THE REFUGEE’S HUT
Oh! Buckingham, beware of yonder dog;
Look, when he fawns he bites. —Shakespeare.
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
Dissimulation always sets apart
A corner for herself. —Byron.
Deep in the forest, that stretches, a pathless wilderness, to the south
and west of Sweetwater, there stood, at the period of our story, a
solitary log-cabin, with about two acres of cleared land surrounding it.
On nearly every side it was surrounded with swamps, so that approach to
it was almost impossible. Here, an hour or two after the rencontre
between Aylesford and Major Gordon, the former drew up his horse.
It was a wild scene, characteristic of the region. Huge pines surrounded
the clearing, and towering high into air, almost shut out the light. In
the small fields about the house the stumps were still standing. A rude
stable, or rather shed, built of logs with the bark left on, stood a few
rods from the house, while between the two was a well, with a high
swinging pole hung in the crotchet of a young sapling. The atmosphere,
even on that sultry morning, was damp and cool from the evaporation; the
clearing being situated on a small knoll, which rose like an island in
the midst of vast swamps, miles from any village, or even farmhouse. It
was a haunt fit for outlaws.
As Aylesford approached, a huge blood-hound started up in front of the
house, at whose outcry a short, thick-set man came forth, with a
countenance which had never been pleasing, but was now embruited by
intemperance and other vices. A dirty red beard, which had not felt a
razor for a week, increased the repulsiveness of his appearance.
“What a hole you have, Arrison,” said the visitor, with an oath.
“It’s the devil’s own retreat. I was half an hour in finding the
blind path, and twice came near being swamped before I succeeded. And
now, in the fiend’s name, tell us what’s brought you into these
parts, and what you want with me.”
“As many questions as would take a week to answer,” replied the man,
coolly, “and asked in a temper that would get anything but a civil
return from most persons. You needn’t frown. You know I dont’t care
a curse for such things. What’s the matter with you? Out with it, or
it will choke you.”
Aylesford looked, for a moment, as if he would have liked to run his
sword through the speaker, as well as through Major Gordon. But the man
met his angry gaze with cool indifference, turning a quid leisurely in
his mouth, and waiting for an answer.
“I came here to question,” said Aylesford, haughtily, “not to be
questioned. Again I say,” he added, as he dismounted, “what, in the
devil’s name, has brought you here.”
“Let me tie the horse. It’s my trade, you know,” said the other,
with a sardonic grin. “Or shall I put him up? No, you must return,
that there may be no suspicion! Well, then, come in, and I’ll tell you
all about it.”
They entered the cabin, and took seats by a table, on which Arrison
immediately placed some peach brandy. No one else appeared to be present
about the premises, though, at first, Aylesford thought he heard a light
step moving in the interior room, for the house had two apartments.
After taking a long draught, Arrison spoke.
“You were surprised, I suppose, to get the word I sent? You thought I
was completely driven out of these parts? But there’s a good time
coming, let me tell you,” and he rubbed his hands, “for his Majesty,
God bless him! is going to send an expedition against the Neck, burn the
vessels there, and reduce the whole district about the mouth of the
river. Before a week we’ll have the pick of all the booty here, live
and dead, that can be had. The pretty girls, I suppose,” he added with
a leer and chuckle, “are not all gone yet.”
For a moment Aylesford sat in mute surprise.
“You amaze me,” he cried, finally. “I have heard nothing of
this.”
“How should you?” answered Arrison, with a laugh. “’Gad, if the
rebels caught you acting the spy, they’d string you up to one of the
buttonwoods, at the Forks, before you could say Jack Robinson. They’d
not stop a minute for your laced coat. It would be a short shrift and a
dance on nothing, as they say in the old country.”
“Then you play the spy on the rebels, and in return get at the royal
General’s secrets—is that it?” said Aylesford.
Arrison nodded.
“And you are sure of your news?”
“As sure as I sit here. The expedition has sailed before this, and its
arrival can be delayed only by head-winds. It may be playing the devil
among the rebel privateers and their prizes even now.”
“This is news,” answered Aylesford, joyfully, filling his glass.
“Let us drink to his most sacred Majesty, and confusion to all
traitors.”
“With my whole heart. The toast is good and the liquor better.”
“It is this which has brought you back? Under the shelter of the royal
wing you think you can safely resume your former pranks?”
“Yes, if nothing better turns up. I’ve some old scores to wipe off,
and began them yesterday.”
And he narrated his outrage at the widow Bates’ farm, describing, with
boisterous glee, the rueful face which the widow must have worn when she
returned home and saw but the smoking ashes of her late dwelling.
“But,” said Aylesford, “the people will know your mark, and hunt
you down at once. I shouldn’t be surprised if old Herman was already
on your trail.”
“They’ll have enough to do to take care of themselves,” was the
cool reply. “Before another week, I’ll burn old Herman himself out,
like a rat in his hole. There is not many men left in these parts
anyhow, and the attack on the Neck will take away what few there are. I
owe a debt to another, Jack Sanders, whom I’ll not let off so easily.
I carry two of his buckshot still in me; and I’ve sworn to have a life
for each one; himself and his wife, if possible; if not, others of his
family.”
“And now, what’s the matter with you?” resumed Arrison. “Even
this good news can’t make you look pleased more than a minute. Come,
drown care in a cup.” And filling his glass again, he handed the
bottle to his guest. “What, not drink? It must be something very
serious, then.”
“I have to return to Sweetwater, you know. My cousin and aunt are
there.”
“I’d forgot. And it wouldn’t do, so early in the day, to show
signs of a debauch.” He interlarded this and all his other speeches
profusely with oaths. “And how are the good ladies?” he added.
“Miss Kate must be grown up into a beauty, if all I hear is true. Ah!
you change color. You frown. I have it at last,” he continued,
slapping his hand on the table and bursting into a laugh, “it’s
about her that you’re so cursedly cross.”
“Come,” answered Aylesford, in a heat, rising from the table,
“I’ve had enough of this. Remember, I was once your master. Have you
forgotten, sirrah, how to be respectful?”
“I cry your pardon,” answered Arrison, with a profound obeisance,
though with a slight tone of mockery. “Sit down again, Mr. Aylesford.
I do forget myself sometimes, in talking to you, but it’s because
you’ve always allowed me to be familiar. There, don’t let us
quarrel; I may want your countenance yet; and in return might be of use
even in this affair, if you’d tell me what’s the matter.”
Aylesford allowed himself to be persuaded to take a seat again; but, had
he seen the cat-like glance of Arrison, he would have felt far less
confidence in the outlaw’s professions.
“You have been a faithful fellow,” said Aylesford. “I’ll not
deny that. But this is an affair above your surgery. However, you’ve a
quick wit, and may hit on something; and I want somebody to advise with.
I’m desperately in love with my cousin, who’s more beautiful even
than report allows, and she won’t have me.”
Arrison felt very much inclined to make a jest of Aylesford at this
confession. But he saw that his guest was in no mood for banter. So he
answered—
“She must be a prude of the worst kind, then.”
“No, she’s in love with a rebel officer, who is stationed at the
Forks, a Major Gordon,” and he ended with a hearty curse on his rival.
“Are you sure of this?”
“She has refused me, and that’s enough,” replied Aylesford,
passionately, drinking off a bumper, and setting the glass down with
such force as to dash it to splinters. “Besides, this fellow has saved
her life, or she thinks he has, which is the same. The ship, in which
she came over, was wrecked off the mouth of the river, and he had a
hand, somehow or other, in getting her ashore. I had my sword at the
rascal’s throat this morning, and was on the high road to revenge,
when we were interrupted.” And he proceeded to narrate the rencontre,
which Uncle Lawrence had so opportunely broken off.
“That old, canting scoundrel again,” answered Arrison. “Well, he
hasn’t long to run. He’s about hunted to the end of his track, I
take it; and I’ll put a bullet through him, or a knife into him,
before the moon’s a week older; and so have my revenge for the harm he
did me with your uncle, and for his stopping your slitting this
Major’s windpipe. But, to come back to your own affairs,” continued
the villain, “I don’t see that they’re half as desperate as you
think they are. You remember the old proverb, ‘out of sight, out of
mind,’ don’t you?”
“What of it?”
“Only,” answered Arrison, with a laugh,” get rid of this Major.”
“But how?”
“If ‘twas me I’d go out quietly, some fine morning, and take a
good position in the brush, near by where I was sure he would pass, and
when he came along, I’d pull trigger on him, and so have done with his
interference forever. All things are fair in love as in war, you
know.”
But Aylesford had sufficient honor left to decline such a proposal,
involving deliberate assassination, though he would have eagerly seized
any opportunity to take the life of his rival in a less cold-blooded
way.
“Well, then,” said the villain, “since you won’t take that
course, we must try and get him picked off in a fight. He’ll probably,
if he’s not a coward, go down to the Neck the moment he hears the
vessels there are in danger. It would be a possible thing, though not an
easy one, to shoot him there.”
But Aylesford shook his head.
“Too much uncertainty about it, you think? Well, maybe you’re
right,” said the outlaw. “I would wish to make a sure thing of it,
if I was yon, that’s a fact. But my invention is almost at an end. I
really don’t know what to advise,” he concluded, with a puzzled air.
“If she had only reached New York, there would have been none of
this,” said Aylesford, gloomily. “I wish to heaven she was there
now.”
“Nothing easier than to get her there,” answered the refugee, “if
that will suit your purpose. By the Lord, I’ve hit it at last,”
cried he, with sudden energy, emphasizing his words by striking the
table till the bottle danced again. “I can put her in New York in a
week’s time, if you’ll trust to me; and you shall, moreover, do what
will make a set-off to this Gordon’s rescue of her; in short, if you
place yourself in my hands, she’ll be yours, or else you’re a fool,
which no one yet ever took you to be.”
Aylesford gazed at the speaker with undisguised astonishment. But there
was evidently no jest in what Arrison said. His plan, whatever it was,
he clearly considered feasible.
“I give you my word,” reaching over and taking the outlaw’s hand,
“which I never broke to any man yet—”
“We’ll say nothing of woman,” interrupted Arrison, with a coarse
laugh.
“Which I never broke to any man yet,” repeated Aylesford, “that
I’ll pay you a thousand pounds if you succeed. On the day I marry my
cousin, the money is yours.”
“I’ll put her in New York for half the sum—is it a bargain?”
“It is,” answered Aylesford. “Now for the scheme.”
But we must reserve this for another chapter.