“D — d true that too,” cried a shrewd fellow who was beginning to handle some of the packages; “and you, I expect, Master Mungo, was to follow ’em with the rest of their plunder?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Cæsar very civilly.
“Then we’re stumpt pretty considerable, I expect,” observed the gentleman who bore the rope.
“I vote for setting fire to the premises,” said one; “I don’t like to be had out this way for nothing.”
“That’s a fact,” answered his neighbour; “and if we make a blaze and an uproar, we shall get the Spanish wheels at any rate.”
“To it then!” cried many voices at once. “Go to the kitchen hearth, you old crocodile, and fetch us a brand; and you too, mungo — scamper to save your life.”
Cæsar darted off like an arrow; while Juno followed him at the best pace she could, assailed as she went by abuse, shouts of laughter, and any light articles at hand that could without much trouble be thrown after her.
Cæsar’s quick return, with a glowing brand in each hand, and showing his teeth from ear to ear, did much, not only towards securing his own safety, but in removing all doubts as to the truth of his statement.
“He’d never be so ready and slick to burn down the house if he expected ’em back again, that’s a fact,” observed a fellow who had seized one of the firebrands from his hand. And in truth the safety of the negroes was fully secured, and their very existence forgotten in the excitement which followed. The most combustible articles of furniture were rapidly collected together from various rooms by a dozen active hands, and piled together in the middle of the large sitting-room; and to this the fire was applied. The blaze was as rapid and as destructive as the most zealous of these ministers of justice could desire, and the dry and abundant woodwork of the building soon became one continuous fabric of blazing fire.
Far and near the forest glowed in the high and flaring light. Fragments of rafters fell scattered in all directions from the roof; the light fences caught the flame, which literally seemed to “run along upon the ground,” till they reached the barns and outbuildings, that in a few seconds added their wooden and easily ignited materials to the spreading conflagration.
Clio meanwhile had performed the duty required of her with that eager sort of effective activity which the heart only can inspire. The trembling females followed each other with the feverish haste of terror up the stairs leading to the ware-room — all but Lucy Bligh. She watched her brother’s eye, and fancied that she saw in it a wild wish of escaping from the oppressive safety of this enforced retreat.
“I will not mount, Edward!” she said; “I will not put my foot upon the stair till I see you walk before me.”
For an instant only he hesitated, and then obeyed the command, which even in that terrible moment he felt proceeded from a purpose more fixed and settled than his own.
The wide chamber, half filled with lumbering cases, some still unpacked, and others emptied of their various contents, offered as favourable an opportunity for concealment as it is well possible to imagine, and it required no great ingenuity for the whole party so to have disposed themselves as to leave no trace of their presence there to anyone who might accidentally enter.
“The shorter I bide the better,” said the good Clio, retreating. “Keep quiet, dears, and you’ll be safe enough, I’ll answer for it; but don’t look out of them windows that side, ‘cause it looks t’wards the Eagle. That big door at the end is t’wards your place, Lotte dear, and there’s nothing to see you there, if you’ve a mind to peep; but don’t open it only a bit, you know.”
She descended the stairs as she spoke; and they heard her lock and double-lock the door at the foot of them.
For the first few minutes that followed their imprisonment, the women gazed in each other’s faces in a manner that seemed to say, “Look I as pale as you?” but not a word was spoken, nor a movement made. By degrees, however, the statues seemed gradually returning to life — Edward looking by far the most wretched of the party.
In another moment Lotte was employing herself in arranging a seat at once comfortable and concealed from view; and when it was completed she took her mother’s hand and silently led her to it.
Poor Mary, however, who was in no state of mind to be comfortable, shook her head as if to refuse it, — but she looked in Lotte’s face and yielded.
Lotte herself then crept to the side of Lucy, and throwing her arms round her, buried her face in her bosom to hide the tears that would flow. The miserable Edward withdrew himself to a distant part of the wide loft, and placed himself in such a position, that his face was unseen by any.
Phebe was the only one of the party who availed herself of Clio’s hint, that she might without danger reconnoitre the space that lay between Mount Etna and Reichland, by cautiously unclosing the wooden shutter which secured — not a window, for there was no glass in it — but a sort of door-way, that opened in that direction, and which was occasionally used for hoisting goods too bulky to be carried up the stairs.
After yielding, for a few moments to a weakness which both felt to be wrong, the two girls approached Mary, and sitting down on the floor beside her, rested their heads upon their knees. She threw an arm round each, and softly whispered the consoling observation that no sounds were heard approaching.
At this moment Phebe, who had continued peeping through an aperture of half an inch wide, which was all she would venture to open, suddenly uttered a fearful shriek, and then exclaimed, “Oh, God have mercy on us! — all the whole world’s on fire!” — She clasped her hands as she spoke, and the heavy shutter fell back flat against the wall, making the whole loft glow with the reflection of the blaze that burst from every window at Reichland.
The terror of being discovered, which a moment before had made them fearful of whispering to each other, yielded before the sudden panic of this frightful spectacle, and Mary and the two girls uttered a fearful cry. Edward rushed to the opening and gazed at the sight with a species of misery that was all his own — no human being could conceive or share it.
The dreadful idea occurred to Lotte, that the mob had seized upon the gentlemen, and having secured them in the house, had taken this dreadful means to destroy them. With a countenance that spoke with sufficient plainness the agony she felt, she wrung her hands, exclaiming in a voice of piercing anguish, “Oh, father! father! — Sigismond! — Brothers! — All perishing!”
Edward gazed at her working features. For one wild moment he fixed his eyes immovably upon her face, then rushed to the open doorway and sprung through it to the ground.
Lucy saw or rather felt what his purpose was the moment he moved, and threw herself forward to cross his path; but she was too late, and Phebe seeing her still moving onward, and thinking she would precipitate herself after him, seized the shutter, and with great presence of mind closed it; then placing her back against it, she said, “You shall kill me first, Miss Lucy.”
No voice was heard in that first moment of horror; all believed that he must have perished by the fall. It was Lucy who first found power to speak; but the voice was not her own, it sounded hollow and unnatural— “Look out! — Phebe! — look out! — look down upon the earth and tell me if he is there.”
Phebe no longer feared for any desperate act on the part of Lucy that might hazard her life; she feared only for her reason; and without uttering a word of caution or delay which might irritate her, she hastened to obey her, again threw open the shutter, and, sick and shuddering, gave a glance below.
“Thanks be to God, he has escaped, Miss Lucy! — It is not so high, my dearest mistress, as we thought it was; — sit down again and wait — for wait we must — he is but gone to find out news for us.”
The relief of knowing that Edward had not perished by his desperate leap was certainly great; they all felt it, and for a moment they were cheered by it; but the next, all the agony of terror came back upon them. — Where was he gone? — How would he conceal himself from
his desperate enemies? — Why was that fire burning so fiercely? — Who might have perished there?
Such were the questions which each asked the other, but there were none of answer. At last Phebe said, “Why should I be shut up here for? Slaves are never murdered in this way — for whoever kills a slave is obliged to pay money for it. — They won’t kill me, Miss Lucy, I do not fear them — I do not fear even for Cæsar; but I fear for you — I fear for you all, kind and good! — if you stay much longer here without knowing news of those you love, it will kill you or drive you mad. I must get out, mistress,” continued the determined girl, addressing Mary: “if you will help me with your hands, I can do it in safety.”
“And what do you propose to do, Phebe, when you are out?” said her mistress.
“I must do as the time bids me,” replied Phebe; “but I can go and come — I know I can — and I can bring you tidings before you die for the want of them.”
They all felt that she was right, and that if indeed she could descend with safety to the ground, there was little doubt but that she would be able with little risk to relieve them at her return from their intolerable uncertainty respecting the fate of their friends.
“Do you see this roll of domestic?” said Phebe, removing as she spoke the cord that bound fifty yards of stout cotton cloth into a tight roll. “If among you, my dear mistresses, you can but manage to hold or to fasten this piece of dry goods firm so that I might let myself down gently by one end of it, I should be as safe as you are.”
The ingenuity of the anxious women soon enabled them to arrange Phebe’s contrivance in a manner that seemed to render it very tolerably secure, and the intrepid and active girl contrived by their assistance to reach the ground without injury.
The linen was drawn up and the shutter closed after her, but ever and anon an anxious eye peeped out upon the wood. The trees, however, prevented much of the interval between the two farms from being visible; but they could at least ascertain from time to time that no one was approaching. The fire continued to throw up at intervals above the trees large columns of smoke and flame; but the flight of Edward, and the danger he must necessarily be exposed to, superseded at this moment every other terror.
We must leave them in this state of terrible uncertainty to follow Phebe in her search.
CHAPTER XV.
As soon as Phebe found herself safely on her feet, her first care was to get into the nearest and thickest part of the wood, that the direction in which she was going might not be traced. She then proceeded as swiftly as the bushes into which she had entered would permit, towards Reichland. The flaming pile might have directed her course, had the pathless thicket she had chosen, been more intricate still; and ere she had proceeded towards it for many minutes, the sound of distant but clamorous voices came upon her ear. For a moment she stood still, for she felt how terrible might be the scene to which she was drawing near. She thought that if Cæsar could see her thus rashly approaching a multitude of desperate men, he would blame her for it, and say she had not thought of him. But she did think of him, and the hope of learning how it fared with him was one among the many feelings which urged her to undertake this terrible embassy. The uproar appeared so violent as she reached the end of the copse surrounding the lawn, that ere she emerged from it, she held counsel with herself whether some better and safer scheme might not be devised for learning what was going on, and what had become of Cæsar, of the gentlemen, and above all, of Master Edward, than thus exposing herself to the brutal insolence of the multitude whose voices reached her from the other side of the house.
While she stood thus doubtfully, a new outcry — a fresh burst of popular feeling, a wild sound that seemed to partake of triumph and surprise, came shrilly and keenly to her ear.
“They have got him! — they have seized him! — they have seized Master Edward!” cried Phebe in an agony; and falling on her knees, she prayed aloud— “O God, have mercy on him! Kind and gentle — good and holy man! — O God, have mercy on him!”
More anxious than ever to know all, yet totally incapable of braving the sight which she felt certain would meet her if she did but turn the corner of the building before her, Phebe remained helpless and sobbing upon her knees, her head resting against a tree, and all the spirit and courage of her character prostrate and gone. Her senses did not fail her, but a sort of torpor came over them which seemed to blunt her feelings, and though her tears flowed fast, she at last hardly knew for what.
In this state Cæsar found her. She started in terror at the sound of a footstep; and when she raised her eyes to look at him, she had not at the first glance the slightest idea who it was.
It is only those who are familiar with the negro countenance who can understand how a negro can turn pale, and sneers have been often produced by the expression among such as know not what it means; but those who do, need not be told that the aspect of the negro under circumstances which produce this bloodless effect is ghastly in the extreme.
Such was the aspect of Cæsar as his countenance met the eye of Phebe, and he trembled so exceedingly as to be perfectly incapable of speaking.
“Cæsar!” she exclaimed as she recognised his beloved features— “oh, Cæsar! — is it over? Have they dipped their hands in his blood?” But Cæsar answered not, and his breast heaved so convulsively that the poor girl threw her arms round him, saying, “Oh, Cæsar, cry, as I do; — let the tears come, Cæsar, or it will kill you!”
Cæsar did weep, and it relieved the bodily anguish under which he was suffering; but there was that at his heart which not even the influence of Phebe could in that hour assuage or soften.
“Will you not, for my sake, speak at once?” said Phebe reproachfully. “Cæsar! have they murdered Edward Bligh?”
Large drops of agony broke out upon the forehead of Cæsar, — he groaned, and beat his breast distractedly. “Phebe!” he cried at length, “I wish it had been another: don’t be angry, my poor girl — but with my whole soul I wish it had been me!”
“Oh, my Miss Lucy!” sobbed Phebe, “who is it will tell her of it? — Not I, not I, — no, if I never see her more, I will not stand up before her and tell her they have killed him.”
“No one shall tell her of it — no one can tell her of it,” replied Cæsar; “let her believe or fancy what she will, but no one shall tell her that her dear gentle brother was murdered by the hands of ruffians.”
“Cæsar!” said Phebe, shaking from head to foot, “did you see him die?”
“No, I did not! — I turned away and ran, Phebe, to hide my head where I could neither see nor hear him.”
* * * *
The dreadful scene from which the faithful slave turned sickening away was one which the historian would gladly shrink from describing; but such things HAVE BEEN, nor could the narration of it be softened or omitted without destroying the fidelity of the “sketch.”
When the unhappy Edward, to escape the intense misery of witnessing Lotte’s agonies, sprang in a sort of frenzy from the loft, he reached the ground in safety, and with no fixed purpose but a sort of vague feeling that his mission was to seek for Steinmark, his sons, and the loved Sigismond, he ran swiftly towards the flames that he saw blazing before him through the trees.
A very few moments brought him before the smoking pile that once had been the happy home of the Steinmarks. The idea that the frightful ruin wrought there was his work, had taken such hold upon him that he became incapable of mixing any other with it, and he stood gazing at the dreadful spectacle perfectly unconscious that a gang of savage, lawless, hired assassins, who were there only to seek his life, stood within a hundred yards of him.
For a minute or two he remained there perfectly unnoticed: the object upon which his own eyes were fixed occupied the eyes of all, and he might have come and viewed the conflagration, and retired again with perfect safety, had such been his will. At last the eye of some individual in the crowd was caught by the figure of the solitary man who stood before the fl
aming trophy of their triumph as if turned to stone.
“That chap don’t seem to admire our work anyhow,” said he, touching the arm of his neighbour and pointing to Edward.
“And who is he as dares find fault with it? — I should like to be told that. ‘Twill be as well to ask him, I expect. Come along, will ye, and jest let’s ask him what’s his objection.”
The pair accordingly walked deliberately up to Edward and demanded his name.
“My name is Edward Bligh,” was the unhesitating reply.
“The devil it is!” roared both the men at once, and, by a common impulse, at the same instant stretched their murderous hands towards him and held him fast till the whole rout rushed in a body towards him, and with savage yells proclaimed their joy at having found him.
“A fig for the Dutchman and all his race!” roared one among them; “they may go and be d — d! — here’s the hero for us.”
“The rope! the rope,” holloed another; “toss the effigies into the flames, my lads — here’s the real stuff for hanging!”
It was at this dreadful moment that poor Cæsar, who, the better to enact the part of an indifferent spectator, had stood loungingly watching the flames and leaning against the shaft of the waggon, uttered the wild cry of a madman and rushed into the wood.
The scene that followed his retreat was soon brought to its horrible conclusion. Some of the wretches present dragged their victim with most unneedful violence towards a tree, on which a rope was instantly fixed, amidst shouts and cries of savage jubilee.
As they drew near the fatal spot, the gentle unresisting martyr raised his eyes to heaven, and uttered aloud with fervent faith and hope, “Father and Saviour! receive my soul!” But even as he spoke a wretch seized on his throat, and sought to stifle the prayer ere it was uttered.
Edward spoke no more, and resigned his spirit all pure and untainted by the stains of earth as if he had breathed it back to heaven the hour he received it.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 49
