On that day when Dick Darke way-laid Charles Clancy, almost the same
hour in which the strife is taking place between them, the fugitive
slave is standing by the side of his hollow tree, on the bit of dry land
around its roots.
His air and bearing indicate intention not to stay there long. Ever and
anon he casts a glance upward, as if endeavouring to make out the time
of day. A thing not easily done in that sombre spot. For he can see no
sun, and only knows there is such by a faint reflection of its light
scarce penetrating through the close canopy of foliage overhead. Still,
this gradually growing fainter, tells him that evening is at hand.
Twilight is the hour he is waiting for, or rather some twenty minutes
preceding it. For, to a minute he knows how long it will take him to
reach the edge of the swamp, at a certain point to which he contemplates
proceeding. It is the place of deposit for the stores he receives from
the coon-hunter.
On this particular evening he expects something besides provender, and
is more than usually anxious about it. Mental, not bodily food, is what
he is craving. He hopes to get tidings of her, whose image is engraven
upon his heart--his yellow girl, Jule. For under his coarse cotton
shirt, and saddle-coloured skin, Jupe's breast burns with a love pure
and passionate, as it could, be were the skin white, and the shirt
finest linen.
He knows of all that is taking place in the plantations; is aware of
what has been done by Ephraim Darke in the matter of the mortgage, and
what is about to be done by Colonel Armstrong. The coon-hunter has kept
him posted up in everything--facts and fancies, rumours and realities.
One of the last, and latest, is the intention of the Armstrongs to
remove from the neighbourhood. He has already heard of this, as also
their destination. It might not so much concern him, but for the
implied supposition that his sweetheart will be going along with them.
In fact, he feels sure of it; an assurance that, so far from causing
regret, rather gives him gladness. It promises a happier future for
all. Jupe, too, has had thoughts about Texas. Not that the Lone Star
State is at all a safe asylum for such as he; but upon its wild
borderland there may be a chance for him to escape the bondage of
civilisation, by alliance with the savage! Even this idea of a freedom
far off, difficult of realisation, and if realised not so delectable,
has nevertheless been flitting before the mind of the mulatto. Any life
but that of a slave! His purpose, modified by late events and
occurrences, is likely to be altogether changed by them. His Jule will
be going to Texas, along with her master and young mistresses. In the
hope of rejoining her, he will go there too--as soon as he can escape to
the swamp.
On this evening he expects later news, with a more particular account of
what is about to be done. Blue Bill is to bring them, and direct from
Jule, whom the coon-hunter has promised to see. Moreover, Jupe has a
hope of being able to see her himself, previous to departure; and to
arrange an interview, through the intervention of his friend, is the
matter now most on his mind. No wonder, then, his scanning the sky, or
its faint reflection, with glances that speak impatience.
At length, becoming satisfied it must be near night, he starts off from
the eyot, and makes way along the causeway furnished by the trunks of
the fallen trees. This serves him only for some two hundred yards,
ending on the edge of deep water, beyond which the logs lie submerged.
The last of them showing above, is the wreck of a grand forest giant,
with branches undecayed, and still carrying the parasite of Spanish moss
in profusion. This hanging down in streamers, scatters over the surface
and dips underneath, like the tails of white horses wading knee-deep.
In its midst appears something, which would escape the eye of one
passing carelessly by. On close scrutiny it is seen to be a craft of
rude construction--a log with the heart wood removed--in short, a canoe
of the kind called "dug-out."
No surprise to the runaway slave seeing it there; no more at its seeming
to have been placed in concealment. It is his own property, by himself
secreted.
Gliding down through the moss-bedecked branches, he steps into it; and,
after balancing himself aboard, dips his paddle into the water, and sets
the dug-out adrift.
A way for a while through thick standing trunks that require many
tortuous turnings to avoid them.
At length a creek is reached, a _bayou_ with scarce any current; along
which the canoe-man continues his course, propelling the craft
up-stream. He has made way for something more than a mile, when a noise
reaches his ear, causing him to suspend stroke, with a suddenness that
shows alarm.
It is only the barking of a dog; but to him no sound could be more
significant--more indicative of danger.
On its repetition, which almost instantly occurs, he plucks his paddle
out of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift.
On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by the
Penitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tilting
it to one side, he bends low, and listens.
Certainly a dog giving tongue--but in tone strange, unintelligible. It
is a hound's bay, but not as on slot, or chase.
It is a howl, or plaintive whine, as if the animal were tied up, or
being chastised!
After listening to it for some time--for it is nearly continuous--the
mulatto makes remark to himself. "There's no danger in the growl of
that dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It's the
deer-hound that belong to young Masser Clancy. He's no slave-catcher."
Re-assured he again dips his blade, and pushes on as before.
But now on the alert, he rows with increased caution, and more
noiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it does
not hinder him from noting every sound--the slightest that stirs among
the cypresses.
The only one heard is the hound's voice, still in whining, wailing note.
"Lor!" he exclaims once more, staying his stroke, and giving way to
conjectures, "what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must be
something amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope 'taint no
mischance happened its young masser, the best man about all these parts.
Come what will, I'll go to the ground, an' see."
A few more strokes carries the canoe on to the place, where its owner
has been accustomed to moor it, for meeting Blue Bill; and where on this
evening, as on others, he has arranged his interview with the
coon-hunter. A huge sycamore, standing half on land, half in the water,
with long outstretching roots laid bare by the wash of the current,
affords him a safe point of debarkation. For on these his footsteps
will leave no trace, and his craft can be stowed in concealment.
It chances to be near the spot where the dog is still giving tongue--
apparently not more than two hundred yards off.
Drawing the dug-out in between the roots of the sycamore, and there
roping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standing
some seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees.
If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on the
land; so long being away from it, he there feels less at home.
Guided by the yelps of the animal, that reach him in quick repetition,
he has no difficulty about the direction--no need for aught save
caution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty--his
life--stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glides
from trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till assured he
can reach another without being seen.
He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a more
prolonged period.
For he now sees the dog--as conjectured, Clancy's deer-hound. The
animal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever and
anon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with the
plaintive refrain.
For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogatives
which the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he may
address them. No man near--at least none in sight. No living thing,
save the hound itself.
Is there anything dead? Question of a different kind which now occurs,
causing him to stick closer than ever to his cover behind the tree.
Still there is nought to give him a clue to the strange behaviour of the
hound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now be
racking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed the
strife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to the
reader--with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself sole
actor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke's bullet, did not go
directly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and it
knew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature,
while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once more
turning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy.
This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the assassin--as he
supposed himself--having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly made
away. Despite the shroud thrown over its master's body, the dog soon
discovered it--dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing aside
the moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue licking
the cold face.
Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continues
its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, while
alarming him.
Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, therefore
no one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. With
confidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, and
strides on to the spot where the hound has couched itself. At his
approach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meet
him. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, it
suddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him.
After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side of
the moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with face
turned towards him--the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teeth
clenched; the eyes fixed and filmy.
And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believes
it to be dead.
He has no other thought, than that he is standing beside a corpse.