On the night preceding Richard Darke's arrest, another man, not many
rods distant, lies awake, or, at least, loses more than half his
customary measure of sleep.
This is the coon-hunter. In his case the disturbing cause _is_
conscience; though his crime is comparatively a light one, and should
scarce rob him of his rest. It would not, were he a hardened sinner;
but Blue Bill is the very reverse; and though, at times, cruel to
"coony," he is, in the main, merciful, his breast overflowing with the
milk of human kindness.
On the night succeeding his spoilt coon-chase, he has slept sound
enough, his mind being unburdened by the confession to Phoebe. Besides,
he had then no certain knowledge that a murder had been committed, or of
any one being even killed. He only knew there were shots, and angry
words, resembling a fight between two men; one his young master; the
other, as he supposed, Charles Clancy. True, the former, rushing past
in such headlong pace, seemed to prove that the affair had a tragical
termination.
But of this, he, Blue Bill, could only have conjecture; and, hoping the
_denouement_ might not be so bad as at first deemed, neither was he so
alarmed as to let it interfere with his night's slumbers.
In the morning, when, as usual, hoe in hand, he goes abroad to his day's
work, no one would suspect him of being the depository of a secret so
momentous. He was always noted as the gayest of the working gang--his
laugh, the loudest, longest, and merriest, carried across the plantation
fields; and on this particular day, it rings with its wonted
cheerfulness.
Only during the earlier hours. When, at mid-day, a report reaches the
place where the slaves are at work, that a man has been murdered--this,
Charles Clancy--the coon-hunter, in common with the rest of the gang,
throws down his hoe; all uniting in a cry of sympathetic sorrow. For
all of them know young "Massr Clancy;" respecting, many of them loving
him. He has been accustomed to meet them with pleasant looks, and
accost them in kindly words.
The tidings produce a painful impression upon them; and from that
moment, though their task has to be continued, there is no more
cheerfulness in the cotton field. Even their conversation is hushed, or
carried on in a subdued tone; the hoes being alone heard, as their steel
blades clink against an occasional "donick."
But while his fellow-labourers are silent through sorrow, Blue Bill is
speechless from another and different cause. They only hear that young
Massr Clancy has been killed--murdered, as the report says--while he
knows how, when, where, and _by whom_. The knowledge gives him double
uneasiness; for while sorrowing as much, perhaps more than any, for
Charles Clancy's death, he has fears for his own life, with good reasons
for having them.
If by any sinister chance Massr Dick should get acquainted with the fact
of his having been witness to that rapid retreat among the trees, he,
Blue Bill, would be speedily put where his tongue could never give
testimony.
In full consciousness of his danger, he determines not to commit himself
by any voluntary avowal of what he has seen and heard; but to bury the
secret in his own breast, as also insist on its being so interred within
the bosom of his better half.
This day, Phoebe is not in the field along with the working gang; which
causes him some anxiety. The coon-hunter can trust his wife's
affections, but is not so confident as to her prudence. She may say
something in the "quarter" to compromise him. A word--the slightest
hint of what has happened--may lead to his being questioned, and
confessed; with torture, if the truth be suspected.
No wonder that during the rest of the day Blue Bill wears an air of
abstraction, and hoes the tobacco plants with a careless hand, often
chopping off the leaves. Fortunately for him, his fellow-workers are
not in a mood to observe these vagaries, or make inquiry as to the
cause.
He is rejoiced, when the boom of the evening bell summons them back to
the "big house."
Once more in the midst of his piccaninnies, with Phoebe by his side, he
imparts to her a renewed caution, to "keep dark on dat ere seerous
subjeck."
At supper, the two talk over the events of the day--Phoebe being the
narrator. She tells him of all that has happened--of the search, and
such incidents connected with it as have reached the plantation of the
Darkes; how both the old and young master took part in it, since having
returned home. She adds, of her own observation, that Massr Dick looked
"berry scared-like, an' white in de cheeks as a ole she-possum."
"Dats jess de way he oughter look," is the husband's response.
After which they finish their frugal meal, and once more retire to rest.
But on this second night, the terrible secret shared by them, keeps both
from sleeping. Neither gets so much as a wink.
As morning dawns, they are startled by strange noises in the negro
quarter. These are not the usual sounds consequent on the uprising of
their fellow-slaves--a chorus of voices, in jest and jocund laughter.
On the contrary, it is a din of serious tone, with cries that tell of
calamity.
When the coon-hunter draws--back his door, and looks forth, he sees
there is commotion outside; and is soon told its cause. One of his
fellow-bondsmen, coming forward, says:--
"Massr Dick am arrested by de sheriff. Dey've tuk 'im for de murder ob
Massr Charl Clancy."
The coon-hunter rushes out, and up to the big house.
He reaches it in time to see Richard Darke set upon a horse, and
conducted away from the place, with a man on each side, guarding him.
All know that he goes a prisoner.
With a sense of relief, Blue Bill hastens back to his own domicile,
where lie communicates what has happened to the wife anxiously waiting.
"Phoebe, gal," he adds, in a congratulatory whisper, "dar ain't no
longer so much reezun for us to hab fear. I see Sime Woodley mong de
men; and dis nigger know dat he'll gub me his purtecshun, whatsomever I
do. So I'se jess made up my mind to make a clean bress ob de hul ting,
and tell what I heern an' see, besides deliverin' up boaf dat letter an'
picter. What's yar view ob de matter? Peak plain, and doan be noways
mealy-moufed 'bout it."
"My views is den, for de tellin' ob de troof. Ole Eph Darke may flog us
till dar ain't a bit o' skin left upon our bare backs. I'll take my
share ob de 'sponsibility, an a full half ob de noggin'. Yes, Bill,
I'se willin' to do dat. But let de troof be tole--de whole troof, an'
nuffin but de troof."
"Den it shall be did. Phoebe, you's a darlin'. Kiss me, ole gal. If
need be, we'll boaf die togedder."
And their two black faces come in contact, as also their bosoms; both
beating with a humanity that might shame whiter skins.