Another plan appeared more feasible--to accuse Arens Ringgold openly
before all, and challenge him to mortal combat. This, at least, would
prove that I was sincere in my allegations.
But duelling was against the laws of the service. It would require some
management to keep clear of an arrest--which of course would frustrate
the scheme before satisfaction could be obtained. I had my own thoughts
about Master Arens Ringgold. I knew his courage was but slippery. He
would be likely enough to play the poltroon; but whether so or not, the
charge and challenge would go some way towards exposing him.
I had almost decided on adopting this course, though it was morning
before I had come to any determination.
I stood sadly in need of a friend; not merely a second--for this I could
easily procure--but a companion in whom I could confide, and who might
aid me by his counsel. As ill luck would have it, every officer in the
fort was a perfect stranger to me. With the Ringgolds alone had I any
previous acquaintance.
In my dilemma, I thought of one whose advice might stand me in good
stead, and I determined to seek it. Black Jake was the man--he should
be my counsellor.
Shortly after daylight the brave fellow was by my side. I told him all.
He appeared very little surprised. Some suspicion of such a plot had
already taken possession of his mind, and it was his intention to have
revealed it to me that very morning. Least of all did he express
surprise about Yellow Jake. That was but the confirmation of a belief,
which he entertained already, without the shadow of a doubt. He knew
positively that the mulatto was living--still more, he had ascertained
the mode by which the latter had made his almost miraculous escape.
And yet it was simple enough. The alligator had seized him, as was
supposed; but the fellow had the adroitness to "job" its eyes with the
knife, and thus cause it to let go its hold. He had followed the
example of the young Indian, using the same weapon!
This occurred under water, for the mulatto was a good diver. His limbs
were lacerated--hence the blood--but the wounds did not signify, nor did
they hinder him from making further efforts to escape.
He took care not to rise to the surface until after swimming under the
bank; there, concealed by the drooping branches, he had glided out, and
climbed up into a live-oak--where the moss sheltered him from the eyes
of his vengeful pursuers. Being entirely naked, there was no sign left
by dripping garments, to betray him; besides, the blood upon the water
had proved his friend. On seeing that, the hunters were under the full
belief that he had "gone under," and therefore took but little pains to
search further.
Such was Black Jake's account of this affair. He had obtained it the
evening before from one of the friendly Indians at the fort, who
professed to have the narration from the mulatto's own lips.
There was nothing improbable in the story, but the contrary. In all
likelihood, it was strictly true; and it at once dispersed the
half-dozen mysteries that had gathered in my mind.
The black had received other information. The runaway had taken refuge
with one of the half-negro tribes established amid the swamps that
envelop the head-waters of the Amazura. He had found favour among his
new associates, had risen to be a chief, and now passed under the
cognomen of the "Mulatto-mica."
There was still a little mystery: how came he and Arens Ringgold in
"cahoot?"
After all, there was not much puzzle in the matter. The planter had no
particular cause for hating the runaway. His activity during the scene
of the baffled execution was all a sham. The mulatto had more reason
for resentment; but the loves or hates of such men are easily set
aside--where self-interest interferes--and can, at any time, be commuted
for gold.
No doubt, the white villain had found the yellow one of service in some
base undertaking, and _vice versa_. At all events, it was evident that
the "hatchet had been buried" between them, and their present relations
were upon the most friendly footing.
"Jake!" said I, coming to the point on which I desired to hear his
opinion, "what about Arens Ringgold--shall I call him out?"
"Golly, Massr George, he am out long 'go--I see um 'bout, dis two hour
an' more--dat ar bossy doant sleep berry sound--he hant got de good
conscience, I reck'n."
"Oh! that is not what I mean, my man."
"Wha--what massr mean?"
"To call him out--challenge him to fight me."
"Whaugh! massr, d'you mean to say a dewel ob sword an' pistol?"
"Swords, pistols, or rifles--I care not which weapon he may choose."
"Gorramity! Massr George, don't talk ob such a thing. O Lordy! no--you
hab moder--you hab sister. 'Spose you get kill--who know--tha bullock
he sometime kill tha butcha--den, Massr George, no one lef--who lef take
care on ya moder?--who be guardium ob ya sister Vagin? who 'tect Viola--
who 'tect all ob us from dese bad bad men? Gorramity! massr, let um
lone--doant call 'im out!"
At that moment, I was myself called out. The earnest appeal was
interrupted by the braying of bugles and the rolling of drums,
announcing the assembling of the council; and without waiting to reply
to the disinterested remonstrance of my companion, I hastened to the
scene of my duties.