IN THE SOUTHWARD COUNTRY
ACROSS the brook the woods spread away to westward and to
southward,--majestic oak trees, lulling pines, pale birches, besides
the walnut and beech trees, and a host of others, the names of which
Miles did not know. Thick though they stood in the forest, all were
soundless now, and well-nigh motionless in the still air of morning.
In all the wood the only active thing seemed the sunshine, which came
sliding through the branches to mottle the turf or make the pine
needles shiny.
An ardent sun it was too, even where it fell sparsely among the trees,
and beyond the thickets, where the path led over unprotected hilltops,
it beat fiercely through the breathless air till the heat fairly
stifled the travellers. "Shall you go far before you build your house,
Miles?" panted Dolly, when the roofs of the settlement were barely sunk
from sight.
Miles explained that he held it best to push on to the river where he
had gone eeling, so he might have plenty of fish in his dooryard. He
thought to make his way directly to the place, but the journey through
the heat seemed longer than when he tramped it in the springtime, and
he could not find an easy path so adroitly as Squanto had found one. He
had to bear away inland too, lest on the seacoast he come upon some of
the colonists gathering shellfish; and inland, not only was the going
through the undergrowth difficult, but the hills shut off the least
whiff of coolness from the sea.
Soon Dolly gasped for breath, Trug lolled out his tongue, and even
Miles found many pretexts to rest. Here amid the moss bubbled a spring,
where the children delayed to drink and cool their hands; there lay a
muddy pond, covered with white lilies, which Miles, though he wet his
feet, strove to get with a long stick; and again and yet again they
came on tangles of luscious raspberries, where they paused to eat their
fill.
Miles had in his pocket a fourpenny whittle, his dearest possession,
with which he stripped a great piece of bark from a birch tree, and,
cleaving two sticks, shaped it into a basket, in which to carry away
some of the berries "against dinner-time." But the basket proved an
incumbrance to the wayfarers, so, before they had wandered another
mile, the two children sat down in a pine grove, and ate the berries
they had gathered. They tied Trug carefully, a needless precaution,
for the old dog, with as burdening a sense of responsibility as Miles
himself, had no thought of trotting home and leaving those two foolish
little bodies to their own protection.
By the position of the sun Miles judged it past noon, when they
came at last to a brook, which he thought might be the upper waters
of the stream he was seeking. He waded in first to try its depth;
then, in gallant fashion, would have carried Dolly over, but little
mistress wished the fun of paddling too. The alders, coming low to the
brookside, cast a rippling shadow on the water, and the sandy bottom
was firm and cool; so when both children once had waded in, they spent
some time in splashing to and fro, while Miles set forth to Dolly how
he had caught eels.
The shadows were beginning to lengthen when they climbed out on the
farther side of the brook, and passed slowly up the next hillslope.
Dolly now found she was tired, so Miles said they might as well build
their house there as anywhere. Indeed, halfway up the slope they found
a capital spot, where the hill, drawing back on itself, left a little
level space, with sparse undergrowth and tall trees, the vanguard of
the forest higher up, that cast a good shade.
To be sure, the exposure was northern, but that would make the place
cool in summer, Miles set forth its advantages, and when winter came,
they could move round and pitch their camp on the other side of the
hill, to southward. "But I shouldn't like to dwell in the wood when it
snows," protested Dolly. "Let us go back and stay at Plymouth, come
winter."
But Miles, in his new independence, laughed at the idea of return, and
assured Dolly that he knew how to make her a snug enough house for all
weathers. He would drive four forked stakes into the ground; and then,
from fork to fork, he would lay four sticks; and across those, other
great sticks; and thatch all over with moss. He would drive stakes into
the ground to form the sides of the cabin, and wattle them with elder
twigs; and it would be just the trimmest little house she ever saw.
Yes, he could drive stakes inside and divide the space into rooms, and
he would cut windows; the only thing that troubled him was how to build
the fireplace, but he guessed he would think that out presently.
About the time that the red rays of the sun slipped under the lower
branches of the trees, Miles laid off his doublet and rolled up his
shirt-sleeves, ready for work. First, with his heel, he scored in the
dirt the lines of his house; they might as well have a big one, he
replied to Dolly's delighted exclamations.
The little girl ran about within the four lines and scored for herself
the rooms which they would make. "'Twill be such sport, Miles," she
chattered. "A keeping room we'll have, and a parlor, and a great hall."
Down she set herself on the grass, between the wavering lines that
marked the hall, and waited for her brother to build the house over her.
But, though Miles strode jauntily down into the bushes and stayed a
great time, when he came back, he bore, not an armful of stakes, but
two forked sticks, very gnarled and crooked, and another stick, some
five feet long, without a fork. "What have you been doing, Miles?"
Dolly greeted him, in a disappointed tone.
"Why, the wood is hard, and my knife is not very big," the boy answered
sheepishly, "so perhaps to-night, as 'tis drawing late, I'd best put up
just a little shelter. But I'll build the house to-morrow, Dolly."
Then, because the little girl's face fell so grievously, he made haste
to amuse her by turning to such work as he could do that evening. With
a stone for a hammer, he drove his forked sticks into the ground, and
laid the other stick across them; that was the ridgepole, he told
Dolly, and now, leaning other boughs against it, he would make a
shelter that would be quite sufficient on so hot a night.
But it was wearisome work, haggling off tough boughs with his small
whittle, and he was tired with walking, and perhaps, he reasoned, as
it was drawing on to sunset, he were best not leave Dolly alone by
herself and go down into the dim thickets. So, after he had cut enough
branches to go a third along one side of his ridgepole, he said vaguely
that maybe he would get some more before dark, and so sat down close by
Dolly.
In the west the sun had already sunk, and little pink clouds were
drifting through the sky; the afterglow still lingered on the open land
of the valley along the stream; but in the woods, as Miles glanced over
his shoulder, the grim shadows lurked. It was awesomely silent too,
till, on a sudden, a bird began warbling, and presently, fluttering
near, perched on a branch above the children, where he trilled lustily.
Miles had some pebbles in his pocket, and, slipping off his garter, he
improvised a sling; he would kill the bird for their supper, he told
his sister, but Dolly protested; she would rather the pretty bird lived
and sang than that she should eat him. So the songster finished his
tune and flashed away into the darkening sky, and Miles felt as warm a
glow of self-gratulation at giving in to his sister as if he had been
quite certain of fetching down the bird with his sling.
"But we've naught for our supper now, Dolly," he sighed presently.
"To-morrow, though, I'll find my way to the shore and take us some
clams, and, in any case, we'll gather plenty of berries when it's
daylight. And you do not mind going supperless now?"
"N--no," Dolly assented faintly; since the twilight came on them, she
had grown very quiet.
"I wish Ned Lister could 'a' slipped away with us," Miles resumed. "If
he were here with his fowling piece and his fishing line, he'd take us
all the victuals we'd want. And he'd be good company, too."
Then they sat in silence a time, very close to each other, with the dog
at their feet. Over in the west the bright stars twinkled through the
last waning flecks of the sunset glow, and somewhere in the dark the
frogs were piping. "Miles," whispered Dolly, "aren't you lonely?"
"To be sure not," he answered stoutly.
"Do you not think--perhaps we could walk back home? I'm not weary now."
"I've come hither to stay," Miles said crossly; "you can run back if
you will; no one will flog you."
"You know I cannot go alone," whimpered Dolly. "And maybe there are
Indians and lions will get us. Hark!"
Miles sat erect and listened, every nerve tense, but he heard only
the snap of a branch, yonder among the black trees. "It was naught,
Dolly," he said more kindly, "and you needn't fear; I can take care of
you. Come, let's lie down in our shelter, and to-morrow in the daylight
we'll build our house."
They crept in behind the screen of branches slowly, for Dolly had hold
on Miles's hand and would not let go; but at last they were settled,
side by side, Dolly next the leaning roof, and Trug close against
Miles. "The leaves tickle my nose," protested the little girl, "and
there are humps in the ground, and I'm sure that bugs will crawl into
my ears." With a movement that quite disarranged her companions, she
sat up and tied her apron over her head; then all three lay down once
more. "It's--it's fearsome still," Dolly whispered once, and then no
further words passed between them.
But, although he was silent, Miles lay long awake; his body might be
weary, but his brain was very busy with what had befallen him in the
last two days, and with the unknown happenings that were yet before
him. When he forgot the strangeness of the place and fell asleep at
last, he dreamed of berry patches and ponds full of lilies, and the
fine, great house he meant to build next day.
Somewhere sounded a bewildering crash, as if a thousand cartloads of
stone were emptied right beside him. Miles sat up, wondering at the
sound, wondering where he was, why his face felt wet, why Dolly clung
sobbing to him. A blinding light for an instant tore across the sky,
and showed the trees about him twisting in an awesome manner; then
darkness closed in again, and, through it, deafened the appalling crash
of thunder.
"Don't be frightened, Dolly, don't be frightened," stammered Miles,
clutching his sister; he could feel Trug, with his whole great body
a-tremble, crowding against his knee, and, through Dolly's terrified
sobs, heard the beast whine.
A second flash, that seemed to rip the sky, lit up the black woods,
and, upon the roar that followed, sounded the rush of downpouring rain.
As if in bucketsful, the water broke through the frail little shelter;
the ground beneath the children grew sodden, and their faces tingled
under the smiting of the raindrops. "Come away, in among the trees,"
cried Miles, through the sough of the rain, and dragged Dolly to her
feet.
"Back to Plymouth, oh, let us go back to Plymouth," she wailed.
Without reply, Miles gripped her wrist and stumbled up the hillside,
where he remembered the thicker growth of trees began. Bushes tore his
clothes and buffeted his dripping face; rain blinded him; the flash
of the lightning dazzled out just long enough to show how unfriendly
trunks beset him, then flared away and left him, half stunned by the
thunder that followed, to bruise himself against their harsh bark.
Still, blinded and beaten and breathless, he fought his way onward and
at his side haled Dolly, dumb with the bewilderment of the storm. He
had forgotten whither he hoped to go; he knew only that there was about
him a lurid darkness of overpowering rain and rattling thunder through
which he fled away.
It had been several moments since the last clap of thunder, he realized
suddenly, and the rain that yet pattered noisily among the leaves did
not beat upon him with the old fury. When the thunder growled again, it
was from far in the distance, and the space between the flash and the
crash was wider. "'Tis near over, Dolly," he spoke subduedly.
The little girl fetched a tremulous, weary sob and made a movement to
drop down on the wet turf, but Miles held her arm more firmly. "Nay, we
must keep walking till we be dry," he said, in what he tried to make a
brave voice. "Maybe we'll come on some warm, sheltered spot," he added,
for his poor little companion's comfort.
Holding each other fast by the hand, and with the dog close at their
heels, they trudged forward into the black woods. Though lessened in
force, the rain still descended in a steady drizzle, and each bush
against which they brushed drenched them with an added shower. The
ground was so slippery and thick with mud that Miles began to fear
they had strayed into a swamp, and, when they stumbled at last upon a
thicket of close-growing evergreen, he thought it safest to shelter
there till daylight.
Crawling in beneath the low branches that half protected them from
the slackening rain, they cuddled close to the dog and to each other.
"I'm glad I remembered to save my poppet," Dolly sought to find some
comfort. "She'd have been frightened, had we left her alone."
So Dolly dropped off to sleep in Miles's arms, and, lulled by the drip
of the rain, he, too, dozed a time, and awoke very chilly and stiff.
The branches above him stirred in a gusty wind, and in the mottled sky
he could see some faint stars. He crawled out from the thicket and, as
he stood up in the freer air, caught the smell of brine in the breeze,
and saw that, in the quarter of the heavens whence it came, the night
was paling. "'Tis eastward yonder and the sea," he cried, delighted to
find, for all his wanderings, he was not hopelessly lost. "Come, Dolly,
we'll walk to the shore."
Over hills and through thickets they trudged bravely, in the
exhilaration of knowing whither they were headed, and that the dreadful
night was past. Slowly the darkness was waning; the sky faded from
black to gray, and in the wet woods a bird piped dolefully. Presently a
still more welcome sound reached the ears of the travellers,--a long,
mournful sough as of breaking waters. "It's waves; we're near the
shore," cried Miles, and added a feeble hurrah, whereat Trug, judging
all well, leaped and barked.
There was yet a wide stretch of bare uplands to cross, and the morning
had broken in earnest before the children clambered down the low bluff
to the sandy beach. The tide was out, and the brown rocks, like dead
sea beasts, lay uncovered; but Miles and Dolly gave them little heed,
for just then, right in their eyes, the sun burst forth in the east,
and made a path of yellow ripples on the water.
Forgetting her weariness, Dolly almost ran down the hard sand to the
water's edge. "I thought maybe I could see Plymouth round that point on
our left," she told Miles disappointedly. "We can walk thither, can we
not, along the shore?"
"We'll eat breakfast first," said Miles, who had found a great shell
upon the sand. "I'll wade out and dig clams, while you fetch seaweed
for the fire."
He had not yet made up his mind about the return to the settlement; to
be sure, he was very wet and hungry, but it did not rain every night,
and with the thought of Plymouth came the dreadful vision of the public
flogging. Besides, now it was daylight, it was good to be his own
man and get his own breakfast; so he paddled about bravely, and did
not complain, for all the mud and water were cold and the clams few,
and his back ached with stooping to dig them. A dozen were enough for
two, he concluded, so when he had that number disposed securely in his
doublet, which he had twisted into a bag, he splashed shoreward.
[Illustration: "'Oh, Miles, 'tis the savages come for us!'"]
Dolly had patiently fetched a mass of slippery seaweed, and, while he
drew on his shoes and stockings, she arranged stones with the clams on
top, and the seaweed all about them.
"And now I'll light the fire," Miles said soberly, as he rose up and
stamped his feet in his wet shoes. Taking a smooth stone, he knelt
over the seaweed, and, striking the stone with his whittle, sought to
get a spark. But it seemed not a proper flint, for though he struck
and struck, no spark came, and Dolly, cold and hungry, grew impatient,
whereat Miles rebuked her sternly: "'Tis like a girl. I'm doing the
best I can. Hush, will you, Dolly?"
Then he forgot his petty wrangling, for, at a growl from Trug, he
looked to the bluff, and there, between him and the safe inland forest,
he saw a little group of people coming toward him. The look on his face
made Dolly, who knelt opposite him, glance back over her shoulder. "Oh,
Miles," she gasped, "'tis the savages come for us!"
Miles stood up and held Dolly close to him with one arm, while he
grasped Trug's collar with the other hand. "They're all friendly,
Dolly, all friendly," he repeated, and wondered that his voice was so
dry and faint.
A little up the sand the Indians stopped; several who kept to the rear
were squaws, with hoes of clam-shell and baskets, but at the front were
two warriors, who now came noiselessly down the beach. "Quiet, Trug,"
Miles said, stoutly as he could, and, as the savages drew near, greeted
them boldly with the Indian salutation he had learnt of Squanto:
"Cowompaum sin; good morrow to you."
They halted close to him, though evidently a bit uncertain as to the
snarling Trug; they spoke, but he could make out no word of their rapid
utterance. "I'm a friend," he repeated, hopeless of getting any good
of his little store of Indian words, almost too alarmed even to recall
them. "I come from Plymouth,--" he pointed up the shore where the
settlement lay,--"and I want to go back thither."
He made a movement as if to start up the shore, when one of the Indians
laid a hand on his arm and pointed southward. Miles shook his head,
while dumb terror griped his heart; these were none of King Massasoit's
friendly Indians, but people from the Cape, such as had fought the
Englishmen in the winter. "Let me go home," he repeated unsteadily.
But without heeding him one loosed his arm from about Dolly's waist.
Thereat Trug, with his hair a-bristle, gathered himself to spring, and
the other warrior gripped the club he carried in his hand. "You shan't
kill my dog!" screamed Miles, seizing Trug's collar to hold him back;
and at that the savage, taking Dolly from beside him, lifted her in his
arms.
The other Indian would have picked up Miles, but he dodged his hand,
and, dragging Trug with him, ran up alongside the warrior who held
Dolly. The little girl lay perfectly quiet, her eyes round with terror,
and her lips trembling. "Don't be afraid, Dolly," quavered Miles, in
what he tried to make a stout voice, "no matter where they take us.
They shan't hurt you; Trug and I won't let them hurt you."