Dun clouds of tragedy, crimson-streaked with sinister romance, shadow
the chronicles of the forty-mile square that makes the Dismal Swamp.
Thither, aforetime, even as to-day, men fled into the labyrinthine
recesses to escape the justice--or the injustice--of their fellows.
Runaway slaves sought asylum within its impenetrable and uncharted
mazes of thicket and quaking earth, of fetid pool and slithering
quicksands. Such fugitives came no more after the emancipation.
Instead of slaves, there were black men who had outraged the law, who
fled into the steaming, noxious waste in order to evade the penalty
for crime. For a time, these evil-doers were hunted through the
tortuous trails in the canebrakes with blood-hounds, even as their
predecessors had been. But the kennels of the man-hunting dogs were
ravaged by the black tongue, soon after the ending of the Civil War.
Poisoners, too, took toll of the too intelligent brutes. The strain
rapidly grew less--became extinct. Whereat, the criminals of Dismal
Swamp rejoiced in unholy glee. Their numbers waxed. Soon, they came to
be a serious menace to the peace and safety of the communities that
bordered on the infested region.
One sufferer from these conditions so resented the depredations of
marauders that he bought in England two splendid stag-hounds, keen of
scent, intelligent, faithful to their task, strong enough to throttle
their quarry, be it deer or man. By the aid of these creatures, many
criminals were captured. Their owner, by the intrepidity of his
pursuit, was given a nickname, "Cyclone" Brant. The speed and force
and resistlessness of him justified the designation. Together with his
dogs, Jack and Bruno, he won local fame for daring and successful
exploits against the lurking swamp devils. It was this man who now,
canvas-clad, with rifle in hand, looked in the direction indicated by
Zeke. He was dripping wet, plastered with slime of the bogs. For a few
seconds, he stood staring in silence. Then a little, gasping cry broke
from his lips. He strode forward, and fell to his knees beside the
body of the dog. He lifted the face of the hound gently in his two
hands, and looked down at it for a long time.
There was a film of tears in Brant's eyes when, at last, he put the
head of the dog softly back on the earth, and stood up, and turned
toward the mountaineer. He made explanation with simple directness.
The negro was a notorious outlaw, for whose capture the authorities of
Elizabeth City offered a reward of five hundred dollars. Half of this
sum would be duly paid to Zeke.
This news stirred the young man to the deeps. To his poverty-stricken
experience, the amount was princely. The mere mention of it made
privations to vanish away, luxuries to flourish. He had roseate
visions of lavish expenditures: a warm coat for the old mother,
furbelows for Plutina, "straighteners" even, if she would have them.
The dreamer blushed at the intimacy of his thought. It did not occur
to his frugal soul that now he need not continue on _The Bonita_, but
might instead go easily to New York by train. He was naïvely happy in
this influx of good fortune, and showed his emotion in the deepened
color under the tan of his cheeks and in the dancing lights of the
steady eyes.
"I'm shore plumb glad I kotched him," he said eagerly, "if thar's a
right smart o' money in hit. If he's as right-down bad as ye says he
is, I'm powerfully sorry I didn't wing 'im 'fore he got yer dawg."
Brant shook his head regretfully.
"It's my fault," he confessed. "I oughtn't to have taken the chance
with Bruno alone. I should have had Jack along, too. With more than
one dog, a man won't stand against 'em. He'll take to a tree." He
shook off the depression that descended as he glanced down at the
stiffening body of the beast. There was a forced cheerfulness in his
tones when he continued: "But how did you get into the swamp? I take
you to be from the mountains."
Zeke's manner suddenly indicated no small pride.
"I'm a sailor, suh," he explained, with great dignity. "I'm the
cookin' chief on the fishin' steamer, _Bonita_."
Brant surveyed the mountaineer with quizzically appraising eyes.
"Been a sailor long?" he questioned, innocently.
"Wall, no, I hain't," Zeke conceded. His voice was reluctant. "I was
only tuk on las' night. I hain't rightly begun sailorin' yit. Thet's
how I c'd come arter thet gobbler." He pointed to the bird lying at
the foot of the cypress. Abruptly, his thoughts veered again to the
reward. "Oh, cracky! Jest think of all thet money earned in two
minutes! Hit's what I come down out o' the mountains fer, an' hit
'pears like I done right. I'd shore be tickled to see all thet-thar
money in dimes an' nickels, n' mebby a few quarters thrown in!"
"You're tied up near here?" Brant inquired.
"'Bout a mile over," was the answer. "Will ye take yer nigger thar
first?"
"Yes, I know Captain Lee. He'll give me a chance at your gobbler, and
then passage to Elizabeth City."
That same afternoon, _The Bonita_ continued her voyage. The captain
obligingly made a landing at Elizabeth City, where Brant lodged his
prisoner, and where the gratified Zeke stowed in his wallet ten times
as much money as he had ever before possessed at one time. Naturally,
he was in a mood of much self-complacency, for, in addition to the
money gain, his adventure had notably increased his prestige aboard
ship, where Brant's praise for his prompt and efficient action was
respectfully accepted. Yet, despite his contentment, the mountaineer
found himself strangely troubled as he lay in his bunk, after the ship
had got under way. It may be that his perturbation had a physical
cause, at least in part, for there was more movement now as the vessel
slid through the waves of Pamlico Sound. It was while he tossed
restlessly, troubled over this unaccustomed inability to sleep, that
there came a memory of the black bag:
"I plumb fergot the dum hoodoo!" Zeke muttered, in huge disgust. "An'
the chief said I must git another the first chance." Then he grinned
vaingloriously into the darkness of the fore-peak. "But I reckon hit
hain't put no cuss on me yit--seein' as how I got a job an' a peck o'
money right smack off." Presently, however, his nervous mood suggested
a sinister possibility. "P'rhaps, it don't work on land--only jest on
the sea, or mebby jest whar it happens to be at. Hit wa'n't 'long
with me when I ketched the nigger. I 'low I ought to 'a' got rid o'
the pesky thing like the chief said."
Zeke realized that sleep was not for him. If he had had any hope
otherwise, it was ended when the fog-horn of _The Bonita_ wound its
melancholy blasts, and other trumpetings began to sound over the waste
from near and far. Already, by dint of many inquiries, Zeke had
acquired enough information to know that the mournful noise was the
accompaniment of a fog. Curious to see, he rose, and felt his way to
the small port-hole, through which he sought to peer out into the
night. His vision compassed no more than a few fathom's distance;
beyond, all was blackness. The port was open, and the cold mist
stealing in chilled him. Zeke shivered, but an inexplicable
disturbance of spirit kept him from the warmth of the blankets. He
chose rather to slip on his trousers, and then again to gaze blindly
out into the mysterious dark of this new world. He found himself
hearkening intently for the varied calls of warning that went wailing
hither and yon. The mellow, softly booming, yet penetrant notes of the
conch-shells blown by the skippers of smaller craft, came almost
soothingly to his ears. All the others, harsher, seemed tocsins of
terror.
[Illustration:
_Clara Kimball Young under the direction of Lewis J. Selznick._
THE LOVERS ON STONE MOUNTAIN.]
Standing there at the port, with the floating drops of mist drenching
his face, Zeke fell into a waking dream. He was again clambering over
the scarped cliffs of Stone Mountain; beside him Plutina. His arm was
about her waist, and their hands were clasped, as they crept with
cautious, feeling steps amid the perils of the path. For over the
lofty, barren summit, the mist had shut down in impenetrable veils.
Yet, through that murk of vapor, the two, though they moved so
carefully, went in pulsing gladness, their hearts singing the old,
old, new, new mating song. A mist not born of the sea nor of the
mountain, but of the heart, was in the lad's eyes while he remembered
and lived again those golden moments in the mountain gloom. It seemed
to him for a blessed minute that Plutina was actually there beside him
in the tiny, rocking space of the fore-peak; that the warmth of her
hand-clasp thrilled into the beating of his pulses. Though the
illusion vanished swiftly, the radiance of it remained, for he knew
that then, and always, the spirit of the girl dwelt with him.
The mountaineer's interval of peace was rudely ended. A wild volley of
blasts from _The Bonita's_ whistle made alarum. Bells clanged
frantically in the engine-room close at hand. A raucous fog-horn
clamored out of the dark. To Zeke, still dazedly held to thought of
the mountains, the next sound was like the crashing down of a giant
tree, which falls with the tearing, splitting din of branches beating
through underbrush. An evil tremor shook the boat. Of a sudden, _The
Bonita_ heeled over to starboard, almost on her beams' ends. Zeke
saved himself from falling only by a quick clutch on the open port.
From the deck above came a contusion of fierce voices, a strident
uproar of shouts and curses. Then, _The Bonita_ righted herself,
tremulously, languidly, as one sore-stricken might sit up, very
feebly. The sailors in the fore-peak, with a chorus of startled oaths,
leaped from the bunks, and fled to the deck. Zeke followed.
Clinging to a stanchion, the mountaineer could distinguish vaguely, in
the faint lights of the lanterns, the bows of a three-masted schooner,
which had sheared through the port-side of _The Bonita_. The bowsprit
hung far over the smaller ship, a wand of doom. The beating of the
waves against the boat's side came gently under the rasping, crunching
complaint of timber against timber in combat. The schooner's sails
flapped softly in the light breeze. Zeke, watching and listening
alertly, despite bewilderment, heard the roaring commands of a man
invisible, somewhere above him, and guessed that this must be the
captain of the schooner. He saw the crew of _The Bonita_ clambering
one after another at speed, up the anchor chain at the bow of the
destroyer. He realized that flight was the only road to safety. But,
even as he was tensed to dart forward, he remembered his treasure of
money under the bunk pillow.
On the instant, he rushed to the fore-peak, seized the wallet and the
black bag, and fled again to the deck. At the moment when he
reappeared, a gust of quickening breeze filled the schooner's sails.
The canvas bellied taut. The grinding, clashing clamor of the timbers
swelled suddenly. The schooner wrenched herself free, and slipped,
abruptly silent, away into the night and the mist. Ere Zeke reached
the rail in his leap, the schooner had vanished. For a minute, he
heard a medley of voices. Then, while he stood straining his eyes in
despair, these sounds lessened--died. The mountaineer stood solitary
and forsaken on the deck of a sinking ship.
Finally, Zeke spoke aloud in self-communion. The words rang a little
tremulous, for he realized that he was at grips with death.
"Hit's what I gits fer fergittin'," was his regretful comment. "I
reckon, if so be I'd ever got onto thet-thar schooner with this-hyar
damn' bag, she'd 'a' sunk, too. Or, leastways, they'd have chucked me
overboard like Jonah, fer causin' the hull cussed trouble with this
pesky black bag o' mine."
Zeke perceived that the doomed vessel was settling by the head. He
surmised that time was short. Nevertheless, he took leisure for one
duty he deemed of prime importance. With all his strength in a vicious
heave, he cast the black bag from him into the sea.
"I hain't superstitious," he remarked, sullenly; "thet is, not
exzackly. An' I reckon I'm gittin' rid o' that conjure satchel a mite
late. I guess hit's done hit's damnedest a'ready."
Inquiries during the leisurely voyaging through the canal had given
Zeke knowledge concerning the life-belts. Now, he buckled one of them
about his body hastily, for even his ignorance could not fail to
interpret the steady settling of the vessel into the water. The strain
of fighting forebears in the lad set him courageous in the face of
death. But his blood was red and all a-tingle with the joy of life,
and he was very loath to die. His heart yearned for the girl who loved
him. His desire for her was a stabbing agony. The thought of his
mother's destitution, deprived of him in her old age, was grievous.
But his anguish was over the girl--anguish for himself; yet more for
her. The drizzle of the fog on his cheeks brought again a poignant
memory of the mist that had enwrapped them on the stark rocks of the
mountain. A savage revolt welled in him against the monstrous decree
of fate. He cried out roughly a challenge to the elements. Then, in
the next instant, he checked the futile outburst, and bethought him
how best to meet the catastrophe.
The instinct of flight from the rising waters led Zeke to mount the
pilot-house. The lanterns shed a flickering light here, and the youth
uttered a cry of joy as his eyes fell on the life-raft. The shout was
lost in the hissing of steam as the sea rushed in on the boilers. All
the lights were extinguished now, save the running lamps with their
containers of oil. Quickly, the noise from the boiler-room died out,
and again there was silence, save for the occasional bourdoning of the
horns or the mocking caress of the waves that lapped the vessel's
sides--like a colossal serpent licking the prey it would devour
betimes. In the stillness, Zeke wrought swiftly. He wasted no time
over the fastenings. The blade of his knife slashed through the hemp
lashings, and the raft lay clear. He made sure that it was free from
the possibility of entanglement. Then, as the boat lurched
sickeningly, like a drunken man to a fall, Zeke stretched himself face
downward lengthwise of the tiny structure, and clenched his hands on
the tubes. There was a period of dragging seconds, while _The Bonita_
swayed sluggishly, in a shuddering rhythm. Came the death spasm. The
stern was tossed high; the bow plunged for the depths. Down and
down--to the oyster rocks of Teach's Hole, in Pamlico Sound. As the
vessel sank, the raft floated clear for a moment, then the suction
drew it under, buffeted it--spewed it forth. It rode easily on the
swirling waters, at last. As the commotion from the ship's sinking
ceased, the raft moved smoothly on the surface, rocking gently with
the pulse of the sea. Zeke, half-strangled, almost torn from his place
by the grip of the water in the plunge, clung to his refuge with all
the strength that was in him. And that strength prevailed. Soon, he
could breathe fully once again, and the jaws of the sea gave over
their gnawing. After the mortal peril through which he had won, Zeke
found his case not so evil. The life was still in him, and he voiced a
crude phrase of gratefulness to Him who is Lord of the deep waters,
even as of the everlasting hills.
Near Teach's Hole, Ocracoke Inlet offers a shallow channel between the
dunes from Pamlico Sound to the open sea. Here the varying tides rush
angrily, lashed by the bulk of waves behind. To-night, the ebb bore
with it a cockle-shell on which a lad clung, shivering. But the soul
was still strong in him for all his plight. He dared believe that he
would yet return safe to the mountains, to the love that awaited him
there.
Once the castaway smiled wryly:
"I hain't superstitious none--leastways, I dunno's I be," he muttered,
doubtfully. "But hit's plumb lucky I got rid o' thet-thar dum black
bag jest as I did, or I'd 'a' been a goner, shore!"