There was a time when to have met his father's enemy
thus, would have been to have called into activity all
the dormant fierceness of Gerald's nature; but since they
had last parted, a new channel had been opened to his
feelings, and the deep and mysterious grief in which we
have seen him shrouded, had been of so absorbing and
selfish a nature, as to leave him little consideration
for sorrows not his own. The rash impetuosity of his
former character, which had often led him to act even
before he thought, and to resent an injury before it
could well be said to have been offered, had moreover
given place to a self-command, the fruit of the reflective
habits and desire of concealment which had made him
latterly almost a stranger to himself.
Whatever his motives for outwardly avoiding all recognition
of the settler, certain it is that, so far from this, he
sought sedulously to conceal his own identity, by drawing
the slouched hat, which formed a portion of his new
equipment, lower over his eyes. Left to do the duties of
the rude hostelry, Captain Jackson and he now quitted
the hut, and leading their jaded, smoking, steeds a few
rods off to the verge of the plain they had so recently
traversed, prepared to dispose of them for the night,
Gerald had by this time become too experienced in the
mode of travelling through an American wilderness, not
to understand that he who expects to find a companion in
his horse in the morning, must duly secure him with the
tether at night. Following, therefore, the example of
the Aid-de-Camp, he applied himself, amid the still
pelting rain, to the not very cleanly task of binding
round the fetlock joints of his steed several yards of
untanned hide strips, with which they were severally
provided for the purpose. Each gave his steed a parting
slap on the buttock with the hard bridle, Jackson
exclaiming, "go ye luxurious beasts, ye have a whole
prairie of wet grass to revel in for the night," and then
left them to make the best of their dainty food.
While returning, Grantham took occasion to observe, that
he had reason to think he knew the surly and inhospitable
woodsman, by whom however he was not desirous of being
recognized, and therefore begged as a favor that Captain
Jackson would not, in the course of the night, mention
his name, or even allude to him in any way that could
lead to an inference that he was any other than he seemed,
a companion and brother officer of his own; promising,
in conclusion, to give him, in the course of the next
day's journey, some little history of the man which would
fully explain his motives. With this request Jackson
unhesitatingly promised compliance, adding, good humouredly,
that he was not sorry to pledge himself to any thing that
would thaw his companion's tongue into sociability, and
render himself, for the first time since their departure,
a listener. Before entering the hut Gerald further observed
in a whisper, that the better to escape recognition, he
would, as much as possible, avoid joining in any
conversation which might ensue, and therefore hoped his
companion would not think it rude if he suffered him to
bear the tax. Jackson again promised to keep the attention
of the woodsman directed as much as possible to himself,
observing, that he thought Gerald had already, to his
cost, discovered he was not one easily tired out by
conversation, should their host be that way inclined.
On opening the door of the cabin, they found that the
woodsman, or more properly the settler as we shall again
term him, making a virtue of necessity, had somewhat
cheered its interior. A number of fine logs, sufficient
to last throughout the night had been heaped upon the
hearth, and these, crackling and fizzing, and emitting
sparks in all the burly of a hickory wood-fire, gave
promise of a night of comparative comfort. Ensconced in
the farther corner of the chimney, the settler had already
taken his seat, and, regardless of the entrance of the
strangers, (with his elbows resting on his knees, and
his face buried in his large palms), kept his eyes fixed
upon the fire, as if with a sullen determination neither
to speak nor suffer himself to be questioned. But the
Aid-de-Camp was by no means disposed to humour him in
his fancy. The idea of passing some eight or ten consecutive
hours in company with two fellow beings, without calling
into full play the bump of loquacity, with which nature
had largely endowed him, was, in his view, little better
than the evil from which his perseverance had just enabled
him to escape. Making himself perfectly at home, he
unbuckled the wet blanket from his loins, and spreading
it, with that of Gerald, to dry upon the rude floor before
the fire, drew forward a heavy uncouth looking table,
(which, with two or three equally unpolished chairs,
formed the whole of the furniture), and deposited thereon
the wallet or haversack in which remained a portion of
provision. He then secured the last vacant chair, and
taking up a position on the right of the table which lay
between himself and Gerald, let it fall upon the dry clay
hearth, with a violence that caused the settler to quit
his attitude of abstraction for one of anger and surprise.
"Sorry to disturb you, friend," he said; "but these chairs
of yours are so curst heavy, there's no handling them
decently; specially with cold fingers."
"Beggars, I reckon, have no right to be choosers," returned
the settler; "the chairs is quite good enough for me--and
no one axed you to sit on em."
"I'll tell you what it is, old cock," continued the
Aid-de-Camp, edging his seat closer, and giving his host
a smart friendly slap upon the thigh, "this dull life of
yours don't much improve your temper. Why, as I am a true
Tennessee man, bred and born, I never set eyes upon such
a crab apple in all my life--you'd turn a whole dairy of
the sweetest milk that ever came from prairie grass sour
in less than no time. I take it, you must be crossed in
love old boy, eh?"
"Crossed in hell," returned the settler, savagely. "I
reckon as how it don't consarn you whether I look sour
or sweet--what you want is a night's lodgin', and you've
got it, so don't trouble me no more."
"Very sorry, but I shall," said Jackson, secretly
congratulating himself that, now he had got the tongue
of his host in motion, he had a fair chance of keeping
it so. "I must trouble you for some bread, and whatever
else your larder may afford. I'll pay you honestly for
it, friend."
"I should guess," said the settler, his stern features
brightening for the first time into a smile of irony,
"as how a man who had served a campaign agin the Ingins
and another agin the British, might contrive to do without
sich a luxury as bread. You'll find no bread here I
reckon."
"What, not even a bit of corn bread! Try, my old cock,
and rummage up a crust or two, for hung beef is devilish
tight work for the teeth, without a little bread of some
sort for a relish."
"If you'd ha' used your eyes you'd ha' seen nothin' like
a corn patch for twenty mile round about this. Bread
never entered this hut since I been here. I don't eat
it."
"More's the pity," replied Jackson, with infinite drollery;
but though you may not like it yourself, your friends may."
"I HAVE no friends--I WISH to have no friends," was the
sullen reply.
"More's the pity still," pursued the Aid-de-Camp, "but what
do you live on then, old cock, if you don't eat bread?"
"Human flesh. Take that as a relish to your hung beef."
Scarcely had the strange confession escaped the settler's
lips, when Jackson, active as a deer, was at the farther
end of the hut, one hand holding the heavy chair as a
shield before him, the other placed upon the butt of one
of his pistols. The settler at the same moment quitted
his seat, and stretching his tall and muscular form to
its utmost height, burst into a laugh that sounded more
like that of some wild beast than a human being. The
involuntary terror produced in his guest was evidently
a source of exultation to him, and he seemed gratified
to think he had at length discovered the means of making
himself looked upon with something like fear.
On entering the hut, Gerald had taken his seat at the
opposite corner of the fire, yet in such a manner as to
admit of his features being shaded by the projection of
the chimney. The customs of the wilderness moreover
rendering it neither offensive, nor even worthy of remark,
that he should retain his hat, he had, as in the first
instance, drawn it as much over his eyes as he conceived
suited to his purpose of concealment, without exciting
a suspicion of his design; and, as the alteration in his
dress was calculated to deceive into a belief of his
being an American, he had been enabled to observe the
settler without much fear of recognition in return. A
great change had taken place in the manner of Desborough.
Ferocious he still was, but it was a ferocity, wholly
unmixed with the cunning of his former years, that he
now exhibited. He had evidently suffered much, and there
was a stamp of thought on the heavy countenance that
Gerald had never remarked there before. There was also
this anomaly in the man, that while ten years appeared
to have been added to his age--his strength was increased
in the same proportion--a change that made itself evident
by the attitude in which he stood.
"Why now I take it you must be jesting" at length exclaimed
the Aid-de-Camp doubtingly, dropping at the same time
the chair upon the floor, yet keeping it before him as
though not quite safe in the presence of this self-confessed
anthropophagos; "you surely don't mean to say you kill
and pickle every unfortunate traveller that comes by
here. If so I most apprehend you in the name of the United
States Government."
"I rather calculate not Mister," sneered the settler.
"Besides I don't eat the United States subjects;
consequently they've no claim to interfere."
"Who the devil do you eat then," asked Jackson, gathering
courage with his curiosity, and advancing a pace or two
nearer the fire, "or is it all a hum?"
The settler approached the fire, stooped a little, and
applying his shoulder to the top of the opening, thrust
his right hand and arm up the chimney.
"I reckon that's no hum," he said, producing and throwing
upon the table a piece of dark dry flesh, that resembled
in appearance the upper part of a human arm. "If you're
fond of a relish," he pursued with a fierce laugh; "you'll
find that mighty well suited to the palate--quite as
sweet as a bit of smok'd venison."
"Why you don't really mean to say that's part of a man?"
demanded Jackson, advancing cautiously to the table, and
turning over the shrivelled mass with the point of his
dagger. "Why, I declare, its just the color of my dried
beef."
"But I do though--and what's more, of my own killin' and
dryin'. Purty naturist you must be not to see that's off
an Ingin's arm."
"Oh an Ingin's only, is it?" returned the Aid-de-Camp,
whose apprehension began rapidly to subside, now that he
had obtained the conviction that it was not the flesh of
a white man. "Well, I'm sure! who'd have thought it. I
take it, old cock, you've been in the wars as well as
myself."
"A little or so I reckon, and I expect to be in them agin
shortly--as soon as my stock of food's out. I've only a
thigh bone to pick after this, and then I'm off. But why
don't you take your seat at the fire. There's nothin' so
out of the way in the sight of a naked arm, is there? I
reckon if you're a soger, you must have seen many a one
lopped off in the wars."
"Yes, friend," said Jackson, altering the position of
the table and placing it between the settler and himself;
"a good many lopped off, as you say, and in a devil of
a stew, but not exactly eaten. However be so good as to
return this to the chimney, and when I've eaten something
from my bag I'll listen to what you have to say about
it."
"Jist so, and go without my own supper I suppose, to
please you. But tarnation, while you're eatin' a bit of
your hung beef I'll try a snack of mine."
So saying he deliberately took from the table the dried
arm he had previously flung there, and, removing a large
clasp knife from a pocket beneath his coarse hunting
frock, proceeded to help himself to several thin slices,
corresponding precisely in appearance with those which
the Aid-de-Camp divided in the same manner.
Jackson had managed to swallow three or four pieces of
his favorite hung beef with all the avidity of an appetite,
rendered keen by the absence of every other stimulant
than hunger; but no sooner did he perceive his host
fastening with a degree of fury on his unnatural food,
than, sick and full of loathing, his stomach rejected
further aliment, and he was compelled to desist. During
all this time Grantham, who, although he had assumed the
manner and attitude of a sleeping man, was a watchful
observer of all that passed, neither moved nor uttered
a syllable, except on one occasion to put away from him
the food Jackson had offered.
"Sorry to see your ride has given you so poor an appetite,"
said the settler, with a look expressive of the savage
delight he felt in annoying his visitor. "I reckon that's
rather unsavory stuff you've got there, that you can't
eat it without bread. I say young man"--addressing
Grantham, "can't you find no appetite neither, that you
sit there snorin', as if you never meant to wake agin."
Gerald's head sunk lower on his chest, and his affectation
of slumber became more profound.
"Try a drop of this," said Jackson, offering his canteen,
after having drank himself, and with a view to distract
attention from his companion. "You seem to have no liquor
in the house, and I take it you require something hot as
h-ll, and strong as d--n----n, after that ogre like repast
of yours."
The settler seized the can, and raised it to his lips.
It contained some of the fiery whiskey we have already
described as the common beverage in most parts of America.
This, all powerful as it was, he drained off as though
it had been water, and with the greedy avidity of one
who finds himself suddenly restored to the possession of
a favorite and long absent drink.
"Hollo, my friend," exclaimed the angry Aid-de-Camp, who
had watched the rapid disappearance of his "travellers
best companion," as he quaintly enough termed it, down
the capacious gullet of the settler--and snatching at
the same moment the nearly emptied canteen from his hands.
"I take it, that's not handsome. As I'm a true Tennessee
man, bred and born, it aint at all hospitable to empty
off a pint of raw liquor at a spell, and have not so much
as a glass of methiglin to offer in return. What the hell
do you suppose we're to do tomorrow for drink, during a
curst long ride through the wood, and not a house of call
till nightfall along the road."
The settler drew a breath long and heavy in proportion
to the draught he had swallowed, and when his lungs had
again recovered their play, answered blusteringly, in a
voice that betokened incipient intoxication.
"Roar me up a saplin' Mister, but you're mighty stingy
of the Wabash. I reckon as how I made you a free offer
of my food, and it war'nt no fault of mine if you did'nt
choose to take it. It would only have been relish for
relish after all--and that's what I call fair swap."
"Well, no matter," said Jackson soothingly; "what's done
can't be undone, therefore I take it its no use argufying
--however, my old cock, when next you got the neck of
a canteen of mine, twixt your lips, I hope it may do the
cockles of your heart good; that's all. But lets hear
how you came by them pieces of nigger's flesh, and how
it is you've taken it into your head to turn squatter
here. You seem," glancing around, "to have no sleeping
room to spare, and one may as well sit up and chat as
have one's bones bruised to squash on the hard boards."
"It's a sad tale," said the settler gruffly and with a
darkening brow, "and brings bitter thoughts with it; but
as the liquor has cheered me up a bit, I don't much mind
if I do tell you how I skivered the varmint. Indeed," he
pursued savagely, "that always gives me a pleasure to
think of, for I owed them a desperate grudge--the bloody
red skins and imps of hell. I was on my way to Detroit,
to see the spot once more where my poor boy Phil lay
rottin', and one dark night (for I only ventured to move
at night,) I came slick upon two Ingins as was lying fast
asleep before their fire in a deep ravine. The one nearest
to me had his face unkivered, and I knew the varmint for
the tall dark Delaweer chief as made one of the party
after poor Phil and me, a sight that made me thirst for
the blood of the heathens as a child for mother's milk.
Well, how do you suppose I managed them. I calculate
you'd never guess. Why, I stole as quiet as a fox until
I got jist atween them, and then holdin' a cocked pistol
to each breast, I called out in a thunderin' voice that
made the woods ring agin Kit-chimocomon, which you know,
as you've been in the wars, signifies long knife or
Yankee. You'd a laugh'd fit to split your sides I guess,
to see the stupid stare of the devils, as startin' out
of their sleep, they saw a pistol within three inches of
each of'em. 'Ugh,' says they, as if they did'nt know well
whether to take it as a joke or not. 'Yes, 'ugh' and be
damn'd to you,' say's I: you may go and 'ugh' in hell
next--and with that snap went the triggers, and into
their curst carcasses went the balls. The one I killed
outright but t'other the Delaweer chief, was by a sudden
shift only slightly wounded, and he sprung on his feet
and out with his knife. But I had a knife too, and all
a disappinted father's rage to boot, so at it we' went
closin' and strikin' with our knives like two fierce
fiends of the forest. It was noble sport sure-LY. At last
the Delaweer fell over the bleedin' body of his warrior
and I top of him. As he fell the knife dropt from his
hand and he could'nt reach it no how, while I still
gripped mine fast. 'Ugh,' he muttered agin, as if askin'
to know what I meant to do next. 'Ugh,' and be damn'd to
you once more, say's I--and the pint of my long knife
was soon buried in his black heart. Then, when I see them
both dead I eat my own meal at their fire, for I was
tarnation hungry, and while I was eatin' a thought came
across me that it would be good fun to make smoked meat
of the varmint, so when I had tucked it in purty
considerably, what with hominy and dried bear's meat,
moistened with a little Wabash I found in the Delaweer
chief's canteen, I set to and regularly quartered them.
The trunks I left behind, but the limbs I packed up in
the blankets that had been used to kiver them, I reckon;
and with them slung across my shoulders, like a saddle
bag across a horse, I made tracks through the swamps and
the prairies for this here hut, which I know'd no livin'
soul had been nigh for many a long year. And now," he
concluded with a low drunken laugh, "you've the history
of the dried meat. There isn't much left but when all is
gone I'm off to the wars, for I can't find no peace I
reckon without my poor boy Phil." He paused a moment,
and then, as if suddenly influenced by some painful
recollection, he struck his hand with startling violence
upon the table, and, while every feature of his iron
countenance seemed worked up to a pitch of intensity,
added with fearful calmness, "May God's curse light upon
me if I don't have my revenge of them Granthams yet:--yes"
he continued with increased excitement of voice and
manner, while he kicked one of the blazing hickory logs
in the chimney with all the savageness of drunken rage,
causing a multitude of sparks to spit forth as from the
anvil of a smith,--"jist so would I kick them both to
hell for having murdered my poor boy."
"Why, surely, Liftenant Grantham, he can't meant you?"
abruptly questioned the Aid-de-Camp, drawing back his
chair and resting the palms of his hands upon his knees,
while he fixed his eye keenly and inquiringly upon Gerald.
But Gerald had no time to answer him--Scarcely had the
name escaped the lips of the incautious Jackson, when a
yell of exultation from the settler drew him quickly to
his feet, and in the next moment he felt one hand of his
enemy grappling at his throat, while the fingers of the
other were rapidly insinuating themselves into the hair
that shadowed one of his temples, with the evident
intention to "gouge" him. Weak and emaciated as he was,
Gerald was soon made sensible of the disproportion of
physical strength thus suddenly brought into the struggle,
and as the savage laugh of the settler, as his fingers
wound themselves closer and closer within the clustering
hair, proclaimed his advantage, he felt that his only
chance of saving the threatened eye was by having recourse
to some sudden and desperate attempt to free himself from
the gripe of his opponent. Summoning all his strength
into one vigorous effort, he rushed forward upon his
enemy with such force, raising himself at the same time
in a manner to throw the whole weight of his person upon
him, that the latter reeled backwards several paces
without the power of resistance, and falling over the
table towards which he had been intentionally propelled,
sank with a heavy crash to the floor, still however
retaining his firm hold of his enemy and dragging him
after him.
Half throttled, maddened with pain, and even more bitterly
stung by a sense of the humiliating position in which he
found himself, the feelings of Gerald became uncontrolable,
until his anxiety to inflict a mortal injury upon his
enemy became in the end as intense as that of the settler.
In their fall the table had been overturned, and with it
the knife which Desborough had used with his horrid
repast. As the light from the blazing fire fell upon the
blade, it had once caught the unassailed eye of the
officer, and was the next moment clutched in his grasp.
He raised it with a determination, inspired by the agony
he endured, at once to liberate himself and to avenge
his father's murder, but the idea that there was something
assassin-like in the act as suddenly arrested him, and
ere he had time to obey a fresh impulse of his agony,
the knife was forcibly stricken from his hand. A laugh
of triumph burst from the lips of the half intoxicated
Desborough, but it was scarcely uttered before it was
succeeded by a yell of pain, and the hand that had
contrived to entwine itself, with resistless force and
terrible intent, in the waving hair of the youth, fell
suddenly from its grasp, enabling its victim at length
to free himself altogether and start once more to his
feet.
Little more than a minute had been passed in the enactment
of this strange scene. The collision, the overthrow, the
upraising of the knife had followed each other in such
rapid succession that, until the last desperate intention
of Gerald was formed, the Aid-de-Camp had not had time
to interpose himself in any way between the enraged
combatants. His first action had been to strike away
the murderous knife with the heavy butt of one of his
pistols, the other to plant such a blow upon the "gouging"
hand of the settler from the same butt, as effectually
to compel him to relinquish his ferocious clutch. In both
objects, as we have seen, he fully succeeded.
But although his right hand had been utterly disabled by
the blow from Jackson's pistol, the fury of Desborough,
fed as it was by the fumes of the liquor he had swallowed,
was too great to render him heedful of aught but the
gratification of his vengeance. Rolling rapidly over to
the point where the knife had fallen he secured it in
his left hand, and then, leaping nimbly to his feet,
gathered himself into a spring upon his unarmed but
watchful enemy. But before the bound could be taken, the
active Aid-de-Camp, covering Gerald with his body and
presenting a cocked pistol, had again thwarted him in
his intention.
"I say now, old cock, you'd much better be quiet I guess,
for them sort of tantrums won't suit me. If this here
Liftenant killed your son why he'll answer for it later,
but I can't let you murder my prisoner in that flumgustious
manner. I'm responsible for him to the United States
Government, therefore just drop that knife clean and
slick upon the floor, and let's have no more of this
nonsense for the night."
But even the cocked pistol had not power to restrain the
fierce--almost brutal--rage of the settler, whose growing
intoxication added fuel to the fire which the presence
of his enemy had kindled in his heart. Heedless of the
determined air and threatening posture of the Aid-de-Camp,
he made a bound forward, uttering a sound that resembled
the roar of a wild beast rather than the cry of a human
being, and struck over Jackson's shoulder at the chest
of the officer. Gerald, whose watchful eye marked the
danger, had however time to step back and avoid the blow.
In the next moment the Aid-de-Camp, overborne by the
violence of the collision, fell heavily backwards upon
the rude floor, and in his fall the pistol went off
lodging the ball in the sinewy calf of Desborough's leg.
Stung with acute animal pain, the whole rage of the latter
was now diverted from Gerald to the Aid-de-Camp, on whom
(assuming the wound to have been intentional) he threw
himself with the fury of a tiger, grappling as he closed
with him at his throat. But the sailor in his turn now
came to the rescue of his companion, and the scene for
some time, as the whole party struggled together upon
the floor in the broad red glare of the wood fire, was
one of fearful and desperate character. At length after
an immense effort, and amid the most horrid imprecations
of vengeance upon them, the officers succeeded in disarming
and tying the hands of the settler behind his back, after
which dragging him to a distant corner of the hut, they
secured him firmly to one of the open and mis-shapen logs
which composed its frame. This done, Jackson divided the
little that had been left of his "Wabash" with his charge,
and then stretching himself at his length, with his feet
to the fire, and his saddle for a pillow, soon fell
profoundly asleep.
Too much agitated by the scene which had just passed,
Gerald, although following the example of his companion,
in stretching himself before the cheerful fire, was in
no condition to enjoy repose. Indeed, whatever his
inclination, the attempt would have been vain, for so
dreadful were the denunciations of Desborough throughout
the night, that sleep had no room to enter even into his
thoughts. Deep and appalling were the curses and threats
of vengeance which the enraged settler uttered upon all
who bore the name of Grantham; and with these were mingled
lamentations for his son, scarcely less revolting in
their import than the curses themselves. Nor was the
turbulence of the enraged man confined to mere excitement
of language. His large and muscular form struggled in
every direction, to free himself from the cords that
secured him to the logs, and finding these too firmly
bound to admit of the accomplishment of his end, he kicked
his brawny feet against the floor with all the fury and
impatience of a spirit, quickened into a livelier sense
of restraint by the stimulus of intoxication. At length,
exhausted by the efforts he had made, his struggles and
his imprecations became gradually less frequent and less
vigorous, until finally towards dawn they ceased altogether,
and his deep and heavy breathing announced that he slept.
Accustomed to rise with the dawn, the Aid-de-Camp was
not long after its appearance, in shaking off the slumber
in which he had so profoundly indulged. The first object
that met his eye as he raised himself up in a sitting
posture from his rude bed, was Gerald stooping over the
sleeping Desborough, one hand reposing upon his chest,
the other holding the knife already alluded to, while
every feature of his face was kindled into loathing and
abhorrence of his prostrate and sleeping enemy. Startled
by the expression he read there, and with the occurrences
of the past night rushing forcibly upon his memory, the
Aid-de-Camp called quickly out, "Hold, Liftenant Grantham.
Well, as I'm a true Tennessee man, bred and born, may I
be most especially d----d, if I'd a thought you'd do so
foul a deed. What! assassinate a sleeping drunken man?"
"Assassinate! Captain Jackson," repeated Gerald, raising
himself to his full height, while a crimson flush of
indignation succeeded to the deadly paleness which had
overspread his cheek.
"Yes, assassinate," returned the Aid-de-Camp, fixing his
eye upon that of his prisoner, yet without perceiving
that it quailed under his penetrating glance. "It's an
ugly word, I reckon, for you to hear, as it is for me to
speak; but your quarrel last night--your fix just now--
that knife,--Liftenant Grantham," and he pointed to the
blade which still remained in the grasp of the accused.
"Surely these things speak for themselves, and though
the fellow has swallowed off all my Wabash, and be d----d
to him, (making a fruitless attempt to extract a few
drops from his canteen,) still I shouldn't like to see
him murdered in that sort of way."
"I cannot blame you, Captain Jackson," said Gerald calmly,
his features resuming their pallid hue. "These appearances,
I grant, might justify the suspicion, horrible as it is,
in one who had known more of me than yourself; but was
assassination even a virtue, worlds would not tempt me
to assassinate that man--wretch though he be--or even to
slay him in fair and open combat."
"Then, I calculate, one night has made a pretty considerable
change in your feelings, Liftenant," retorted the Aid-de-
Camp. "You were both ready enough to go at it last night,
when I knocked the knife out of your fist, and broke the
knuckles of his gouging hand."
"I confess," said Gerald, again coloring, "that excessive
pain made me wild, and I should have been tempted to have
had recourse to any means to thwart him in his diabolical
purpose. As you have said, however, the past night has
effected a change in my feelings towards the man, and
death from my hand, under any circumstances, is the last
thing he has now to apprehend." Gerald sank his head upon
his chest, and sighed bitterly.
"Well," said Jackson, "all this is queer enough; but what
were you doing standing over the man just now with that
knife, if it was not to harm him? And as for your
countenance, it scowled so savage and passionate, I was
almost afraid to look at it myself."
"My motive for the action I must beg you to excuse my
entering upon," replied Gerald. "Of this, however, be
assured, Captain Jackson, that I had no intention to
injure yon sleeping villain. On the word of an officer
and a gentleman, and by the kindness you have shown me
on all occasions since our journey commenced, do I solemnly
assure you this is the fact."
"And on the word of an officer, and a true Tennessee man,
bred and born, I am bound to believe you," returned the
American, much affected. "A man that could fight so
wickedly in the field would never find heart, I reckon,
to stick an enemy in the dark. No, Liftenant Grantham,
you were not born to be an assassin. And now let's be
starting--the day has already broke."
"And yet," returned Gerald, with a smile of bitter
melancholy, as they hurried towards the spot where they
had left their horses, "if any man ever had reason to
act so as to merit the imputation of being such, I have.
In that savage woodsman, Captain Jackson, you have beheld
the murderer--the self acknowledged murderer of my father."
"God bless my soul!" cried Jackson, dropping the saddle
which he carried, and standing still with very amazement.
"A pretty fix I've got into, to be sure. Here's one man
accuses another of murdering his son, and t'other, by
way of quits, accuses him, in his turn, of murdering his
father. Why, which am I to believe?"
"Which you please, Captain Jackson," said the sailor
coolly, yet painedly; and he moved forward in pursuit of
his horse.
"Nay, Liftenant Grantham," said the Aid-de-Camp, who had
again resumed his burden, and was speedily at the side
of his companion, "don't be offended. I've no doubt the
thing's as you say, but you must make allowance for my
ideas, never too much of the brightest, being conglomerated,
after a fashion, by what I have seen and heard, since we
let loose our horses last night upon this prairie."
"I am not offended, only hurt," replied Gerald, shaking
the hand that was cordially tendered to him; "hurt that
you should doubt my word, or attach any thing to the
assertion of that man beyond the mere ravings of a savage
and diseased spirit. Justice to myself demands that I
should explain every thing in detail."
"Now that's what I call all right and proper," returned
the Aid-de-Camp, "and should be done both for your sake
and mine; but we will leave it till we get once more upon
the road and in sight of a tavern, for its dry work
talking and listening without even so much as a gum
tickler of the Wabash to moisten one's clay."
They found their horses not far from the spot where they
had been left on the preceding night, and these being
speedily untethered and saddled, the travellers again
pursued their route towards the capital of the State in
which they found themselves. As they passed the hut,
which had been the scene of so much excitement to both,
the voice of Desborough whom they had left fast asleep,
was heard venting curses and imprecations upon them both,
for having left him there to starve, bound and incapable
of aiding himself. Wretch as the settler was, Gerald
could not reconcile to himself the thought of his being
left to perish thus miserably, and he entreated the
Aid-de-Camp to enter and divide the cords. But Jackson
declared this to be impolitic, urging as a powerful reason
for declining, the probability of his having fire arms
in the hut, with which (if released,) he might follow
and overtake them in their route, and sacrifice one or
the other to his vengeance--an object which it would be
easy to accomplish without his ever being detected.
However, that the villain might have sustenance until
some chance traveller should come later to his assistance,
or he could manage to get rid of his bonds himself (which
he might do in time) he consented to place within his
reach all the dried meat that had been left of his Indian
foes, together with a pail of water--the latter by way
of punishment for having swilled away at his Wabash in
the ungracious manner he had.
While Jackson was busied in this office of questionable
charity, the rage and disappointment of the settler
surpassed what it had hitherto been. Each vein of his
dark brow rose distinctly and swelling from its surface,
and he kicked and stamped with a fury that proclaimed
the bitter tempest raging in his soul. When the Aid-de-Camp
had again mounted, his shrieks and execrations became
piercing, and for many minutes after they had entered
into the heart of the forest in which the hut was situated,
the shrill sounds continued to ring upon their ears in
accents so fearful, that each felt a sensible relief when
they were heard no more.
On the evening of the third day after this event, Jackson
and our hero, between whom a long explanation on the
subject of the settler had taken place, alighted at the
door of the principal inn in Frankfort, the capital of
Kentucky, which was their ultimate destination. To mine
host Gerald was introduced by his escort with the formality
usual on such occasions in America, and with the earnest
recommendation to that most respectable personage that,
as his own friend, as well as that of Colonel Forrester,
every indulgence should be shown to the prisoner, that
was not inconsistent with his position.