doctor said. "I have come to know them fairly well by this time,
although I have not been here very long. It isn't necessary for any one
to be long in the neighborhood before finding out what those two are
doing. And then my own work among the suffering gives me many
opportunities to know what they are doing and trying to do. The church
side is only one side of their good work. I am not a Catholic, and
consequently see little of that side; but I meet them everywhere
constantly caring for the poor and the afflicted without any regard for
creed. And they never have any money, worth speaking of, to help with.
They have only their time and their strength and their whole laborious,
self-sacrificing lives to give. The expedients that they resort to in a
pinch would make anybody laugh--to keep from crying. They were out the
other day with a brand-new plan. They travelled about fifty miles
through the wilderness trying to find a purchaser for the new overcoat
that a Methodist friend gives Father Orin every fall. He, of course, had
given his old coat to some shivering wretch last spring while it was
still cold, but that didn't make the slightest difference. He didn't
even remember the fact till I reminded him of it. It is only October
now--so that he can do without the overcoat--and a poor fellow who has
come with his wife and baby to live in that deserted cabin near the
court-house, is in sore need of a horse for his fall ploughing. Father
Orin had suggested Toby's drawing the plough, thinking that some of his
own work might be attended to on foot. But Toby, it seems, drew the line
at that. It was a treat to hear Father Orin laugh when he told how Toby
made it plain that he thought there were more important duties for him
to perform, how firmly he refused to drag the plough. He was quite
willing, however, to do his best to sell the overcoat, so that they
might have money to hire a horse for the ploughing."
The doctor broke off suddenly. The roar coming from the darkness around
the swamp rose high on the gusty wind. He and David were now riding
fast, and the roaring grew rapidly more continuous and distinct. The
vast volume of inarticulate sound presently began to break into many
human voices. At last a single voice pierced all the rest. Its shrill
cry of spiritual anguish filled the dark forest with the wailing of a
soul in extremity.
"And it's a woman, too!" cried the doctor.
He spoke shortly, almost angrily, but something in his tone told David
that he also was shivering, although the night was warm, and that his
heart was full of pity. They were now drawing near the camp-meeting, but
they could not see it, nor even the light from it. They had reentered
the forest, which was here made darker and wilder by many fallen trees,
blown down and tossed together by the fierce tempests which often rent
the swamp. The torn roots, the decaying trunks, and the shattered
branches of the dead giants of the ancient wood, were dank with
water-moss. Rank poison vines writhed everywhere, and crept like vipers
beyond the deadly borders of the great Cypress Swamp. Through such dark
and tangled density as this the smoky torches, burning dimly around the
camp, could cast their light but a little way. And thus it was by
hearing and not by seeing, that they came at last upon the spot almost
by accident. They had scarcely got hurriedly down from their horses, and
hastily tied them to a swinging bough when the scene burst upon them--a
wild vision revealed by the dim flickering torchlight.
[Illustration: "A dark, confused ... writhing mass of humanity."]
There was a long, low shed of vast extent. It was covered with rough
boards, and upheld by tree-trunks which still bore the bark. There was
no floor other than the bare earth, and there were no seats other than
unhewn logs. Here, under the deep shadows of this great shed, all darkly
shut in by the black wilderness and dimly lit by a wide circle of
smoking, flaring torches, there surged a dark, confused, convulsed,
roaring, writhing mass of humanity. And there were many hundreds in that
shadowy multitude--swaying, struggling, groaning, laughing, weeping,
shouting, praying, dancing, leaping, and falling.
"It does not seem possible that there can be so many in all the
wilderness," said the doctor. "But they come from long distances, from
as far as fifty and sixty miles around. And they have been coming for
weeks--day and night--just like this."
He spoke sadly, and with deep feeling. He laid his firm, gentle hand on
David's shaking arm, knowing how the awful spectacle must affect the
sensitive boy. David instinctively drew nearer to his side feeling the
support of his calm, sane, strong presence, and began gradually to see
with clearer eyes, so that this awful vision became by degrees a more
awful reality.
"Listen!" cried the doctor. "They are beginning to sing!"
Ah, listen indeed! For a stranger, wilder chant than this which now
went swelling up from that frenzied, swaying mass of humanity surely
never stirred all that is most mystical in the soul of man! Pealing
grandly, awfully upward through the star-lit spaces of a grander temple
than ever was reared by human hands, it rolled heavenward, on and on,
and higher and higher, to the very dome of the firmament.
With the wild chanting, the madness of the multitude increased. Many men
and women--ay, and little children, too--all dropped to their knees,
heedless of being trodden underfoot by the unfallen frenzied, and thus
crept the length of the earthen floor to the foot of the rude altar.
Here, before the pulpit of rough-hewn logs, great heaps of straw were
strewn thick and broadcast. On these straw heaps men and women fell
prostrate side by side, and lay as if they were dead. Others, both men
and women, were suddenly seized with the unnatural, convulsive jerking
which gave this mysterious visitation its best-known name. Under this
dreadful tremor the long hair of delicate ladies poured unnoticed over
the most modest shoulders and flew back and forth with the sound of a
whip; for those so wildly wrought upon were not solely of the humble and
the ignorant. The highest and the most refined of the whole country were
there. The earth was strewn with costly raiment. Gentlemen rent the fine
ruffles from their wrists and their bosoms; gentlewomen cast their
richest ornaments to the winds. And all the while that this awful,
majestic, soul-stirring chant was thus mounting higher and growing
wilder, many were whirling and dancing.
David shrunk back, and the doctor drew him closer to his side, as a man
suddenly burst out of the swirling mass of maddened humanity, and dashed
past them into the forest. There, still within the wide circle of
flaring, smoking, torchlight, the poor creature threw his arms around a
tree, and uttering strange, savage cries like the barking of a dog, he
dashed his head against the tree-trunk till the blood gushed out and
poured down his ghastly face. David clung closer to the doctor's arm and
turned his eyes away, feeling sick and faint with horror.
"Don't look at him. Turn your head. I must go to him and help him if I
can," the doctor said, gently loosing the boy's grasp. "I shouldn't have
brought you here. But--Good God! Who is that?" he cried sharply. "Look!
Quick! Do you know that girl? Over there by the last pillar--yonder,
yonder, with her face turned this way!"
In his eagerness he seized the boy, fairly lifting him from the ground,
and held him up so that he could see over all the heads of the surging,
swirling crowd. The girl was still there, and David recognized Ruth. She
was standing not far off and near the edge of the shed. Close behind her
the torches threw out gloomy banners of smoke and vivid streamers of
flame, and against them she appeared a quiet, white spirit among many
tossed dark shades. When David first saw her, he thought she was looking
at him. But in another moment her beautiful face, which had been pale
enough before, turned as white as her frock and her large eyes widened
with terror. And then David knew that she was looking beyond him and had
seen the horror by the tree. He forgot his own horrified faintness, he
forgot where he was, the doctor--everything but Ruth and that look in
her dear face. He sprang toward her with a piercing cry and outstretched
arms.
"Ruth!" he cried. "Here I am, Ruth, dear. I am coming to you. I'll take
you away!"
It was a single voice raised against the deafening roar of a hurricane.
Only the doctor heard or heeded, and he laid a restraining hand on
David's shoulder.
"You are right," he said. "Take her away as soon as you can. She should
not have come. Is she your sister? Come this way. We will go round," he
went on, without waiting for an answer. "We may be able to reach her
from the other side of the shed."
The firm touch and calm tone partly brought the boy to himself, and he
followed as closely as he could, but only to be beaten back again and
again. That terrific chant was now at its highest and wildest, and he
and the doctor were caught in the human maelstrom and swirled hither
and thither like straws. They were swept far apart, and when they were
quickly driven together again, they had lost sight of Ruth. They were
tossed once more, and thrown outside the fiercest swirl. Standing still,
they held to a tree, gasping, and searched the crowd with their gaze,
trying to find her. She was nowhere to be seen. But while they thus
paused, waiting for breath to go on, they saw a tall man near by,
leaning against a pillar and quietly overlooking the wild scene. He
stood within the circle of torchlight, and they could see him
distinctly. Neither the doctor nor David had ever seen him before and
neither ever saw him again, but they never forgot just how he looked
that night.
He was a very tall man of more than six feet in height. He was very
erect and very slender, with the slenderness that gives a look of youth
as well as grace. There was no tinge of gray in his tawny hair, which
fell heavily back from his high, narrow forehead, without any of the
stiffness seen in his later portraits. He was not more than thirty-five
years of age at this time, but his face was already lined with care and
trouble and exposure. It was naturally pale and thin, almost haggard.
Its sole redeeming feature was the wonderful brilliance of his blue
eyes. The doctor and David could not see the color of his eyes, and yet
he seemed to them a singularly handsome man, as he did to almost every
one. There was something about him that may be called a presence, for
lack of a better term, something which drew the gaze of the crowd and
held it everywhere. Many eyes were upon him that night in the very
height and centre of all the frenzy. Glances were cast at him even from
the pulpit, which was not far away. One of the ministering preachers
gave him a look of recognition, and then, bending down, whispered in the
ear of another preacher, a very young man who stood below the pulpit
among the fallen, exhorting them to repentance. The exhorter shook off
the whisperer and went on with his impassioned plea. He, too, was well
worth looking at, and better worth listening to--this inspired young
backwoodsman, Peter Cartwright. His swarthy face was pale with the
pallor of fanaticism, and his dark eyes were aflame with some mystic
fire. His long black hair was wildly blown by the wind which bore his
broken words still more brokenly:--
"Such a time as this has not been seen since the day of Pentecost.... A
sacred flame is surely sweeping sin from the earth.... Come all ye. Take
up your cross and follow Him.... Heaven's gate stands wide to-night....
Praise the Lord!... Come in.... Come at once.... Do not delay--or the
gate may close, never to open again. Come! Come with me to the mercy
seat. I was once like you. My soul, like yours, was rent in agony. I
wept, I strove, I prayed, I was in utter despair ... just as you are
now.... Sometimes it seemed as if I could almost lay hold on the
Saviour.... Then--all of a sudden--such a fear of the devil fell upon me
that he appeared to stand right by my side ready to drag me down to
hell. But I prayed on, and said, 'Lord if there be mercy for me, let me
find it!' ... At last, in the midst of this awful struggle of soul, I
came to the foot of the altar--here--where I am begging you to come....
And then it was as if a voice out of heaven said to me, 'Thy sins are
forgiven thee.' ... Glory! Glory! Delight flashed all around me. Joy
unspeakable sprung up in my soul. It seemed to me that I was already in
paradise. The very trees, the very leaves on the trees, seemed to be
singing together and praising God.... Will you share this divine peace
with me? Will you come with me this night to the foot of the cross?...
Then come now--now--for this may be the accepted hour of your
salvation.... Come.... If you wait, you are lost ... lost!"
But these simple, broken words are only the cold and lifeless echo of
Peter Cartwright's fiery, living eloquence. Nothing can ever bring that
back as it really was. None may hope to tell those who never heard him
what it was like. No one, perhaps among the numberless thousands who did
hear him, ever knew what the power was, by which this unlettered
backwoodsman swayed multitudes at his will. Perhaps David afterward
described it as nearly as any one could, when he said that the mere
sound of Peter Cartwright's voice that night--when he could not hear the
words--made him feel so sorry, so grieved, so ashamed, that he wanted to
fall down on the earth and hide his face and weep like a woman, for his
own sins and the sins of the whole world.
"There she is!" cried the doctor. "We can reach her now."
But another roaring wave of humanity dashed over them, sweeping them
farther from Ruth and nearer the pulpit. They were so near that they
could see the fire that flashed over the pale darkness of the young
preacher's face as his brother preacher bent down for the second time
and touched him warningly, and whispered again. Peter Cartwright, who
was still bending over the men and women lying at his feet, suddenly
stood erect. He threw back his long black hair, and flung a flaming
glance at the tall man leaning against the pillar. And then his voice
rang out like a trumpet calling to combat.
"What if it _is_ General Jackson?" he cried. "What is Andrew Jackson but
a sinner, too? Let him come with the rest of these poor sinners to beg
for pardon before the throne of grace. And let him make haste--or a just
and offended God will punish him as if he were the lowest of earth!"
The challenge sounded clear and far. It must have reached the ears of
Andrew Jackson, the proud and feared hero of many battles. No man living
was more intolerant of indignity or quicker to resent the slightest
affront. An alarmed murmur circled through all the tumult; the doctor
and David heard it distinctly, and turned with those about them to look
at the man thus challenged. But Andrew Jackson himself stood quite still
and gave no sign that he had heard. He barely bowed his head when a
short, thick-set man pressed through the crowd and touched his arm. The
man was a henchman of his, widely and not favorably known in the
country, a gambler and adventurer whose name was Tommy Dye. He was
leading the general's horse. There were a few words between them, and
then the tall figure vaulted into the saddle and disappeared in the
surrounding blackness of the forest.
"Now! Here she is. Quick!" cried the doctor.
So crying, he plunged into the storm-lashed sea of humanity like a
strong swimmer. The boy followed as well as he could, using all his
strength, but they were both dashed back again and again, till at last a
wilder wave caught them up and cast them down beside Ruth. Instantly the
doctor lifted her in his arms before David found breath, and held her as
lightly as if she had been but a wreath of smoke blown across his
breast. Holding her thus, and lifting her higher above those wild
waves, he bore her through them as if they had been but rippling water.
On and on he went to the border of the forest beyond the tumult where
the torchlight was brightest, and there he gently set her down. And then
all alone they stood silently looking at each other. They were still
gazing down into one another's faces, when the boy ran up, panting. At
the sight of him the wonder went out of Ruth's blue eyes, and the fright
came back. The spell was broken, and she remembered where she was.
"David! Come to me. Take me away!" she cried. "Oh, what a fearful place!
I can never forget it while I live. Where is William? We were separated
by the crowd."
But even as she spoke, in tones that trembled with alarm, while yet her
beautiful face was white and her blue eyes full of tears, there came one
of the swift changes that gave her beauty its greatest charm. A vivid
blush dyed her cheek, the long, wet lashes suddenly unveiled a
coquettish glance, there was a dazzling smile, her hands went up to put
her blown hair in order, and she drew on the forgotten gypsy bonnet
which was hanging by its strings on her arm. She drew closer to the boy,
but she looked at the doctor over her shoulder.
"Who is this gentleman, David?" she faltered. "And how--"
Paul Colbert spoke for himself, telling her his name.
"I am a doctor--the new doctor of the neighborhood," he said, adding
with a smile, "I beg your pardon. There was no other way. This young
gentleman--who came with me--saw you. We had been trying for an hour or
more to reach you. We were afraid to lose the first chance to get you
out of that dangerous crush."
His voice was drowned by a sudden roar which lifted the frenzy higher
and brought it nearer. The color and smiles fled again from Ruth's face,
and she clung to David in greater alarm.
"Take me home. Oh--oh--isn't it terrible! I can't wait to find William.
I must go now. I wouldn't be afraid to go alone with you, dear. Not in
the least afraid. Take me--take me!"
"Come, then," said David. "The pony's over here."
"But I don't know where my horse is. I don't know where William tied it.
I am so turned round that I don't know anything." She was beginning to
smile again at her own bewilderment.
"The pony can take us both," said the boy.
She was turning away with him when the doctor interfered with hesitating
eagerness:--
"If you will permit me--I would suggest that your friend who came with
you may be anxious. He will naturally try to find you. Not knowing that
you are gone, he must be alarmed. If I knew him by sight, I could find
him and tell him--"
Again his voice was lost in the rising roar of the multitude. The girl
buried her face against the boy's shoulder, shudderingly and trembling,
and burst into weeping.
"Tell me what to do, David! I can't bear this any longer," she sobbed.
"Take me away. Tell me what to do! Oh! Oh!" putting her shaking hands
over her ears to shut out the dreadful sounds.
The doctor touched her arm. "If you would allow me to take you home,
perhaps this young gentleman could stay and find the person who came
with you." He turned quickly to the boy. "You know him?"
"Yes," David replied unwillingly.
His heart had begun to beat high. Here was a better chance to prove
himself a man than he had dared hope for. And now this bold stranger was
trying to rob him of it. He struggled with himself for a moment, before
he could give it up. But Ruth was crying and trembling and clinging to
him.
"I will find William," he then said hastily. "Let the doctor take you
home."
"But my horse is lost," Ruth lifted her head from David's shoulder and
flashed a tearful, smiling glance at the doctor. "How can you take me?"
"Leave it to me," Paul Colbert said quickly, in the tone of a man used
to meeting emergencies. "Come with me. I will find a way."
It seemed to Ruth and David that he was one to find a way to whatever
he wished. They followed him like two children, to the spot where his
horse was tied beside the pony. He untied the bridle with the quickness
of constant practice, and sprang into the saddle with the ease of the
practiced horseman. He threw the reins over the pommel, and then bending
down, held out his arms.
"Now!" he cried. "Give the young lady your hand for her foot!"
David hesitated, not understanding what he meant. It was the custom for
the women of the wilderness to ride behind the men; but it was plain
that this was not the young doctor's intention. He sat far back in his
large saddle, and when Ruth set her foot in the palm of David's hand,
and fluttered upward like a freed bird, he caught her and seated her
before him. A word to his horse and they were away. He was holding Ruth
close to his breast, and her white garments were blown about him, as
they vanished in the black wilderness.
VII
A MORNING IN CEDAR HOUSE
It was almost morning when the boy and William Pressley reached home.
David did not go to bed, but set out at the first glimmer of dawn to do
the judge's bidding, calling the black men to go with him, since there
was no great glory to be won by going alone in the daylight. There was
time for a little rest after coming back, and it was still very early
when he arose from his bed and began to get ready for breakfast.
He looked from his cabin window at the river which always drew his
waking gaze. It was sparkling like a stream of liquid diamonds under the
flood of sunlight pouring over the dazzled earth. The fringing rushes
rippled as gently as the water under the snowy breasts of many swans.
The trees along the shore were freshly green and newly alive with the
color and chatter of the paroquets. Looking and listening, he thought
what a poetic notion it was that these vivid birds should carry the seed
pearls of the mistletoe from one mighty oak to another, bearing the tiny
treasures in the wax on their feet.
Far up the wide, shining river a great, heavy-laden barge was gliding
swiftly down. Its worn and clumsy sail seemed as white and graceful as
the wings of the swans in the sun. Its dull and tangled coils of
cordelles caught an unwonted charm from the sunbeams. Its merry crew was
singing a song, which came gayly over the flashing water:--
"Hi-ho, the boatmen row,
The Kentuck boys and the O-hi-o.
Dance, the boatmen, dance,
Dance, the boatmen, dance;
Dance all night till broad daylight,
And go home with the gals in the mornin'."
Watching the barge pass out of sight beneath the overhanging trees,
David turned to see a small dark object, leading two long verging lines
of silvery ripples across the glittering current. This cleft the water
near the Shawnee Crossing, and might, not long before, have been the
plumed head of a warrior wanting his canoe. But since the warriors were
all gone so strangely and suddenly, this brown speck now crossing the
river must have been the antlered head of a deer swimming to the other
side, thus giving the hunters warning that these green hills would soon
be white with snow. If so, there was no other sign of nearing winter.
The sombre forest stretching away from the opposite shore had not yet
been brightened by a touch of frost. The leaves on the near-by trees,
the great oaks and elms and poplars standing around Cedar House, were
thinning only through ripeness, and drifting very slowly down to the
green and growing grass. On the tall maples perfection alone had culled
the foliage, so wreathing the bronze boughs with rarer garlands of
fretted gold.
No dread of wintry storms had yet driven away any of the birds that Ruth
fed every day on the sill of her chamber window. They were all there as
usual--the whole feathered colony--as if they wished to be polite, even
though they were not hungry on that sunny morning. The little ones, to
be sure, pecked a crumb now and then with a languid indifference. The
blue jays--as usual--were brazen in their ingratitude for any dole of
commonplace crumbs, while spicy seeds were still strewn by every scented
breeze. But shy and bold alike, they all flocked around Ruth's window,
and sat on the sill within reach of her hand, and cocked their pretty
heads as if it were feast enough only to look at her.
She had already been downstairs to fetch the birds' breakfast, and had
gone into the garden where the sweetest and reddest roses of all the
year were still blooming. She held a big bunch of them in her hand as
she stood at the open window and waved it at David in a morning
greeting, when she saw him crossing the yard. She came down the broad
stairs as he entered the great room, and she was wearing a fresh white
frock and her arms were full of the fragrant red roses.
The rest of the family were already in the room, and the table was laid
for breakfast. Ruth greeted each one with a smile, but she did not
speak, and began to move quietly about the table, giving those dainty
little finishing touches which no true woman ever leaves to a servant.
She put some of the roses in a vase, and rearranged this and that,
moving lightly and softly about. Her footsteps were as soundless as the
fall of tender leaves, and her garments made no more rustle than the
unfolding of a flower. She threw one of the red roses at David, and
wafted the judge a kiss. Once or twice she turned to speak to William,
but forthwith smilingly gave up all thought of it for the time being.