Mr. Lincoln, who had been laughing before, suddenly grew serious—melancholy, indeed. He talked with the congressmen awhile longer, but they knew by his manner that they were dismissed. As they were leaving, the President remarked:—
"Wait till your hurry's over, Hudspeth; I want to talk to you."
And sitting before the fire in his private office, Mr. Lincoln recalled Mr. Hudspeth's chance remark, and questioned him with great particularity about Aaron and Little Crotchet and all the rest.
"Of course you believed in the country next door to the world?" Mr. Lincoln suggested.
"To tell you the truth, Mr. President, I felt queerly that night. It seemed as real to me as anything I ever heard of and never saw."
"Get the feeling back, Hudspeth; get it back. I can believe everything you told me about it."
And after that, when Mr. Hudspeth called on the President, and found him in a mood between extreme mirth and downright melancholy, he would say: "I was with Aaron last night," or "I'm just from the country next door to the world," or "I hope Sherman won't get lost in the country that is next door to the world."
But all this was in the future, and, as we all know, Mr. Hudspeth, sitting at his window and gazing at the stars that hung sparkling over the Abercrombie place, could not read the future. If it was too late for him to learn the language of the animals, how could he hope to interpret the prophecies of the constellations?
Aaron sat with Little Crotchet until there was no danger that the red goblin, Pain, would put in an appearance, and then he slipped through the window, and was soon at the foot of the oak, where Rambler was taking a nap. He gave the dog some of the food that Little Crotchet had put by for him, ate heartily himself, and then went toward the Swamp.
On the hill he turned and looked back in the direction of Little Crotchet's window. As he paused he heard a voice cry "Hello!" Aaron was not startled, for the sound came from a distance, and fell but faintly on his ears. He listened and heard it again:—
IT WAS THE WHITE-HAIRED MASTER
"Hello! Hello!"
It seemed to come from the road, half a mile away, and Aaron knew that there was no house in that direction for a traveler or a passer-by to hail. There was something in the tone that suggested distress.
Without waiting to listen again, the Arab started for the road in a rapid trot. He thought he heard it again as he ran, and this caused him to run the faster. He climbed the fence that marked the line of the road, and sat there a moment; but all was silence, save the soft clamor of insects and frogs that is a feature of the first half of the night.
Aaron had now come to a point from which he could reach the Swamp more conveniently by following the road for half a mile, though he would have another hill to climb. As he jumped from the fence into the road the cry came to his ears again, and this time with startling distinctness:
"Hello! Hello! Oh, isn't there some one to hear me?"
It was so plainly the call of some one in distress that Aaron shouted an answer of encouragement, and ran as fast as he could in the direction from which the sound came. The situation was so new to Rambler that, instead of making ahead to investigate and report, he stuck to Aaron, whining uneasily. As the Son of Ben Ali ran he saw dimly outlined at the foot of the hill a short distance beyond him a huge something that refused to take a recognizable shape until he stood beside it, and even then it was startling enough. It was the Gray Mare, Timoleon's sister, lying at full length by the side of the road, and underneath her the Son of Ben Ali knew he would find the White-Haired Master. But it was not as bad as it might have been.
"Hurt much, Master?" said Aaron, leaning over Mr. Abercrombie and touching him on the shoulder.
"Not seriously," replied the White-Haired Master. "But the leg that is under the mare is numb."
The Gray Mare, after falling, had done nothing more than whinny. If she had struggled to rise, the White-Haired Master's leg would have needed a doctor: and if she had risen to her feet and started home the doctor would have been unnecessary, for the imprisoned foot was caught in the stirrup.
Well for Mr. Abercrombie that Aaron knew the Gray Mare, and that the Gray Mare knew Aaron. She whinnied when the runaway spoke to her. She raised her head and gathered her forefeet under her, and then suddenly, at a word from Aaron, lifted her weight from the leg, while the foot was taken from the stirrup. Again the word was given and the Gray Mare rose easily to her feet and shook herself.
"Can you walk, Master?" Aaron asked.
"I think so—certainly."
Yet it was not an easy thing to do. Though the limb was not broken, owing to the fact that the ground was damp and soft where the Gray Mare fell, yet it had been imprisoned for some time, and it was both numb and bruised. The numbness was in evidence now, as the White-Haired Master rose to his feet and tried to walk; the bruises would speak for themselves to-morrow.
"What is your name?" Mr. Abercrombie asked.
"I am called Aaron, Master."
"I thought so, and I'm glad of it. Some day I'll thank you; but now—pins and needles!" The blood was beginning to circulate in the numb leg, and this was not by any means a pleasant experience. Aaron shortened it somewhat by rubbing the limb vigorously.
"Are you still in the woods, Aaron?"
"Yes, Master."
"Well, I'm sorry. I wish you belonged to me."
"I'm wishing harder than you, Master."
"What a pity—what a pity!"
"Don't get too sorry, Master."
"No; it would do no good."
"And don't blame the Gray Mare for stumbling, Master. The saddle too high on her shoulders, the belly-band too tight, and her shoes nailed on in the dark."
Aaron helped Mr. Abercrombie to mount. "Good-night, Master!"
"Good-night, Aaron!"
The Arab watched the Gray Mare and her rider until the darkness hid them from view. And no wonder! He was the only man, living or dead, that the Son of Ben Ali had ever called "Master." Why? Aaron tried to make the matter clear to his own mind, and while he was doing his best to unravel the problem he heard buggy wheels rattle on the hilltop. The horse must have shied at something just then, for a harsh voice cried out, followed by the sound of a whip falling cruelly on the creature's back. The wheels rattled louder as the creature leaped frantically from under the whip. The harsh voice cried "Whoa!" three times, twice in anger, and the third time in mortal fear. And then Aaron knew that he had another adventure on his hands.
* * *
IX.
THE UPSETTING OF MR. GOSSETT.
If Aaron had known it was Mr. Gossett's voice he heard and Mr. Gossett's hand that brought the buggy whip down on the poor horse's back with such cruel energy, the probability is that he would have taken to his heels; and yet it is impossible to say with certainty. The Son of Ben Ali was such a curious compound that his actions depended entirely on the mood he chanced to be in. He was full of courage, and yet was terribly afraid at times. He was dignified and proud, and yet no stranger to humility. His whole nature resented the idea of serving as a slave, yet he would have asked nothing better than to be Little Crotchet's slave: and he was glad to call Mr. Abercrombie master. So that, after all, it may be that he would have stood his ground, knowing that the voice and hand were Mr. Gossett's when his ears told him, as they now did, that the horse, made furious by the cruel stroke of the whip, was running away, coming down the hill at breakneck speed.
Mr. Gossett had been on a fruitless errand. When his son George reached home that morning and told him that Mr. Jim Simmons's dogs had followed the trail to the river and there lost it, Mr. Gossett remarked that he was glad he did not go on a fool's errand, and he made various statements about Mr. Simmons and his dogs that were not at all polite. Later in the day, however (though the hour was still early), when Mr. Gossett was making the customary round of his plantation, he fell in with a negro who had been hunting for some stray sheep. The negro, after giving an account of his movements, made this further remark:—
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"I sholy 'spected you'd be over yander wid Mr. Jim Simmons, Marster. His dogs done struck a track leadin' inter de swamp, an' dey sho went a callyhootin'."
"When was that?" Mr. Gossett inquired.
"Not mo' dan two hours ago, ef dat," responded the negro. "I lis'n at um, I did, an' dey went right spang tor'ds de Swamp. I know'd de dogs, kaze I done hear um soon' dis mornin'."
Giving the negro some instructions that would keep him busy the rest of the day if he carried them out, Mr. Gossett turned his horse's head in the direction of the Swamp, and rode slowly thither. The blue falcon soared high in the air and paid no attention to Mr. Gossett. For various reasons that the Swamp knew about the Turkey Buzzard was not in sight. The Swamp itself was full of the reposeful silence that daylight usually brought to it. Mr. Gossett rode about and listened; but if all the dogs in the world had suddenly disappeared, the region round about could not have been freer of their barking and baying than it was at that moment.
All that Mr. Gossett could do was to turn about and ride back home. But he was very much puzzled. If Mr. Simmons had trailed a runaway into the Swamp and caught him, or if he had made two failures in one morning, Mr. Gossett would like very much to know it. In point of fact, he was such a practical business man that he felt it was Mr. Simmons's duty to make some sort of report to him. In matters of this kind Mr. Gossett was very precise.
But after dinner he felt in a more jocular mood. He informed his son George that he thought he would go over and worry Mr. Simmons a little over his failure to catch Aaron, and he had his horse put to the buggy, and rode six or seven miles to Mr. Simmons's home, smiling grimly as he went along.
Mr. Simmons was at home, but was not feeling very well, as his wife informed Mr. Gossett. Mrs. Simmons herself was in no very amiable mood, as Mr. Gossett very soon observed. But she asked him in politely enough, and said she'd go and tell Jimmy that company had come. She went to the garden gate not very far from the house and called out to her husband in a shrill voice:—
"Jimmy! Oh, Jimmy! That old buzzard of a Gossett is in the house. Come see what he wants. And do put on your coat before you come in the house. And wash your hands. They're dirtier than sin. And hit that shock of yours one lick with the comb and brush. Come right on now. If I have to sit in there and talk to the old rascal long I'll have a fit. Ain't you coming? I'll run back before he ransacks the whole house."
Mr. Simmons came sauntering in after a while, and his wife made that the excuse for disappearing, though she went no further than the other side of the door, where she listened with all her ears, being filled with a consuming curiosity to know what business brought Mr. Gossett to that house. She had not long to wait, for the visitor plunged into the subject at once.
"You may know I was anxious about you, Simmons, or I wouldn't be here." ("The old hypocrite!" remarked Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door.) "You didn't come by when your hunt ended, and I allowed maybe that you had caught the nigger and either killed or crippled him, and—ahem!—felt a sort of backwardness in telling me about it. So I thought I would come over and see you, if only to say that whether you caught the nigger or killed him, he's responsible for it and not you."
"No, Colonel, I'm not in the practice of killing niggers nor crippling 'em. I've caught a many of 'em, but I've never hurt one yet. But, Colonel! If you'd 'a' gone through with what I've been through this day, you'd 'a' done exactly what I done. You'd 'a' went right straight home without stopping to ask questions or to answer 'em—much less tell tales."
Thereupon Mr. Simmons told the story of his adventure in the Swamp, varnishing up the facts as he thought he knew them, and adding some details calculated to make the episode much more interesting from his point of view. It will be remembered that Mr. Simmons was in total ignorance of what really happened in the Swamp. He had conceived the theory that his dogs had hit upon the trail of a wildcat going from the river to its den in the Swamp, and that, when the dogs had followed it there, they had been attacked, not by one wildcat, but by the whole "caboodle" of wildcats, to use Mr. Simmons's expression.
Having conceived this theory, Mr. Simmons not only stuck to it, but added various incidents that did credit to his imagination. For instance, he made this statement in reply to a question from Mr. Gossett:—
"What did I think when I heard all the racket and saw Sound come out mangled? Well, I'll tell you, Colonel, I didn't know what to think. I never heard such a terrible racket in all my born days. I says to myself, 'I'll just ride in and see what the trouble is, and if there ain't but one wildcat, why, I'll soon put an end to him.' So I spurred my hoss up, and started in; but before we went anyways, hardly, the hoss give a snort and tried to whirl around and run out.
"It made me mad at the time," Mr. Simmons went on, his inventive faculty rising to the emergency, "but, Colonel, it's a mighty good thing that hoss had more sense than I did, because if he hadn't I'd 'a' never been setting here telling you about it. I tried to make the hoss stand, but he wouldn't, and, just then, what should I see but two great big wildcats trying to sneak up on me? And all the time, Colonel, the racket in the Swamp was getting louder and louder. Pluto was in there somewheres, and I know'd he was attending to his business, so I just give the hoss the reins and he went like he was shot out of a gun.
"I pulled him in, and turned him around, and then I saw Pluto trying to come out. Now, Colonel, you may know if it was too hot for him it was lots too warm for me. Pluto tried to come, and he was a-fighting like fury; but it was no go. The two cats that had been sneaking up on me lit on him, and right then and there they tore him all to flinders! Colonel, they didn't leave a piece of that dog's hide big enough to make a woman's glove if it had been tanned. And as if that wouldn't do 'em, they made another sally and come at me, tush and claw. And I just clapped spurs to the hoss and cleaned up from there. Do you blame me, Colonel?"
THEY TORE HIM ALL TO FLINDERS
"As I understand it, Simmons," remarked Mr. Gossett, after pulling his beard and reflecting a while, "you didn't catch the nigger."
("The nasty old buzzard!" remarked Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door. "If I was Jimmy I'd hit him with a cheer.")
"Do you think you'd 'a' caught him, Colonel, taking into account all the circumstances and things?" inquired Mr. Simmons, with his irritating drawl.
"I didn't say I was going to catch him, did I?" replied Mr. Gossett. "I didn't say he couldn't get away from my dogs, did I?"
"Supposing you had," suggested Mr. Simmons, "would you 'a' done it? I ain't never heard of you walking in amongst a drove of wildcats to catch a nigger."
"And so you didn't catch him; and your fine dogs are finer now than they ever were?" Mr. Gossett remarked.
("My goodness! If Jimmy don't hit him, I'll go in and do it myself," said Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door.)
"Well, Colonel, it's just like I tell you." Mr. Simmons would have said something else, but just then the door opened and Mrs. Simmons walked in, fire in her eye.
"You've saved your $30, hain't you?" she said to Mr. Gossett.
"Why—er—yes'm—but"—
"No buts about it," she snapped. "If you ain't changed mightily, you think a heap more of $30 in your pocket than you do of a nigger in the bushes. Jimmy don't owe you nothin', does he?"
"Well—er—no'm." Mr. Gossett had been taken completely by surprise.
"No, he don't, and if he did I'd quit him right now—this very minute," Mrs. Simmons declared, gesticulating ominously with her forefinger. "And what Jimmy wants to go trolloping about the country trying to catch the niggers you drive to the woods is more'n I can tell to save my life. Why, if he was to catch your runaway niggers they wouldn't stay at home no longer than the minute you took the ropes off 'em."
Mr. Simmons cleared his throat, as if to say something, but his wife anticipated him.
"Oh, hush up, Jimmy!" she cried. "You know I'm telling nothing but the truth. There ain't a living soul in this country that
don't know a Gossett nigger as far as they can see him."
"What are the ear-marks, ma'am?" inquired Mr. Gossett, trying hard to be jocular. In a moment he was heartily sorry he had asked the question.
"Ear-marks? Ear-marks? Hide-marks, you better say. Why, they've been abused and half fed till they are ashamed to look folks in the face, and I don't blame 'em. They go sneaking and shambling along and look meaner than sin. And 't ain't their own meanness that shows in 'em. No! Not by a long sight. I'll say that much for the poor creeturs."
There was something of a pause here, and Mr. Gossett promptly took advantage of it. He rose, bowed to Mrs. Simmons, who turned her back on him, and started for the door, saying:—
"Well, Simmons, I just called to see what luck you'd had this morning. My time's up. I must be going."
Mr. Simmons followed him to the door and out to the gate. Before Mr. Gossett got in his buggy he turned and looked toward the house, remarking to Mr. Simmons in a confidential tone:—
"I say, Simmons! She's a scorcher, ain't she?"
"A right warm one, Colonel, if I do say it myself," replied Mr. Simmons, with a touch of pride. "But, Colonel, before you get clean away, let's have a kind of understanding about this matter."
"About what matter?" Mr. Gossett stood with one foot on his buggy step, ready to get in.
"About this talk of Jenny's," said Mr. Simmons, nodding his head toward the house. "I'll go this far—I'll say that I'm mighty sorry it wasn't somebody else that done the talkin', and in somebody else's house. But sence it was Jenny, it can't be holp. If what she said makes you feel tired—sort of weary like—when you begin to think about it, jest bear in mind, Colonel, that I hold myself both personally and individually responsible for everything Jenny has said to-day, and everything she may say hereafter."
Mr. Gossett lowered his eyebrows and looked through them at Mr. Simmons.
Aaron in the Wildwoods Page 10
