Bab Bab 17 · The Freeman’s Defence

. The Freeman’s Defence

There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as the afternoon drew to

a close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly to and fro, collecting from her

household stores such needments as could be arranged in the smallest

compass, for the wanderers who were to go forth that night. The

afternoon shadows stretched eastward, and the round red sun stood

thoughtfully on the horizon, and his beams shone yellow and calm into

the little bed-room where George and his wife were sitting. He was

sitting with his child on his knee, and his wife’s hand in his. Both

looked thoughtful and serious and traces of tears were on their cheeks.

“Yes, Eliza,” said George, “I know all you say is true. You are a good

child,—a great deal better than I am; and I will try to do as you say.

I’ll try to act worthy of a free man. I’ll try to feel like a

Christian. God Almighty knows that I’ve meant to do well,—tried hard to

do well,—when everything has been against me; and now I’ll forget all

the past, and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and read my

Bible, and learn to be a good man.”

“And when we get to Canada,” said Eliza, “I can help you. I can do

dress-making very well; and I understand fine washing and ironing; and

between us we can find something to live on.”

“Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. O! Eliza, if

these people only knew what a blessing it is for a man to feel that his

wife and child belong to _him_! I’ve often wondered to see men that

could call their wives and children _their own_ fretting and worrying

about anything else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have

nothing but our bare hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for

any more. Yes, though I’ve worked hard every day, till I am twenty-five

years old, and have not a cent of money, nor a roof to cover me, nor a

spot of land to call my own, yet, if they will only let me alone now, I

will be satisfied,—thankful; I will work, and send back the money for

you and my boy. As to my old master, he has been paid five times over

for all he ever spent for me. I don’t owe him anything.”

“But yet we are not quite out of danger,” said Eliza; “we are not yet

in Canada.”

“True,” said George, “but it seems as if I smelt the free air, and it

makes me strong.”

At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment, in earnest

conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the door. Eliza started

and opened it.

Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whom he

introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall and lathy, red-haired,

with an expression of great acuteness and shrewdness in his face. He

had not the placid, quiet, unworldly air of Simeon Halliday; on the

contrary, a particularly wide-awake and _au fait_ appearance, like a

man who rather prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keeping

a bright lookout ahead; peculiarities which sorted rather oddly with

his broad brim and formal phraseology.

“Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of importance to the

interests of thee and thy party, George,” said Simeon; “it were well

for thee to hear it.”

“That I have,” said Phineas, “and it shows the use of a man’s always

sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as I’ve always said.

Last night I stopped at a little lone tavern, back on the road. Thee

remembers the place, Simeon, where we sold some apples, last year, to

that fat woman, with the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard

driving; and, after my supper I stretched myself down on a pile of bags

in the corner, and pulled a buffalo over me, to wait till my bed was

ready; and what does I do, but get fast asleep.”

“With one ear open, Phineas?” said Simeon, quietly.

“No; I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was pretty well

tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found that there were some

men in the room, sitting round a table, drinking and talking; and I

thought, before I made much muster, I’d just see what they were up to,

especially as I heard them say something about the Quakers. ‘So,’ says

one, ‘they are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt,’ says he. Then I

listened with both ears, and I found that they were talking about this

very party. So I lay and heard them lay off all their plans. This young

man, they said, was to be sent back to Kentucky, to his master, who was

going to make an example of him, to keep all niggers from running away;

and his wife two of them were going to run down to New Orleans to sell,

on their own account, and they calculated to get sixteen or eighteen

hundred dollars for her; and the child, they said, was going to a

trader, who had bought him; and then there was the boy, Jim, and his

mother, they were to go back to their masters in Kentucky. They said

that there were two constables, in a town a little piece ahead, who

would go in with ’em to get ’em taken up, and the young woman was to be

taken before a judge; and one of the fellows, who is small and

smooth-spoken, was to swear to her for his property, and get her

delivered over to him to take south. They’ve got a right notion of the

track we are going tonight; and they’ll be down after us, six or eight

strong. So now, what’s to be done?”

The group that stood in various attitudes, after this communication,

were worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who had taken her hands out

of a batch of biscuit, to hear the news, stood with them upraised and

floury, and with a face of the deepest concern. Simeon looked

profoundly thoughtful; Eliza had thrown her arms around her husband,

and was looking up to him. George stood with clenched hands and glowing

eyes, and looking as any other man might look, whose wife was to be

sold at auction, and son sent to a trader, all under the shelter of a

Christian nation’s laws.

“What _shall_ we do, George?” said Eliza faintly.

“I know what _I_ shall do,” said George, as he stepped into the little

room, and began examining pistols.

“Ay, ay,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; “thou seest,

Simeon, how it will work.”

“I see,” said Simeon, sighing; “I pray it come not to that.”

“I don’t want to involve any one with or for me,” said George. “If you

will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I will drive alone to the next

stand. Jim is a giant in strength, and brave as death and despair, and

so am I.”

“Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, “but thee’ll need a driver, for all

that. Thee’s quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee knows; but I

know a thing or two about the road, that thee doesn’t.”

“But I don’t want to involve you,” said George.

“Involve,” said Phineas, with a curious and keen expression of face,

“When thee does involve me, please to let me know.”

“Phineas is a wise and skilful man,” said Simeon. “Thee does well,

George, to abide by his judgment; and,” he added, laying his hand

kindly on George’s shoulder, and pointing to the pistols, “be not over

hasty with these,—young blood is hot.”

“I will attack no man,” said George. “All I ask of this country is to

be let alone, and I will go out peaceably; but,”—he paused, and his

brow darkened and his face worked,—“I’ve had a sister sold in that New

Orleans market. I know what they are sold for; and am I going to stand

by and see them take my wife and sell her, when God has given me a pair

of strong arms to defend her? No; God help me! I’ll fight to the last

breath, before they shall take my wife and son. Can you blame me?”

“Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood could not do

otherwise,” said Simeon. “Woe unto the world because of offences, but

woe unto them through whom the offence cometh.”

“Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?”

“I pray that I be not tried,” said Simeon; “the flesh is weak.”

“I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in such a case,”

said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the sails of a

windmill. “I an’t sure, friend George, that I shouldn’t hold a fellow

for thee, if thee had any accounts to settle with him.”

“If man should _ever_ resist evil,” said Simeon, “then George should

feel free to do it now: but the leaders of our people taught a more

excellent way; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of

God; but it goes sorely against the corrupt will of man, and none can

receive it save they to whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we

be not tempted.”

“And so _I_ do,” said Phineas; “but if we are tempted too much—why, let

them look out, that’s all.”

“It’s quite plain thee wasn’t born a Friend,” said Simeon, smiling.

“The old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong as yet.”

To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted backwoodsman,

a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck; but, having wooed a

pretty Quakeress, had been moved by the power of her charms to join the

society in his neighborhood; and though he was an honest, sober, and

efficient member, and nothing particular could be alleged against him,

yet the more spiritual among them could not but discern an exceeding

lack of savor in his developments.

“Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said Rachel Halliday,

smiling; “but we all think that his heart is in the right place, after

all.”

“Well,” said George, “isn’t it best that we hasten our flight?”

“I got up at four o’clock, and came on with all speed, full two or

three hours ahead of them, if they start at the time they planned. It

isn’t safe to start till dark, at any rate; for there are some evil

persons in the villages ahead, that might be disposed to meddle with

us, if they saw our wagon, and that would delay us more than the

waiting; but in two hours I think we may venture. I will go over to

Michael Cross, and engage him to come behind on his swift nag, and keep

a bright lookout on the road, and warn us if any company of men come

on. Michael keeps a horse that can soon get ahead of most other horses;

and he could shoot ahead and let us know, if there were any danger. I

am going out now to warn Jim and the old woman to be in readiness, and

to see about the horse. We have a pretty fair start, and stand a good

chance to get to the stand before they can come up with us. So, have

good courage, friend George; this isn’t the first ugly scrape that I’ve

been in with thy people,” said Phineas, as he closed the door.

“Phineas is pretty shrewd,” said Simeon. “He will do the best that can

be done for thee, George.”

“All I am sorry for,” said George, “is the risk to you.”

“Thee’ll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more about that. What

we do we are conscience bound to do; we can do no other way. And now,

mother,” said he, turning to Rachel, “hurry thy preparations for these

friends, for we must not send them away fasting.”

And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake, and

cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the _et ceteras_ of the

evening meal, George and his wife sat in their little room, with their

arms folded about each other, in such talk as husband and wife have

when they know that a few hours may part them forever.

“Eliza,” said George, “people that have friends, and houses, and lands,

and money, and all those things _can’t_ love as we do, who have nothing

but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature had loved me, but

my poor, heart-broken mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that morning

the trader carried her off. She came to the corner where I was lying

asleep, and said, ‘Poor George, your last friend is going. What will

become of you, poor boy?’ And I got up and threw my arms round her, and

cried and sobbed, and she cried too; and those were the last kind words

I got for ten long years; and my heart all withered up, and felt as dry

as ashes, till I met you. And your loving me,—why, it was almost like

raising one from the dead! I’ve been a new man ever since! And now,

Eliza, I’ll give my last drop of blood, but they _shall not_ take you

from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my dead body.”

“O, Lord, have mercy!” said Eliza, sobbing. “If he will only let us get

out of this country together, that is all we ask.”

“Is God on their side?” said George, speaking less to his wife than

pouring out his own bitter thoughts. “Does he see all they do? Why does

he let such things happen? And they tell us that the Bible is on their

side; certainly all the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and

happy; they are members of churches, expecting to go to heaven; and

they get along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way; and

poor, honest, faithful Christians,—Christians as good or better than

they,—are lying in the very dust under their feet. They buy ’em and

sell ’em, and make trade of their heart’s blood, and groans and

tears,—and God _lets_ them.”

“Friend George,” said Simeon, from the kitchen, “listen to this Psalm;

it may do thee good.”

George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her tears, came

forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:

“But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well-nigh

slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of

the wicked. They are not in trouble like other men, neither are they

plagued like other men. Therefore, pride compasseth them as a chain;

violence covereth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness;

they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt, and speak

wickedly concerning oppression; they speak loftily. Therefore his

people return, and the waters of a full cup are wrung out to them, and

they say, How doth God know? and is there knowledge in the Most High?”

“Is not that the way thee feels, George?”

“It is so indeed,” said George,—“as well as I could have written it

myself.”

“Then, hear,” said Simeon: “When I thought to know this, it was too

painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of God. Then understood

I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou

castedst them down to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so, oh

Lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless I

am continually with thee; thou hast holden me by my right hand. Thou

shalt guide me by thy counsel, and afterwards receive me to glory. It

is good for me to draw near unto God. I have put my trust in the Lord

God.”[1]

[1] Ps. 73, “The End of the Wicked contrasted with that of the

Righteous.”

The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, stole like

sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of George; and after

he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued expression on his fine

features.

“If this world were all, George,” said Simeon, “thee might, indeed, ask

where is the Lord? But it is often those who have least of all in this

life whom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him and, no

matter what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter.”

If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent exhorter,

from whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and rhetorical

flourish, proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps they might

not have had much effect; but coming from one who daily and calmly

risked fine and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, they had a

weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor, desolate

fugitives found calmness and strength breathing into them from it.

And now Rachel took Eliza’s hand kindly, and led the way to the

supper-table. As they were sitting down, a light tap sounded at the

door, and Ruth entered.

“I just ran in,” she said, “with these little stockings for the

boy,—three pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so cold, thee

knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza?” she added,

tripping round to Eliza’s side of the table, and shaking her warmly by

the hand, and slipping a seed-cake into Harry’s hand. “I brought a

little parcel of these for him,” she said, tugging at her pocket to get

out the package. “Children, thee knows, will always be eating.”

“O, thank you; you are too kind,” said Eliza.

“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,” said Rachel.

“I couldn’t, any way. I left John with the baby, and some biscuits in

the oven; and I can’t stay a moment, else John will burn up all the

biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar in the bowl. That’s the way

he does,” said the little Quakeress, laughing. “So, good-by, Eliza;

good-by, George; the Lord grant thee a safe journey;” and, with a few

tripping steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.

A little while after supper, a large covered-wagon drew up before the

door; the night was clear starlight; and Phineas jumped briskly down

from his seat to arrange his passengers. George walked out of the door,

with his child on one arm and his wife on the other. His step was firm,

his face settled and resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them.

“You get out, a moment,” said Phineas to those inside, “and let me fix

the back of the wagon, there, for the women-folks and the boy.”

“Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. “Make the seats as

comfortable as may be; it’s hard riding all night.”

Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who

clung to his arm, and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the

pursuer every moment.

“Jim, are your pistols all in order?” said George, in a low, firm

voice.

“Yes, indeed,” said Jim.

“And you’ve no doubt what you shall do, if they come?”

“I rather think I haven’t,” said Jim, throwing open his broad chest,

and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I’ll let them get mother

again?”

During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leave of her kind

friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by Simeon, and,

creeping into the back part with her boy, sat down among the

buffalo-skins. The old woman was next handed in and seated and George

and Jim placed on a rough board seat front of them, and Phineas mounted

in front.

“Farewell, my friends,” said Simeon, from without.

“God bless you!” answered all from within.

And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road.

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the roughness

of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle, therefore, rumbled

on, through long, dark stretches of woodland,—over wide dreary

plains,—up hills, and down valleys,—and on, on, on they jogged, hour

after hour. The child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother’s

lap. The poor, frightened old woman at last forgot her fears; and, even

Eliza, as the night waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep

her eyes from closing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of

the company, and beguiled his long drive with whistling certain very

unquaker-like songs, as he went on.

But about three o’clock George’s ear caught the hasty and decided click

of a horse’s hoof coming behind them at some distance and jogged

Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses, and listened.

“That must be Michael,” he said; “I think I know the sound of his

gallop;” and he rose up and stretched his head anxiously back over the

road.

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a

distant hill.

“There he is, I do believe!” said Phineas. George and Jim both sprang

out of the wagon before they knew what they were doing. All stood

intensely silent, with their faces turned towards the expected

messenger. On he came. Now he went down into a valley, where they could

not see him; but they heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and

nearer; at last they saw him emerge on the top of an eminence, within

hail.

“Yes, that’s Michael!” said Phineas; and, raising his voice, “Halloa,

there, Michael!”

“Phineas! is that thee?”

“Yes; what news—they coming?”

“Right on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, swearing and

foaming like so many wolves.”

And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of galloping

horsemen towards them.

“In with you,—quick, boys, _in!_” said Phineas. “If you must fight,

wait till I get you a piece ahead.” And, with the word, both jumped in,

and Phineas lashed the horses to a run, the horseman keeping close

beside them. The wagon rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the frozen

ground; but plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of pursuing

horsemen behind. The women heard it, and, looking anxiously out, saw,

far in the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party of men looming

up against the red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their

pursuers had evidently caught sight of their wagon, whose white

cloth-covered top made it conspicuous at some distance, and a loud yell

of brutal triumph came forward on the wind. Eliza sickened, and

strained her child closer to her bosom; the old woman prayed and

groaned, and George and Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of

despair. The pursuers gained on them fast; the carriage made a sudden

turn, and brought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that

rose in an isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all

around it, quite clear and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of

rocks, rose up black and heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed

to promise shelter and concealment. It was a place well known to

Phineas, who had been familiar with the spot in his hunting days; and

it was to gain this point he had been racing his horses.

“Now for it!” said he, suddenly checking his horses, and springing from

his seat to the ground. “Out with you, in a twinkling, every one, and

up into these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon,

and drive ahead to Amariah’s and get him and his boys to come back and

talk to these fellows.”

In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.

“There,” said Phineas, catching up Harry, “you, each of you, see to the

women; and run, _now_ if you ever _did_ run!”

They needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, the whole party

were over the fence, making with all speed for the rocks, while

Michael, throwing himself from his horse, and fastening the bridle to

the wagon, began driving it rapidly away.

“Come ahead,” said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, and saw in the

mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly marked

foot-path leading up among them; “this is one of our old hunting-dens.

Come up!”

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the boy

in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his trembling old mother over his

shoulder, and George and Eliza brought up the rear. The party of

horsemen came up to the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were

dismounting, to prepare to follow them. A few moments’ scrambling

brought them to the top of the ledge; the path then passed between a

narrow defile, where only one could walk at a time, till suddenly they

came to a rift or chasm more than a yard in breadth, and beyond which

lay a pile of rocks, separate from the rest of the ledge, standing full

thirty feet high, with its sides steep and perpendicular as those of a

castle. Phineas easily leaped the chasm, and sat down the boy on a

smooth, flat platform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the

rock.

“Over with you!” he called; “spring, now, once, for your lives!” said

he, as one after another sprang across. Several fragments of loose

stone formed a kind of breast-work, which sheltered their position from

the observation of those below.

“Well, here we all are,” said Phineas, peeping over the stone

breast-work to watch the assailants, who were coming tumultuously up

under the rocks. “Let ’em get us, if they can. Whoever comes here has

to walk single file between those two rocks, in fair range of your

pistols, boys, d’ye see?”

“I do see,” said George! “and now, as this matter is ours, let us take

all the risk, and do all the fighting.”

“Thee’s quite welcome to do the fighting, George,” said Phineas,

chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke; “but I may have the fun

of looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows are kinder debating

down there, and looking up, like hens when they are going to fly up on

to the roost. Hadn’t thee better give ’em a word of advice, before they

come up, just to tell ’em handsomely they’ll be shot if they do?”

The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the dawn,

consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and Marks, with two

constables, and a posse consisting of such rowdies at the last tavern

as could be engaged by a little brandy to go and help the fun of

trapping a set of niggers.

“Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed,” said one.

“Yes, I see ’em go up right here,” said Tom; “and here’s a path. I’m

for going right up. They can’t jump down in a hurry, and it won’t take

long to ferret ’em out.”

“But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks,” said Marks.

“That would be ugly, you know.”

“Ugh!” said Tom, with a sneer. “Always for saving your skin, Marks! No

danger! niggers are too plaguy scared!”

“I don’t know why I _shouldn’t_ save my skin,” said Marks. “It’s the

best I’ve got; and niggers _do_ fight like the devil, sometimes.”

At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock above them, and,

speaking in a calm, clear voice, said,

“Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you want?”

“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker. “One George

Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim Selden, and an old

woman. We’ve got the officers, here, and a warrant to take ’em; and

we’re going to have ’em, too. D’ye hear? An’t you George Harris, that

belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?”

“I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did call me his

property. But now I’m a free man, standing on God’s free soil; and my

wife and my child I claim as mine. Jim and his mother are here. We have

arms to defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can come up, if you

like; but the first one of you that comes within the range of our

bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next; and so on till the

last.”

“O, come! come!” said a short, puffy man, stepping forward, and blowing

his nose as he did so. “Young man, this an’t no kind of talk at all for

you. You see, we’re officers of justice. We’ve got the law on our side,

and the power, and so forth; so you’d better give up peaceably, you

see; for you’ll certainly have to give up, at last.”

“I know very well that you’ve got the law on your side, and the power,”

said George, bitterly. “You mean to take my wife to sell in New

Orleans, and put my boy like a calf in a trader’s pen, and send Jim’s

old mother to the brute that whipped and abused her before, because he

couldn’t abuse her son. You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped

and tortured, and ground down under the heels of them that you call

masters; and your laws _will_ bear you out in it,—more shame for you

and them! But you haven’t got us. We don’t own your laws; we don’t own

your country; we stand here as free, under God’s sky, as you are; and,

by the great God that made us, we’ll fight for our liberty till we

die.”

George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as he made his

declaration of independence; the glow of dawn gave a flush to his

swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation and despair gave fire to his dark

eye; and, as if appealing from man to the justice of God, he raised his

hand to heaven as he spoke.

If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely defending in some

mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping from Austria into

America, this would have been sublime heroism; but as it was a youth of

African descent, defending the retreat of fugitives through America

into Canada, of course we are too well instructed and patriotic to see

any heroism in it; and if any of our readers do, they must do it on

their own private responsibility. When despairing Hungarian fugitives

make their way, against all the search-warrants and authorities of

their lawful government, to America, press and political cabinet ring

with applause and welcome. When despairing African fugitives do the

same thing,—it is—what _is_ it?

Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice, manner,

of the speaker for a moment struck the party below to silence. There is

something in boldness and determination that for a time hushes even the

rudest nature. Marks was the only one who remained wholly untouched. He

was deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence that

followed George’s speech, he fired at him.

[Illustration: THE FREEMAN’S DEFENCE.]

“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky,” he said

coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve.

George sprang backward,—Eliza uttered a shriek,—the ball had passed

close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of his wife, and struck

in the tree above.

“It’s nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly.

“Thee’d better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying,” said Phineas;

“they’re mean scamps.”

“Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are all right, and

watch that pass with me. The first man that shows himself I fire at;

you take the second, and so on. It won’t do, you know, to waste two

shots on one.”

“But what if you don’t hit?”

“I _shall_ hit,” said George, coolly.

“Good! now, there’s stuff in that fellow,” muttered Phineas, between

his teeth.

The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment, rather

undecided.

“I think you must have hit some on ’em,” said one of the men. “I heard

a squeal!”

“I’m going right up for one,” said Tom. “I never was afraid of niggers,

and I an’t going to be now. Who goes after?” he said, springing up the

rocks.

George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol, examined it,

pointed it towards that point in the defile where the first man would

appear.

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and, the way

being thus made, the whole party began pushing up the rock,—the

hindermost pushing the front ones faster than they would have gone of

themselves. On they came, and in a moment the burly form of Tom

appeared in sight, almost at the verge of the chasm.

George fired,—the shot entered his side,—but, though wounded, he would

not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a mad bull, he was leaping

right across the chasm into the party.

“Friend,” said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting him

with a push from his long arms, “thee isn’t wanted here.”

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, bushes, logs,

loose stones, till he lay bruised and groaning thirty feet below. The

fall might have killed him, had it not been broken and moderated by his

clothes catching in the branches of a large tree; but he came down with

some force, however,—more than was at all agreeable or convenient.

“Lord help us, they are perfect devils!” said Marks, heading the

retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than he had joined the

ascent, while all the party came tumbling precipitately after him,—the

fat constable, in particular, blowing and puffing in a very energetic

manner.

“I say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick up Tom,

there, while I run and get on to my horse to go back for help,—that’s

you;” and, without minding the hootings and jeers of his company, Marks

was as good as his word, and was soon seen galloping away.

“Was ever such a sneaking varmint?” said one of the men; “to come on

his business, and he clear out and leave us this yer way!”

“Well, we must pick up that feller,” said another. “Cuss me if I much

care whether he is dead or alive.”

The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled through

stumps, logs and bushes, to where that hero lay groaning and swearing

with alternate vehemence.

“Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. “Ye much hurt?”

“Don’t know. Get me up, can’t ye? Blast that infernal Quaker! If it

hadn’t been for him, I’d a pitched some on ’em down here, to see how

they liked it.”

With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted to rise;

and, with one holding him up under each shoulder, they got him as far

as the horses.

“If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me a

handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, and stop this

infernal bleeding.”

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly

form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three ineffectual attempts,

he reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.

“O, I hope he isn’t killed!” said Eliza, who, with all the party, stood

watching the proceeding.

“Why not?” said Phineas; “serves him right.”

“Because after death comes the judgment,” said Eliza.

“Yes,” said the old woman, who had been groaning and praying, in her

Methodist fashion, during all the encounter, “it’s an awful case for

the poor crittur’s soul.”

“On my word, they’re leaving him, I do believe,” said Phineas.

It was true; for after some appearance of irresolution and

consultation, the whole party got on their horses and rode away. When

they were quite out of sight, Phineas began to bestir himself.

“Well, we must go down and walk a piece,” he said. “I told Michael to

go forward and bring help, and be along back here with the wagon; but

we shall have to walk a piece along the road, I reckon, to meet them.

The Lord grant he be along soon! It’s early in the day; there won’t be

much travel afoot yet a while; we an’t much more than two miles from

our stopping-place. If the road hadn’t been so rough last night, we

could have outrun ’em entirely.”

As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the distance, along

the road, their own wagon coming back, accompanied by some men on

horseback.

“Well, now, there’s Michael, and Stephen and Amariah,” exclaimed

Phineas, joyfully. “Now we _are_ made—as safe as if we’d got there.”

“Well, do stop, then,” said Eliza, “and do something for that poor man;

he’s groaning dreadfully.”

“It would be no more than Christian,” said George; “let’s take him up

and carry him on.”

“And doctor him up among the Quakers!” said Phineas; “pretty well,

that! Well, I don’t care if we do. Here, let’s have a look at him;” and

Phineas, who in the course of his hunting and backwoods life had

acquired some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded

man, and began a careful examination of his condition.

“Marks,” said Tom, feebly, “is that you, Marks?”

“No; I reckon ’tan’t friend,” said Phineas. “Much Marks cares for thee,

if his own skin’s safe. He’s off, long ago.”

“I believe I’m done for,” said Tom. “The cussed sneaking dog, to leave

me to die alone! My poor old mother always told me ’t would be so.”

“La sakes! jist hear the poor crittur. He’s got a mammy, now,” said the

old negress. “I can’t help kinder pityin’ on him.”

“Softly, softly; don’t thee snap and snarl, friend,” said Phineas, as

Tom winced and pushed his hand away. “Thee has no chance, unless I stop

the bleeding.” And Phineas busied himself with making some off-hand

surgical arrangements with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as

could be mustered in the company.

“You pushed me down there,” said Tom, faintly.

“Well if I hadn’t thee would have pushed us down, thee sees,” said

Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. “There, there,—let me fix

this bandage. We mean well to thee; we bear no malice. Thee shall be

taken to a house where they’ll nurse thee first rate, well as thy own

mother could.”

Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigor and

resolution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the

flowing of the blood; and the gigantic fellow really looked piteous in

his helplessness.

The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of the wagon. The

buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread all along one side, and

four men, with great difficulty, lifted the heavy form of Tom into it.

Before he was gotten in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, in the

abundance of her compassion, sat down on the bottom, and took his head

in her lap. Eliza, George and Jim, bestowed themselves, as well as they

could, in the remaining space and the whole party set forward.

“What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by Phineas in front.

“Well it’s only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then, tumbling and

scratching down that place didn’t help him much. It has bled pretty

freely,—pretty much drained him out, courage and all,—but he’ll get

over it, and may be learn a thing or two by it.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said George. “It would always be a heavy

thought to me, if I’d caused his death, even in a just cause.”

“Yes,” said Phineas, “killing is an ugly operation, any way they’ll fix

it,—man or beast. I’ve seen a buck that was shot down and a dying, look

that way on a feller with his eye, that it reely most made a feller

feel wicked for killing on him; and human creatures is a more serious

consideration yet, bein’, as thy wife says, that the judgment comes to

’em after death. So I don’t know as our people’s notions on these

matters is too strict; and, considerin’ how I was raised, I fell in

with them pretty considerably.”

“What shall you do with this poor fellow?” said George.

“O, carry him along to Amariah’s. There’s old Grandmam Stephens

there,—Dorcas, they call her,—she’s most an amazin’ nurse. She takes to

nursing real natural, and an’t never better suited than when she gets a

sick body to tend. We may reckon on turning him over to her for a

fortnight or so.”

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farmhouse,

where the weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom

Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed

than he had ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was

carefully dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and

shutting his eyes on the white window-curtains and gently-gliding

figures of his sick room, like a weary child. And here, for the

present, we shall take our leave of one party.