in her eye. Mr. Simmons didn't know whether she was laughing at him
or paying him a compliment; but he thought it would be safe to change
the subject.
"May I ask the old man there a few questions?" he inquired.
"Why, certainly," Mrs. Ward responded. "Cross-examine him to your
heart's content. But be careful about it, Mr. Simmons. He's old and
feeble, and his mind is not as good as it used to be. I heard him
telling the house girl last night that he was losing his senses."
"De lawsy massy, mistiss! You know I wuz des projickin' wid dat gal.
Dey ain't any na'er nigger in de country got any mo' sense dan what I
got. You know dat yo'se'f."
"Was anybody with you in the bateau when you went down the river this
morning?"
"Yes, suh, dey wuz," replied Uncle Andy solemnly.
"Who was it?"
"Well, suh"--
"Don't get excited, now, Andrew," his mistress interrupted. "Tell Mr.
Simmons the truth. You know your weakness."
If Uncle Andy's skin had been white or even brown, Mr. Simmons would
have seen him blushing violently. He knew his mistress was making fun
of him, but he was not less embarrassed on that account. He looked at
Mrs. Ward and laughed.
"Speak right out," said the lady. "Who was with you in the bateau?"
"Little Essek, ma'm,--my gran-chil'. I'm bleedge ter have some un
long fer ter hol' de boat steady when I go ter look at my set-hooks.
Little Essek wuz de fust one I see, en I holler'd at 'im."
"Did anybody cross from the other side this morning?" asked Mr.
Simmons.
"Not dat I knows un, less'n it wuz Criddle's Jerry. He's got a wife
at de Abercrombie place. He fotch Marse Criddle's buggy to be worked
on at our blacksmif shop, en he rid de mule home dis mornin'. Little
Essek had 'er down yer 'bout daylight waitin' fer Jerry, kaze he say
he got ter be home soon ef not befo'."
Uncle Andy had an imagination. Jerry had brought the buggy and had
ridden the mule home. He also had a wife at the Abercrombie place,
but his master had given him no "pass" to visit her, thinking it
might delay his return. For that reason Jerry did not cross the
river the night before.
"And here we've been chasing Criddle's Jerry all the morning,"
remarked George Gossett to Mr. Simmons. "Pap was right."
"But what was the nigger doing at your place?" Mr. Simmons was still
arguing the matter in his mind.
"Don't ask me," replied George Gossett.
"Dey ain't no 'countin' fer a nigger, suh," remarked Uncle Andy
affably. "Dey ain't no 'countin' fer 'em when dey ol' ez I is, much
less when dey young en soople like Criddle's Jerry."
Under the circumstances there was nothing for Mr. Simmons and young
Gossett to do but to turn short about and recross the river. It was
fortunate for them that a negro boy was waiting to take Mrs. Ward's
horse across the river. They followed him into the ford, and made
the crossing without difficulty. Then the two men held a council of
war. Uncle Andy had another name for it. "I wish you'd look at um
jugglin'," he said to his mistress, as he helped her from the bateau.
George Gossett was wet, tired, and disgusted, and he would not hear
to Mr. Simmons's proposition to "beat about the bushes" in the hope
that the dogs would strike Aaron's trail. "We started wrong," he
said. "Let's go home, and when we try for the nigger again, let's
start right."
"Well, tell your father I'll be back the day after to-morrow if I
don't catch his nigger. I'm obliged to go home now and change my duds
if I don't strike a trail. It's a true saying that there's more mud
than water in the Oconee. I'll take a short cut. I'll go up the river
a mile or such a matter and ride across to Dawson's old mill road.
That will take me home by dinner time."
As it happened, Mr. Simmons didn't take dinner at home that day, nor
did he return to Gossett's at the time he appointed.
He called his dogs and turned his horse's head up stream. He followed
the course of the river for a mile or more, and then bore away
from it. While he was riding along, lost in his reflections, he
suddenly heard Sound giving tongue far ahead. That sagacious dog had
unexpectedly hit on Aaron's trail, and he lost no time in announcing
the fact as loudly as he could. Mr. Simmons was very much surprised.
"If that blamed dog is fooling me this time I'll feel like killing
him," he remarked to himself. The rest of the dogs joined in, and
they were all soon footing it merrily in the direction of the big
swamp.
The blue falcon, circling high in the air, suddenly closed her wings
and dropped into the leafy bosom of the Swamp. This was the first
messenger. That red joker, the Fox Squirrel, had heard the wailing
cry of the hounds, and scampered down the big pine. Halfway down he
made a flying leap into the live oak, and then from tree to tree he
went running, scrambling, jumping.
But let him go never so fast, the blue falcon was before him, and
let the blue falcon swoop never so swiftly, the message was before
her. For the White Grunter had ears. Ooft! he had heard the same
wailing sound when the hounds were after him before he was old enough
to know what his tusks were for. And Rambler had ears. In fact, the
Swamp itself had ears, and for a few moments it held its breath (as
the saying is) and listened. Listened intently,--and then quietly,
cautiously, and serenely began to dispose of its forces. Near the big
poplar Aaron had a pile of stones. They had been selected to fit his
hand; they were not too large nor too small; they were not too light
nor too heavy. This pile of stones was Aaron's ammunition, and he
took his stand by it.
The White Pig rose slowly from his bed of mud, where he had been
wallowing, and shook himself. Then he scratched himself by rubbing
his side against a beech-tree. The Brindle Steer slowly dragged
himself through the canes and tall grass, and came to Aaron's tree,
where he paused with such a loud sigh that Rambler jumped away.
"It is the track dogs," he said.
"Yes; I'm sorry," replied Aaron. "When the big black dog comes stand
aside and leave him to me."
"Gooft! not if it's the one that chewed my ear," remarked the White
Pig.
"I came this morning by the thunder-wood tree," said Aaron. "Hide in
the grass near there, and when they pass come charging after them."
The dogs came nearer and nearer, and the Swamp could hear Mr.
Simmons cheering them on. As for Mr. Simmons, he was sure of one
thing--the dogs were trailing either a wildcat or a runaway. He
had never trained them not to follow the scent of a wildcat, and he
now regretted it; for his keen ear, alive to differences that would
not attract the attention of those who had never made a study of
the temperament of dogs, detected a more savage note in their cry
than he was accustomed to hear. Nor did his ear deceive him. Sound
was following the scent of Aaron, but his companions were trailing
Rambler, who had accompanied Aaron, and this fact gave a fiercer
twang to their cry.
When Aaron was going from Gossett's to the river landing, Rambler was
not trotting at his heels, but scenting ahead, sometimes far to the
right and at other times far to the left. But in going from the river
to the Swamp it was otherwise. Rambler had to hold his head high to
prevent Aaron's heel from striking him on the under jaw. His scent
lay with that of the Son of Ben Ali.
For that reason Mr. Simmons was puzzled by the peculiar cry of the
dogs. He had trained them not to follow the scent of hares, coons,
and foxes, and if they were not trailing a runaway he knew, or
thought he knew, that they must be chasing a wildcat. Pluto, the
crop-eared catch dog, galloped by his master's horse. He was a
fierce-looking brute, but Mr. Simmons knew that he would be no match
for a wildcat.
[Illustration: IN THE SWAMP]
When the dogs entered the Swamp Mr. Simmons tried to follow, but he
soon found his way barred by the undergrowth, by the trailing vines,
the bending trees, the rank canes. He must needs leave his horse or
lead it when he entered the Swamp. He chose to do neither, but sat in
his saddle and waited, Pluto waiting with him, ready to go in when
the word was given.
When the hounds entered the Swamp they were in full cry. They
struggled through the vines, the briers, and the canes, and splashed
through the spreading arms of the lagoon. Suddenly they ceased to
cry. Then Mr. Simmons heard a strange snarling and snapping, an
ominous crashing, fierce snorting, and then howls and screams of pain
from his hounds.
"A cat, by jing!" he exclaimed aloud. Intent on saving his hounds if
possible, he gave Pluto the word, and that savage brute plunged into
the Swamp with gleaming red jaws and eager eyes.
Mr. Simmons never really knew what happened to his hounds, but
the Swamp knew. When they splashed past the White Pig that fierce
guardian of the Swamp sprang from his lair and rushed after them.
They tried hard to escape, but the hindmost was caught. The White
Pig ran by his side for the space of three full seconds, then,
lowering his head, he raised it again with a toss sidewise, and the
hound was done for--ripped from flank to backbone as neatly as a
butcher could have done it. Another was caught on the horn of the
red steer and flung sheer into the lagoon. Sound, the leader, fell
into Rambler's jaws, and some old scores were settled there and then.
Pluto came charging blindly in. He saw the White Pig and made for
him, experience telling him that a hog will run when a dog is after
it; but experience did him small service here. The White Pig charged
to meet him, seeing which Pluto swerved to one side, but he was not
nimble enough. With a downward swoop and an upward sweep of his snout
the White Pig caught Pluto under the shoulder with his tusk and gave
him a taste of warfare in the Swamp. Another dog would have left the
field, but Pluto had a temper. He turned and rushed at the White
Pig, and the Swamp prepared to witness a battle royal. But just then
there was a whizzing, zooning sound in the air, a thud, and Pluto
tumbled over and fell in a heap. Aaron had ended the cur's career as
suddenly as if he had been blown to pieces by a cannon. There was one
stone missing from the store of ammunition at the foot of the big
poplar.
Meanwhile, Rambler was worrying Sound, and the White Pig, seeing no
other enemy in sight, went running to the scene of that fray. His
onslaught was so furious that Rambler thought it good manners to get
out of Grunter's way. So he loosed his hold on Sound, and jumped
aside. Sound was still able to do some jumping on his own account,
and he turned tail and ran, just as the White Pig was about to
trample him under foot. But he was not quick enough to escape with a
whole skin. The tusk of the White Pig touched him on the hind leg,
and where it touched it tore.
Mr. Simmons had five dogs when he came to the Swamp. Sound came out
to him after the morning's adventure, but had to be carried home
across the saddle bow. Two days later another of the dogs went
limping home. Three dogs were left in the Swamp. Mr. Simmons blew his
horn, and called for some time, and then he slowly went his way.
He had a great tale to tell when he got home. His dogs had jumped a
wildcat at the river, chased him to the Swamp, and there they found
a den of wildcats. There was a great fight, but three of the dogs
were killed, and the cats were so fierce that it was as much as Mr.
Simmons could do to escape with his life. Indeed, according to his
tale, the biggest cat followed him to the edge of the Swamp. And he
told this moving tale so often that he really believed it, and felt
that he was a sort of hero.
As for the Swamp, it had a rare frolic that night. All the mysteries
came forth and danced, and the Willis-Whistlers piped as they had
never piped before, and old Mr. Bullfrog joined in with his fine bass
voice. And the next morning Mr. Buzzard, who roosted in the loblolly
pine, called his sanitary committee together, and soon there was
nothing left of Pluto and his companions to pester the Swamp.
VII.
AARON SEES THE SIGNAL.
The Swamp had a fine frolic on the night of the day that it routed
Mr. Simmons's dogs, but Aaron was not there to see it. He knew
that, for some days at least, he would be free from active pursuit.
The only danger he would have to encounter would come from the
patrollers,--the negroes called them "patterollers,"--who visited
the various plantations at uncertain intervals. If he began to go
about with too much confidence it was entirely possible he would run
into the arms of the patrollers, and he would have small opportunity
to escape. Therefore, while he knew that he would not be hunted by
dogs for some time to come, he also knew he must be constantly on
the alert to guard against surprises. The most active member of the
patrol was George Gossett himself; and after he and his companions
had visited Mr. Fullalove's distillery, which they never failed
to do when they went patrolling, they were not in a condition to
be entirely responsible for their actions. They had nothing to
restrain them on such occasions except the knowledge that some of
the owners of the negroes would jump at an excuse to hold them to
personal account. And this was not a pleasant result to contemplate,
especially after a night's spree.
For these reasons Aaron was much more anxious to elude George Gossett
and the patrollers than he was to escape from Mr. Jim Simmons's
hounds. He knew he must avoid the negro cabins, which were traps
for the unwary when the patrollers were around, and he knew he must
keep off the public road--the "big road," as it was called--and not
venture too often on the frequently traveled plantation paths.
Young Gossett and his companions had a way of dismounting from
their horses out of sight and hearing of the negro quarters on the
plantations that lay on their "beat." Leaving the animals in charge
of one man, they would cautiously post themselves at the various
fence crossings and paths frequented by the negroes, and in this way
capture all who were going to the negro quarters or coming away. If
a negro had a "pass" or a permit from his master, well and good. If
he had none--well, it would be a sorry night's frolic for him.
But Aaron had one great advantage over all the slaves who went to and
fro between the plantations after nightfall. He had Rambler to warn
him; and yet, after an experience that he had on one occasion, he
felt that he must be more cautious than ever.
It happened not many weeks before he was hunted by Mr. Simmons's
hounds. In trying to kill a moccasin, Rambler had the misfortune to
be bitten by the serpent. The wound was on his jowl, and in spite
of all that Aaron could do the poor dog's head and neck swelled
fearfully. When night came the Son of Ben Ali made Rambler as
comfortable as possible, bruising herbs and barks and binding them to
the wound, and making him a soft bed.
On that particular night Aaron felt that he ought to visit the Little
Master, and yet he was doubtful about it. He finally concluded to
wait until late, and then go to the hill where, a few weeks later, he
parted from Chunky Riley. If a light was shining behind the Little
Master's curtain he would go and drive the red goblin, Pain, from the
room.
He went to the hill, and the light was shining. The little red goblin
was up to his old tricks. As he went along Aaron fell to thinking
about the Little Master, and wondering why the child should be
constantly given over to suffering. He forgot all about himself in
trying to solve this problem, forgot to be cautious, forgot that he
was a fugitive, and went blindly along the path to the fence above
the spring lot. There, without warning, he found himself face to face
with George Gossett. The rest of the patrollers were posted about at
various points.
Perhaps George Gossett was as much surprised as Aaron. At any rate,
he said nothing. He took a half-consumed cigar from his lips, and
flipped the ashes from it. No doubt he intended to say something,
yet he was in no hurry. His pistol was in his coat pocket, his hand
grasped the handle, and his finger was on the trigger. He felt that
he was prepared for any emergency--and so he was, except for the
particular emergency that Aaron then and there invented.
[Illustration: RAMBLER'S FIGHT WITH THE MOCCASIN]
The Son of Ben Ali took off his hat, to show how polite he was
in the dark, advanced a step, and then suddenly plunged at young
Gossett headforemost. Struck fairly in the pit of the stomach by this
battering ram, the young man, who was not too sober to begin with,
went down like a log, and Aaron ran away like a deer.
The worst of it was that when George Gossett recovered consciousness
and was able to call his nearest companion to his assistance, that
individual simply laughed at the amazing story.
"Why, it don't stand to reason," he said. "There ain't a living
nigger that'd dast to do sech a thing, and the dead ones couldn't."
"Didn't you hear him when he butted me?" inquired young Gossett
feebly.
"I heard you when you fell off the fence," replied the other. "I
allowed that you had jumped down to let the blood git in your feet."
"I tell you," insisted the young man, "he come up so close I could
'a' put my hand on him. He took off his hat as polite as you please,
and the next thing I know'd I didn't know nothing."
"Shucks!" exclaimed his companion as loudly as he dared to talk;
"you jest about set up on the fence there and went to sleep, and fell
off. I told you about them low-wines at the still; I told you when
you was a-swilling 'em, same as a fattening hog, that if you didn't
look out you'd have to be toted home. And here you are!"
Young Gossett had to go home, and as he was the leading spirit
the rest had to go with him. He managed to sit his horse after a
fashion, but it was as much as he could do. Once in the big road, his
companions made many rough jokes at his expense, and they advised him
never to tell such another tale as that if he didn't want the public
at large to "hoot at him."
The adventure taught Aaron a new lesson in caution; and even now,
after Mr. Simmons's famous pack of "nigger-dogs" had been all but
destroyed, he felt that it was necessary to be more cautious than
ever, even when Rambler accompanied him. He had no idea that Mr.
Simmons thought his dogs had been attacked by wildcats. In fact,
he thought that Mr. Simmons had full knowledge of his movements,
and he was prepared any day to see Mr. Gossett gather his neighbors
together, especially the young men, surround the swamp armed with
shotguns, and try in that way to capture him.
But when night fell on the day of his experience with Mr. Simmons's
dogs, he resolved to visit Little Crotchet. He was tired; he had
traveled many miles, and had had little sleep, but sleep could be
called at any time, and would come at the call. Only at night could
he visit the Little Master. In the daytime he could stretch himself
on a bed of fragrant pine-needles, with odorous heart-leaves for
his pillow, and take his ease. So now, after all the turmoil and
confusion he had experienced in field and wood, he went to the hill
from which he could see the light in Little Crotchet's window.
Usually it was late before Aaron would venture to climb to the
window, but there was one signal that made it urgent for him to go.
When the light was suddenly extinguished and as suddenly relit, it
was a signal that Aaron must come as soon as he could. This was
Little Crotchet's invention and he thought a great deal of it. And it
must be admitted that it was very simple and complete. Sitting on the
hill, Aaron saw the light shining through the red curtain. Then it
disappeared and the window remained dark for a minute. Then the light
suddenly shone out again. The Arab glanced at the two stars that
revolve around the north star, and judged it was not more than nine
o'clock. What could the Little Master want at this early hour?
No need to ask that question; Little Crotchet had a great deal of
business on hand. In the first place, while Mr. Simmons's hounds were
hunting Aaron, Timoleon, the Black Stallion, had escaped from his
stable, and he created a great uproar on the place. When the negro
who usually fed and groomed him went into the lot to catch the horse,
he found that the catcher is sometimes caught. For Timoleon, made
furious by his freedom from the confinement of the halter and the
four walls of the stable, seized the man by the shoulder and came
near inflicting a fatal injury. Nothing saved the unfortunate negro
but the fact that Randall, who chanced to be walking about the lot,
made a pretense of attacking the horse with a wagon whip. Timoleon
dropped the negro and made a furious rush at Randall; but Randall
was in reach of the fence, and so made his escape, while the wounded
negro took advantage of the opportunity to stagger, stumble, and
crawl to a place of safety. This done, he lay as one dead. He was
carried to his cabin, and a messenger was sent, hot-foot, for the
doctor, who lived in the neighborhood not far away.
Little Crotchet witnessed a part of the scene, and, oh! he was angry.
It was outrageous, wicked, horrible, that a horse should be so cruel.
He sat on the Gray Pony and shook his fist impotently at the Black
Stallion.
"Oh, if I had you where I could put the lash on you, I'd make you pay
for this, you mean, cruel creature!"
Singular to say, Timoleon whinnied when he heard the Little Master's
voice, and came galloping to the fence where the Gray Pony stood, and
put his head over the top rail.
"Blest ef I don't b'lieve he know you, honey," said Randall.
This somewhat mollified Little Crotchet, but he was still angry. "Why
are you so mean and cruel! Oh, I'll make somebody lash you well for
this!"
The Black Stallion whinnied again in the friendliest way. "Is
anybody ever see de beat er dat!" exclaimed Randall.
Nothing could be done, and so the Black Stallion roamed about the lot
at will, and that night when the mules came in from the field they
had to be fed and housed under the ginhouse shelter. The White-Haired
Master was away from home on business, but the whole plantation knew
that he prized Timoleon above all the other horses on the place, and
so neither Turin nor Randall would take harsh measures to recapture
the horse. They were careful enough, however, to have the high fence
strengthened where they found it weak.
This was one of the reasons why Little Crotchet wanted to see Aaron.
But there was also another reason. The lad wanted to introduce the
runaway to a new friend of his, Mr. Richard Hudspeth, his tutor, who
had been employed to come all the way from Massachusetts to take
charge of the lad's education, which was already fair for his age.
In fact, what Little Crotchet knew about books was astonishing when
it is remembered that he never went to school. He had been taught to
read and write and cipher by his mother, and this opened the door of
his father's library, which was as large as it was well selected.
Mr. Hudspeth had been recommended by an old friend who had served
two years in Congress with Mr. Abercrombie, and there was no trouble
in coming to an agreement, for Mr. Hudspeth had reasons of his own
for desiring to visit the South. He belonged to the anti-slavery
society, and was an aggressive abolitionist. He was a fair-skinned
young man, with a silk-like yellow beard, active in his movements,
and had a voice singularly sweet and well modulated. He talked with
great nicety of expression, and had a certain daintiness of manner
which, in so far as it suggested femininity, was calculated to give
the casual observer a wrong idea of Mr. Hudspeth's disposition and
temperament.
He had been installed as Little Crotchet's tutor for more than a
week. The lad did not like him at first. His preciseness seemed to
smack too much of method and discipline,--the terror of childhood and
youth. And there was a queer inflection to his sentences, and his
pronunciation had a strange and an unfamiliar twang. But these things
soon became familiar to the lad, as Mr. Hudspeth, little by little,
won his attention and commanded his interest. The Teacher (for he
was emphatically a Teacher in the best sense, and not a Tutor in any
sense) saw at the beginning that the dull routine of the text-books
would be disastrous here, both to health and spirits. And so he fell
back on his own experience, and became himself the mouthpiece of all
good books he had ever read, and of all great thoughts that had ever
planted themselves in his mind. And he entered with real enthusiasm
into all Little Crotchet's thoughts, and drew him out until the soul
of the lad would have been no more clearly defined had every detail
been painted on canvas and hung on the wall before the Teacher's eyes.