Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  By and by he began loading his musket, measuring the powder very carefully, wrapping the bullet in a piece of greasy cloth, and ramming it down with some difficulty into the gun.

  Jack sat upon a fallen log, watching him, and Little Coffee sat squatted upon his hams, also looking on. After Dennis had loaded his musket, he propped it carefully upon the log and then stretched himself out at length upon a little grassy place under the shade of a tree. “By smoke!” he said, “I wish I had a drink of water.”

  Jack had not realized until Dennis spoke how thirsty he himself was. “I wish I had one, too,” he said.

  “Well, you can just wish for it,” said Dennis, “and so can I, and that’s the best we can do. You keep a sharp lookout now,” he said, “and the best pair of eyes sees the turkeys first.”

  He stretched himself out as he spoke and closed his eyes, as though to sleep.

  The sun had sunk further and further toward the west, and the shadows of the trees were growing longer and longer. Jack sat listening and enjoying the warm solitude. How strange and wonderful it all was; how far remote from that old life he had left behind in England. England! his mind went backward feeling around amid the things of the past, and measuring them with the present. That was England — this was America.

  “Yan de turkey, Massa Dennis!” Little Coffee whispered, suddenly, and Jack came sharply back to the consciousness of things about him with a sudden keen thrill that was almost painful in its intensity.

  Dennis had started up from where he lay and was looking in the direction in which Little Coffee was pointing. Jack raised himself cautiously and also looked in the same direction. His heart was beating very quickly. The turkeys had come out from the woods without any one of the three having seen them until that moment. They were feeding in the open about a furlong away, and maybe fifty or sixty yards from the edge of the woods.

  Dennis arose, and, without speaking, took up his gun. Then, partly crouching, he skirted back into the woods and along the edge of the clearing, Jack following him and Little Coffee following Jack. So they went on for some distance, and then Dennis turned sharply out again toward the edge of the woods. He went forward now very slowly and cautiously, and Jack still followed him, half crouching. He was intensely excited, his mouth was dry and clammy, and his pulse beat heavily in his ears. He did not notice the sweat trickling down his face. Would Dennis really shoot one of the turkeys?

  “Wait a little,” said Dennis, without turning around, “till I see where I be.”

  Jack could now see between the thickets that the clearing was just ahead. Dennis crept cautiously forward and Jack stood watching him. Presently he saw that the other was beckoning for him to come forward. He did so, approaching very carefully. Dennis was crouched down, looking out through the bushes, and Jack came close to him, Little Coffee following. He peered out from between the leaves; there were the turkeys, perhaps fifty or sixty yards away — a half a dozen or more great cock turkeys. To Jack’s eyes they looked very big and very near.

  “’Tis like if we went on a little furder,” whispered Dennis, “’twould bring us nigher to them, but I have a mind to risk a shot from here.” He was crouched, gazing at the turkeys. Then he carefully raised the musket and thrust it out through a fork of the bush in front of him. He took a long, steady aim. Jack waited, hardly daring to breathe, every nerve tensely braced to meet the shock of the discharge.

  Something must have alarmed the birds, for one great cock suddenly raised his head and looked sharply this way and that, and then they were all standing with their necks stretched high, looking intently about them. Then suddenly there came the stunning, deafening report of the musket. A cloud of pungent smoke hid everything for a little while; then it had dissolved.

  Could Jack believe his eyes? One great turkey cock was flapping and struggling upon the ground.

  He leaped up with a shout and ran out into the clearing. He heard Little Coffee shout behind him as he ran forward through the long, shaggy grass, jumping over the stumps, and he had a vision of the rest of the turkeys scattering with shrill, piping cries toward the woods — half-flying, half-running — then he was standing over the turkey cock where it lay upon the ground in the tall, brown grass. It was nearly motionless when he reached it, and its half-closed eyes were still bright with the life that was just leaving them. There it lay, and Jack looked down at it in an ecstasy. The sun shone upon the burnished, metallic luster of its neck-feathers — purple, blue, green. Its great horny foot gave a futile, scratching struggle, and then it was quite still.

  Dennis was coming hurrying forward at a trot, carrying his musket hanging at his side. Little Coffee was capering around. Dennis came up to where Jack stood. He hid whatever exultation he might have felt under an assumed air of indifference. “’Twas a pretty long shot,” he said, “and methought I’d miss it. But ’twas the only chance I had.”

  As he spoke he wiped his face with his sleeve. He picked up the bird and held it out at arm’s length. Its wings fell open as he did so. Then he dropped it again heavily upon the ground. “Well,” he said, “there’s fresh meat for Nama, anyhow.”

  “I’ll carry it home for you, Dennis,” said Jack.

  “You may if you choose,” said Dennis.

  The shadows were growing longer and longer as they plunged into the woods again with their faces turned homeward. Jack soon found his load was very heavy, and presently he was glad to share it with Little Coffee. He tied the feet of the great bird together with one of his shoe-strings; then he slung it over a branch, he taking one end upon his shoulder and Little Coffee the other. Then again they went onward, Dennis leading the way.

  “HE PICKED UP THE BIRD AND HELD IT OUT AT ARM’S LENGTH.”

  The sun had set and the first shade of twilight was beginning to fall when they came out again from the woods and in sight of the Roost. As they came up to the row of cabins Kala came out to meet them. “De master he came home while ago,” he said. “He be axing for you.”

  Jack stood stock-still. “What’s that, Kala?” said he.

  “De master he came home,” repeated Kala. “He been axing for you.”

  Somehow Jack could not believe what he heard. “D’ye mean Mr. Parker’s come back?” he said.

  “Hum-hum,” said Kala, nodding his head.

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE STRUGGLE

  JACK AND LITTLE Coffee had laid the dead turkey down upon the ground. Without another word he ran away toward the house. He heard voices as he approached; they ceased at the sound of his footsteps as he entered the house. He found Mr. Parker standing in the middle of the hall with his hat upon his head; Peggy Pitcher stood leaning over the lean, rickety banister-rail, half-way up the stairs. “There he is now,” she said as Jack entered. “And ’tis no use to bluster and swear at me any more. I told you ’twas none of my doings that he went.”

  Jack had never before seen Mr. Parker in one of his humors. He had heard others about the Roost speak of those times when the master would be in one of his fits of temper, but he himself had as yet never beheld one of those dreadful moods. Now he saw that the master’s eyes were bloodshot. Mr. Parker had not been drinking, but his face was congested to a purple-red, and the veins in his neck and forehead stood out full and round. He turned a dull, heavy, truculent look upon Jack as he came in, and Jack, under that heavy and forbidding glare, stood still and looked down upon the floor.

  “Come hither,” said Mr. Parker at last, in a gloomy voice, and at his bidding Jack advanced slowly and reluctantly. “Come hither, I say,” he repeated, as Jack hesitated at a little distance, and again Jack advanced. When he had come near enough Mr. Parker reached out and caught him by the collar of his coat. Jack made no effort to resist him; he stood perfectly quiet, his soul heavy with a dumb apprehension as to what was about to happen to him.

  “Mrs. Pitcher hath told me that she bade you not to go away from home,” said Mr. Parker; “but that in spite of all she could say you did go, leavi
ng your work undone behind you. Well, then, I’ll lay my mark on you, by —— , and in such a way that you’ll not forget it soon, nor run away again when you’re told to stay at home.”

  He drew Jack across the room as he spoke, and Jack, fearing to resist, yielded himself to be led as the master chose. It was not until Mr. Parker had taken down the heavy riding-whip from the wall that he fully understood what his master intended to do to him. His first instinct was of defense, and as Mr. Parker raised his arm he too reached up, hardly knowing what he did, and caught the other by the sleeve, holding it tightly. “Your honor!” he cried, and he recognized that his voice was hoarse and dry— “your honor, I’m mightily sorry for what I’ve done, and I promise you I’ll never do the like again. I’ll never run away again, your honor, indeed I won’t! Pray don’t strike me, your honor!”

  “Let go my arm!” cried Mr. Parker, harshly. “What d’ye mean by holding my sleeve like that?” He strove to break away from Jack’s hold, but Jack clung to him more closely than ever.

  “I promise you,” he cried panting, “I promise you — I’ll never go away again. I promise you after this I’ll do just as you would have me, but — but — don’t beat me. I’m mightily sorry for what I’ve done — I am — but don’t try to beat me!”

  “Let go my arm, I tell you!” cried Mr. Parker, and he tried to wrench himself loose. But still Jack held him tightly. Then Jack felt that Mr. Parker had let go his grasp upon his collar and was trying to pluck away the hold of the fingers that clutched the sleeve. “Let me go, I tell you!” he cried out again. “Are you mad to handle me thus? — What do you mean? — Are you mad? — Let me go!” The next moment he had torn his arm free. He struck at Jack with the whip, but Jack clung to him so closely that the blow was without effect, and before he could strike him again Jack had caught him once more.

  He heard the rasping sound of ripping cloth, and he knew that he must have torn some part of his master’s dress. “You sha’n’t beat me!” he gasped. “You sha’n’t beat me!” Mr. Parker tried to thrust him away with his elbow, but he clung all the more tightly. As Mr. Parker pushed him partly away, he could see the other’s handsome face flaming purple-red, but in the violence and excitement of the struggle he only half knew what he was doing. He could feel the struggling movements of his master’s body as he clutched him, and he was conscious of the soft linen of his shirt and the fine smell of his person. Then he felt that some one had caught him by the collar, and, in the turmoil of his excitement, he knew that it was Mrs. Pitcher who held him, and he heard her voice crying in his ear: “Let go, Jack! Are you clean gone crazy? What are you doing? Let go, I say.”

  “No, I won’t!” cried Jack, hoarsely, “he sha’n’t beat me!” He hardly knew what he was doing; his only instinct was of self-defense. In his struggles he felt himself strike against the edge of the table, and then against a chair. Then he stumbled against another chair, overturning it with a loud clatter. At the same instant, Mr. Parker tripped over it and fell, rolling over and over on the floor. In the fall his hat and wig were knocked off, but he still held the whip clutched in his hand. Jack stood panting, and Peggy Pitcher still had hold of him by the collar of his coat. In the sudden cessation of the tumult of the struggle, Jack could hear the blood surging with a ceaselessly beating “hum-hum-hum” in his ears.

  Mr. Parker lay still for a second or two as though partly stunned by his fall, then he scrambled up from the floor. He picked up his wig and put it on his head. He did not seem to see his hat where it had fallen under the table. He put his hand to his head and stood so for a second or two. Then he flung the riding-whip down upon the table and walked to the door without looking at Jack. Dennis, who was on his way to his cabin, had heard the sound of the struggle and loud voices, the scuffling of feet upon the bare floor, the clattering overturning of the chair. He had stopped, and now stood with the musket over his shoulder, Little Coffee carrying the turkey. He was still so standing when Mr. Parker came to the door. “Dennis!” cried the master hoarsely, “bring three or four men and come over here directly.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he came back to the table and poured out a glass of rum for himself, the bottle clinking and tinkling against the edge of the glass with the nervous trembling of his hand.

  Jack heard Mr. Parker’s words to Dennis, and then he realized for the first time how utterly and helplessly powerless he was, and into what a pit of trouble he had fallen. His heart sank away within him and he stood without moving, numb with despair, the rapid pulse-beats still thumping and surging in his ears. “Your honor — your honor,” he said huskily, “I — I didn’t know what I was doing — I didn’t. I didn’t mean to tear your dress. Pardon me, your honor, I didn’t mean it!” He almost choked, swallowing upon a hard lump in his throat. Mr. Parker paid not the slightest attention to him. “Won’t you listen to me, your honor?” he cried despairingly. He heard the approaching footsteps of Dennis and those whom he had brought with him, and the sound lent a still heavier agony of despair to his apprehension. “I didn’t mean to do it, your honor,” he cried, with a final effort to placate that implacable one, and then the next moment Dennis and three negroes came into the house.

  “I want you to take that boy,” said Mr. Parker, pointing to Jack, “and lock him up in the cellar for the night. I’ll flay you alive to-morrow,” said he, turning with a flash upon Jack and grinding his white teeth together. “I’ll spare you for to-night, but to-morrow I’ll murder you, I will,” and then he turned and went out of the room.

  “What have you been doing, Jack?” said Dennis.

  “Oh! I don’t know, Dennis,” Jack panted — almost sobbing. “He was going to beat me and I tried to keep him from doing it, that was all.”

  “He fought with his honor like a wild-cat,” said Mrs. Pitcher, “and he threw him down over a chair onto the floor.”

  “Why did you do that, Jack?” said Dennis. “You must have been clean gone crazy to do such a thing as that.” Jack tried to reply, but he could not do so for the choking in his throat. “Well,” said Dennis, “there is nothing left now but to do as his honor said. You had better come along now, and not make any more trouble.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to make any more trouble,” said Jack, hoarsely.

  Dennis and Mrs. Pitcher stood looking at him. “Well,” said Dennis, as though giving himself a shake, “’tis a bad, bad piece of business. I can’t do anything to help you. Come along, and I’ll make it as easy for you as I can.”

  “I’ll send you down something good to eat,” said Mrs. Pitcher.

  “I don’t want anything to eat,” said Jack, despairingly.

  The cellar was a vault-like dungeon of a place, built solidly of brick, with only a narrow, barred window and the door from the kitchen opening into it. Indeed, it had once been used as a place of confinement or retention for the slaves in olden days, and there was a pair of rusty unused shackles with chains yet hanging from a staple in the wall. Jack could not tell how long it was he sat there, in the cold dampness of the place, thinking and thinking, and yet with a mind inert and dull as to any precision of consciousness. He could hear distant sounds through the house, and now and then the echo of footsteps passing overhead. All around him was a dead and muffled silence of darkness. It must have been nightfall when Mrs. Pitcher came, bringing some food wrapped up in a napkin. “Here,” she said, “you eat this, and you’ll feel the better for it.” Jack shook his head. “Well, I’ll put it down here, and maybe you’ll eat it after a while.” And then she went away, leaving him once more to the darkness and the silence.

  By little and little the sounds of moving in the house above were stilled. Jack’s ears hummed and tingled and buzzed, and he sat there thinking, thinking, thinking, and yet not thinking with any set purpose of thought. What was to happen to him? Oh! if he had not resisted his master! Why had he resisted? If there were only some way in which he could set himself right with that master! If he could only beg and obtain some pardon! And then
he realized with despair that there was no way in which he could undo what he had done; that there was no possible pardon for him. He saw as in a mental picture his master rolling over on the floor, and he knew that he would never be forgiven such an insult. Now and then he thrilled almost as with an agony — if he could only escape the inevitable to-morrow! But, no! There was nothing for him to do but to sit there all night waiting for the day. Oh! if he could only stop thinking about it. He might have sat there thinking thus for an hour; he might have sat there ten hours; there was no sequence of thought by which he might measure the length or the shortness of time — nothing but a level stretch of dull and numb despair. Then, suddenly, he felt that he was parched and dry with thirst. He wondered if Peggy Pitcher had brought him anything to drink. He reached over, fumbling in the darkness, and opened the cloth in which was wrapped the food she had brought him. There was a bottle with something in it. It was rum and water, and Jack, as he drank a long draught of it, felt an almost animal gratitude in the quenching of his parching thirst. Presently he began eating some of the food, and before he knew it he had made a hearty meal.

  For a while the eating distracted his mind, and his troubles lay big and dumb, brooding within him; but after he had finished the food and sat again in the humming silence, it all came back to him with a renewed and overwhelming keenness. He bowed his head over on his knees. Recollections of the warm, bright day that had just passed — a recollection of the dead turkey as it lay in the grass — came vividly to him. The trivial recollection seemed to make the terror of that which afterward happened all the more tragic by contrast. He felt the hot drops well bigger and bigger under his burning eyelids, and then one fell upon his hand and trickled slowly down across it.