The rapidly fading light enabled her with some difficulty to read the following words, written in pencil:
“DEAREST MISS BLIGH,
“You do not think that I believe a word of their wicked slander. I love you dearly, and trust I shall this night prove it. I am to be put to sleep in a small bed in Mrs. Shepherd’s room. She keeps the key of your door in her bag, and it will be odd if I can’t watch where she puts it when she goes to bed: so expect to hear your door open when it is quite dark. I shall not come in, for fear we should be heard; but I hope we shall meet again somewhere.
“Your affectionate,— “E. TALBOT.”
With this ray of hope to cheer her, Lucy lay down upon the bed, certainly not to sleep, but for the purpose of keeping herself as tranquil and as much at rest as possible, in order to be the better prepared for the long walk through the forest which she hoped to perform before the morning.
She waited long in vain. One by one she heard the different doors close, till by degrees the whole house was hushed in the most profound stillness: but still her friend came not, and sick despair had almost taken the place of hope, when a noise so slight as left her almost in doubt whether it were not fancy, called her attention to the door.
For a moment she waited without moving, that if indeed it were Miss Talbot’s gentle hand which had produced the sound, she might have time to retreat again to her bed before she risked the danger of betraying her, in case she were herself discovered. When at length, however, she laid her trembling hand upon the lock, it yielded to her touch.
“Soft as a spirit’s were her feet,” as she stole down the lofty staircase. Believing her easiest exit would be by the kitchen, she directed her steps that way, and after a few puzzling and very tormenting difficulties, she at length found herself in the same dark lane in which Cæsar had paid her his unfortunate visit the day before. Her first steps were taken very hastily, though in perfect ignorance as to the way they led; but then finding herself in the open market-place, she became conscious that she was really at liberty, and stood still for a moment to decide in what direction she should proceed.
The first nervous terror of her doubtful escape being over, she became conscious for the first time of two circumstances which were both, though in very different degrees, embarrassing. The first and most important was, that she doubted extremely of her power to find the footpath across the forest which led to her brother’s dwelling. The minor evil was, that she had neither bonnet nor shawl to shelter her. The room she shared with Miss Talbot was so small, that these articles were deposited in a closet near the head of the stairs, the door of which she dared not open.
Had Lucy felt strength enough to have walked the long circuit that the waggon brought her, her road would have been easily found, for the track was plain and the stars were bright; but it was too far, and she felt certain that did she attempt it, the morning would find her exhausted and still far from home. To discover the footpath was therefore her only alternative, and she set about it with a light foot and a fervent spirit.
At first setting out, her progress was plain, easy, and hopeful; for so many dwellings hung upon the skirts of the town, that in no direction was there any difficulty of finding a well-trod path. With such slight knowledge of the stars as she had to help her, she took the direction of her home; and for a time she fancied she remembered the aspect of different objects which she had passed when Edward had come to the outskirts of the town on a Sunday morning, to meet, and conduct her through the wood. But there is nothing so deceptive and beguiling as a forest-path; it will puzzle and delude even during the brightest light of day, and, spite of the stars, might have puzzled Jean-Jacques himself, if their light came as faintly as it now did to poor Lucy, through the matted umbrage of trees that became thicker at every step she took: yet still she walked actively onward, nor paused to think how many miles she had already trod, nor failed from time to time, as some small opening gave her power, to look up to the heavens and ascertain that she certainly was proceeding in the direction of Fox’s clearing.
It was not till the light of morning began to steal palely and furtively athwart the forest, and the early twittering of the birds gave a less doubtful notice that the night was past, that our poor Lucy permitted herself to believe that she might in good earnest have lost her way, and that so completely as to leave her little hope of recovering it.
She had forgotten, in the hurry and agitation of that nervous walk, that the same creek which made it necessary for all waggons to go twelve miles round in order to pass it, was fordable to foot-passengers only at one other spot, where, by descending a very sharp declivity, a point was reached, across which a tolerably active spring sufficed to bear the traveller in safety, and very nearly dry-shod: but this spot she now perceived she had missed, and again and again, after innumerable windings, the impassable creek yawned before her, as if to mock her idle efforts to master it.
Completely wearied and discouraged, she seated herself on the ground, both for the sake of rest and meditation. What should she do next? Not even the tangled thicket above her head could longer conceal the fact that it was broad sultry day, and she dreaded such a total failure of strength as might prevent her making any effectual effort to extricate herself before the return of night. She feared to sleep, and yet felt that this was in truth the only means she had of restoring the strength she so much wanted; so, after weighing deliberately the various perils that threatened her, — her decision, aided perhaps at last by the heavy weight that seemed to rest upon her eyelids, she cautiously selected the foot of a tree where no treacherous thicket might afford ambush to a snake, and tying a handkerchief over her head to guard “the portals of her ears,” she commended herself to Heaven, and lying down, with her own fair arm for her pillow, was in a few moments fast asleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHEN Mrs. Shepherd in her tender mercy ordered bread and water to be again served to the poor prisoner for her breakfast, the species of emotion which she experienced at hearing that she had taken wing may be easily enough imagined. She raved, she stormed, she accused everybody, and finally sent to summon Mr. Smith for the purpose of confessing to him that she was gone, together with the very mortifying addition that she neither knew how nor where.
Mr. Smith was in a tremendous passion. His favourite Hogstown had arrived during the night, and they had already enjoyed, over a breakfast of beefsteaks and onions, a foretaste of the happiness of getting up a little exhibition of Lynch-law of their own. To be balked in this by the stupid carelessness of a parcel of idiot women, — for it was thus he disrespectfully expressed himself, — was more than his temper could bear.
Happily for Mrs. Shepherd, her sensible forewoman uttered a suggestion which occasioned an immediate revulsion of feeling in the heaving breast of Mr. Smith.
“Don’t you think, sir, that it is unpossible she can have got far, and she such a delicate young thing, and that never have been used to them woods at all?”
The admirable judgment displayed by this observation acted instantly like oil upon troubled water.
“You’re no that stupid, miss, at any rate,” said he abruptly; and without waiting for any rejoinder to his compliment, he darted out of the house like an arrow.
Though greatly vexed to learn that the bird was flown, Mr. Hogstown acknowledged that it would be pretty considerable likely that they should fall in with the nigger-loving miss, seeing that few that didn’t know the ground well would be likely to find the crossing of Long-knee-deep creek. It was therefore immediately agreed between them, that they should set out on foot, and calling in their way at Paradise Plantation, get young Whitlaw to join them; after which, if they all started off in different paths, ’twould be queer if one or other of them did not come up with her, and she such a slip of a girl too.
On this reasoning they acted; and the consequence was, that Whitlaw reached the very spot where Lucy had fallen asleep about five minutes after she had again opened her fair eyes to t
he light. Had his joy at discovering her been less intemperate, it is probable that she would have been his to have and to hold, at least as a prisoner; but he uttered such a shout of savage triumph, that like a startled fawn she sprung away, and favoured by some thick underwood among which she threaded her way, he lost sight of her directly.
Uttering an oath, yet nevertheless but little discouraged by a flight that he knew could not carry her far, he followed the direction she had taken: but it was some time, owing to the nature of the ground, before he caught sight of her again; and when he did, she was standing motionless, and appeared to be earnestly gazing at some object that had arrested her steps, but what, trees and bushes still prevented him from seeing.
His rapidly-advancing step made her turn her head, when once more darting forward, she was again hid from his view. His distance, however, from the place where she had been standing was very trifling — a few active bounds mastered it; and looking in the same direction through the trees that she had done, he saw her, equally to his surprise and mortification, surrounded by a party of armed Indians.
When Lucy had reached the spot from whence this wild group was visible, she started with very natural terror and dismay, for no figures could in truth be better calculated to inspire such feelings. Four long lank figures of the Choctaw tribe, well-armed, but with hardly more clothing than the wild animals of which they were in pursuit, were suddenly visible to her at the distance only of a few yards.
Their occupation was certainly that of peace, for they were cooking some of the game of which they had made prey; but there is an unspeakable look of savage wildness about this race, which, however little there may be now to dread from them, might well create a shudder, when encountered by a lonely female in the depths of a dark and gloomy forest.
Her first impulse was to retreat, and so silently as to remain unnoticed by them; a matter of no great difficulty at a moment when one great instinct of their nature was about to be satisfied by the meal they were preparing, and when another — the aptness to perceive and guard against approaching danger, once equally strong within them — was blunted, and in a great degree extinguished for ever, not so much by the careless boldness that assured security gives to civilization, as from the reckless indifference produced by having nothing more to lose.
Lucy stepped back; and if her garments moved the leaves around her, no Choctaw head was turned to see whence the movement came; but at the very moment that she joyfully perceived this to be the case, her own ear, more quick to catch alarm, made her conscious that Whitlaw was close upon her.
The terrible words, “I have got you, have I!” which he had shouted with noisy triumph when he first caught sight of her, left no doubt that he was in pursuit of her, and that if she fell into his hands, all hope of giving her brother timely warning would be lost. This recollection, and something too in the general appearance of the civilized man which terrified her even more than the painted and scarred features of the Indians, stopped short her retreat, and after a moment of trembling uncertainty, during which her heart beat as if it would have burst through her bosom, she rushed suddenly forward and threw herself on her knees before one of the Choctaws, who being idly seated apart, she rightly judged to be their chief.
It was certainly no feeling of terror that startled the four savages as she thus suddenly appeared among them; or if it were, it must have been somewhat of a superstitious nature, for it really seemed as if her light and beautiful figure had risen from the earth beneath their feet, so totally without preparation of any kind was the apparition. For a moment, they looked at her and at each other as if awe-struck; but in the next, feelings of kindness and good-will evidently took place of all others, and with that look and manner which is of all the languages of the earth the most intelligible to woman, they made her feel that she was safe.
Comforted and reassured beyond her most sanguine hopes, yet still trembling, and with cheeks and lips as pale as death, she rose from her knees and endeavoured to make the men comprehend that she had fled from some enemy in the wood. She was perfectly understood, and four rifles, of prodigious length were instantly handled in a very masterly and warlike style.
If Whitlaw remained long enough at the post he had reached to witness this manœuvre, it is probable that he thought he had seen enough of Lucy for the present; for no farther sight or sound reached her to renew her alarm on his account.
The Choctaw chief, who read poor Lucy’s languid and exhausted condition in her face as ably as if he had been the most skilful physician of New Orleans, pointed to the seat he had left, and made her a sign to take it: this she did thankfully, and with a smile that so plainly told him so, that no words could have expressed it better. He then drew from his belt a flask of that magic liquid which, far more than arts or arms either, had led to the subjugation of his own and all the other tribes that once strode over that gigantic continent as its lawful and its only masters; — in plain English, he offered Lucy a flask of rum.
Her first movement was to shake her head and refuse it; but the sinking faintness within, which led her to fear that even now, with her four savage but kindly guards around her, she might still be incapable of reaching her home before the light again failed, taught her better wisdom, and she put the rude bottle to her pretty mouth with the courageous resolution of swallowing what might be sufficient to revive her strength. But the experiment did not answer well, for the mouthful she took very nearly choked her; and neither their respect nor their pity could prevent a general laugh among her tawny friends at the effect it produced.
No animal, however, is so inventive as a man when his ingenuity is set to work to aid the suffering and weakness of a woman. One of the party who was engaged in supplying wood to the fire over which some halfdozen rabbits hung roasting, started off among the trees, and returning in a few moments, addressed his companions, who each produced a flask, among which he disposed of the remaining contents of his own, and setting off again as he had done before, he speedily brought it back filled with such brackish water as he could get from some swampy hollow, and then contrived to blend it in such judicious proportion with the rum of another flask, that Lucy, albeit unused to such a beverage even in this tempered state, now swallowed a draught of it, greatly to the advantage of her powers both of mind and body.
Meanwhile the dangling rabbits reeked in savoury wreaths of very appetising smoke, and the hospitable savages again proved their powers of invention by twisting the bright leaves of a tulip-tree together, till such a pretty pattern of a basket-plate was formed as Mr. Wedgwood might have purchased at high cost. And then was a rabbit carved most manfully by three strokes of a hatchet, and the choicest morsel laid upon the plate of leaves, and an instrument, something between a knife and a dagger, put into Lucy’s little hand, and the plate most reverently laid upon her knee, as she sat upon the species of throne allotted her; and in short, the timid, weary, harassed Lucy Bligh made a repast, surrounded by her four Choctaws, which many a pampered epicure, waiting for a lagging appetite that will not come, might have envied.
When the meal was ended, and the poor girl with renovated spirits had smiled her thanks to each, she began to labour with all her skill of signs and gestures to make them understand that there was still another service they must render her, even the guarding her through the forest till she had found the friend she sought.
This was, however, no easy task. She succeeded perfectly in making them comprehend that she still feared some one who had pursued her, and the long rifles were again handled, and each one pressed closer round her, as if to tell her that they would “buckler her against a million;” but when she strove to explain to them the way she wished to go, it was quite evident that they were all at fault.
The place at which she had found them was an old clearing that might have been formerly cultivated, but which appeared to have been long forsaken; no remnant of a fence, nor any other symptom of its being near a human residence, remained, and it was hopeless for her
to attempt leading them with her in any direction, as it was quite as likely that she should go farther from Fox’s clearing as that she should approach it.
At length, however, she succeeded in making them understand that she wanted to pass the creek. One of its numerous windings brought it to a point which she had reached but a short distance from the place where she had slept; and remembering this, she walked towards it, beckoning them to follow her. They did so instantly; and having reached the steep side of the ravine, it was not difficult to make them comprehend that it was her wish to find herself on the other side of it. She flattered herself that the well-known familiarity of these people with every inch of forest-ground would enable them to lead her to the pass by which the footway from Natchez to many a forest dwelling led.
But here she was disappointed. No sooner did the gentle savages discover that she desired to cross the creek than they set to work to make the doing so easy for her, but never appeared to think that there could be the least difficulty in achieving this exactly at the spot where they stood. They rapidly wove together a hurdle of branches, and having made signs to her to lay herself upon it, which she fearlessly obeyed, two of them caught her up, and she was down one side, across the water, and up the other steep and rugged bank, almost before she was aware of what they were about. This certainly was a great and important assistance, as it was now just possible that she might set off in the right direction; and if she did so, there would be no longer the fear, or rather the certainty, of meeting this ever-yawning chasm to stop her progress.
But it was at least equally possible that she might set off wrong; and as the right was but one, and the wrong many, the probabilities were sadly against her. She now pronounced the names of various farms which were all in or near the direction in which she wished to go; — but, alas! her friends could only shake their heads and pronounce some very unintelligible words in return.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 41
