On a log outside the tent sits Cris Tucker, with the fire before him,
kindled for cooking the turkey. The bird is upon a spit suspended above
the blaze. A fat young "gobbler," it runs grease at every pore, causing
the fire to flare up. Literally is it being broiled by its own grease,
and is now well-nigh done brown.
Perceiving this, Tucker runs his eyes inquiringly along the path leading
towards the mission, at the same time setting his ears to listen. What
can be keeping his comrade, who promised so soon to be back?
"Promises are like pie-crust," says Cris in soliloquy; "Old Hawk aint
keeping his, and I guess aint goin' to. I heard they war to have a big
dine up there the night. So I suppose the colonel's axed him in for a
glass o' his whiskey punch. Hawk's jest the one to take it--a dozen, if
they insist. Well, there's no reason I should wait supper any longer.
I'm 'most famished as it is. Besides, that bird's gettin' burnt."
Rising up from the log, he takes the turkey off the spit, and carries it
inside the tent. Then dishing, he sets it upon the table; the dish a
large platter of split wood rudely whittled into oblong oval shape, the
table a stump with top horizontally hewn, over which the tent has been
erected.
Placing a "pone" of corn-bread, and some salt alongside, he sits down;
though not yet to commence eating. As certainly his comrade should now
soon be back, he will give him ten minutes' grace.
The position is agreeable, at the same time having its drawbacks. The
odour pervading the tent is delicious; still there is the sense of taste
to be satisfied, and that of smell but provokes it. The savoury aroma
of the roast turkey is keenly appetising, and Cris can't hold out much
longer.
Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker's position
becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, the
repast will be spoilt.
Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability he
has eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum of
whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it no
longer; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, and
cuts a large slice from its breast.
This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then a
wing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to the
smoothness of a drumstick.--
The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, and
completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after it
the liver--the last a tit-bit upon the prairies, as in a Strasburg
_pate_.
Washing all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he lights his pipe;
and, seated by the mangled remains of the gobbler, commences smoking.
For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though not without
wondering why his comrade is so long in patting in an appearance.
When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes changed to anxiety.
Not strange it should, recalling the reason why he has been left alone.
This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay within the
tent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detaining
Hawkins.
Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts off
towards the mission-building.
Less than ten minutes' walking brings him to its walls, by their main
front entrance.
There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It
is profound, unnatural.
For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, looking at it,
and listening. Still no sound, within or without.
True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed.
But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not
sleeping within!
In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent
determines to enter.
He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission;
still, under the circumstances, he cannot be considered intruding.
He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar;
presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the
front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open
backward.
Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes on
through the _saguan_, and once more emerges into moonlight within the
_patio_.
There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that
almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head.
Down into the hollow quadrangle--enclosed on every side, except that
towards heaven--the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their
light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position.
They are human bodies--men and boys, among them some whose drapery
declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all
spotted and spattered with red--with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in
the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink.
The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb of
corpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed upon
battle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as received
under the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker sees
must have been struck down by the hand of the assassin!
For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce knowing what to do.
His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of the courtyard, and away
altogether from the place.
But a thought--a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where is
Hawkins? His body may be among the rest--Cris is almost sure it will be
found there--and affection for his friend prompts him to seek for it.
There may still be breath in it--a spark of departing life, capable of
being called back.
With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses.
The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers as
he passes among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride over
them.
He examines one after another, bending low down to each--lower where
they lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish their
features.
Going the round of the courtyard, he completes the scrutiny of all.
Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them.
Nor is there the body of any white man, or woman. The stricken victims
are of every age, and both sexes. But all, male as female, are negroes
or mulattoes--the slaves of the establishment. Many of them he
recognises; knows them to be the house-servants.
Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy has
occurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder--of
wholesale slaughter!
Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?
To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick
succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes
him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemed
a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint,
as if far off, away at the back of the building.
Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the
voice of Hawkins.
He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in
accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his
aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this,
Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on
along the saguan, and through the open wicket.
Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct
him, which it does.
As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who
calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the
building.
Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking
through the bushes like a chased bear.
Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts
appear to proceed.
Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the
bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice.
"Is't you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!"
"Sartin it's me," Hawkins. "What does it all mean?"
"Mean? That's more'n I can tell; or any o' us inside here; though
there's big ends o' a dozen. We're shut up, locked in, as ye see.
Who's done it you ought to know, bein' outside. Han't you seen the
Indians?"
"I've seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There's a ugly sight
round t'other side."
"What sight, Oris? Never mind--don't stay to talk. Go back, and get
something to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!"
Without stayin' for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurries
back into the _patio_ as rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying hold
of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-room
door.
Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to his
strength.
When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon a
spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts.
In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the dead
bodies of slaves--to some beholding them scarce accounted as human
beings. Though pitied, they are passed over without delay; the
thoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keen
apprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer.
Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs let
out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead bodies only a passing glance,
then going on in fear of finding others by which they will surely stay;
all the time talking, interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now
questioning Oris Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices,
some heard inquiring for their wives, some their sisters or sweethearts,
all with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear ones still
alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find them
with gashed throats and bleeding breasts, like those lying along the
flagstones at their feet.
The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought to
that conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but a
forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to look
upon.
And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, none
so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong calling for his daughters.