In the early morning light they rode away through the quiet beauty of
the woods. The sweetness of the cool air was grateful to them after the
feverish anxiety of the night. The dew of the morning sparkled on bud
and leaf, and the sunlight sifted dimly through the trees.
Parson Steward rode at the head of the small cavalcade, and Mr. Maybee
at the rear; Winona was between Warren and Judah. It was Warren,
however, who had helped her to mount and who did the countless trivial
things which add to one’s comfort, and are so dear to a woman, coming
from one man.
Winona was only sixteen, and she was dreaming the first enchanted
dream of youth. She did not attempt to analyze the dazzling happiness
it was to once more meet and be remembered by the one object of the
pure-hearted and passionate hero-worship of her childish soul; but in
which, alas! for her lay the very seed of the woman’s love, that must
now too surely spring up into full life, forcing her presently to know
it by its right name.
For two years he had been a cherished, never forgotten memory; but
whom in bodily form she was never to see again. Yet so small is the
world, within a week he had suddenly walked into her life again, he had
offered his frankest, loyalest friendship, and opened his prison-doors
with that strong right hand of his which had both power and will.
She rode along the forest lanes in a waking dream; she was too young
to look far into the future, the present was enough for her. One thing
was certain, she would never, never marry, because, of course, it was
quite impossible she should ever marry Warren Maxwell, and a union with
another would be horrible to her.
In the life she had led as a slave, this poor child had learned things
from which the doting mother guards the tender maidenhood of her
treasure with rigid care; so the girl thought of marriage or its form,
with the utmost freedom. No, she would try to serve this man in some
way, in the course of her life, she knew not how, but sometime she
would be his guardian angel--she would save his life at the sacrifice
of her own--nothing was too great to render him in service for his
noble generosity.
It was a child’s dream in which there mingled unconsciously much of the
passionate fervor of the woman, the desire to devote herself and to
suffer for her hero, to die for him even, if it would serve him.
As for Warren--no man could look quite unmoved on the living picture
the girl made as she sat her horse with ease and held the reins with no
uncertain hand. She was so little changed, yet so much; some taller,
but the same graceful form, now so rounded, the same exquisite contour
of feature, and soft, dark face so full of character, so vivid with the
light of the passionate soul within.
He could not dream the wild leap and throb of the young heart as she
turned and caught his blue eyes bent earnestly upon her. She had early
learned control in a hard school, but the light in her eyes, the joy in
her face, was beyond hiding.
That chemistry of the spirit which draws two irresistibly together,
through space and against time and obstacles, kept them conscious only
of each other. Winona resisted the intimation of happiness so like what
had come to her in her beloved Erie’s isle while with her father, yet
so unlike. This joy was a beam from heaven; blessedness seemed so near.
Judah watched them, himself forgotten, and his features hardened. Was
it for this he had suffered and toiled to escape from his bonds? If
they had remained together in slavery, she would have been not one whit
above him, but the freedom for which he had sighed had already brought
its cares, its duties, its self-abnegation. He had hoped to work for
her and a home in Canada; it had been the dream that had buoyed his
heart with hope for weary days; the dream was shattered now. He saw
that the girl would not be satisfied with his humble love.
“So it is,” he told himself bitterly. “The white man has the advantage
in all things. Is it worth while struggling against such forces?”
A while he mused in this strain as they swept on in silence, save for
the subdued tones of the couple beside him. Then came softer thoughts,
and his face lost the hard, revengeful look. He would not despair; the
end was not yet. Many men had admired pretty faces. Let Maxwell beware
and let it end in admiration only; he knew the worth of a white man’s
love for a woman of mixed blood; how it swept its scorching heat over a
white young life, leaving it nothing but charred embers and burnt-out
ashes. God! had he not seen. He--Judah--was her natural protector; he
would be faithful to White Eagle’s trust.
Towards twilight, they swerved from the direct road and entered a
wooded slope. For some hours the hills surrounding Lawrence had been
the point they were making. The naked woods showed the cup-like shape
of the hills there--a basin from which radiated upward wooded ravines
edged with ribs of rock where a few men could hold the entrance
against great odds. In this basin on the edges of a creek John Brown
was encamped. The smoke of a fire was visible in the dim light. As
they advanced, a picket’s gun echoed a warning from rock to rock. They
halted then and dismounted, tying their horses to the branches of trees
and stood ready to answer questions. Two men with guns came out from
the bushes, with the words: “Stop thar. Free or pro-slavery? Whar you
from?” Warren learned afterwards that these were two of Brown’s sons.
Receiving satisfactory answers from Maybee and the Parson, our party
passed on until they reached the creek where a group of horses stood
saddled for a ride for life, or to hunt for Southern invaders. In an
open space was a blazing fire, from which the smoke they had seen came;
a pot was hung over it; a woman with an honest, sunburned face was
superintending the preparations for supper. Three or four armed men
were lying on red and blue blankets on the ground, and two fine-looking
youths--grandsons of John Brown--stood near, leaning on their arms.
Old John Brown himself stood near the fire with his shirt sleeves
rolled up, a large piece of pork in his hands which he had cut from a
pig, barely cold, lying near.
In the woods’ dark shadows nestled rude shelter-huts made from the
branches of trees.
The travellers received a hearty welcome, and a number of women
immediately surrounded Winona and hurried her to the largest hut.
Warren saw her once before leaving the next morning. “Good-bye, Winona;
I shall return in a few weeks at longest. You are safe now until we can
reach Canada.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Maxwell. Do not speak so confidently. How can we tell
that you will ever return or that I shall ever see Canada? I hate these
good-byes,” she said, with trembling lips.
Warren took the childish hand in his and kissed it. “Let us add ’God
willing.’”
“No more time,” called Parson Steward. “We’ve a good twenty miles and
a bit before night,” the next moment they had shaken hands with Maybee
and Judah, and were riding out of camp.
The condition of Warren’s mind was one of bewilderment. He had never
in his life imagined anything like his experiences of the past few
days. Now and again across the confusion of his mind, images floated
vaguely--a white throat tinted by the firelight, a supple figure, a
rapt young face, a head held with all a princess’ grace, and dark,
flashing eyes. The sound of a sweet voice, soft but not monotonous,
fascinated his senses, as he recalled the tones repeating commonplace
answers to commonplace questions. Somehow, the poor gown accented the
girl’s beauty.
Toward the close of the next day, the two men rode along in silence,
save when Steward broke forth in song. He was singing now in a good
baritone voice:
“A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the skies.”
Warren listened to him dreamily. The voice chimed in harmoniously with
the surroundings. The evening shadows were falling rapidly and the soft
twilight folded them in its embrace. Maxwell was to stop another night
at the cabin, and then riding on some fifteen miles, connect with the
next boat on its regular trip to St. Louis.
Presently the singer changed his song to grand old “Coronation,” his
powerful voice swelling on the air-waves, mingling with the rustling of
the leaves stirred by the balmy air, echoing and re-echoing through the
wooded glen: “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” The young man
wondered that he had never before realized the beauties of the noble
hymn.
All the while their horses covered the ground in gallant form.
Wonderful to relate, they had met with no marauding parties; but here
and there, Steward pointed out to him the signs of desolation in the
dreary woods where once prosperous farms had smiled; now the winds
sighed over barren fields and broken fences, and the ghostly ruins of
charred houses lifted their scarred skeletons against the sky in a mute
appeal for vengeance.
The horsemen came to the high-road; soon they would be out in the open,
clear of the woods. Warren’s mind, by one of those sudden transitions
which come to us at times, seemed to carry him bodily into his peaceful
English home. He could see the beautiful avenues of noble trees, and
the rambling, moss-covered manse: he could see the kindly patrician
face of his father, and his brothers and sisters smiled at him from
every bush. The Parson was ahead.
Suddenly he saw the horse stop.
“Ssh!”
Steward threw the word of caution over his shoulder at Maxwell. They
halted, standing motionless in their tracks. A moment of breathless
silence passed; then came the second sound of the soft clink of metal
against stone, though no one was visible in the ghostly shadows of
the twilight. Warren sat motionless as Steward peered about with the
stealthy caution of a fox.
Why should the horse tremble? It was a second before he realized. He
lurched forward in the saddle; there was a sharp pain in his shoulder;
his arm dropped useless. He heard another shot, followed by a wild
shout in the ‘fighting parson’s’ voice--“Blow ye the trumpet blow! Slay
and spare not!”
Then another shot came to his benumbed faculties; then silence; he was
galloping on in the darkness. On and on his frightened horse whirled
him. By this time he was so faint from his wound that he could only
dimly discern objects as he was whirled past the trees. Half a mile
farther, the animal stumbled as he leaped over an obstacle in the path.
Riderless, he sped over the highway; Warren lay motionless under the
blossoming stars.
Out from the shadows of the trees came figures and voices.
“Hold the light. He ain’t dead, is he?” queried the familiar voice of
Bill Thomson.
“Looks like it, but reckon he’s only wounded,” replied Gideon Holmes,
Bill’s lieutenant.
Thomson bent over the insensible man, deftly feeling his heart’s
motion. Then he raised himself and stood looking down thoughtfully on
the youth.
It was a motley crowd of Southern desperadoes, men who stopped at
nothing in the line of murder and rapine.
“Say, Jim,” whispered a slight, thin man to his neighbor, “I wouldn’t
be in that young feller’s shoes fer money----”
“What’s he studyin’, do ye reckon, Dan?”
“Hell!” was the expressive answer.
“What’s agin the boy?” asked Jim.
“Stole two o’ his niggers, so he says.”
“Well, sir! Nasty mess. He won’t git off easy.”
“No. Say, what’s Bill doin’ neow? Looks interestin’.”
Thomson had taken the gold from Warren’s money-belt and the contents of
his saddle-bags and was parcelling money and clothing impartially among
his followers. Warren’s revolvers were stowed in Thomson’s own belt;
then his garments followed suit, one man getting his boots, another his
coat, still another his hat and so on.
While this was going on the unfortunate man revived and stared up into
the devilish face of Bill Thomson. He groaned and closed his eyes.
“Howd’y, Mr. Maxwell? Didn’t think I’d meet up with you so soon again,
did you? Well, I’ve got you. Been after you ever since you left the
‘Crescent,’ and a mighty pretty chase it’s been. Now, I want my
niggers. I ain’t foolin’. Where’s they at?”
“I can’t tell you,” gasped Warren painfully.
“Look here, my friend, you’ve got to tell me. It’s worth your life to
you. You answer me true an’ straight an’ I’ll make it all right for
you. If you don’t----” He paused ominously. “I’ll let a Missouri crowd
kill you! It won’t be nice, easy killin’, neither.”
“I can’t tell you,” again Warren answered, looking up resolutely into
the sinister face bending above him.
“Got grit,” muttered Sam to Dave.
Warren was trembling, and the cold drops in the roots of his hair ran
down his forehead. He was not afraid; he was a man who did not know the
name of fear or cowardice, but Thomson’s evil looks sent a chill to his
heart. Ebenezer Maybee’s words of a few nights back rang in his ears
monotonously: “You might git a taste of this scrimmage that’d con-vince
you that the South is a horned hornet on the nigger question.”
“Well,” said Bill, “made up yer mind? Spit it out!”
Warren looked him in the eye without flinching; he did not answer.
Bill Thomson was what is called “foxy.” He eyed his prisoner a spell
and then said in quite another tone:
“Look a-here. I ain’t goin’ back on old England. You’re my countryman,
and I’m goin’ to give you a square deal. You’re what we call to home
a high-tined gentleman. If you’ll give us all the points possible an’
lead the gang by the rout you’ve jes’ come, you needn’t say one word. I
don’t want no man to give his pals away. Will you?”
Their eyes met. The glitter of steel crossed under the lantern’s light.
Maxwell compressed his lips. Winona stared at him across the shadows of
the dim old woods. “Be true,” she whispered to the secret ear of his
soul. With rapture he read aright the hopeless passion in her eyes when
he left her. He knew now that he loved her. With sudden boldness he
answered his tormentor.
“You have no right to claim either Winona or Judah as you slave. They
are as free as you or I. I will never aid and abet your barbarous
system, understanding it as I do now.”
There was a cry and a general movement on the part of the crowd.
“Let him free his mind!” said Bill, waving the men back. “What do you
mean by ‘barbarous system’?”
“I mean a system that makes it right to force a free man or woman
into slavery. A system which makes it a crime to utter one’s honest
convictions.”
“Wal, I reckon that’ll do fer now,” broke in Gideon Holmes.
“I have committed no crime against your laws; if so, why, leave me in
the hands of the law.”
“We take the law into our own hands these times.” replied Gideon.
“Let me labor with him a spell, Gid.” Gideon subsided, muttering.
“In the fus’ place you are foun’ guilty of associatin’ with Northern
abolitionists; besides that, they have so far corrupted your better
judgment as to cause you to become a party to runnin’ off slaves.”
“Now, Mr. Maxwell, bein’ a British subjec’, you may not know that
in the South sech actions is accountable with murder and becomes a
hangin’ affair. Because of your ignorance of our laws, and, whereas,
you have fallen into evil company, we will give you a show for your
life if you will own up and tell all you know, and help us to recover
our property; otherwise, sorry as I should be to deal harshly with a
gentleman of your cloth, the law mus’ take its course.”
“I am aware that I can expect no mercy at your hands. I have spoken
freely and stated my honest convictions.”
“An’ free enough you’ve been, by gosh!” said Gideon, again breaking in.
Just at this point two men rode out of the woods leading a horse that
Warren recognized. It was the parson’s.
“Where’s he at?” queried Bill.
“Dead’s a hammer,” answered the one in charge, at whose side dangled
the pistols of the “fighting parson.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“Git anything out of him about my niggers?”
“No use, Bill; they’re up to Brown’s camp. Nex’ week they’ll be in
Canidy.”
“Well, this one won’t escape,” said Bill, with a great oath, and a
black, lowering look at the prisoner.
Without more talk, Warren was lifted to the back of the parson’s horse
and firmly bound. Then began a long, wild ride through the night in
darkness and silence, bound, helpless, stabbed by every stumble.
Sometimes they trotted on high ground, sometimes the horses were up to
their knees in the bog; and once Warren felt a heave of his horse’s
flanks, and heard the wash of water as if the animals were swimming.
He tried to collect his thoughts; he tried to pray, but his mind would
wander, and with the pain from his wound and the loss of blood, he was
half-delirious. His thoughts were a jumble of hideous pictures.
Meanwhile, Sam and Dan talked together in whispers.
“Fifteen hundred dollars for the slaves or the slave-stealer, dead or
alive, that’s what the Colonel has advertised.”
“A right smart o’ money,” replied Dan, “an’ only eight o’ us to git it.”
“Kin’ o’ sorry ’bout the parson. It’ll make again us up North,”
continued Sam.
“Ya-as, that’s so, fur a fac’,” acquiesced Dave.
“An’ what a hunter he was, shoot the wink off yer eye! O, Lord, warn’t
he chock full o’ grit. Min’ the time he says to Bill, ‘you ride fas’,
but Death’ll cotch you, an’ after death the judgmen’!” queried Sam.
Dan chuckled at the recollection. “Got the dead wood on Bill then, I
reckon.”
“You bet!” replied Sam, with emphasis.
“Dear, dear, ain’t it turrible fur’t have’t do a man like that mean!”
continued Dan.
“But ’twould be turrible to lost the money. I can’t tell which would be
turriblest!”
“That’s a fac’.”
“Who’s that fool gabin’?” came in a fierce whisper from the front. Then
followed silence.
They had emerged from the swamp and were riding through a high, fertile
region of farming lands. The moon was rolling high in the heavens,
while far toward the east was a faint lightning, the promise of dawn.
Once after crossing a bridge they pulled up and listened, and then rode
off into the bushes and stood quietly in hiding. They were evidently
anxious to avoid pursuit. Once pistol shots followed them as they fled
through the night.
At Weston a crowd of men awaited them, and crossed over to the other
side in company with Bill’s party. Warren was thrown into a wagon.
Presently they stepped from the boat to Missouri’s shore.