Constance Fenimore Woolson

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  “What were you doing up among those vines?” he asked. He knew that it would be better for them both if they could keep themselves awake; those who fell asleep in the night air of South Devil generally awoke the next morning in another world.

  “I climbed up a ladder of vines to gather some of the great red blossoms swinging in the air; and, once up, I went along on the mat to see what I could find. It’s beautiful there—fairy-land. You can’t see anything down below, but above the long moss hangs in fine, silvery lines like spray from ever so high up, and mixed with it air-plants, sheafs, and bells of scarlet and cream-colored blossoms. I sat there a long time looking, and I suppose I must have dozed; for I don’t know when I fell.”

  “You did not hear me shout?”

  “No. The first consciousness I had was the odor of brandy.”

  “The odor reached you, and the sound did not; that is one of the tricks of such air as this! You must have climbed up, I suppose, at the place where I lost the trail. What time did you come in?”

  “I don’t know,” murmured Carl drowsily.

  “Look here! you must keep awake!”

  “I can’t,” answered the other.

  Deal shook him, but could not rouse him even to anger. He only opened his blue eyes and looked reproachfully at his brother, but as though he was a long distance off. Then Deal lifted him up, uncorked the flask, and put it to his lips.

  “Drink!” he said, loudly and sternly; and mechanically Carl obeyed. Once or twice his head moved aside, as if refusing more; but Deal again said, “Drink!” and without pity made the sleeper swallow every drop the flask contained. Then he laid him down upon the coat again, and covered his face and head with his own broad-brimmed palmetto hat, Carl’s hat having been lost. He had done all he could—changed the lethargy of the South Devil into the sleep of drunkenness, the last named at least a human slumber. He was now left to keep the watch alone.

  During the first half hour a dozen red and green things, of the centipede and scorpion kind, stupefied by the glare of the torches, fell from the trees; and he dispatched them. Next, enormous grayish-white spiders, in color exactly like the bark, moved slowly one furred leg into view, and then another, on the trunks of the cypresses near by, gradually coming wholly into the light—creatures covering a circumference as large as that of a plate. At length the cypresses all around the knoll were covered with them; and they all seemed to be watching him. He was not watching the spiders, however; he cared very little for the spiders. His eyes were upon the ground all the time, moving along the borders of his little knoll-fort. It was bounded on two sides by pools, in whose dark depths he knew moccasins were awake, watching the light, too, with whatever of curiosity belongs to a snake’s cold brain. His torches aroused them; and yet darkness would have been worse. In the light he could at least see them, if they glided forth and tried to ascend the brilliant knoll. After a while they began to rise to the surface; he could distinguish portions of their bodies in waving lines, moving noiselessly hither and thither, appearing and disappearing suddenly, until the pools around seemed alive with them. There was not a sound; the soaked forest stood motionless. The absolute stillness made the quick gliding motions of the moccasins even more horrible. Yet Deal had no instinctive dread of snakes. The terrible “coach-whip,” the deadly and grotesque spread-adder, the rattlesnake of the barrens, and these great moccasins of the pools were endowed with no imaginary horrors in his eyes. He accepted them as nature made them, and not as man’s fancy painted them; it was only their poison-fangs he feared.

  “If the sea-crab could sting, how hideous we should think him! If the lobster had a deadly venom, how devilish his shape would seem to us!” he said.

  But now no imagination was required to make the moccasins terrible. His revolver carried six balls; and he had already used one of them. Four hours must pass before dawn; there could be no unnecessary shooting. The creatures might even come out and move along the edge of his knoll; only when they showed an intention of coming up the slope must their gliding life be ended. The moccasin is not a timorous or quick-nerved snake; in a place like the South Devil, when a human foot or boat approaches, generally he does not stir. His great body, sometimes over six feet in length, and thick and fat in the middle, lies on a log or at the edge of a pool, seemingly too lazy to move. But none the less, when roused, is his coil sudden and his long spring sure; his venom is deadly. After a time one of the creatures did come out and glide along the edge of the knoll. He went back into the water; but a second came out on the other side. During the night Deal killed three; he was an excellent marksman, and picked them off easily as they crossed his dead-line.

  “Fortunately they come one by one,” he said to himself. “If there was any concert of action among them, I couldn’t hold the place a minute.”

  As the last hour began, the long hour before dawn, he felt the swamp lethargy stealing into his own brain; he saw the trees and torches doubled. He walked to and fro more quickly, and sang to keep himself awake. He knew only a few old-fashioned songs, and the South Devil heard that night, probably for the first time in its tropical life, the ancient Northern strains of “Gayly the Troubadour touched his Guitar.” Deal was no troubadour, and he had no guitar. But he sang on bravely, touching that stringed instrument, vocally at least, and bringing himself “home from the war” over and over again, until at last faint dawn penetrated from above down to the knoll where the four torches were burning. They were the last torches, and Deal was going through his sixtieth rehearsal of the “Troubadour”; but, instead of “Lady-love, lady-lo-o-o-ve,” whom he apostrophized, a large moccasin rose from the pool, as if in answer. She might have been the queen of the moccasins, and beautiful—to moccasin eyes; but to Deal she was simply the largest and most hideous of all the snake-visions of the night. He gave her his fifth ball, full in her mistaken brain; and, if she had admired him (or the “Troubadour”), she paid for it with her life.

  This was the last. Daylight appeared. The watchman put out his torches and roused the sleeper. “Carl! Carl! It’s daylight. Let us get out of this confounded crawling hole, and have a breath of fresh air.”

  Carl stirred, and opened his eyes; they were heavy and dull. His brother lifted him, told him to hold on tightly, and started with his burden toward home. The snakes had disappeared, the gray spiders had vanished; he could see his way now, and he followed his own trail, which he had taken care to make distinct when he came in the night before. But, loaded down as he was, and obliged to rest frequently, and also to go around all the pools, hours passed before he reached the last cypresses and came out on the old causeway across the sugar-waste.

  It was Christmas morning; the thermometer stood at eighty-eight.

  Carl slept off his enforced drunkenness in his hammock. Mark, having bandaged his brother’s strained ankles, threw himself upon his rude couch, and fell into a heavy slumber also. He slept until sunset; then he rose, plunged his head into a tub of the limpid, pure, but never cold water of Florida, drawn from his shallow well, and went out to the chimney to see about dinner. The chimney was doing finely: a fiery plume of sparks waved from its white top, a red bed of coals glowed below. Scip moved about with as much equanimity as though he had a row of kitchen-tables upon which to arrange his pans and dishes, instead of ruined blocks of stone, under the open sky. The dinner was good. Carl, awake at last, was carried out to the table to enjoy it, and then brought back to his chair in front of the house to smoke his evening pipe.

  “I must make you a pair of crutches,” said Deal.

  “One will do; my right ankle is not much hurt, I think.”

  The fall, the air of the swamp, and the inward drenching of brandy had left Carl looking much as usual; the tenacious disease that held him swallowed the lesser ills. But for the time, at least, his wandering footsteps were staid.

  “I suppose there is no use in my asking, Carl, why you went in there?�
� said Deal, after a while.

  “No, there isn’t. I’m haunted—that’s all.”

  “But what is it that haunts you?”

  “Sounds. You couldn’t understand, though, if I was to talk all night.”

  “Perhaps I could; perhaps I can understand more than you imagine. I’ll tell you a story presently; but first you must explain to me, at least as well as you can, what it is that attracts you in South Devil.”

  “Oh—well,” said Carl, with a long, impatient sigh, closing his eyes wearily. “I am a musician, you know, a musician manqué; a musician who can’t play. Something’s the matter; I hear music, but can not bring it out. And I know so well what it ought to be, ought to be and isn’t, that I’ve broken my violin in pieces a dozen times in my rages about it. Now, other fellows in orchestras, who don’t know, get along very well. But I couldn’t. I’ve thought at times that, although I can not sound what I hear with my own hands, perhaps I could write it out so that other men could sound it. The idea has never come to anything definite yet—that is, what you would call definite; but it haunts me persistently, and now it has got into that swamp. The wish,” here Carl laid down his great pipe, and pressed his hand eagerly upon his brother’s knee—“the wish that haunts me—drives me—is to write out the beautiful music of the South Devil, the sounds one hears in there”—

  “But there are no sounds.”

  “No sounds? You must be deaf! The air fairly reeks with sounds, with harmonies. But there—I told you you couldn’t understand.” He leaned back against the wall again, and took up the great pipe, which looked as though it must consume whatever small store of strength remained to him.

  “Is it what is called an opera you want to write, like—like the ‘Creation,’ for instance?” asked Deal. The “Creation” was the only long piece of music he had ever heard.

  Carl groaned. “Oh, don’t talk of it!” he said; then added, irritably, “It’s a song, that’s all—the song of a Southern swamp.”

  “Call it by its real name, Devil,” said the elder brother, grimly.

  “I would, if I was rich enough to have a picture painted—the Spirit of the Swamp—a beautiful woman, falsely called a devil by cowards, dark, languorous, mystical, sleeping among the vines I saw up there, with the great red blossoms dropping around her.”

  “And the great mottled snakes coiling over her?”

  “I didn’t see any snakes.”

  “Well,” said Mark, refilling his pipe, “now I’m going to tell you my story. When I met you on that windy pier at Exton, and proposed that you should come down here with me, I was coming myself, in any case, wasn’t I? And why? I wanted to get to a place where I could be warm—warm, hot, baked; warm through and through; warm all the time. I wanted to get to a place where the very ground was warm. And now—I’ll tell you why.”

  He rose from his seat, laid down his pipe, and, extending his hand, spoke for about fifteen minutes without pause. Then he turned, went back hastily to the old chimney, where red coals still lingered, and sat down close to the glow, leaving Carl wonder-struck in his tilted chair. The elder man leaned over the fire and held his hands close to the coals; Carl watched him. It was nine o’clock, and the thermometer marked eighty.

  For nearly a month after Christmas, life on the old plantation went on without event or disaster. Carl, with his crutch and cane, could not walk far; his fancy now was to limp through the east orange-aisle to the place of tombs, and sit there for hours, playing softly, what might be called crooning, on his violin. The place of tombs was a small, circular space surrounded by wild orange-trees in a close, even row, like a hedge; here were four tombs, massive, oblong blocks of the white conglomerate of the coast, too coarse-grained to hold inscription or mark of any kind. Who the old Spaniards were whose bones lay beneath, and what names they bore in the flesh, no one knew; all record was lost. Outside in the wild thicket was a tomb still more ancient, and of different construction: four slabs of stone, uncovered, about three feet high, rudely but firmly placed, as though inclosing a coffin. In the earth between these low walls grew a venerable cedar; but, old as it was, it must have been planted by chance or by hand after the human body beneath had been laid in its place.

  “Why do you come here?” said Deal, pausing and looking into the place of tombs, one morning, on his way to the orange-grove. “There are plenty of pleasanter spots about.”

  “No; I like this better,” answered Carl, without stopping the low chant of his violin. “Besides, they like it too.”

  “Who?”

  “The old fellows down below. The chap outside there, who must have been an Aztec, I suppose, and the original proprietor, catches a little of it; but I generally limp over and give him a tune to himself before going home. I have to imagine the Aztec style.”

  Mark gave a short laugh, and went on to his work. But he knew the real reason for Carl’s fancy for the place; between the slim, clean trunks of the orange-trees, the long green line of South Devil bounded the horizon, the flat tops of the cypresses far above against the sky, and the vines and silver moss filling the space below—a luxuriant wall across the broad, thinly-treed expanses of the pine barrens.

  One evening in January Deal came homeward as usual at sunset, and found a visitor. Carl introduced him. “My friend Schwartz,” he said. Schwartz merited his name; he was dark in complexion, hair, and eyes, and if he had any aims they were dark also. He was full of anecdotes and jests, and Carl laughed heartily; Mark had never heard him laugh in that way before. The elder brother ordered a good supper, and played the host as well as he could; but, in spite of the anecdotes, he did not altogether like friend Schwartz. Early the next morning, while the visitor was still asleep, he called Carl outside, and asked in an undertone who he was.

  “Oh, I met him first in Berlin, and afterward I knew him in New York,” said Carl. “All the orchestra fellows know Schwartz.”

  “Is he a musician, then?”

  “Not exactly; but he used to be always around, you know.”

  “How comes he down here?”

  “Just chance. He had an offer from a sort of a—of a restaurant, up in San Miguel, a new place recently opened. The other day he happened to find out that I was here, and so came down to see me.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “I suppose you gave our names to the agent when you took the place, didn’t you?”

  “I gave mine; and—yes, I think I mentioned you.”

  “If you didn’t, I mentioned myself. I was at San Miguel, two weeks you remember, while you were making ready down here; and I venture to say almost everybody remembers Carl Brenner.”

  Mark smiled. Carl’s fixed, assured self-conceit in the face of the utter failure he had made of his life did not annoy, but rather amused him; it seemed part of the lad’s nature.

  “I don’t want to grudge you your amusement, Carl,” he said; “but I don’t much like this Schwartz of yours.”

  “He won’t stay; he has to go back to-day. He came in a cart with a man from San Miguel, who, by some rare chance, had an errand down this forgotten, God-forsaken, dead-alive old road. The man will pass by on his way home this afternoon, and Schwartz is to meet him at the edge of the barren.”

  “Have an early dinner, then; there are birds and venison, and there is lettuce enough for a salad. Scip can make you some coffee.”

  But, although he thus proffered his best, none the less did the elder brother take with him the key of the little chest which contained his small store of brandy and the two or three bottles of orange wine which he had brought down with him from San Miguel.

  After he had gone, Schwartz and Carl strolled around the plantation in the sunshine. Schwartz did not care to sit down among Carl’s tombs; he said they made him feel moldy. Carl argued the point with him in vain, and then gave it up, and took him around to the causeway across the sugar-waste, wh
ere they stretched themselves out in the shade cast by the ruined wall of the old mill.

  “What brought this brother of yours away down here?” asked the visitor, watching a chameleon on the wall near by. “See that little beggar swelling out his neck!”

  “He’s catching flies. In a storm they will come and hang themselves by one paw on our windows, and the wind will blow them out like dead leaves, and rattle them about, and they’ll never move. But, when the sun shines out, there they are all alive again.”

  “But about your brother?”

  “He isn’t my brother.”

  “What?”

  “My mother, a widow, named Brenner, with one son, Carl, married his father, a widower, named Deal, with one son, Mark. There you have the whole.”

  “He is a great deal older than you. I suppose he has been in the habit of assisting you?”

  “Never saw him in my life until this last October, when, one windy day, he found me coughing on the Exton pier; and, soon afterward, he brought me down here.”

  “Came, then, on your account?”

  “By no means; he was coming himself. It’s a queer story; I’ll tell it to you. It seems he went with the Kenton Arctic expedition—you remember it? Two of the ships were lost; his was one. But I’ll have to get up and say it as he did.” Here Carl rose, put down his pipe, extended one hand stiffly in a fixed position, and went on speaking, his very voice, by force of the natural powers of mimicry he possessed, sounding like Mark’s:

  “We were a company of eight when we started away from the frozen hulk, which would never see clear water under her bows again. Once before we had started, thirty-five strong, and had come back thirteen. Five had died in the old ship, and now the last survivors were again starting forth. We drew a sledge behind us, carrying our provisions and the farcical records of the expedition which had ended in death, as they must all end. We soon lose sight of the vessel. It was our only shelter, and we look back; then, at each other. ‘Cheer up!’ says one. ‘Take this extra skin, Mark; I am stronger than you.’ It’s Proctor’s voice that speaks. Ten days go by. There are only five of us now, and we are walking on doggedly across the ice, the numbing ice, the killing ice, the never-ending, gleaming, taunting, devilish ice. We have left the sledge behind. No trouble now for each to carry his share of food, it is so light. Now we walk together for a while; now we separate, sick of seeing one another’s pinched faces, but we keep within call. On the eleventh day a wind rises; bergs come sailing into view. One moves down upon us. Its peak shining in the sunshine far above is nothing to the great mass that moves on under the water. Our ice-field breaks into a thousand pieces. We leap from block to block; we cry aloud in our despair; we call to each other, and curse, and pray. But the strips of dark water widen between us; our ice-islands grow smaller; and a current bears us onward. We can no longer keep in motion, and freeze as we stand. Two float near each other as darkness falls; ‘Cheer up, Mark, cheer up!’ cries one, and throws his flask across the gap between. Again it is Proctor’s voice that speaks.