HOME AGAIN.
The prolonged absence of Kingman and Moffat, to say the least, was
certainly singular. Several days had now elapsed since the battle, and
if they were in the woods, or had escaped the vengeance of the Shawnees,
there could be no reason offered why they had not made their appearance.
The most sanguine began to doubt—all despaired save the captain, who,
when questioned, replied with more than his usual protervity.
“He’ll come if you only wait. Umph! I don’t see anything to worry
about.”
The fifth day wore slowly away without any tidings of the missing ones,
and darkness was again gathering over the quiet village. There was an
air of subdued repose up on everything. The quiet tree-tops were not
swayed by the slightest zephyr, and the broad Ohio glistened like a
sheen of silver as it flowed without a ripple beneath the horizontal
rays of the setting sun. The dark forms of the sentinels could be seen
at the block-houses, and here and there a quiet settler wended his way
through the ungainly streets. The few cattle and horses were gathered
home, and all were ready for the slow approaching night to close around
them.
Irene Stuart stood at the open door of her cabin, as she had every
evening since the battle, gazing vacantly out upon the Ohio. The last
rays of the sun were shooting brilliantly over the tree-tops and
illuminating them with a golden glow; the hum and noise of work around
her had ceased, and the mournful stillness harmonized well with her sad
and mournful thoughts. It was easy to tell where they were. It was easy
to tell where they had been every night when she had stood thus, lost in
communion with them. It is sometimes hard beneath the most convincing
proof to believe that one is dead. When gazing upon the form of some
cherished one, dressed ready for the grave, a strange doubt will
sometimes come over us, that there is still life within him. The most
improbable theories will present themselves and have a hearing. Perhaps
we imagine that he is only feigning death, and will yet arise and speak
before fastened within the coffin; or we may experience a faint,
tormenting part of that awful thought of burying one alive, and our
tortured imagination conceives of the unutterable horror of his waking
within the tomb. Then, again, a hope that there yet is power in medicine
subtle enough to win the soul back, sustains us to the brink of the
grave. A thousand conflicting theories—perhaps in Divine
Providence—prevent us from fully realizing the truth as it is.
Hopes, fears, doubts, constant and intensified, had had continual play
with Irene. Sometimes when cold, common sense had its sway, it carried
with its overwhelming evidence the conviction that George Kingman was
lost forever to her. Then instantly a thousand contingencies would
present themselves, and her heart would throb tumultuously with the hope
thus awakened. These conflicting feelings had told upon her, even in the
short time since they had held alternate region. There was a vacant
wandering expression of the eye, a languid listlessness of manner, and
an absent unconsciousness to what was passing immediately around her,
that show unmistakably the deep hold these thoughts had upon her.
Sometimes she would stand as motionless as death itself, with that
expression of the eye as though gazing at the clouds in the horizon
miles away. And often when questioned upon some different subject, her
reply would relate to the all-absorbing topic of her mind, she would
move like an automaton among the living, scarcely heeding a word or
movement of those around.
Her parents pronounced her conduct queer, and trusted she would soon get
over it. The good minister frequently visited the house. At such times
Irene would be herself again, and would cheer up and converse about
whatever was proposed, gradually verging to the one great topic,
however, until, at the departure of her friend, she was completely lost
again. The worthy man understood fully her case, and used every means he
could devise to win her from the fearful control of her feelings.
Irene was standing in an attitude of earnest meditation, as was said, at
the door of her cabin. Her parents were absent, so that there was
nothing to prevent her relapsing into one of her unconscious spells.
This was the reason why she did not notice an unwonted noise in the
village—this was the reason why she did not hear a confusion of voices a
short distance away, and the reason why, when a form flitted past her
vision, it made no impression upon it; or more properly, the impression
was made upon the retina, and the optic nerves sped the intelligence up
to the brain; but the brain had took much other business on hand, and
took no notice of it whatever.
A confused, waving field was Irene Stuart’s vision at that time. There
was that peculiar, indescribable confusion of forms and colors which one
sometimes experiences during a mental aberration. All unimaginable
figures doubled and disappeared within one another with noiseless
celerity; objects never dreamt of before took form and motion, and her
vision finally became a gorgeous mixture of light and darkness, of
shadow and sunlight, and of forms and colors.
But amid all these, an object gradually took shape. At first it had the
appearance of a long, dark, undulating column, directly in the centre of
her field of vision. It swayed gently from side to side, as though
agitated by a passing breeze, but the base still maintained its place
without motion. Slowly, almost enough to be imperceptible, it diminished
in size, and the airy figures around grew dimmer and more obscure every
moment. Once or twice it seemed as though some sound proceeded from the
shaft, but Irene heeded it not, although her gaze still remained from a
languid unwillingness to remove it, riveted upon the dark object.
Suddenly it diminished in size to that of a man, and the first thought
that had anything of vigor in it was, that it bore some resemblance to a
human form. By a seemingly desperate effort, she roused herself and
looked intently at it. It was a human form.
“Why, Irene, how long before you are going to speak to me?”
“Oh, George! is it you? I was thinking so deeply!”
“Thinking? thinking of what?” asked Kingman, approaching and taking one
of her hands, and looking searchingly into her rich blue eyes.
“Why, thinking of _you_,” she replied, impulsively.
“Thank Heaven!” he added, in a low tone, as he embraced her fervently,
and half carried her within the cabin. For a moment Irene was totally
overcome; the great strain which her system had undergone now suffered a
reaction, and she was as weak and helpless as a child. There seemed an
utter _abandonment_ about her which made her a dead weight in Kingman’s
arms: not a dead weight, either, but a live one, and for that matter our
hero felt perfectly willing that it might be thus for any length of
time. He brushed the dark curls from her forehead, and kissing it
ardently, drew her head down upon his shoulder, where for a few moments
the sobs came without restraint. But she shortly recovered herself, and
he allowed her to withdraw herself from his arms and seat herself beside
him.
“What made you remain so long away?” she asked, with a deep, yearning
look which Kingman felt.
“I could not help it.”
“Could not help it? Why not? Were you hurt?”
“A little; not much, but so much that we could not travel fast without
danger.”
“Was Moffat injured?”
“Not in the least; and had it not been for him, it is doubtful whether
you would ever have seen me again.”
“Oh, George, you do not know how many times I did think so! Mother and
father and your folks all thought you must have been killed. Captain
Parks said you were not, and Mr. Edwards believed you would yet return
to us. I prayed that you might, and yet it did not seem that you,—I am
so glad!” and she gave one of those soulful glances that it made Kingman
blush at his own happiness.
“I thought perhaps you might think rather strange of my absence”——
“Rather _strange_,” she interrupted, with a reproving look.
Kingman drew her head over upon his shoulder, and pressed her ardently
to him. She sprang to her feet.
“I must look upon you again,” she laughed, “for it seems hardly possible
that you are really here now. Yes; I believe it is George Kingman, after
all.”
“And as I have some doubt of the truth of my eyes, permit not only to
look upon you, but to taste you,” added Kingman, rising and imprinting a
kiss upon her burning cheek.
“There, that will do! Now tell me where you have been all this time. But
does any one else know you have returned?”
“Does any one else know I have returned? A fine question to ask when I
have been in the village three or four hours.”
“That time? Impossible! What have you been doing?”
“Circulating among the neighbors. Moffat and I have been here a long
time. I went home and the folks acted crazy. I thought mother _would_ go
demented. I never knew she thought so much of me before. As luck would
have it, Captain Parks was in, and he made a great time.”
“Very glad to see you of course?”
“I suppose so; he just gave his ‘umph!’ and said he was beginning to
respect me. A little while after, Edwards, hearing, I suppose, that I
had arrived, came in. He gave me one of the heartiest grips I ever had,
and told me that before I stopped to see my parents, I should have knelt
down and thanked God for my preservation.”
“How like him! What did you answer?”
“I told him I had already done so. He said it gave him pleasure to hear
it, and he hoped I would remember the One who never forgot me. Well,
after a little talk, he smiled in that pleasing way of his, and said he
was just thinking there was some one else who would like to see me. I
asked him who he could mean, of course, not knowing who it was; but he
looked so mischievous, I know I blushed and showed that I knew well
enough who he meant. So after some more conversation, I left and came
here.”
“How long ago?”
“A good while, indeed. I came up as silently as possible, intending to
give you a surprise. When I came up to the door, I saw you standing in
it, and supposed you had seen me, so I laughed, called you by name and
approached. You did not reply, and I was frightened to see you look so.”
“To see me look how?”
“Why, so much like death. At first I started, and almost believed you
were dead—you appeared so white, and your eyes were fixed upon the
clouds away off in the sky. I spoke again, but you made no answer, and I
was afraid to approach you. I thought perhaps you were asleep, and in a
fit of somnambulism, and waited to see if you moved. By-and-by, you
remember, you did, and finally saw me standing before you. What did it
mean, Irene? Have you ever been thus before?”
“I suppose so, several times. At any rate, I have been spoken to about
it.”
“Were you really asleep.”
“I don’t know, George, I have been filled with such distressing doubts
about you, that it must have caused my singular actions. It seemed I
couldn’t help it, and I _was_ afraid I would go crazy. Perhaps I have
already,” she laughed, looking up into his face.
“I am glad and yet very sorry to hear this, Irene,” said Kingman,
pressing the affectionate girl to him and drawing her head down again
upon his shoulder. “I am glad for it shows me unmistakably that my love
is returned; and I am sorry because it shows that it may have had a sad
effect upon your system. You must get over it now.”
“I hope I shall, as the cause is removed.”
“Not removed, for it strikes me that he is nearer you this moment than
he has been for a number of days.”
“Then if the cause is not removed, the cure has been applied, I
suppose,” smiled Irene.
“Yes, once or twice; another application cannot hurt,” added Kingman,
applying his lips to the cheek of his fair companion.
“But, George, you have not told me yet the whole particulars of the
battle with the Indians, and the terrible suffering you must have
undergone. Let me hear it now, will you?”
“Just sit a little closer, then, as I do not wish to talk too loud.”
Irene offered no resistance as Kingman drew her close to him, and,
twining one arm around her, commenced the recital of his adventures. The
night had now come on, and the room was dark, save where the mellow
moonlight streamed within the half open door. Not another soul was in
the house, save the two lovers. There was a delicious feeling that came
over both, as they were together, _alone!_ where no curious eyes were
gazing upon them, and no inquisitive ears were bent to catch their
sacred words. Kingman proceeded, and, in a low tone, related all that
has been given to the reader. As he spoke of the fearful escapes he had
passed through, he could feel the heart of Irene flutter painfully, and
she would start involuntarily when he referred to the sudden
deliverances from all of them. The hours unnoticed flew by, and still
they sat and conversed.
“Did you see father and mother?” asked Irene.
“Yes, they were at home, talking with Edwards.”
“It is time they returned, is it not?”
“O, never fear! they will be along after a while.”
“But it seems to me it must be late, for see there is scarcely any
moonlight upon the floor as there was a while ago.”
“Something must be in the way—helloa! there!”
This exclamation came from Kingman as he raised his hat and saw both Mr.
and Mrs. Stuart standing in the door.
“Why, how long have you been there?” asked Irene, springing to her feet,
and bundling around for the pine knot with which to light the room.
“Not more than a couple of hours,” laughed Stuart.
“Gracious alive! what do you suppose will become of you?” indignantly
demanded his wife.
“I am sure I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“Just think what an awful falsehood you told!”
“Pray, what was it, my dear?”
“Why, that we had been standing here over two hours, when you know we
just arrived. Only think of it!”
“I told no story, my dear. I said we had not been here over a couple of
hours, and I don’t think you will pretend to contradict it.”
“Well, it’s all the same,” snapped Mrs. Stuart, bouncing into the house.
Irene, by this time, had succeeded in lighting the pine knot, which
threw out an oily, smoky light, making every part of the room, however,
perfectly visible. Kingman arose, and after bidding all a good night,
stepped forth and made his way toward his home. The sky was clear, and
the bright moon rendered objects very distinct at a great distance. He
had nearly reached his destination when he encountered Moffat.
“Ah! how’s this, Moffat? What keeps you out so late?”
“Something different from what has kept you.”
“It is of more importance?”
“I think so, as it concerns the welfare of the settlement.”
“Why, what is it, then? Out with it.”
“There’s something suspicious-like down in this part. I have been up to
fort for an hour or two, talking to the boys. It was up at that one. I
was talking to Tom O’Daniels, when he pointed his finger down this way,
and axed me if I seen anything. I watched pretty closely, and after a
while I thought I did. He was going to fire his musket, but concluded it
wasn’t worth while, as it might scare all the people for nothing. I
started down this way, and was coming ’long quiet-like, when I heerd
you. So I just rose and come on as though I didn’t s’picion anything and
I suppose if there was anything going on I spoilt the sight of it.”
These words were spoken in a half whisper, but in such a manner as to
give the idea to any one who might see them that it was but a
commonplace conversation passing between them.
“Any idea of what it is?” asked Kingman.
“I suppose there have been Injins skulking ’bout the place every night
since the battle. The boys say they’ve seen something going on about
this time for two or three nights. They couldn’t make a mark big enough
to fire at, but the people know it, and don’t sleep so sound as they did
before. See here, Kingman, we must watch.”
“What I was thinking. Where shall we station ourselves?”
“Not a great distance apart, as we may need to help each other. You go a
little nearer the upper fort, and I will go down toward the river bank
and keep a look-out there. Move careful, for I s’pose you’ve learned by
this time that a Shawnee has sharp ears.”
“What signal between us shall call the other?”
“A whistle like the whippowil.”
The two parted. Moffat, as he proposed, made his way to the river bank,
while Kingman approached the picket at a point further above. The town,
it will be remembered, was inclosed by a strong, double row of pickets
planted firmly into the ground, and protected at each angle by a
compact, bullet-proof block-house. Kingman opened a sort of door or
entrance, which could only be opened from the inside, and passed out, so
that he was in the space between the two picket rows. Here he lay upon
the ground and listened.
He did not expect to hear anything, as he judged if there were Shawnees
in the vicinity, they had found out they were suspected, and would not
make their appearance again that night. But he had scarcely lain two
minutes when he heard that dead thumping, such as is made by several
persons walking upon the ground. Placing his ear to the earth, the
footsteps were plainly audible. The Indians, as they undoubtedly were,
approached the outside picket, at the nearest point to Kingman. Here the
low mumbling of their voices could be heard, as if in conversation, but
no words could be distinguished. A few minutes after, and Kingman heard
them at work at one of the pickets. They were fast loosening it, and,
fearful that they might make an entrance, he gave the signal for Moffat
to approach. The savages instantly paused as if listening, and then made
off, just as Moffat entered the door behind Kingman.
“What’s the matter?” queried Moffat, eagerly.
Kingman related all that had happened, and the alarm of the savages at
hearing his signal.
“What I feared,” said the hunter. “These are bad doings. I’d bet my life
that this settlement will be attacked by Indians to-morrow night.”