One sultry evening in July, about a month later than the opening of our
story, a young man was travelling through the woods on the outskirts of
the city of Buffalo.
The intense electric heat during the day had foretold a storm, and now
it was evident that it would be upon him before he could reach shelter.
The clouds sweeping over the sky had brought darkness early. The
heavens looked of one uniform blackness, until the lightning, quivering
behind them, showed through the magnificent masses of storm-wreck,
while the artillery of the Almighty rolled threateningly in the
distance.
For the sake of his horse, Maxwell would have turned back, but it
was many hours since he had left the railroad, travelling by the
stage route toward the city. In vain he tried to pierce the gloom; no
friendly light betrayed a refuge for weary man and beast. So they went
on.
Suddenly the horse swerved to one side, in affright as the electric
fluid darted in a quivering, yellow line from the black clouds,
lighting up the landscape, and showing the anxious rider that he was
near the turnpike road which led to the main street. He spurred his
horse onward to reach the road while the lightning showed the way.
Scarcely was he there when the thunder crashed down in a prolonged,
awful peal. The storm had commenced indeed. The startled horse reared
and plunged in a way to unseat an unskilled rider, but Maxwell sat
firmly in the saddle; he drew rein a moment, patted the frightened
animal and spoke a few kind words to soothe his terror. On every side
now the lightning darted incessantly; the thunder never ceased to
roll, while the rain descended in a flood. As the lightning blazed he
caught glimpses of the turbulent water of the lake, and the thunder of
Niagara’s falls rivalled the artillery of heaven. It is no pleasant
thing to be caught by such a storm in a strange city, without a shelter.
As he rode slowly on, the road developed a smooth hardness beneath the
horse’s feet, the vivid flashes showed board sidewalks; they showed,
too, deep puddles and sluices of water pouring at a tremendous rate
through the steep, canal-like gutters which bordered the way. A disk
of landscape was photographed out of the night, etching the foliage of
huge, dripping trees on either side, and the wide-spreading meadows and
farm lands mingled with thickets and woodland. Only a few farm houses
broke the monotony of the road between the stage route and the city.
“Heavens, what a country!” muttered the rider.
It was a pleasant voice, nicely modulated, and the fitful gleams of
light showed a slender, well-knit figure, a bright, handsome face, blue
eyes and a mobile mouth slightly touched with down on the upper lip. A
dimple in the chin told of a light and merry heart within his breast.
“What a figure I must be,” he laughed gaily, thinking of his
mud-bespattered garments.
With the idea of suiting his dress to the country he was about to
visit, Warren Maxwell had fitted himself out in Regent street with a
suit of duck and corduroy with wide, soft felt hat, the English idea,
at that period, of the ‘proper caper’ for society in America.
As he rode along the lonely way his thoughts turned with sick longing
toward his English home. What would they say to see him to-night,
weary, hungry and disgusted? But he had come with a purpose; he was
determined to succeed. There were three others at home older than
himself; his own share in the family estate would amount to an annuity
scarcely enough to defray his tailor’s bill. Sir John Maxwell, baronet,
his father, had reluctantly consented that Warren should study law
when he found that neither the church nor medicine were congenial to
his youngest, favorite son. Anything was better than trade. The old
aristocrat metaphorically held up his hands in horror at the bare
thought. In family council, therefore, it was decided that law, with
money and old family influence might lead to Parliament in the future;
and so Warren took up the work determined to do his best.
One day Mr. Pendleton, head of the firm, called him into his private
office and told him that some one in their confidence must go to
America. It was on a delicate mission relating to the heir of
Carlingford of Carlingford. The other members of the firm were too
old to undertake so arduous a journey; here was a chance for a young,
enterprising man. If he were successful, they would be generous--in
fact, he would become a full partner, sharing all the emoluments of the
position at once. Of course Maxwell was interested, and asked to be
given the details.
“You see,” said the lawyer, “We’ve had the management of the estates
for more than fifty years--all the old lord’s time. It was a bad
business when young Lord George and his brother fell in love with the
same woman. It seems that Captain Henry and Miss Venton--that was
the lady’s name--had settled the matter to their own liking; but
the lady’s father favored Lord George because he was the heir and so
Captain Henry was forced to see himself supplanted by his brother. Soon
after a terrible quarrel that took place between the young men, Lord
George was found dead, shot in the back through the heart. The Captain
was arrested, tried and convicted of the crime. I remember the trial
well, and that my sympathy was all with the accused. He was a bonny and
gallant gentleman--the captain. Let me see----” and the old man paused
a moment to collect his scattered thoughts.
“Let me see--Wait--Yes, he escaped from prison and fled to America. The
lady? Why come to think of it she married a nephew of the old lord.”
“And was the guilty party never found?”
“No--I think--In fact, a lot of money was spent on detectives by the
old lord trying to clear his favorite and lift the stain from the
family name; but to no purpose. Lord George cannot live many months
longer, he is eighty-five now, but he thinks that Captain Henry may
have married in America, and if so, he wants his children to inherit.
For some reason he has taken a strong dislike to his nephew, who,
by the way, is living in the southern part of the United States.
If you go, your mission must remain a profound secret, for if he
lives, Captain Henry is yet amenable to the law which condemned him.
Here--read these papers; they will throw more light on the subject,
and while doing that make up your mind whether or not you will go to
America and institute a search for the missing man.” So Maxwell started
for America.
“Heavens, what a flash!” exclaimed the young man, aroused from the
reverie into which he had fallen. “Ah, what is that yonder?” Before him
was a large wooden house with outlying buildings standing back from the
road.
“Whoever dwells there will not refuse me shelter on such a night. I
will try my luck.”
Urging his tired horse forward, in a moment he stood before the large
rambling piazza which embraced the entire front of the establishment.
From the back of the house came the barking of dogs, and as he sprang
to the ground the outer door swung open, shedding forth a stream of
light and disclosing a large, gray-bearded man with a good-natured
face. Around the corner of the house from the direction of the
out-buildings, came quickly a powerful negro.
“Well, stranger, you’ve took a wet night fer a hossback ride,” said the
man on the piazza.
“I find it so,” replied Warren with a smile. “May I have shelter here
until morning?”
“Shelter!” exclaimed the man with brusque frankness, “that’s what the
Grand Island Hotel hangs out a shingle fer. Western or furrin’s welcome
here. I take it from your voice you don’t belong to these parts. Come
in, and ’Tavius will take yer hoss. ’Tavius! Oh, ’Tavius! Hyar! Take
the gentleman’s hoss. Unstrap them saddle-bags and hand ’em hyar fus’.”
’Tavius did as he was bidden, and Warren stepped into a room which
served for office, smoking-room and bar. He followed his host through
the room into a long corridor and up a flight of stairs into a spacious
apartment neatly though primitively furnished. Having deposited the
saddle-bags, the host turned to leave the room, pausing a moment to say:
“Well, mister, my name’s Ebenezer Maybee, an’ I’m proprietor of this
hyar hotel. What may yer name be?”
Warren handed him a visiting card which he scanned closely by the light
of the tallow candle.
“‘Warren Maxwell, England.’ Um, um, I s’pose you’re an ’ristocrat.
Where bound? Canidy?”
“No,” replied Warren, “just travelling for pleasure.”
“Oh, I see. Rich. Well, Mr. Maxwell, yer supper’ll be ’bilin on the
table inside a half-hour: Fried chicken, johnny cake and coffee.”
In less than an hour the smoking repast was served in the hotel parlor,
and having discussed this, wearied by the day’s travel, Maxwell
retired and speedily fell asleep.
It must have been near midnight when he was awakened by a loud rapping.
What was it? Mingled with the knocking was a sound of weeping.
Jumping on to the floor, and throwing on some clothing, Maxwell went
into the corridor. All was darkness; the rain still beat against the
window panes now and again illumined by sheet lightning. Listening,
he heard voices in the office or bar-room, and in that direction he
started. As he drew nearer he recognized the tones of his host.
“What is it? What is the trouble?” he asked as he entered the room.
A strange group met his eye under the flickering light of the tallow
candle--a lad in Indian garb and a girl not more than fourteen, but
appearing younger, who was weeping bitterly. She had the sweetest and
most innocent of faces, Warren thought, that he had ever seen. A pair
of large, soft brown eyes gazed up at him piteously.
“It’s White Eagle’s son and daughter. Something has happened him and
they want me to go with them to the island. You see I’m a sort of
justice of the peace and town constable an’ I’ve done the Injuns in
these parts some few favors and they think now I can do anything. But
no man can be expected to turn out of a dry bed and brave the lake on
sech a night as this. I ain’t chicken-hearted myself, but I draw the
line thar.”
In spite of his hard words and apparent reluctance to leave home,
Mr. Maybee had lighted two lanterns and was pulling on his boots
preparatory for a struggle with the elements.
“Who is White Eagle?” asked Warren.
“He’s a white man; a sort of chief of the few Injuns ’roun’ hyar, and
he lives out on a small island in the lake with a half-breed squaw and
these two children. They’re poor--very poor.”
“What seems to be the trouble with your father?” asked Warren, turning
to the stoical lad and weeping girl.
“I believe he’s shot himself, sir,” returned the boy respectfully,
in good English. “O, come, Mr. Maybee. My father--oh, my father!”
exclaimed the girl between her sobs, clinging to the landlord’s hand.
The anguish of the tone, the sweet girlish presence, as well as the
lad’s evident anxiety under his calmness, aroused Warren’s compassion.
“If you will wait a moment I will go with you. I know something of
medicine, and delay may be dangerous.”
Uttering a pleased cry the girl turned to him. “Oh, sir! Will you? Will
you come? Do not let us lose time then--poor papa!”
“If you go I suppose I must,” broke in Mr. Maybee.
“But you don’t know what you’re about,” he continued as they left the
room together: “You must remember, mister, that these people are only
niggers and Injuns.”
“Niggers! Mr. Maybee, what do you mean?”
“It’s a fac’. The boy is a fugitive slave picked up by White Eagle in
some of his tramps and adopted. The girl is a quadroon. Her mother, the
chief’s wife, was a fugitive too, whom he befriended and then married
out of pity.”
“Still they’re human beings, and entitled to some consideration,”
replied Warren, while he muttered to himself, thinking of the tales he
had heard of American slavery,--“What a country!”
“That’s so, mister, that’s so; but it’s precious little consideration
niggers and Injuns git aroun’ hyar, an’ that’s a fac’.”
For all his hard words, Ebenezer Maybee was a humane man and had done
much for the very class he assumed to despise. He did not hesitate to
use the methods of the Underground railroad when he deemed it necessary.
When Warren returned to the room, the two children stood where he had
left them, and as soon as Mr. Maybee joined them they started out.
Through mud and rain they made their way, the rays from the lanterns
but serving to intensify the darkness. Very soon a vivid flash threw
into bold relief the whiteness of the hissing lake.
“What did you come over in, Judah, canoe or boat?” shouted Mr. Maybee,
who headed the party.
“The boat,” called back Judah. “I thought you might come back with us.”
“Good!” shouted Mr. Maybee.
When they were all seated in the boat, after some difficulty, Judah
stood upright in the bow and shoved off. Each of the two men had an oar.
Not even an Indian would ordinarily trust himself to the mercy of the
water on such a night, but Judah steered out boldly for the little isle
without a sign of fear.
“Judah knows his business,” shouted Mr. Maybee to Maxwell. “He’ll take
us over all right if anybody can.”
At first Warren noticed nothing but the safety of the craft, and the
small figure crouched in the bottom of the boat. Every swell of the
angry waters threatened to engulf them. The boat shivered; foam hissed
like steam and spent its wrath upon them. The lightning flashed and the
thunder rolled. There was no sky--nothing but inky blackness.
Rain streamed over their faces. Warren’s hair hung in strings about his
neck. The dangers gathered as they lessened the five miles between the
mainland and the island. The young Englishman loved aquatic sports and
his blood tingled with the excitement of the battle with the storm. The
day had brought him adventures, but he did not shrink from death by
drowning were it in a good cause.
Presently the shore loomed up before them, and after much skilful
paddling, they entered the sheltered cove that answered for a bay. The
boat grounded and Judah sprang out, holding it fast while the others
landed. It was a relief to them to feel the hard, sandy beach beneath
their feet and to know that the danger was over for the present.
“Let us go faster,” said Winona. “We are close now, sir--close,”
turning to Warren.
She ran on in front, threw open the door to the little cottage, and
entered. The picture remained with Warren always,--the bare room with
unplastered floor and walls of rough boards; the rude fireplace filled
with logs spouting flames; the feeble glow of the ‘grease lamp’; the
rude chairs and tables. At one side, on a bed of skins, was extended
the figure of a man. The old squaw was rocking to and fro and moaning.
“Ah! my bird!” said old Nokomis, raising her withered hands. “It is no
use--it is too late.”
“What do you mean, Nokomis?” demanded Winona.
“White Eagle has answered the call of the Great Spirit,” replied the
old woman, with a sob.
“Dead! My father!”
The girl gave one quick, heart-breaking cry, and would have fallen had
not Warren caught her in his arms. Gently he raised her, and followed
Judah into another room, and laid her on a bed.
“Ah,” said the lad, “how will she bear it if it is true, when she gets
back her senses? How shall we both bear it?”
“Come, let us see if nothing can be done for your father. Nokomis may
be mistaken.”
“Yes, true;” replied the boy in a hopeless tone.
Back in the kitchen where Mr. Maybee was already applying restoratives.
Warren began an examination of the inanimate form before them. It was
the figure of a fine, handsome man of sixty years, and well-preserved.
They stripped back the hunting shirt and Warren deftly felt for the
wound. As he leaned over him, he gave a startled exclamation, and
rising erect ejaculated:
“This is no accident. _It is murder!_”