something of the old Berserker temper.
His face was white, his eyes blazed in the darkness; only his voice kept
that level distinctness which made it for a moment more terrible than
even the baying of the tracking hounds to the negro's ear. “Cato,” he
said, “attempt to run now, and, by God! I'll save the dogs the trouble
of grappling your living carcass! Come here! Up that tree with you!”
pointing to a swamp magnolia. “Don't move as long as I can stand here,
and when I'm down--but not till then--save yourself--the best you can.”
He half helped, half dragged, the now passive African to the solitary
tree; as the bay of a single hound came nearer, the negro convulsively
scrambled from Courtland's knee and shoulder to the fork of branches a
dozen feet from the ground. Courtland drew his revolver, and, stepping
back a few yards into the open, awaited the attack.
It came unexpectedly from behind. A sudden yelp of panting cruelty and
frenzied anticipation at Courtland's back caused him to change front
quickly, and the dripping fangs and snaky boa-like neck of a gray weird
shadow passed him. With an awful supernaturalness of instinct, it kept
on in an unerring line to the fateful tree. But that dread directness of
scent was Courtland's opportunity. His revolver flashed out in an aim as
unerring. The brute, pierced through neck and brain, dashed on against
the tree in his impetus, and then rolled over against it in a quivering
bulk. Again another bay coming from the same direction told Courtland
that his pursuers had outflanked him, and the whole pack were crossing
the swamp. But he was prepared; again the same weird shadow, as spectral
and monstrous as a dream, dashed out into the brief light of the open,
but this time it was stopped, and rolled over convulsively before it had
crossed. Flushed, with the fire of fight in his veins, Courtland turned
almost furiously from the fallen brutes at his feet to meet the onset of
the more cowardly hunters whom he knew were at his heels. At that moment
it would have fared ill with the foremost. No longer the calculating
steward and diplomatic manager, no longer the cool-headed arbiter of
conflicting interests, he was ready to meet them, not only with the
intrepid instincts of a soldier, but with an aroused partisan fury equal
to their own. To his surprise no one followed; the baying of a third
hound seemed to be silenced and checked; the silence was broken only by
the sound of distant disputing voices and the uneasy trampling of hoofs.
This was followed by two or three rifle shots in the distance, but not
either in the direction of the quarters nor the Dows' dwelling-house.
There evidently was some interruption in the pursuit,--a diversion of
some kind had taken place,--but what he knew not. He could think of
no one who might have interfered on his behalf, and the shouting and
wrangling seemed to be carried on in the accents of the one sectional
party. He called cautiously to Cato. The negro did not reply. He crossed
to the tree and shook it impatiently. Its boughs were empty; Cato
was gone! The miserable negro must have taken advantage of the first
diversion in his favor to escape. But where, and how, there was nothing
left to indicate.
As Courtland had taken little note of the trail, he had no idea of his
own whereabouts. He knew he must return to the fringe of cypress to be
able to cross the open field and gain the negro quarters, where it was
still possible that Cato had fled. Taking a general direction from the
few stars visible above the opening, he began to retrace his steps. But
he had no longer the negro's woodcraft to guide him. At times his feet
were caught in trailing vines which seemed to coil around his ankles
with ominous suggestiveness; at times the yielding soil beneath his
tread showed his perilous proximity to the swamp, as well as the fact
that he was beginning to incline towards that dread circle which is the
hopeless instinct of all lost and straying humanity. Luckily the edge of
the swamp was more open, and he would be enabled to correct his changed
course again by the position of the stars. But he was becoming chilled
and exhausted by these fruitless efforts, and at length, after a more
devious and prolonged detour, which brought him back to the swamp again,
he resolved to skirt its edge in search of some other mode of issuance.
Beyond him, the light seemed stronger, as of a more extended opening
or clearing, and there was even a superficial gleam from the end of the
swamp itself, as if from some ignis fatuus or the glancing of a pool of
unbroken water. A few rods farther brought him to it and a full view of
the unencumbered expanse. Beyond him, far across the swamp, he could see
a hillside bathed in the moonlight with symmetrical lines of small white
squares dotting its slopes and stretching down into a valley of gleaming
shafts, pyramids, and tombs. It was the cemetery; the white squares
on the hillside were the soldiers' graves. And among them even at that
distance, uplifting solemnly, like a reproachful phantom, was the broken
shaft above the dust of Chester Brooks.
With the view of that fateful spot, which he had not seen since his last
meeting there with Sally Dows, a flood of recollection rushed upon him.
In the white mist that hung low along the farther edge of the swamp he
fancied he could see again the battery smoke through which the ghostly
figure of the dead rider had charged his gun three years before; in
the vapory white plumes of a funereal plant in the long avenue he was
reminded of the light figure of Miss Sally as she appeared at their last
meeting. In another moment, in his already dazed condition, he might
have succumbed to some sensuous memory of her former fascinations, but
he threw it off savagely now, with a quick and bitter recalling of her
deceit and his own weakness. Turning his back upon the scene with a
half-superstitious tremor, he plunged once more into the trackless
covert. But he was conscious that his eyesight was gradually growing dim
and his strength falling. He was obliged from time to time to stop and
rally his sluggish senses, that seemed to grow heavier under some deadly
exhalation that flowed around him. He even seemed to hear familiar
voices,--but that must be delusion. At last he stumbled. Throwing out an
arm to protect himself, he came heavily down upon the ooze, striking
a dull, half-elastic root that seemed--it must have been another
delusion--to move beneath him, and even--so confused were his senses
now--to strike back angrily upon his prostrate arm. A sharp pain
ran from his elbow to shoulder and for a moment stung him to full
consciousness again. There were voices surely,--the voices of their
former pursuers! If they were seeking to revenge themselves upon him for
Cato's escape, he was ready for them. He cocked his revolver and stood
erect. A torch flashed through the wood. But even at that moment a film
came over his eyes; he staggered and fell.
An interval of helpless semi-consciousness ensued. He felt himself
lifted by strong arms and carried forward, his arm hanging uselessly at
his side. The dank odor of the wood was presently exchanged for the free
air of the open field; the flaming pine-knot torches were extinguished
in the bright moonlight. People pressed around him, but so indistinctly
he could not recognize them. All his consciousness seemed centred in
the burning, throbbing pain of his arm. He felt himself laid upon the
gravel; the sleeve cut from his shoulder, the cool sensation of the hot
and bursting skin bared to the night air, and then a soft, cool, and
indescribable pressure upon a wound he had not felt before. A voice
followed,--high, lazily petulant, and familiar to him, and yet one he
strove in vain to recall.
“De Lawdy-Gawd save us, Miss Sally! Wot yo' doin' dah? Chile! Chile! Yo'
'll kill yo'se'f, shuah!”
The pressure continued, strange and potent even through his pain, and
was then withdrawn. And a voice that thrilled him said:--
“It's the only thing to save him! Hush, ye chattering black crow! Say
anything about this to a living soul, and I'll have yo' flogged! Now
trot out the whiskey bottle and pour it down him.”