How Big Black Burl Figured in the Fight.
Will the boy never move? To the black hunter, there lying in ambush, the suspense was becoming all but insupportable. With an interest far more intense than that of the boy did he watch the nimble fingers of the young Indian, as the whittling task went on—the heavy-footed seconds creeping draggingly by, and made, by the suspense, to seem as long as minutes. At last the hatchet was handled and delivered to the impatient Bushie, who, the moment he received it, sprung forward to try its edge on the bark of a large walnut that grew a few paces in front of them. That same instant, while yet the pitying, good-humored smile, with which he watched the movements of the little captive, was still bright on the young brave's handsome face, the ambushed rifle rang out on the quiet scene, and with loud yells the two Indians fell over backward behind the log, and after a few convulsive struggles, there lay as dead.
"I yi, you dogs!" And with this his battle-cry shaking the lonely wilds, and finding echo in a deep-mouthed howl from the brindled dog in the dingle below, the Fighting Nigger burst from his ambush, all the lion of his nature now roused and rampant within him. Throwing himself with a prodigious bound into the arena, on with huge strides he came, his ponderous battle-ax in broad, bright circles gleaming high over his head. "I yi, you dogs!"
With a terrible cry, half as a yell of astonishment, half as a whoop of defiance, Black Thunder—the red giant being, in fact, none other than that redoubtable Wyandot brave—leaped to his feet, and wrenching his tomahawk from the tree beside him, hurled it, with a horrible hiss, full at the shaggy front of this most unexpected, formidable foe. But, quick of eye and strong of hand, the Fighting Nigger caught the murderous missile on the head of his ax, and sent it ringing, like an anvil, high up in the air. On he came amain, and with another lion-like bound had planted himself square in front of his antagonist just as a second tomahawk was on the tip of leaping at him, which he sent ringing after the other, before it had quitted the red giant's grasp. Foiled again, and seeing the ax uplifted, himself this time the mark for the impending blow, Black Thunder, pushed to desperation, darted sheer under the descending arm, thus bringing his shoulder under the handle of the weapon, instead of his head under its cleaving edge, and causing the force of the blow to be spent harmless on the ground behind him.
Then did those doughty giants close and grapple together in the wrestle for life and death. The red giant had the advantage in height, if not in weight; the black giant in strength of muscle, if not in suppleness of limbs. Again, though not so good a wrestler, the red was better breathed, while the black, though fighting in a better cause, had not yet eaten his breakfast. So, when we come to weigh them fairly, it will be found that the advantages which each had over the other made the chances of war about nip and tuck between the black and the red.
Pushing and pulling, writhing and tugging and twisting, round and round with whirl and fling they went—now over the logs, now into the bushes, then driving right through the fire, and scattering the smoldering embers broadcast over the ground, and everywhere plowing up great furrows with their heels in the mellow soil. To the negro, with his prodigious strength of arm, it was an easy matter to toss up the Indian from the ground; but when he would essay to fetch the final fling, the nimble savage, let his legs be ever so high in the air and wide apart, was always sure to bring the very foot down to the very place to stay his fall, though as quickly to jerk it up again, to shun the leveling sweep of those enormous black feet, so persistently making at his ankles. The combat had waged for many seconds without any decided advantage gained on either side, when, chancing to glance over Black Thunder's shoulder, Burl spied a new danger threatening him from quite an unexpected quarter.
Though shot through the body and mortally wounded, the grim savage had so far recovered his strength as to be able to drag himself to the nearest rifle, and now, with the weapon laid on the log to steady his aim, was covering the combatants therewith, awaiting the moment when, without danger to his comrade, he could let fly, and thus beforehand revenge his own death. Black Thunder perceiving this as soon, it became at once the aim of each to keep the other exposed to the leveled weapon—the negro to hold the Indian between it and himself as a shield, the Indian to hold the negro sideways to it long enough to let his wounded comrade steady his aim and fire. Time and again did each whirl his antagonist round, point-blank to the threatened danger; yet as often did the other regain the lost advantage. Burning to revenge himself before his feeble spark of life went out, the dying savage, with his fiery eyes glaring along the barrel, continued to shift his rifle from side to side as the struggle shifted from place to place. The red giant was on the point of covering the black giant between a tree and a log, there for the telling instant to hold him fast, when a fierce growl was heard in the thicket behind him. The next moment, swift to his master's call, far swifter than would seem from the length of time it has taken to describe the combat up to this point, the brindled dog leaped like a little lion into the arena. No stopping to smell noses, or count them, either, but with Bonaparte-like contempt of the cut-and-dried in warfare, right at the throat of the wounded savage, with one long bound, he sprung; and straightway there was a dying yell and the bang of a gun, the bullet sent whistling away through the tree-tops. The dog had turned the scale of battle.
This danger happily averted, Burl, finding it impossible to come near enough to his antagonist "to lock legs or kick ankles," bethought him of a stratagem by which, without much additional risk to himself, he might end this long wrestle and gain a decided advantage. He would suffer himself to be thrown. Once flat of his back on the ground—the ground, where never by man of martial might had he yet been matched—he would find it an easy matter, he doubted not, to bring the long, supple savage underneath; and secure of this advantage, he should then have nothing to do but to wind up his morning's work in the way that should please his fancy best.
Accordingly, to play off his cunning device, he provoked his antagonist to a push of unusual vigor; when, still within each other's arms, down came the giant warriors, with an appalling squelch, to the ground—the red above, the black below. But in a twinkling there was a Titanic flounce, when behold, the black was above, the red below. Planting his knee with crushing weight on the breast of his prostrate foe, the Fighting Nigger felt for his knife with which to deal the final blow, but found that in the struggle it had slipped from its sheath; and when he would have seized and used the Indian's, that too was gone, lost in like manner. Glancing round for some murderous stone or club, he spied his ax, where it lay on the ground not three feet off to his right, and tickling himself with the thought, with the lucky chance thus offered of giving his work the finishing touch in tip-top style, he eagerly reached out to gather it up; but before he could do so and regain his perpendicular, the wary savage, snatching at his opportunity, gave in his turn a Titanic flounce, which sent the already uplifted weapon with a side-long fling into the air, and brought his foe the second time to the earth. In a trice, however, the wheel of fortune had made another turn, not only bringing the black again to the top, but both black and red clean over the brink of the hill, whence, as elsewhere noticed, its grassy slope sunk steeply but smoothly down to the edge of the river, there ending in an overleaning bank twenty feet high.
Perceiving that he had lost his vantage-ground, upon the holding of which depended the successful result of his stratagem, and that the steep hill-side to which he had unwittingly shifted the struggle, gave the long and nimble savage a decided advantage over him, Burl determined to shift again. Desperate though it might seem, he would, by rolling with him thither, bear his antagonist bodily down to the foot of the hill, where on level ground once more, as he trusted, he should still be able to make his stratagem go. To this intent putting forth all his huge strength, he grappled yet closer with the Indian, locking his legs around him as well as his arms. Then with a heave on his part, like the roll of a buffalo-bull, unwittingly seconded by a big flounce on the part of the savage, down the precipitous slope did these redoubtable giants, leaving their wake to be traced by the weeds laid flat to the hill, and hugging yet tighter and tighter, go rolling and whirling and tumbling, over and over, each uppermost, undermost, all in a wink—till over the river bank whirlingly pitching, they dropped, with a splash too terrific to tell or conceive, into water full twenty feet deep. And a smooth, round, ponderous stone, which the force of their downward career had pushed from its seat on the hill, came rolling and leaping behind them with frightfully growing momentum, and tumbled in after them—plump! Verily, the wheel of fortune had never before made so many turns in so short a time! Its axle fairly smoked as it rolled into the water.
Tightly locked together in the mortal hug, as were the two warriors when they vanished beneath the shivered mirror of the stream, the next moment when the plumed crest of the red giant and the shaggy top of the black giant heaved above the surface, it was found that they had put full thirty feet of the river between them. Dashing the water from his eyes, and seeing that the chances of war were still about nip and tuck between them, the Fighting Nigger, with ardor all undampened by his ducking, began, with long oar-like sweeps of his arms, manfully pulling again for the foe; but too prudent to trust himself again within the ireful grasp of the bushy-headed brave, and thinking, doubtless, that his vantage-ground lay elsewhere than in water twenty feet deep, Black Thunder began as manfully pulling for land. The negro had proved the stronger wrestler; but the Indian, proving the swifter swimmer, was the first to land, and to prevent his antagonist from landing, began beating him back with stones. One of the missiles, better aimed than the rest, brought the black hunter a sounding thump on his bear-skin war-cap, where it still stuck fast and firm to his head, never to quit that place but with the scalp it covered, or with victory. The blow, however, hurt him no more than had his woolen knob been a messy pine-knot; though it did send him with a quick dive to the bottom of the river, that he might come up again at a more respectful distance.
Now, the Fighting Nigger, as we have seen, had calculated on finding, not water, but good level ground at the bottom of the hill, where, in his superior skill as a wrestler, he might regain the advantage he had lost by shifting the struggle to the steep hill-side; but he was too quick and expedient, and of too sturdy a spirit to be completely staggered by any blow of outrageous fortune, even though it should be backhanded and ever so unexpected. So finding that the tide of battle was setting strong and stiff against him in the straits to which he had brought himself, he held a short council of war with Burlman Reynolds, his right-hand man, and promptly determined upon a new course of action. In the first place, they must quit them of an element which offered so few facilities for the dodging and avoiding of well-aimed missiles. This accomplished, they must then bespeed them to the top of the hill again, where two loaded rifles yet remained, in whose leaden bullets lay, as they trusted, the golden chance of victory.
Just below the point where the two giants had made their involuntary dive, the river-bank was crowned with a small cane-brake, whose roots, striking through its overleaning edge, formed a ragged, yellow, rope-like fringe, that hung down almost to the surface of the water. In these roots, Burl saw a means of extricating himself from his present predicament, and of escaping from the very enemy this self-same brake had aided him in coming at the hour before. Accordingly, making a deep dive, that under cover of the water he might unanticipated take the first step in his new course of action, he came up a few moments after directly under the brake, with an upward shoot that brought him within reach of the rooty fringe. Grasping a bunch, he began drawing himself up, hand over hand, at the same time widely gathering in the ropy mass with his knees, not only to expedite his climbing and reënforce his arms, but to lessen the strain on the smaller bunch, which could be grasped but by his hands. He had made but half the ascent, when becoming aware that the enemy had silenced his battery of stones, he glanced over his shoulder, still climbing, to discover the cause, and found to his dismay that his design had been frustrated. Black Thunder was seen running with prodigious swiftness along the opposite shore, to cross the river at the shallows about one hundred and fifty yards below, where the bank, losing its jutting feature, allowed of an easier passage, though less direct than that his black antagonist had chosen. The ascent was effected quickly enough, considering how desperate and novel the means. But by the time the negro had drawn himself over the bank and forced his way through the break, the Indian had come dashing over at the shallows, and now was seen running across the narrow strip of bottom land which down there the river, in making a bend, had left between itself and the foot of the hill.
Now followed an uphill race more desperate, if that were possible, than the downhill roll. The black giant was nearer the goal, but the red giant had longer and nimbler legs, which made it again about nip and tuck between the black and the red. Leaving their tracks to be traced by great handfuls of iron-weeds, caught at and uprooted in the scramble, up they struggled, with might and main, and with feet that could not quicken their speed, however fear might urge or hope incite. Panting and all but spent, the two giants gained the top of the hill at the same instant—Burl nearest his ax, where it lay on the ground, Black Thunder nearest his gun, where it leaned against the log. Five long strides more and the Indian had laid his hand on the loaded weapon, when having snatched up his ax, the negro hurled it with engine-like force at the savage, the ponderous head striking him full on the hip and sending him sprawling to the ground. Burl was making all speed to recover his weapon, this time, with its cleaving edge, to deal the death-blow without fail, when, before he could do so, Black Thunder, though powerless to walk or stand, whirled himself from under his victor's uplifted hand, and with a few gigantic flounces had regained the brink of the steep. Burl sent his battle-ax after him with a right good will, though not with right good aim, the missile merely inflicting a flesh wound in the enemy's arm. The next moment, with a loud whoop of defiance and scorn, Black Thunder had flung him away sheer over the brink of the steep. Hastily snatching up one of the Indian's rifles, Burl ran to the brow of the hill, and taking deliberate aim at the rolling body far down there, fired. Up came ringing a cry—a death-yell, so it would seem, so fierce it was, and wild and drear. The moment thereafter, now rolling with frightful rapidity, over the river bank vanished the Wyandot giant.
How Little Bushie Figured in the Fight.
But Bushie—where was poor little Bushie all this time? The moment the fight had begun the boy, to keep clear of the conflicting giants, had run with the speed of a frightened fawn to the shelter of the neighboring thicket. Here, crouched down and peering out through the openings of his covert, he had watched with fearful interest how manfully and against such desperate odds his brave, his faithful Burl had battled for his deliverance—his little heart sinking within him whenever the combat seemed to be going against his champion. And when the two giants, still locked together in the death hug, had rolled to the foot of the hill, and he had seen his darling Burl's bare, yellow soles, with a wide-wheeling fling, go vanishing over the river-bank, then had the poor little fellow given up all as lost and cried as if his heart would break. But when, some minutes after, he had spied the bear-skin cap he knew so well heaving above the purple iron-weeds far down there, then had he plucked up heart again. Now that the fight seemed ended, with victory won and deliverance wrought, he was on the point of running out, in the joy and thankfulness of the moment, to seize his precious old chum by the hand, when a new danger, from an altogether unexpected quarter, suddenly presented itself and checked him in the act.
The Fighting Nigger was still standing on the brow of the hill, and with his empty gun still sighting the river-bank where Black Thunder had vanished, when all in the self-same instant he heard a cry from his little master, a growl from Grumbo, and the venomous hiss of a tomahawk which grazingly passed his nose and sunk with a vengeful quiver in the trunk of a tree beside him. Wheeling about, he saw the young Indian confronting him, and with his scalping-knife brandished aloft, in the act of making a panther-like spring upon him. The bullet which had passed through the body of the grim savage had pierced the young brave's left arm and spent its remaining force on his ammunition-pouch, the inner side of which, being made of thick, tough buffalo-hide, had stayed its further progress—though the shock had been so severe as to lay him senseless many minutes. Consciousness and the power of motion returning to him at the close of the fight, he had leaped to his feet, and by reason of the wound in his left arm disabled from wielding a rifle, had snatched up the nearest tomahawk to hurl that at the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, where he was still standing on the brow of the hill, peering through his rifle smoke at the river-bank below.
Up to this moment Grumbo had kept his powerful jaws clenched unrelentingly on the throat of the dead savage; but seeing the new danger threatening his master, he had at last released his hold, and with a growl and a bound was at the enemy's skirts, which he seized with a violent backward tug, just as the tomahawk was on the point of being hurled, and with a force and an aim which else had sent the black giant rolling in his turn to the bottom of the hill. Again had the war-dog turned the scale of battle in his leader's favor.
"I yi, you dogs!" And with his battle-cry resounding again through the lonely wilds, the Fighting Nigger threw himself on his new antagonist, whom the invincible Grumbo still held back by the skirts, and wresting the scalping-knife from the young brave's hand, bore him with resistless force to the ground—Indian, nigger, and dog, all in a huddle together.
"Han's uff, Grumbo!" For the war-dog, now that his blood was up, could hardly be restrained from falling tooth and nail on the prostrate foe. "Han's uff! You's chawed up one uf de varmints; jes' let Burlman Rennuls wind up dis one. Han's uff, I say; or I'll——." And with this the Fighting Nigger made a sham thrust with the knife at his comrade's nose, which forced him to fall back a few paces, where he sat doggedly down on his tail, with the injured air of a faithful follower who had been defrauded of his dues.
Big Black Burl looked down on the young Indian brave: the young Indian brave, with unflinching bright, black eyes, looked up at Big Black Burl. Slowly the victor raised the murderous knife aloft, his eyes still bent on the young brave's face, and seeing there something that made his hand less swift than was its wont in dealing the death-blow. But the knife was on the point of descending when Bushie came running up to the spot, crying out in beseeching accents as he came: "Don't, Burl, don't kill that one! Please don't!"
This stayed the uplifted hand, and glancing around at his little master, Burl, with a look of great surprise, exclaimed, "W'y, Bushie, taint nothin' but a Injun!"
"But that one was good to me, Burl."
"A red varmint good to a little white boy! Git out!"
"Yes, but he was, Burl. That one," pointing to the dead savage, "was going to split my head open with his hatchet, when this one," pointing to the young brave, "ran up to him and pushed him away from me, and said something to him loud and mad which made him look scared and mean."
"What did de big Injun do to you, Bushie?" inquired Burl, now lowering the knife.
"He didn't do nothing to me but look ugly at me, when this one would be toting me on his back across the creeks and up the hills."
"Which one uf de varmints was it, Bushie, dat gobbled you up frum de corn-fiel' fence, back yander?"
"That one," with a look toward the dead savage. "This one," with a nod toward the young brave, "didn't want him to do it, I know he didn't, because he walked on by talking to the other and shaking his head. And when the other got tired of toting me and wanted to kill me, then it was that this one ran up and took me away from him. Then he led me by the hand till I got tired, then toted me on his back till I got rested. And that's the way he was doing all the time. And when I got so tired and sleepy I couldn't walk any longer, he took me up in his arms and carried me so far, I don't know how far, through the dark woods. Then when they stopped he gave me something to eat and made me a bed of pawpaw limbs, and laid me down to sleep and slept by my side. And all the time he wouldn't let the others come a-nigh me. And see here, Burl, what he gave me," flourishing his old stone hatchet with a new handle before the eyes of the still incredulous Burlman Reynolds. "And this, too," displaying his little coon-skin cap, all splendid with the glory of the war-bird. And with these visible proofs to back it, Bushie wound up his eloquent little appeal.
"Did de young Injun shoot de eagle down yesterday whar you got dem fedders?"
"Yes, and put them in my cap this morning."
The black hunter glanced over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the young brave's lower limbs and reässure himself that this was the one who had left the slender foot-prints along the trail, side by side with which had always appeared those of the boy. Slowly then rose the victor to his feet, and like a black Colossus, standing astride his prostrate foe, remained for many moments profoundly silent, as if lost in thought, and uncertain, under circumstances so unexpected and peculiar, what course he should pursue.
Never, since that unhappy night two years ago, had he lifted his hand against an Indian; but that remembrance of his master's cruel death, with the wail of the widowed mother and her fatherless child, had risen before him, making his aim the surer, his blow the heavier. But here was a new experience, calling for a new course of action. True was it that his old master had been inhumanly treated by this people, but no less true that the life of his young master had been preserved, in a signal manner, too, by one of the same hated race. If he had owed vengeance for the first, did he not now owe gratitude for the last? If, up to this moment, he had been swift to meet the claims of vengeance, should he not now be as ready to meet the claims of gratitude? The lion of him was fast going to sleep within him; the Newfoundland of him was fast becoming awake. And looking down at the young brave between his feet, Burl attentively scanned him.
On hearing the voice of entreaty at his side, the young Indian had turned his eyes from the face of our big black hero, and perceiving by the boy's looks, tones, and gestures that an appeal was making in his behalf, had fixed them earnestly on the face of our little white hero, as if willing to look there for mercy, though disdaining to ask it of the giant victor under whose grasp he lay. Now that he had taken a good long look at him, Burl could not help being in some sort struck with the wild and singular beauty of the young brave's whole appearance. Then came back to his remembrance the pitying, good-humored smile, with which the little captive had been regarded, as they had sat so sociably chatting together on the log. Here the lion went fast asleep, and the Newfoundland grew broad awake. Scratching his back with the knuckle of his thumb, as was his habit in moments of perplexity, he at length turned to his little master and broke the painful silence thus:
"An' is my little man shore de red varmint was good to him, an' toted him on his back?"
"Yes, indeed, that I am!" replied the boy with glad eagerness, now that he saw the light of mercy beginning to shine in the victor's eye. "And if you don't let him up, I'll bellow like a buffalo-bull, so I will; and won't never love you no more, so I won't." Generous little runaway.
"An' would my little man like fur us to take de young Injun home wid us?"
"Yes, indeed, that I would!" The little man was delighted at the thought, but immediately added, "If he would like to go." Considerate little runaway.
"An' s'posin' ef he wouldn't; what den?"
"Then let him go home to his mother." Filial little runaway.
"I yi, my larky!" cried the Fighting Nigger, with an emphatic snap of finger and thumb, then added: "But Bushie, why didn't you holler fur me when de dead varmint ober yander gobbled you up?"
"Because he slipped up behind me while I was watching the squirrels and crows, and before I knew it clapped his hand over my mouth."
"Ah, Bushrod, Bushrod!" with a sad shake of the head; "didn't I tole you dar's Injuns in de woods wid stickin' knives an' splittin' tomahawks fur bad little boys as don't mind der mudders an' runs away frum home an' hain't got nothin' to say fur 'emselves but beca'se? Heh, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did!" acknowledging the fact with sheepish frankness.
"Well, ef I let dis young Injun up, will you eber do de like ag'in—run away wid de red varmints an' make yo'r pore mudder mizzible?"
"No, indeed; that I won't! 'Indeed, and double 'deed,' I won't!" his eyes now filling with tears. Remorseful little runaway.
"Lef' her settin' dar, I did, at de doo'," continued Burl, now modulating his voice into a sort of dolorous tune: "pore mudder all by herself at de doo'. Couldn't speak a word, couldn't walk a step, so mizzible—so onsituwated, fur dar she's a-settin' yit, I know, a-lookin' an' a-lookin', a-prayin' an' a-prayin', to see her pore ol' nigger comin' home a totein' her pore little boy on his back. How could you, Bushie, how could you leave yo' pore mudder so onsituwated? I wouldn't be 'stonished——"
"O don't, Burl! Please don't; it hurts me so—it nearly kills me!" And with the loved pictures of home—the motherly face, with its white cap; the mother's bed, with his own little trundle-bed underneath; the table, with its white cloth folded and laid upon it; the hickory-bound cedar water-bucket, with its crooked handled gourd; the red corner-cupboard, with its store of Johnny-cakes and cold potatoes for quiet enjoyment between meals; old Cornwallis; the red rooster; the speckled hen; the yellow tomcat—with all these loved images passing with sudden vividness before his remembrance at the sound of the old home voice in that lonely place, the delinquent Bushie, now thoroughly penitent, lifted up his voice and wept aloud. "The little sinner had come to his milk." Yes, though a runaway, he had in him the good, sound stuff for making the good, sound man. Burl remained silent for some moments, that wholesome repentance might have its way and start the penitent toward the better life; then, making a big pretense of yielding the point, and wishing to hide, under a show of obedience to his baby superior, what he deemed an unwarrior-like weakness of feeling, he wound up the matter thus: "Well, Bushie, dar's reason in all things. You's my little marster, I's yo' ol' nigger. Bein' yo' ol' nigger, I mus' do what my little marster tells me to do, an' let de young Injun up. But mind you now, I'm doin' it beca'se he was good to my little marster. But who'd a thought it was in de red rubbish to do de like?" And with this closing observation, spoken in an under-tone, and meant only for the private ear of Burlman Rennuls, the Fighting Nigger stepped from over the prostrate foe, giving, as he did so, a wide, upward wave of the hand, with a huge, upward nod of the head, which said as plainly as ever had chivalry said it: "Vanquished warrior, rise and live!"
The young Indian rose to his feet, and going directly up to his little preserver, shook him with gentle earnestness by the hand, evincing in the simple act and the look attending it the utmost thankfulness of heart, mixed with respect and admiration. Then he went to the log, against which still leaned a loaded rifle, and was picking it up when Burl, suspecting treachery, sprung forward to frustrate the hostile design. But too quick for him, the young savage gathering up the weapon and wielding it in his right-hand, discharged it into the air. Then, with grave composure, as though he had not noticed the movement of alarm, he surrendered the empty rifle to his victor, in token of his entire submission; though, as he did so, he pointed to Bushie, his captive but the hour before, thus signifying that he wished to be regarded as the prisoner of his little preserver.
Without seeming to know what he was doing, Burl took the rifle and, resting it on the ground, stood motionless for many moments, staring fixedly at the young Indian with a look of unqualified astonishment and unmitigated bewilderment, as if his senses had told him something that had given the lie to his leading and abiding conviction—that eternal truth embodied in the words, "Dar's reason in all things." Burlman Rennuls was in a fog; the Fighting Nigger was in a fog; in a fog was the entire man of Big Black Burl.
How Big Black Burl and Grumbo Figured After the Fight.
Now, it had always been the Fighting Nigger's belief—creed, so to speak—that Indians, though possessed (by some strange chance or mischance) of the power of speech, with a few other faculties in common with colored people and the rest of mankind, had, nevertheless, neither souls nor human feelings. According to his view, they were a sort of featherless biped-beast—an almost hairless orang-outang, with short arms and long legs, having an unquenchable thirst for human blood; whom, therefore, it was the duty of every Christian body—black, yellow, and white—to shoot down and scalp wherever they were to be found on top of the earth. But the creed he had so long adhered to, fought for, and gloried in had now on a sudden been knocked, picked, and crumpled up into a cocked hat by this young barbarian, whose conduct in the nobleness of soul it had displayed was utterly unlike any thing he had ever witnessed, heard of, or dreamed of, in this race. Big Black Burl took off his bear-skin war-cap, for the first time since quitting home, and with the back of his sweaty hand wiped his sweaty brow, put the cap on again, and from under its shaggy shadow took another look at the fog.
"U-gooh!" exclaimed the Fighting Nigger, at last so far recovering the power of speech as to be able to force an unspellable interjection through the nose; at the same time scratching his back with the knuckle of his thumb. "Neber seed de like in all my bo'n days. 'Pon my honor, ef dis young varmint don't carry on like a white man: couldn't a done dat thing mo'e ginteel'y myse'f. Burlman Rennuls"—jumping at solutions—"dar's black or white blood in dis young Injun; shore's you bo'n, dar's black or white blood in dis young Injun. Ef dar' wusn't he wouldn't be gwine on dis way like a white man—min', I tell you!" And Burlman Rennuls walked out of the fog; the Fighting Nigger walked out of the fog—out of the fog, into the clear, unmisted light of reason, walked, by a short cut, the entire man of Big Black Burl.
Thus satisfied in his own mind that, let the matter be viewed on either side—the black side or the white side—there existed a kindred tie between himself and the young Indian, not to mention the debt of gratitude each owed the other, the Fighting Nigger felt that for once in his life he might, without soiling the skirts of his honor, or lowering the plumes of his dignity, play the familiar and brotherly with the red varmint. So, going up to the young brave, who the while had stood with his bright eyes fixed on some invisible quarter of the morning, our colored hero, with a bland condescension of manner that would have done a white man infinite good to see, shook his captive heartily by the hand. Then, with awkward carefulness, he took the wounded arm of the Indian between his fingers, to ascertain the extent of the injury done by his bullet. No bones were broken, but the flesh-wound inflicted by the ball—flattened and jagged as it was by its passage through the grim savage—was found to be ugly and painful enough. "Betsy Grumbo bites pow'ful hard when she gits a chance," remarked Burl, after inspecting the wound with critical narrowness for a few moments. "Well, jes' wait a bit, an' I'll see what I kin do for you." So saying, he went and divested the dead savage of his ruffled shirt, which he tore up into narrow strips, wherewith to bandage the crippled arm. For Burlman Rennuls, you must know, was quite a dab at surgery; his skill in that line having been called into frequent requisition by the mishaps of old Cornwallis, who seldom got through the unlucky quarters of the moon without snagging his legs; and also by the wounds which the heroic Grumbo had received in hunting and in war.
While thus humanely engaged, his fluent tongue went on, and on, and on. Sometimes he would address his remarks to Burlman Rennuls, enlarging upon the valorous deeds and distinguished abilities of the Fighting Nigger—such signal proofs whereof he, Burlman Rennuls, had that day enjoyed the rare pleasure of witnessing. Then he would throw out some side hints, meant only for the private ear of the dead savage, relative to the incompatibleness of blue coats and ruffled shirts with the pure Indian costume—that unlucky individual being admonished that thereafter, if he did not wish to be thought a dirty, sneaking, low-lived thief, he would do well "to stick to his raggedy rawhide tags and feathers." Oftener, though, the black surgeon would be making some comment touching the matter more immediately in hand—seeming to take more interest therein than the patient himself, who, Indian-like, could hardly have manifested less concern in what was doing for his relief than had the wounded limb been hanging to some other man's shoulder, and he but an accidental spectator of what was passing.
When the wound was bandaged, or rather bundled up, the young Indian, improvising a sling of his ammunition-pouch, slipped his arm in between the straps—this being the first notice he had apparently taken of his own mishap.
"Now, as you's fixed up an' feelin' easy an' good, me an' Grumbo will take a bite o' somethin' to eat: hain't had our breakfas' yit, an' hungry as dogs. So, you an' Bushie jes' set heer on de log, while we look about us fur some grub. Den we'll all go a-p'radin' home togedder, arm-in-arm."
The smoldering camp-fire was rekindled, and a dozen long slices being cut from the fat young buck upon whose flesh the savages had broken their fast, it was not long before the appetizing smell of savory meat broiling on glowing embers began to fill the air, provoking the hungry mouth to water. But Big Black Burl, though colored and dressed in buckskin, was quite too much of the natural gentleman to suffer a morsel of food to enter his own mouth—water as it might—until he had discharged his duty as host toward their captive, who, being such, must needs in some sort be their guest. So, he took a choice slice of venison on the point of his hunting-knife, and going up to the young Indian where he sat on the log, offered it to him with magnificent hospitality, at the same time showing the whites of his eyes in his blandest manner. The captive guest, however, with a courteous wave of the hand, declined the proffered food, inasmuch as he had broken his fast already. The steak was then offered to Bushie, who, though he had breakfasted too, did not with a courteous wave of the hand decline it, but took and ate it, every bit—not that he was hungry at all, but so delightful did he find it to be eating again with his precious old black chum. Unwilling, in the joy and thankfulness of his heart, that his red friend should remain a mere spectator to their pleasant repast, the generous little fellow, getting the loan of Burl's knife, took another choice steak, and with his own hand offered it to their captive guest. This time—glad to do any thing in the world to please his little preserver—the young Indian accepted the proffered hospitality, and taking the venison, ate it with much appearance of relish.
Now, you must know that after a battle fought and victory won, it was Grumbo's wont to indulge himself in a little brief repose, which he would take stretched out on the ground, with his shaggy head laid, lion-like, on his extended paws—betraying, in both attitude and look, a sober self-satisfaction so entire as made it seem that for him the world had nothing more to offer. But this morning, notwithstanding the successful, even brilliant, winding up of their great adventure, our war-dog, instead of unbending as usual, held grimly aloof from the rest of the party, still seated on his tail, to which he had retired, snubbed, in the very flush of victory, by his ungrateful leader. Evidently our canine hero had got his nose knocked out of joint. Nevertheless, he failed not to maintain a wary though distant watch over the movements of the young Indian, whom, being the sort of game they had always up to this moment hunted to the bloody end, he could not but regard with a jealous and distrustful eye. From time to time, by way of giving him a piece of his mind, he would cast side-long at his master a look of severe reproach, unqualified disapprobation. Plain was it that to his dogship's way of thinking it was a very bungling fashion of doing business, thus to suffer this red barbarian to pass from under their hands, untouched by tomahawk or tooth—betraying, as it did, a weakness of feeling altogether unbeseeming warriors of the first blood like themselves. Therefore did his excellency doggedly keep his tail, nor would he unbend, so far as even to sniff at—though hungry as a nigger—the raw meat which, without measure, his master had laid before him.
Observing the offended and distant demeanor of his comrade-in-arms, and knowing that he sometimes showed a civilized preference for cooked meat over raw, Burl roasted one whole side of the buck and threw it before him, hot and smoking from the embers, hoping that this might win him over and tempt him into a more sociable and gracious humor. But his dogship had been too deeply offended to be so easily appeased; and let the savory fumes of the smoking dainty curl round and round his watering chops as temptingly as they might, he would not deign to stoop and taste. Seeing that he still stood upon the reserve—sat on his tail—Burl at length began to have some misgivings as to whether he had dealt altogether fairly by his right-hand man, to snub him as he had in the very moment of victory, which but for the injured one had never been achieved. So, he went and stripped the head of the slain savage of its scalp, which, with its long braided lock and tuft of feathers, he tied securely to the back of the war-dog's neck just behind the ears. This he did with the assurance that although they had won the trophy conjointly, yet in consideration of the gallant services which he—Grumbo—had that day rendered their almost hopeless cause, would he, the Fighting Nigger, resign all claim thereunto in his comrade's favor, and allow him to enjoy the undivided honor thereof, as he so richly deserved. Then the "captain explained to his lieutenant"—for with these titles the white hunters often coupled them—how matters stood between them and their Indian prisoner, but for whose humanity they had never found their little master alive. Having enlarged upon this point, the captain wound up his apology—for such the explanation was, in fact—with the promise, backed by the Fighting Nigger's inviolable word of honor, that as soon as they had squared the debt of gratitude under which this young barbarian had laid them, then would they go on doing up business in the good old orthodox fashion as before. More than this, that hereafter, whenever any of the red "varmints" should fall into their hands, he—Grumbo—should be allowed to throttle and tumble, tousle and tug them to his heart's content. All this, so gratifying to a warrior's pride, seemed to have the desired effect in appeasing the wounded dignity of his dogship, as was apparent, first by his bending his nose to smell, then stooping his head to taste, and at last by his coming bodily to the ground and falling tooth and nail upon the juicy roast before him, which now he could venture to do without great risk of burning his mouth.
By this time the dewy half of the morning was well-nigh spent, and if they would reach the shelter of the distant station by the going down of that day's sun, it was high time they were up and away on their homeward tramp. But Big Black Burl could not think of quitting the spot without taking with him every thing—weapons, accouterments of war, scalps, prisoners of war, not to mention the rescued captive—that might bespeak a battle fought and victory won, and that could set off and give edge to the triumphal entry he anticipated making that evening into Fort Reynolds. The whole settlement—nay, the whole Paradise from end to end—should ring with the noise of his grand achievement. To be sure, with respect to the prisoner of war, his little master, with that fellow-feeling which makes us wondrous kind, had said but the hour before, "Let him go home to his mother." But our hero, colored though he was, had far too genuine a love of glory ever to allow an opportunity for the indulgence of his passion to escape him, no matter at what expense it might be to others, in life, liberty, and dearest affections. And here again, and for the third time, may we liken the Fighting Nigger to Alexander the Great, to Napoleon the Great, or, more fitly still, to his great-grandfather, Mumbo Jumbo the Great, the far-famed giant-king of Congo. By the way, I am just here reminded that I have forgotten to state, and much to my surprise, that Big Black Burl was believed throughout the Paradise to be the great-grandson of the great Mumbo Jumbo, and as such was in verity the case, the remarkable character of our hero admits of plausible explanation. Who Mumbo Jumbo really was I must confess that, with due respect to authentic history, I am not exactly prepared to affirm; though that he must have been a man of immense consequence in his day was fairly to be inferred from the fact of his having made in Africa a noise so loud as to have been heard, a full half century afterward, beyond the Alleghany Mountains—that, too, by a people so far behind the times as to know nothing whatever of even so redoubtable a man as Baron Munchausen.
But to return to our war-path, and be just. The Fighting Nigger had no thought of using the life, liberty, and dearest affections thrown by the chances of war upon his mercy, excepting so far as to take his prisoner home with him as a trophy of victory; which done, then should he be allowed to return to his own people, bird-free, without the loss of a feather. As he had not killed the Indian, how could he without gross violation of the rules of civilized warfare take his scalp? And without scalps to show for proof, let him but dare blow his own trumpet, and he should be blazed throughout the land as a windy, lying braggart. Therefore, as neither party in question could quit that place without the scalp—the one having a natural right, the other a belligerent right to the same—expedient was it that the party who enjoyed but the natural right should be taken bodily to the settlements, there to appear as a living witness to that prowess in arms which had brought him under the conquering hand of the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head. Now you can understand what the Fighting Nigger meant, when, in answer to his little master's "Let him go home to his mother," he had, with a snap of his finger and thumb, exclaimed in Anglo-Congo lingo, "I yi, my larky!"
Accordingly, Burl gathered up all the weapons and accouterments of the vanquished foe, where they lay scattered about the top of the battle-hill, sticking the hatchets and knives about his middle and hanging the powder-horns and ammunition-pouches from his shoulders. The three Indians' rifles he tied together and gave to his prisoner to carry, a burden he would hardly have laid undivided on the wounded youth had he not foreseen that his little master, when weary of walking, must needs be getting upon his back from time to time to ride till rested. Then Betsy Grumbo being put again in biting order and shouldered, the little party started forward on their homeward tramp—the young Indian, at a sign from his captor, going on a little in advance, Grumbo coming on a little in the rear, while Burl and Bushie walked hand in hand between. The war-dog had regained his wonted grim self-satisfaction, as could be seen by the iron twist of his tail over the right leg, and by the peculiar hang of the lower lip at the corners as if he carried a big quid of tobacco in each side of his mouth. Nevertheless, he still maintained a wary watch over their red captive, whom he continued to regard with undiminished jealousy and distrust, and to whose living presence in their midst he seemed determined never to be reconciled.
Gaining the foot of the hill by an easier route, though less direct than that by which the two giants had reached it, they found there the traces of blood, which, reddening the grass at short intervals, marked the turns made by Black Thunder's body after receiving the bullet sent after him from his own rifle.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian; and that was all.
"U-gooh!" exclaimed the negro, and a great deal more to the like purpose.
Burl would have given his war-cap, the trophy of victory over the bears, and gone home bare-headed—nay, bare-headed the livelong summer—could he by that sacrifice have secured the scalp of the Wyandot giant, so greatly did he covet this additional trophy of his victory over a warrior so renowned. But the body was nowhere to be found, all traces of it vanishing at the brink of the river-bank. The party crossed the stream at the shallows, then ascended the opposite shore to where our two adventurers had made the passage an hour before the battle. Here Burl called a halt of a few moments, that he might resume his martial rigging left there, and give himself an appearance more becoming a great warrior returning home to receive the honors which his valor had won for him on the field of scalps and glory. And such was the morning of that ever-to-be-remembered first of June, 1789.
How Big Black Burl Figured in His Triumph.
"What a pity! what a pity! what a pity!" the little log mill still went on saying to the little log fort, and making the little log fort yet sadder and lonesomer than had it held its peace, and not tried so hard to play the comforter.
From noon to noon, with a dreary night between, hour after hour passed heavily, wearily by. And there, at the door of her desolate home, still sat the widowed mother, waiting and watching, her eyes turned ever toward the perilous north—waiting and watching as only those can wait and watch whose hearts are telling them that any hour may bring them the tidings that all they hold most dear on earth is lost to them forever. In homely kindness and sympathy her neighbors strove to comfort her, and rouse her from the lethargy of grief into which she seemed to be sinking. They forgot how little mere words of condolence, however tender and pitying, can avail, until the stricken heart, having taken in its full measure of sorrow, can begin to accommodate itself to the new presence, and be brought once more to feel that although much is lost still more remains for gratitude and peace.
Toward noon the next day the hunters, who had gone out in pursuit of the savages, weary and sad returned to the fort. After parting with Burl, they had not ascended more than a mile into the hills, when the larger trail made its reäppearance on the banks of the more easterly of the two forks, whose united waters formed the little river which turned the mill of the settlement. Rejoining their parties, they had renewed the chase with spirit, the trail now leading in a direct line toward the Ohio, whose banks they had reached at sunset, and just in time to send a volley of bullets after the fugitives, who, however, before the pursuers were up with them, had regained their canoes and put a broad stretch of the river between themselves and the perilous shore. The hunters had had a clear view of the Indians as they landed on the opposite side, and having made sure that there were no white prisoners among them, they had given over the chase, convinced that the unfortunate Bushie must have been borne away in some other direction by the three Indians whose traces had been discovered at the corn-field fence, and lost sight of in the larger trail. One chance more, however, remained to them: Big Black Burl was still abroad, and so long as that faithful and courageous fellow kept the war-path, good reason had they for hoping that all yet might end well.
The sun was nigh his setting; a few more far-reaching winks of his great bright eye and he would be sinking behind the evening hills of green Kentucky, and rising above the morning hills of China. Already had the horses and cattle—as was the custom of the times when Indians were known to be across the border—been brought for the night within the shelter of the fort. Already the ponderous wooden gate was swinging creakingly to on its ponderous wooden hinges; but just as its ponderous wooden bolt was sliding into the ponderous wooden staple, out from the neighboring forest ringing, with echo on echo, it came—the old familiar cry, the trumpet-call to battle abroad, the note of brotherly cheer at home: "I yi, you dogs!"—too jocund and triumphant for any one whose ears had caught the glad sound to doubt that glad tidings were coming. Straightway reöpening the gate and looking forth, the hunters spied, moving toward them through the bushes in the edge of the woods, first the plumed crest of an Indian warrior, then a more spreading display of bright feathers, so high aloft that one could fancy they topped the head of a giant full eight feet high, who came treading close behind. For a few moments this was all that could be seen; till now, full over the ragged skirts of the forest, there in open view, they came—the young Indian in front, with his load of rifles laid across his arm; then Big Black Burl, bristling all over with hatchets and knives; and lastly, with a consequential twist of the tail and with the plumed scalp-lock of an Indian waving over his neck, the invincible Grumbo bringing up the rear.
And there, triumphantly borne aloft on the shoulders of our big black hero, his sturdy young legs astride his deliverer's neck and dangling down in front, bare and brier-scratched, his arms clasped tightly around the bear-skin war-cap, his own little coon-skin cap all brave with the pride of the war-bird—there sat our little white hero, that self-same runaway Bushie, whose froward legs had so well-nigh carried him to death's door, and on whose account a whole settlement had been unsettled from dinner-time yesterday till supper-time to-day. But what a shout that was which at this sight went pealing up from the fort to the sky, went pealing down from the fort to the mill, which, just at this moment received the reserved water upon its wheel, and all on a sudden, clearing its wooden throat with a squeak, ceased droning, "What a pity! what a pity!" and fell to singing, in double-quick time, "What a naughty! what a naughty! what a naughty!" Some of the hunters ran in to bear the poor mother the joyful tidings, some ran out to meet and welcome the returning conqueror, while others opened the gate to its utmost width to let the conqueror in. On they came, vanquished and victor; Bushie grinning at them from over the head of the Fighting Nigger; the Fighting Nigger grinning at them from over the head of the Indian; and the Indian, with dignified composure, looking the whole white settlement full in the face. Without a halt, right through the gate-way they drove, "like a wagon and team with a dog behind," to use the conqueror's own expressive words; nor could words have expressed more, had they told of the rumble of chariot-wheels. Hardly were they over the sill when, to bring the triumph to a climax, here, followed by all the women, and children, and dogs, screaming, shouting, barking, laughing, crying—those gladder who cried than those who laughed, those gladder who barked than those who shouted—came running Miss Jemimy, to meet them.
Turning his back square on his mistress, the conqueror let the rescued treasure tumble bodily from his shoulders into the eager arms, upon the yearning bosom. With incoherent expressions of endearment to her darling boy, of thanks to their brave and faithful servant, and of praise to the merciful Father of all, the widowed mother clasped the lost and found to her heart, being in turn all but choked and smothered by the hugs and kisses of the delighted Bushie. Then, hand in hand, they hastened to their cabin and shut the door behind them with a timbersome bang, which said as plainly as a puncheon-door, with oaken hinges and hickory latch, could say any thing, "Let us have the first hour of recovered happiness to ourselves." It was a sight for which full many a stern, hard eye that saw it grew for the moment the brighter, if not the clearer; and Burl, though he made a manful effort to keep it back, was forced to yield the point and let it come—the one big sob of tender and grateful feeling, which, sending a quiver through his huge frame, made his martial rigging shake and jingle like the harness of a whinnying war-horse.
The hunters now gathered round the hero of the day and called upon him for an account of his adventures since parting with them at the forks of the river the day before. He told his story modestly and briefly enough, being well aware that there were those among his listeners far more learned in wood-craft than himself, and more skilled in the arts and stratagems of Indian warfare. Too magnanimous was he, though, to pass so briefly over the part his prisoner had played in the matter, dwelling at some length on the gentleness and humanity with which the young Indian had treated his little master. When he had ended, the white hunters, one and all, came up to him and shook him heartily by the hand, pronouncing him an Indian-fighter of the true grit—a compliment, in the Fighting Nigger's estimation, the highest that could be paid to mortal man, black, yellow, or white. Then, going up to the young Indian, who, leaning on his rifles, had stood the while with his bright eyes fixed serenely on some invisible quarter of the evening, they, one and all, shook him, likewise, as heartily by the hand—a dumb but eloquent expression of their grateful sense of the humanity he had shown their little friend in his hour of helpless peril and piteous need. The young brave received the demonstration with dignified composure; not, though, as if he had expected it, for, at the first greeting, he did lose his self-possessed reserve so far as to betray a little sign of great surprise.
While our big black hero was narrating their adventures to the hunters without, our little white hero was giving his version of the same to his mother within—a medley of facts and fancies, where it was about nip and tuck between his old black chum and his young red friend as to which might claim the greater share of the juvenile gratitude and admiration. Being gently reproved by his mother for his naughty behavior, which had been the cause of so much trouble and distress to them all, the young transgressor, for the first time in his life without the help of a switch to make him feel and know the error of his ways, besought his mother's forgiveness; only just let him off for that one time and he never, never would run away with the Indians again as long as he lived—winding up the comforting assurance with a cub-like hug, to make the surer of clearing his legs of the switching he felt he richly deserved.
Having heard the rigmarole from beginning to end, and from end to beginning, and then from middle to middle again, and gathered therefrom that he to whom she owed her dear boy's life was wounded, Mrs. Reynolds sent Bushie with word to Burl to bring the young Indian to her door. When they were come, she made a few inquiries of Burl himself with regard to their adventures, and when answered, she bid him go and bring a keeler of water, that they might wash and dress the prisoner's wound. When the water was brought, she took off the bloody bandages from the crippled arm and gently laved and washed the wound, which by this time was much inflamed and swollen; then anointing it with some healing-salve, she bound it up again with clean bandages. This humane office duly done, the good woman bid Burl take the young Indian to his own cabin, there to be lodged and entertained with all hospitality till, healed of his wound, he should be able to shift for himself, when he should be allowed to return in peace to his own people.
And as his mistress bid him did Burl right willingly do playing the host in magnificent style, and setting before his captive guest the best his house afforded, not suffering a morsel to pass his own or Grumbo's lips till the claims of hospitality were fully met. This last, however, was a piece of etiquette not at all to the war-dog's taste, since two hungry Christian mouths were thereby made to water, and that too only out of respect to a red heathen, who, as such, in his dogship's opinion, deserved no better treatment at their hands than a common cur. Therefore did Grumbo harden his heart all the more against the red barbarian, holding him in worse odor than before.
Victor and vanquished were still at their friendly repast when all the ebony of the settlement—to the number of about thirty, men, women, and children—came flocking to the Fighting Nigger's cabin, and stood gathered in a close, black knot at the door, waiting with eager ears to hear the great event of the day from the hero's own lips; nor with eyes less eager to get a peep at the prisoner of war, a "live Injun"—a sight that some of them had never seen before. Their wonderment was much excited to see how a red varmint could drinkitswater from a tin instead of needing to suck it up from a trough, like a horse; howitcould eatitsmeat with a knife and fork, bite by bite, instead of gulping it up whole, like a dog; and howitcould do many other things in the civilized, human way, which they had supposed peculiar to "black people and white folks." Supper ended, mine host filled and lighted his own pipe, and blandly showing the whites of his eyes, offered it to his captive guest. The captive guest, with a graceful acknowledgment, accepted the pipe, and with grave decorum began smoking, sending out the puffs at slow and regular intervals, and looking straight before him; sometimes at the curling smoke, then, through the smoke, at the opposite wall; then, through the wall—for so it seemed—at some object on the other side of the Ohio River, miles away in the gathering shades of evening. Once he turned his bright eyes full on the clump of shining black faces at the door, and scanned them attentively, though seemingly with as little consciousness of their living, personal presence as were they but so many stuffed specimens of their kind piled up there for exhibition. But glancing downward and spying three or four little woolies peeping fearfully at him from between the legs of the larger ones—the stride of the legs perceptibly widened "to give the little fellows a chance"—then did the young brave discharge a puff one second before its time, sending it with a force that carried it in a straight line to the bowl of the pipe before it began to rise. But for this, you would hardly have thought that the Indian had seen any thing that seemed to him alive or human or funny.
"Cap'n Rennuls, stop yo' monkey-shines ober de red varmint in dar, an' come out an' git up an' make us a speech," at length said one of the ebony brotherhood at the door, promoting our hero on the spot, and adding a still higher title to the illustrious list already coupled with his name.
How Big Black Burl Figured in Oratory.
Accordingly, the Fighting Nigger came forth, still bristling all over with the trophies of victory and spoils of war—the three Indian rifles now added to the rest. Mounting a low, wide poplar stump directly in front of his cabin, he proceeded to give his colored brethren a circumstantial account of all that had happened to him in the course of his late adventure. As if the wonderful reality were not enough to satisfy any reasonable lover of the marvelous, he must needs lug in a deal that had not happened to him in the time, and never could have happened at any time to anybody, excepting giant-killers, dragon-fighters, and the like, whose exploits, though never witnessed by mortal eye, have made such a noise in the world of fancy, fog, and moonshine. Though he could confine himself to facts with modest brevity when speaking of his achievements to white people—as we have already noticed—the Fighting Nigger, it must be owned, was something of a long-winded boaster, with a proneness to slide off into the fabulous, when blowing his own trumpet for the entertainment of his colored admirers, who bolted whatever monstrosity he might choose to toss into their greedy chops. But let us be just. It was with no direct intention of hoaxing or deceiving his hearers that he played the fabler; it was simply a way he had of holding up a magnifying-glass, so to speak, before their eyes, that he might help them to bring their imaginations up to his own idea of the wonderful reality.
As the romancing went on, Grumbo, who had taken the stump likewise, sat, with grim dignity, upon his haunches at his master's side, to lend his countenance to the matter under consideration; presiding, as it would seem, as chairman of the assembly. That such was the view he took of his present position was evident from his manner; for, ever and anon, when he saw their audience staggering under some marvel tossed too suddenly into their gaping mouths, our chairman would fetch the stump a ratifying rap of the tail, which said more plainly than his lips could have said it: "A fact, gentlemen—fact. On the word of an honest dog, that, also, strange though it may seem, is as true as all the rest my comrade has told you. I myself was present and had a hand in the matter; therefore ought I to know."
Now and then the speaker would be interrupted by his excitable listeners with some exclamation of wonder, horror, incredulity, derision, pity, or the like—which, being in Anglo-Congo or ebony lingo, must needs be unintelligible to many of my readers. Therefore, for the enlightenment and edification of the unlearned, have I thought it best to give a list of the interjections and phrases in question, with the definition or free translation of each, ignoring etymologies as smacking, just here, of pedantry:
GLOSSARY.
Git Out—A cry of good-humored derision.
Shucks—Pshaw; nonsense; fiddle-sticks.
O Hush—"You are too funny;" "You are too smart;" "You are a fool."
I Yi—Hurrah; bravo; bully; well done: coupled with "my larky," equivalent to "Catch me at that if you can."
Hoo-weep(followed by a whistle)—Expressive of unspeakable astonishment.
Oho—A cry of exultation, translated into "Goody, goody!"
Laus-a-marcy—Shocking; horrible; dreadful: "My wool stands on end with horror."
Goodness Gracious—Used in a similar sense to the above, though in a milder degree.
Tsht, Tsht, Tsht—An unspellable sound, produced by applying the tip of the tongue to the palate with a quick suck at the air, repented three times; translatable into, "What a pity, what a pity!" "O dear, O dear!"
Lettin' on—Making a pretense of; feigning; hoaxing.
H-yah, H-yah, H-yah—Ha, ha, ha.
U-gooh—An unspellable interjection pronounced, or rather produced, by closing the lips and sending the sound through the nose, either forcibly and suddenly with a quick taper, or the reverse with a quick, short swell; or beginning gently, no bigger than a knitting-needle, and slowly swelling to a certain degree, then suddenly flaring, like the mouth of a dinner-horn. In short, varying according to the feeling or thought to be expressed. Perhaps in the ebony lingo there is no word so frequently used, and in senses so various, as U-gooh. Rendered into English, some of the sentiments expressed thereby are the following: "Admirable!" "Wonderful!" "O how nice!" "O how good!" "You astonish me!" "I admire you!" "I highly commend you!" "I applaud you!" "I am listening—pray proceed!" "What you tell me is very strange, nevertheless I believe you!" "I have no words to express what I feel, therefore can only say, 'U-gooh!'"
What our black Munchausen told the ebony wonder-mongers of his great adventure before and after the fight was such a jumble of marvels and horrors as were hardly fitting to appear in a sober book like ours, pledged to confine itself to possibilities, if not to facts. Where the narrative should have been truest, if truly told, there the narrator was wildest, drawing freely upon his imagination to fill up the wide gaps between the few conspicuous incidents marking its setting out and winding up. Gap number one was made interesting with bears; gap number two, lively with panthers; gap number three, thrilling with wolves; and where the war-path led into the shades of night, there the woods were alive with ghosts. We shall, therefore, make our dip into the medley just at that point where the narrator, having brought his listeners all agape to the hazardous edge of ambush and battle subsides into the possible; the story now rising of itself into the wonderful, and having no great need of exaggeration or embellishment to make it spicy.
"Betsy Grumbo," ses I to my gun, "you mus' put lead through two ob de varmints on de log, ef you cain't through all four." Bang barks Betsy; up jumps all de Injuns, two falls back dead behin' de log, two goes runnin' down de hill a-yellin' as ef de Ol' Scratch wus arter 'em wid a sharp stick. ["H-yah, h-yah, h-yah!" Audience.] "I yi, you dogs!" says I, lungin' out uf de bushes. "Whoo-oop!" yells big Injun, a-jerkin' his tommyhawk out uf de tree and flingin' it whizz at my head. I knocks it away wid my ax an' drives on. Here comes anudder a-whizzin'. Knocks dat off, too, still a-drivin' on at 'im. "I yi, you dogs!" Anudder tommyhawk ready to fly. I knocks dat out de big Injun's han'. Big Injun jumps back'ards, I jumps for'ards, my ax high up an' ready fur a cleaver. No chance fur big Injun; ef he starts to run, it's a split in de back; ef he jumps to one side, it's a gash in de neck. De cleaver's a-comin' down, when here, wid a duck uf de head, comes Injun right at me, his shoulder under my arm. Down draps de ax, a-stickin' in de groun' atwixt his heels. Bes' thing he could a-done fur hisse'f—cunnin' as a fox.
Den, ladies an' gen'lemen, we clinches, an' away we goes a-plungin' an' a-whirlin'; through de bushes an' through de fire, roun' an' roun' de logs, roun' an' roun' de trees, roun' an' roun' de hill. Now I tosses 'im up tel his heels kicked de lim's uf de trees, he's so long; but eb'ry time I thinks I's gwine to bring him down kerwollop, down he comes wid all his feet under him, like a cat. Activest thing I eber seed—he's so long. Den he picks me up an' shakes me, dang-a-lang-a-downy-yo, as ef I's nothin' but a string-j'inted limber-jack. But when I at's him ag'in, to lock legs or kick ankles, dar he's 'way off yander, a-tippin' it on his toes, like a killdee. No gittin' a-nigh him, he's so active, he's so long.
By an' by I happens to look 'roun'. Dar's de dead varmint in de blue coat an' ruffled shirt up ag'in, wid his gun on de log, an' p'intin' right at my ribs. "Ouch!" ses I, an' flings Black Thunder atwix. Black Thunder flings me back fur de pop. Back I flings him ag'in atwix. Den him me ag'in, me him ag'in, an' all de time de dead varmint a-follerin' us wid his gun, waitin' to pop my flanks. So, de dead varmint kep' me watchin' so close, an' de live varmint kep' me movin' so fas', I didn't know what I's doin', couldn't tell whar I's gwine. Dar I was, rammed close up in a corner atwix a tree an' a log; no gittin' out, no flingin' big Injun atwix. Dead varmint takin' his aim—finger on trigger, ready to pull. "Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myse'f, "you's a goner," when dar comes Grumbo a-pitchin'—no stoppin' to smell noses. One long lunge he makes, one long, stretchin' lunge—sich a lunge I neber seed a dog make befo'. 'Peared as ef he'd lef' his hin' parts way back yander, to git de quicker at de varmint's throat wid his fo'parts. Back falls Injun, wid a kick an' a yell; off goes gun, wid a kick an' a bang, the bullet a-whizzin' right 'twix' our noses. "Ouch!" ses I. "Ugh!" says Black Thunder. [Audience: "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!" See Glossary. It may have been a coincidence, but just here Grumbo fetched the stump a ratifying rap of the tail.]
Ah! ladies an' gen'lemen [patting his comrade-in-arms on the head], you don't know how glad I wus to see dat dog. An' white folks say dat Grumbo's got no humin feelin's. Git out! Den I takes a long bref, Grumbo still a-holdin' fas' to de dead varmint. "Burlman Rennuls," says I to myse'f, "de big Injun's too active fur you—too much like a cat fur you. You cain't throw him down, but you kin let him throw you down; an' once a-flat uf yo' back on de groun' you kin wollop him ober as easy as turnin' a pancake, den chaw him up any way you please." So, I pushes him hard—he pushes me back still harder—when down we comes, kerwollop, chug—nigger below, Injun on top. But, in de shake uf a sheep's tail, nigger comes up, Injun goes down. I grabs fur my knife. It's gone—slipped out in de scuffle. Big Injun grabs fur his knife; dat's gone, too. He jerks out his pipe an' breaks it in flinders ober my head. "Ouch!" says I. I looks roun' fur somethin' good fur beatin' out brains, an' dar lays my ax. I grabs it up, now ready fur a cleaver, an' no mistake. Big Injun ain't, though; he ain't ready fur any sich a thing. Up he comes wid a whirl, an' down I goes wid a fling, my ax a-flyin' way out yander. But in de wriggle uf a buck's tail comes up nigger ag'in; goes down Injun ag'in. Yes, an' a leetle mo' dan dat: nigger an' Injun clean ober de turn uf de hill, an' now a-slidin', slidin' down whar it wus steep as a house-ruff.
"Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myself, "whar you gwine? Dis ain't de sort uf groun' fur you. You cain't manage de Injun here on de steep hill-side—he's too active fur you; he's too long fur you; he's too much like a painter fur you. Git to a lebel country, Burlman Rennuls; git to a lebel country quick as you kin." Den I hugs him up tight in my arms, an' locks him up tight in my legs, an' 'way down de steep hill, rollin', rumblin', an' tumblin' we go—fus' nigger on top, den Injun'—ober an' ober, fas'er an' fas'er. [The orator revolving his fists one round the other with increasing rapidity.]
"Burlman Rennuls, whar you gwine?" Don't know whar, but dat we's rollin' fas'er an' fas'er, an' dat we's startin' de rocks to rollin' too, a-hoppin' an' pitchin' behin' us as ef dey's in fur a frolic. Now we's all in a whirl down dar at de foot uf de hill, an' no lebel country—nothin' but a leanin'-ober river-bank forty foot high. "Burlman Rennuls, whar you gwine?" Don't know whar. But ober we pitches a-whirlin' [throwing out one of the revolving fists at a tangent]—down we draps into water full forty foot deep, kerslash; de rocks a-pitchin' in arter us thick as hail. [Audience: "Laws-a-marcy!" "Goodness gracious!" "Hoo-weep!" (with a whistle). After an impressive pause the speaker, with an impressive gesture, resumed his exciting story.]
Now, ladies an' gen'lemen, you's thinkin' dat's de las' uf Burlman Rennuls, an' dis his ghos' up here on de stump a-talkin' to you. 'T ain't so: Burlman Rennuls pulled out; pulled out, I say. Ef he didn't he wouldn't be up here a-tellin' you uf it. I ups an' looks roun', big Injun ups an' looks roun'. I pulls fur big Injun, big Injun pulls for lan'. Bes' swimmer; gits dar fus', an' ter keep me from landin' too, 'gins beatin' me back wid rocks, wid no more kunsideration fur de feelin's uf a gen'leman dan ef I'd been a shell-backed tarapin. Whack comes one uf de rocks on my head. "Ouch!" an' down I dives. "Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myself, down dar in de bottom uf de riber, "whar ar' you come to? Not whar you started to go. Dis ain't yo' lebel country. Dis won't do. Big Injun too much fur you in water. Git out uf de water quick as you kin. Two loaded guns up dar on top uf de hill. You scratch out an' git de guns, an' yo' day's work's ober."
So, I ups ag'in; an' dis time under de leanin'-over bank, whar de cane-brake wus, de roots uf de brake a-hangin' down 'mos' to de water. Now comes de rocks ag'in, as thick as hail. Grabbin' de cane-brakes, up I goes, han' ober han', han' ober han'. De rocks stop flyin'. I looks behin' me to see fur why. Dar goes Black Thunder drivin' 'cross de riber down at de riffle, makin' de water fly befo' him like a runaway hoss. O my little marster! Up I goes, in double-quick time. Half way up I sees a painter a-grinnin' down at me frum a tree on de bank. Didn't like his looks, but climbed on.
[Here the speaker was interrupted by a voice from the audience: "Cap'n Rennuls, see yer now; ain't you lettin' on?"]
You g' long! Who stops fur painters in a pinch like dat, or any thing else? Ef I'd turned back den would I be here now to tell you uf it? Git out! So, painter, or what not, up I scrabbles, ober de bank wid a tug, an' through de brake wid a squeeze, tel dar I wus at de foot uf de hill. O my little marster! [A woman's voice in the audience: "Tsht, tsht, tsht! Pore little feller!" See Glossary.]
Up we goes a-scratchin'; pullin' at de bushes an' weeds an' grass ter help us 'long, an' tearin' dem up, like flax on a rainy day. Injun has furder ter go, but longer legs ter go wid. So he gits ter de top uf de hill as quick as me—him nighest his gun, me nighest my ax. He's reachin' his han' out fur de gun, my han' 's on my ax a'ready, an' at him de ax goes whizzin', an' pops him plump on de hip, an' ober he tumbles. I runs to pick up my ax, dis time ter give de tough varmint a cleaver, or neber. He can't run, he can't crawl; but he kin wollop, an' wollop he does, like a rooster wid his head cut off. In de flash uf a gun-flint, dar he's wolloped hisse'f to de turn uf de hill. I sends my ax wid a good-by arter him, an' gives him a gash in de arm to 'member me by. He sends me back a grin an' a whoop, an' away big Injun goes rollin' an' tumblin'. I grabs up a gun—his own gun it was—an' sends him a long far'well. He sends back a yell—de o-f-f-ullest yell I eber heerd in all my bo'n days; offul enough ter come frum a grave-yard. Out comes spirtin' de blood, a-flyin' frum de rollin' body like water frum a flutter-mill. Down to de foot uf de hill a-whirlin' he goes, tel ober de bank uf de riber he pitches. An' dat's de las' I sees uf big Injun. [Audience: "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!"]