Throughout all these days where has Clancy been? Dead, and come to life
again? Or, but half killed and recovered? Where the while hidden? And
why? Questions that in quick succession occur to Simeon Woodley meeting
him by his mother's grave.
Not all put then or there; but afterwards on the hunter's own hearth, as
the two sit before the blazing logs, by whose light Clancy has read the
letter so cheering him.
Then Woodley asks them, and impatiently awaits the answers.
The reader may be asking the same questions, and in like manner
expecting reply.
He shall have it, as Woodley, not in a word or at once, but in a series
of incidents, for the narration of which it is necessary to return upon
time; as also to introduce a personage hitherto known but by repute--the
fugitive slave, Jupiter.
"Jupe" is of the colour called "light mulatto," closely approximating to
that of newly tanned leather. His features are naturally of a pleasing
expression; only now and then showing fierce, when he reflects on a
terrible flogging, and general ill treatment experienced, at the hands
of the cruel master from whom he has absconded.
He is still but a young fellow, with face beardless; only two darkish
streaks of down along the upper lip. But the absence of virile sign
upon his cheeks has full compensation in a thick shock covering his
crown, where the hair of Shem struggles for supremacy with the wool of
Ham, and so successfully, as to result in a profusion of curls of which
Apollo might be proud. The god of Beauty need not want a better form or
face; nor he of Strength a set of sinews tougher, or limbs more tersely
knit. Young though he may be, Jupe has performed feats of Herculean
strength, requiring courage as well. No wonder at his having won Jule!
A free fearless spirit he: somewhat wild, though not heart-wicked; a
good deal given to nocturnal excursions to neighbouring plantations;
hence the infliction of the lash, which has finally caused his
absconding from that of Ephraim Darke.
A merry jovial fellow he has been--would be still--but for the cloud of
danger that hangs over him; dark as the den in which he has found a
hiding-place. This is in the very heart and centre of the cypress
swamp, as also in the heart and hollow of a cypress tree. No dead log,
but a living growing trunk, which stands on a little eyot, not
immediately surrounded by water, but marsh and mud. There is water
beyond, on every side, extending more than a mile, with trees standing
in and shadowing its stagnant surface.
On the little islet Nature has provided a home for the hunted fugitive--
an asylum where he is safe from pursuit--beyond the scent of savage
hounds, and the trailing of men almost as savage as they; for the place
cannot be approached by water-craft, and is equally unapproachable by
land. Even a dog could not make way through the quagmire of mud,
stretching immediately around it to a distance of several hundred yards.
If one tried, it would soon be snapped up by the great saurian, master
of this darksome domain. Still is there a way to traverse the
treacherous ground, for one knowing it, as does Darke's runaway slave.
Here, again, has Nature intervened, lending her beneficent aid to the
oppressed fleeing from oppression. The elements in their anger, spoken
by tempest and tornado, have laid prostrate several trees, whose trunks,
lying along the ooze, lap one another, and form a continuous causeway.
Where there chances to be a break, human ingenuity has supplied the
connecting link, making it as much as possible to look like Nature's own
handiwork; though it is that of Jupiter himself. The hollow tree has
given him a house ready built, with walls strong as any constructed by
human hands, and a roof to shelter him from the rain. If no better than
the lair of a wild beast, still is it snug and safe. The winds may blow
above, the thunder rattle, and the lightning flash; but below, under the
close canopy of leaves and thickly-woven parasites, he but hears the
first in soft sighings, the second in distant reverberation, and sees
the last only in faint phosphoric gleams. Far brighter the sparkle of
insects that nightly play around the door of his dwelling.
A month has elapsed since the day when, incensed at the flogging
received--this cruel as causeless--he ran away, resolved to risk
everything, life itself, rather than longer endure the tyrannous
treatment of the Darkes.
Though suspected of having taken refuge in the swamp, and there
repeatedly sought for, throughout all this time he has contrived to
baffle search. Nor has he either starved or suffered, except from
solitude. Naturally of a social disposition, this has been irksome to
him. Otherwise, he has comforts enough. Though rude his domicile, and
remote from a market, it is sufficiently furnished and provided. The
Spanish moss makes a soft couch, on which he can peacefully repose. And
for food he need not be hard up, nor has he been for a single day. If
it come to that, he can easily entrap an alligator, and make a meal off
the tenderest part of its tail; this yielding a steak which, if not
equal to best beef, is at all events eatable.
But Jupe has never been driven to diet on alligator meat too much of
musky flavour. His usual fare is roast pork, with now and then broiled
ham and chicken; failing which, a _fricassee_ of 'coon or a _barbecue_
of 'possum. No lack of bread besides--maize bread--in its various
bakings of "pone", "hoe cake," and "dodger." Sometimes, too, he
indulges in "Virginia biscuit," of sweetest and whitest flour.
The question is called up, Whence gets he such good things? The 'coon
and 'possum may be accounted for, these being wild game of the woods,
which he can procure by capture; but the other viands are domestic, and
could only be obtained from a plantation.
And from one they are obtained--that of Ephraim Darke! How? Does
Jupiter himself steal them? Not likely. The theft would be attended
with too much danger. To attempt it would be to risk not only his
liberty, but his life. He does not speculate on such rashness, feeling
sure his larder will be plentifully supplied, as it has hitherto been--
by a friend.
Who is he?
A question scarce requiring answer. It almost responds to itself,
saying, "Blue Bill." Yes; the man who has kept the fugitive in
provisions--the faithful friend and confederate--is no other than the
coon-hunter.
Something more than bread and meat has Blue Bill brought to the swamp's
edge, there storing them in a safe place of deposit, mutually agreed
upon. Oft, as he starts forth "a-cooning," may he be observed with
something swelling out his coat-pockets, seemingly carried with
circumspection. Were they at such times searched, they would be found
to contain a gourd of corn whisky, and beside it a plug of tobacco. But
no one searches them; no one can guess at their contents--except Phoebe.
To her the little matter of commissariat has necessarily been made
known, by repeated drafts on her meat-safe, and calls upon her culinary
skill. She has no jealous suspicion as to why her scanty store is thus
almost daily depleted--no thought of its being for Brown Bet. She knows
it is for "poor Jupe," and approves, instead of making protest.