The rencontre between Ringgold and the Indian monopolised attention, and
the criminal was for the moment forgotten. The knife knocked out of
Powell's hand had fallen at the feet of Yellow Jake. Unobserved in the
confusion he had snatched it up, cut the fastenings from his limbs, and
glided off before any one could intercept him. Several clutched at him
as he passed through the straggled groups; but, being naked, he was able
to glide out of their grasp, and in a dozen bounds he had cleared the
crowd, and was running towards the shore of the lake.
It seemed a mad attempt--he would be shot down or overtaken. Even so;
it was not madness to fly from certain death--and such a death.
Shots were ringing; at first they were the reports of pistols. The guns
had been laid aside, and were leaning against trees and the adjacent
fence.
Their owners now ran to seize them. One after another was levelled; and
then followed a sharp rapid cracking, like file-firing from a corps of
riflemen.
There may have been good marksmen among the party--there were some of
the best--but a man running for his life, and bounding from side to
side, to avoid the stumps and bushes, offers but a very uncertain mark;
and the best shot may miss.
So it appeared on this occasion. After the last rifle rang, the runaway
was still seen keeping his onward course, apparently unscathed.
The moment after, he plunged into the water, and swam boldly out from
the shore.
Some set to reloading their guns; others, despairing of the time, flung
them away; and hastily pulling off hats, coats, boots, rushed down to
the lake, and plunged in after the fugitive.
In less than three minutes from the time that the mulatto started off, a
new tableau was formed. The spot that was to have been the scene of
execution was completely deserted. One half the crowd was down by the
shore, shouting and gesticulating; the other half--full twenty in all--
had taken to the water, and were swimming in perfect silence--their
heads alone showing above the surface. Away beyond--full fifty paces in
advance of the foremost--appeared that solitary swimmer--the object of
pursuit; his head of black tangled curls conspicuous above the water,
and now and then the yellow neck and shoulder, as he forged forward in
the desperate struggle for life.
Strange tableau it was; and bore strong resemblance to a deer-hunt--when
the stag, close-pressed, takes to the water; and the hounds, in full
cry, plunge boldly after--but in this chase were the elements of a still
grander excitement--both the quarry and the pack were human.
Not all human--there were dogs as well--hounds and mastiffs mingled
among the men--side by side with their masters in the eager purpose of
pursuit. A strange tableau indeed!
Stray shots were still fired from the shore. Rifles had been reloaded
by those who remained; and now and then the plash of the tiny pellet
could be seen, where it struck the water far short of the distant
swimmer. He needed no longer have a dread of danger from that source;
he was beyond the range of the rifles.
The whole scene had the semblance of a dream. So sudden had been the
change of events, I could scarcely give credit to my senses, and believe
it a reality. But the moment before, the criminal lay bound and
helpless, beside him the pile upon which he was to be burnt--now was he
swimming far and free, his executioners a hopeless distance behind him.
Rapid had been the transformation--it hardly appeared real.
Nevertheless, it _was_ real--it was before the eyes.
A long time, too, before our eyes. A chase in the water is a very
different affair from a pursuit on dry land; and, notwithstanding there
was life and death on the issue, slow was the progress both of pursuers
and pursued. For nearly half an hour we who remained upon the shore
continued spectators of this singular contest.
The frenzy of the first moments had passed away; but there was
sufficient interest to sustain a strong excitement to the last; and some
continued to shout and gesticulate, though neither their cries nor
actions could in anywise influence the result. No words of
encouragement could have increased the speed of the pursuers; no threats
were needed to urge forward the fugitive.
We who remained inactive had time enough to reflect; and upon
reflection, it became apparent why the runaway had taken to the water.
Had he attempted to escape by the fields, he would have been pulled down
by the dogs, or else overtaken by swift runners, for there were many
swifter than he. There were few better swimmers, however, and he knew
it. For this reason, then, had he preferred the water to the woods, and
certainly his chances of escape seemed better.
After all, he could _not_ escape. The island for which he was making
was about half a mile from the shore; but beyond was a stretch of clear
water of more than a mile in width. He would arrive at the island
before any of his pursuers; but what then? Did he purpose to remain
there, in hopes of concealing himself among the bushes? Its surface of
several acres was covered with a thick growth of large trees. Some
stood close by the shore, their branches draped with silvery tillandsia,
overhanging the water. But what of this? There might have been cover
enough to have given shelter to a bear or a hunted wolf, but not to a
hunted man--not to a slave who had drawn the knife upon his master. No,
no. Every inch of the thicket would be searched: to escape by
concealing himself he might not.
Perhaps he only meant to use the island as a resting-place; and, after
breathing himself, take once more to the water, and swim for the
opposite shore. It was possible for a strong swimmer to reach it; but
it would not be possible for _him_. There were skiffs and _pirogues_
upon the river, both up and down. Men had already gone after them; and,
long before he could work his way across that wide reach, half-a-dozen
keels would be cutting after him. No, no--he could not escape: either
upon the island, or in the water beyond, he would be captured.
Thus reasoned the spectators, as they stood watching the pursuit.
The excitement rose higher as the swimmers neared the island. It is
always so at the approach of a crisis; and a crisis was near, though not
such a one as the spectators anticipated. They looked to see the
runaway reach the island, mount up the bank, and disappear among the
trees. They looked to see his pursuers climb out close upon his heels,
and perhaps hear of his capture before he could cross through the
timber, and take to the water on the other side.
Some such crisis were they expecting; and it could not be distant, for
the mulatto was now close into the edge of the island; a few strokes
would bring him to the shore; he was swimming under the black shadows of
the trees--it seemed as if the branches were over his head--as if he
might have thrown up his hands and clutched them.
The main body of his pursuers was still fifty yards in his rear; but
some, who had forged ahead of the rest, were within half that distance.
From where we viewed them, they seemed far nearer; in fact, it was easy
to fancy that they were swimming alongside, and could have laid hands on
him at any moment.
The crisis was approaching, but not that which was looked for. The
pursuit was destined to a far different ending from that anticipated
either by spectators or pursuers. The pursued himself little dreamed of
the doom that was so near--a doom awfully appropriate.
The swimmer was cleaving his way across the belt of black shadow; we
expected next moment to see him enter among the trees, when all at once
he was seen to turn side towards us, and direct his course along the
edge of the island!
We observed this manoeuvre with some astonishment--we could not account
for it; it was clearly to the advantage of his pursuers, who now swam in
a diagonal line to intercept him.
What could be his motive? Had he failed to find a landing-place? Even
so, he might have clutched the branches, and by that means drawn himself
ashore.
Ha! our conjectures are answered; yonder is the answer; yonder brown log
that floats on the black water is _not_ the trunk of a dead tree. It is
not dead; it has life and motion. See! it assumes a form--the form of
the great saurian--the hideous alligator!
Its gaunt jaws are thrown up, its scolloped tail is erect, its breast
alone rests upon the water. On this as a pivot it spins round and
round, brandishing its tail in the air, and at intervals lashing the
spray aloft. Its bellowing is echoed back from the distant shores; the
lake vibrates under the hoarse baritone, the wood-birds flutter and cry,
and the white crane mounts screaming into the air.
The spectators stand aghast; the pursuers have poised themselves in the
water, and advance no farther. One solitary swimmer is seen struggling
on; it is he who swims for his life.
It is upon him the eyes of the alligator are fixed. Why upon him more
than the others! They are all equally near. Is it the hand of God who
takes vengeance?
Another revolution, another sweep of its strong tail, and the huge
reptile rushes upon its victim.
I have forgotten his crimes--I almost sympathise with him. Is there no
hope of his escape?
See! he has grasped the branch of a live-oak; he is endeavouring to lift
himself up--above the water--above the danger. Heaven strengthen his
arms!
Ah! he will be too late; already the jaws--That crash?
The branch has broken!
He sinks back to the surface--below it. He is out of sight--he has gone
to the bottom! and after him, open-mouthed and eager, darts the gigantic
lizard. Both have disappeared from our view.
The froth floats like a blanket upon the waves, clouting the leaves on
the broken branch.
We watch with eager eyes. Not a ripple escapes unnoted; but no new
movement stirs the surface, no motion is observed, no form comes up; and
the waves soon flatten over the spot.
Beyond a doubt the reptile has finished its work.
Whose work? Was it the hand of God who took vengeance?
So they are saying round me.
The pursuers have faced back, and are swimming towards us. None cares
to trust himself under the black shadows of those island oaks. They
will have a long swim before they can reach the shore, and some of them
will scarcely accomplish it. They are in danger; but no--yonder come
the skiffs and pirogues that will soon pick them up.
They have seen the boats, and swim slowly, or float upon the water,
waiting their approach.
They are taken in, one after another; and all--both dogs and men--are
now carried to the island.
They go to continue the search--for there is still some doubt as to the
fate of the runaway.
They land--the dogs are sent through the bushes, while the men glide
round the edge to the scene of the struggle. They find no track or
trace upon the shore.
But there is one upon the water. Some froth still floats--there is a
tinge of carmine upon it--beyond a doubt it is the blood of the mulatto.
"All right, boys!" cries a rough fellow; "that's blueskin's blood, I'll
sartify. He's gone under an' no mistake. Darn the varmint! it's clean
spoilt our sport."
The jest is received with shouts of boisterous laughter.
In such a spirit talked the man-hunters, as they returned from the
chase.