From the harsh treatment of slaves sprang a result, little thought of by
the inhuman master; though greatly detrimental to his interests. It
caused them occasionally to abscond; so making it necessary to insert an
advertisement in the county newspaper, offering a reward for the
runaway. Thus cruelty proved expensive.
In planter Darke's case, however, the cost was partially recouped by the
cleverness of his son; who was a noted "nigger-catcher," and kept dogs
for the especial purpose. He had a natural _penchant_ for this kind of
chase; and, having little else to do, passed a good deal of his time
scouring the country in pursuit of his father's advertised runaways.
Having caught them, he would claim the "bounty," just as if they
belonged to a stranger. Darke, _pere_, paid it without grudge or
grumbling--perhaps the only disbursement he ever made in such mood. It
was like taking out of one pocket to put into the other. Besides, he
was rather proud of his son's acquitting himself so shrewdly.
Skirting the two plantations, with others in the same line of
settlements, was a cypress swamp. It extended along the edge of the
great river, covering an area of many square miles. Besides being a
swamp, it was a network of creeksy bayous, and lagoons--often inundated,
and only passable by means of skiff or canoe. In most places it was a
slough of soft mud, where man might not tread, nor any kind of
water-craft make way. Over it, at all times, hung the obscurity of
twilight. The solar rays, however bright above, could not penetrate its
close canopy of cypress tops, loaded with that strangest of parasitical
plants--the _tillandsia usneoides_.
This tract of forest offered a safe place of concealment for runaway
slaves; and, as such, was it noted throughout the neighbourhood. A
"darkey" absconding from any of the contiguous plantations, was as sure
to make for the marshy expanse, as would a chased rabbit to its warren.
Sombre and gloomy though it was, around its edge lay the favourite
scouting-ground of Richard Darke. To him the cypress swamp was a
precious preserve--as a coppice to the pheasant shooter, or a scrub-wood
to the hunter of foxes. With the difference, that his game was human,
and therefore the pursuit more exciting.
There were places in its interior to which he had never penetrated--
large tracts unexplored, and where exploration could not be made without
great difficulty. But for him to reach them was not necessary. The
runaways who sought asylum in the swamp, could not always remain within
its gloomy recesses. Food must be obtained beyond its border, or
starvation be their fate. For this reason the fugitive required some
mode of communicating with the outside world. And usually obtained it,
by means of a confederate--some old friend, and fellow-slave, on one of
the adjacent plantations--privy to the secret of his hiding-place. On
this necessity the negro-catcher most depended; often finding the
stalk--or "still-hunt," in backwoods phraseology--more profitable than a
pursuit with trained hounds.
About a month after his rejection by Miss Armstrong, Richard Darke is
out upon a chase; as usual along the edge of the cypress swamp, rather
should it be called a search: since he has found no traces of the human
game that has tempted him forth. This is a fugitive negro--one of the
best field-hands belonging to his father's plantation--who has absented
himself, and cannot be recalled.
For several weeks "Jupiter"--as the runaway is named--has been missing;
and his description, with the reward attached, has appeared in the
county newspaper. The planter's son, having a suspicion that he is
secreted somewhere in the swamp, has made several excursions thither, in
the hope of lighting upon his tracks. But "Jupe" is an astute fellow,
and has hitherto contrived to leave no sign, which can in any way
contribute to his capture.
Dick Darke is returning home, after an unsuccessful day's search, in
anything but a cheerful mood. Though not so much from having failed in
finding traces of the missing slave. That is only a matter of money;
and, as he has plenty, the disappointment can be borne. The thought
embittering his spirit relates to another matter. He thinks of his
scorned suit, and blighted love prospects.
The chagrin caused him by Helen Armstrong's refusal has terribly
distressed, and driven him to more reckless courses. He drinks deeper
than ever; while in his cups he has been silly enough to let his boon
companions become acquainted with his reason for thus running riot,
making not much secret, either, of the mean revenge he designs for her
who has rejected him. She is to be punished through her father.
Colonel Armstrong's indebtedness to Ephraim Darke has become known
throughout the settlement--all about the mortgage. Taking into
consideration the respective characters of the mortgagor and mortgagee,
men shake their heads, and say that Darke will soon own the Armstrong
plantation. All the sooner, since the chief obstacle to the fulfilment
of his long-cherished design has been his son, and this is now removed.
Notwithstanding the near prospect of having his spite gratified, Richard
Darke keenly feels his humiliation. He has done so ever since the day
of his receiving it; and as determinedly has he been nursing his wrath.
He has been still further exasperated by a circumstance which has lately
occurred--the return of Charles Clancy from Texas. Someone has told him
of Clancy having been seen in company with Helen Armstrong--the two
walking the woods _alone_!
Such an interview could not have been with her father's consent, but
_clandestine_. So much the more aggravating to him--Darke. The thought
of it is tearing his heart, as he returns from his fruitless search
after the fugitive.
He has left the swamp behind, and is continuing on through a tract of
woodland, which separates his father's plantation from that of Colonel
Armstrong, when he sees something that promises relief to his perturbed
spirit. It is a woman, making her way through the woods, coming towards
him, from the direction of Armstrong's house.
She is not the colonel's daughter--neither one. Nor does Dick Darke
suppose it either. Though seen indistinctly under the shadow of the
trees, he identifies the approaching form as that of Julia--a mulatto
maiden, whose special duty it is to attend upon the young ladies of the
Armstrong family, "Thank God for the devil's luck!" he mutters, on
making her out. "It's Jupiter's sweetheart; his Juno or Leda,
yellow-hided as himself. _No_ doubt she's on her way to keep an
appointment with him? No more, that I shall be present at the
interview. Two hundred dollars reward for old Jupe, and the fun of
giving the damned nigger a good `lamming,' once I lay hand on him. Keep
on, Jule, girl! You'll track him up for me, better than the sharpest
scented hound in my kennel."
While making this soliloquy, the speaker withdraws himself behind a
bush; and, concealed by its dense foliage, keeps his eye on the mulatto
wench, still wending her way through the thick standing tree trunks.
As there is no path, and the girl is evidently going by stealth, he has
reason to believe she is on the errand conjectured.
Indeed he can have no doubt about her being on the way to an interview
with Jupiter; and he is now good as certain of soon discovering, and
securing, the runaway who has so long contrived to elude him.
After the girl has passed the place of his concealment--which she very
soon does--he slips out from behind the bush, and follows her with
stealthy tread, still taking care to keep cover between them.
Not long before she comes to a stop; under a grand magnolia, whose
spreading branches, with their large laurel like leaves, shadow a vast
circumference of ground.
Darke, who has again taken stand behind a fallen tree, where he has a
full view of her movements, watches them with eager eyes. Two hundred
dollars at stake--two hundred on his own account--fifteen hundred for
his father--Jupe's market value--no wonder at his being all eyes, all
ears, on the alert!
What is his astonishment, at seeing the girl take a letter from her
pocket, and, standing on tiptoe, drop it into a knot-hole in the
magnolia!
This done, she turns shoulder towards the tree; and, without staying
longer under its shadow, glides back along the path by which she has
come--evidently going home again!
The negro-catcher is not only surprised, but greatly chagrined. He has
experienced a double disappointment--the anticipation of earning two
hundred dollars, and giving his old slave the lash: both pleasant if
realised, but painful the thought in both to be foiled.
Still keeping in concealment, he permits Julia to depart, not only
unmolested, but unchallenged. There may be some secret in the letter to
concern, though it may not console him. In any case, it will soon be
his.
And it soon is, without imparting consolation. Rather the reverse.
Whatever the contents of that epistle, so curiously deposited, Richard
Darke, on becoming acquainted with them, reels like a drunken man; and
to save himself from falling, seeks support against the trunk of the
tree!
After a time, recovering, he re-reads the letter, and gazes at a
picture--a photograph--also found within the envelope.
Then from his lips come words, low-muttered--words of menace, made
emphatic by an oath.
A man's name is heard among his mutterings, more than once repeated.
As Dick Darke, after thrusting letter and picture into his pocket,
strides away from the spot, his clenched teeth, with the lurid light
scintillating in his eyes, to this man foretell danger--maybe death.