And Toby departed, having suddenly conceived an idea of his own for hiding Penn in the barn until the danger was over.
He had been absent from the room but a moment, however, when those remaining in it heard a wild outcry, and presently the old negro reappeared, inspired with superstitious terror, his eyes starting from their sockets, his tongue paralyzed.
"What's the matter, Toby?" cried Virginia, perceiving that something really alarming had happened.
The negro tried to speak, but his throat only gurgled incoherently, while the whites of his eyes kept rolling up like saucers.
"Penn—has anything happened to Penn?" said Mr. Villars.
"O, debil, debil, Lord bress us!" gibbered Toby.
"Dead?" cried Virginia.
"Gone! gone, missis!"
Struck with consternation, but refusing to believe the words of the bewildered black, Virginia flew to the sick man's chamber.
Then she understood the full meaning of Toby's words. Penn was not in his bed, nor in the room, nor anywhere in the house. He had disappeared suddenly, strangely, totally.
Thus the question of what should be done with his guest, which Mr. Villars knew not how to decide, had been decided for him.
Great was the mystery. There was the bed precisely as Penn had left it a minute since. There was the candle dimly burning. The medicines remained just where Toby had placed them, on the table under the mirror. But the patient had vanished.
What had become of him? It was believed that he was too ill to leave his bed without assistance. And, even though he had been strong, it was by no means probable that one so uniformly discreet in his conduct, and ever so regardful of the feelings of others, would have quitted the house in this abrupt and inexplicable manner.
In vain the premises were searched. Not a trace of him could be anywhere discovered. Neither were there any indications of a struggle. Yet it was Toby's firm conviction that the ruffians had entered the house, and seized him; that Pepperill was in the plot, the object of whose visit was merely a diversion, while Ropes and the rest accomplished the abduction. This could not, of course, have been done without the aid of magic and the devil; but Toby believed in magic and the devil. The fact that Dan had taken advantage of the confusion to escape, appeared to the Ethiopian mind conclusive.
Nor was the negro alone in his bewilderment. Carl was utterly confounded. The old clergyman, usually so calm, was deeply troubled; while Virginia herself, pierced with the keenest solicitude, could scarce keep her mind free from horrible and superstitious doubts. The doors between the sitting-room and back stairs were all wide open, and it seemed impossible that any one could have come in or gone out that way without being observed. On the other hand, to have reached the front stairs Penn must have passed through Salina's room. But Salina, who was in her room at the time, averred that she had not been disturbed, even by a sound.
"He has got out the vinder," said Carl. But the window was fifteen feet from the ground.
Thus all reasonable conjecture failed, and it seemed necessary to accept Toby's theory of the ruffians, magic, and the devil. Only one thing was certain: Penn was gone. And, as if to add to the extreme and painful perplexity of his friends, the clothes, which had been stripped from him by the lynchers, which he had brought away in his hands, and which had been hung up in his room by Toby, were left hanging there still, untouched.
The family had not recovered from the dismay his disappearance occasioned, when they had cause to rejoice that he was gone. Ropes and his crew returned, as Pepperill had predicted. They were intoxicated and bloodthirsty. They had brought a rope, with which to hang their victim before the old clergyman's door. They were furious on finding he had eluded them, and searched the house with oaths and uproar. Virginia, on her knees, clung to her father, praying that he might not be harmed, and that Penn, whom all had been so anxious just now to find, might be safe from discovery.
Exasperated by their unsuccessful search, the villains hesitated about laying violent hands on the blind old man, and concluded to wreak their vengeance on Toby. That he was a freed negro, was alone a sufficient offence in their eyes to merit a whipping. But he had done more; he had been devoted to the schoolmaster, and they believed he had concealed him. So they seized him, dragged him from the house, bared his back, and tied him to a tree.
As long as the mob had confined itself to searching the premises, Mr. Villars had held his peace. But the moment his faithful old servant was in danger, he roused himself. He rushed to the door, bareheaded, his white hair flowing, his staff in his hand. Both his children accompanied him,—Salina, who was really not void of affection, appearing scarcely less anxious and indignant than her sister.
There, in the light of a wood-pile to which fire had been set, stood the old negro, naked to the waist, lashed fast to the trunk, writhing with pain and terror; his brutal tormentors grouped around him in the glare of the flames, preparing, with laughter, oaths, and much loose, leisurely swaggering, to flay his flesh with rods.
"My friends!" cried the old clergyman, with an energy that startled them, "what are you about to do?"
"We're gwine to sarve this nigger," said the man Gad, "jest as every free nigger'll git sarved that's found in the state three months from now."
"Free niggers is a nuisance," added Ropes, now very drunk, and very much inclined to make a speech on a barrel which his friends rolled out for him. "A nuisance!" he repeated, with a hiccough, steadying himself on his rostrum by holding a branch of the tree. "And let me say to you, feller-patriots, that one of the glorious fruits of secession is, that every free nigger in the state will either be sold for a slave, or druv out, or hung up. I tell you, gentlemen, we're a goin' to have our own way in these matters, spite of all the ministers in creation!"
The men cheered, and one of them struck Toby a couple of preliminary blows, just to try his hand, and to add the poor old negro's howls to the chorus.
"No doubt,"—the old clergyman's voice rose above the tumult,—"you will have your way for a season. You will commit injustice with a high hand. You will glut your cruelty upon the defenceless and oppressed. But, as there is a God in heaven,"—he lifted up his blind white face, and with his trembling hands shook his staff on high, like a prophet foretelling woe,—"as there is a God of justice and mercy who beholds this wickedness,—just so sure the hour of your retribution will come! so sure the treason you are breathing, and the despotism you are inaugurating, will prove a snare and a destruction to yourselves! Unbind that man! leave my house in peace! go home, and learn to practise a little of the mercy of which you will yourselves soon stand in need." His venerable aspect, and the power and authority of his words, awed even that drunken crew. But Silas, vain of his oratorical powers, was enraged that anybody should dispute his influence with the crowd. Holding the branch with one hand, and gesticulating violently with the other, he exclaimed,—
"Who is boss here? Who ye goin' to mind? that old traitor, or me? I say, lick the nigger! We're a goin' to have our way now, and we're a goin' to have our way to the end of the 'arth, sure as I am a gentleman standing on this yer barrel!"
To emphasize his declaration, he stamped with his foot; the head of the cask flew in, and down went orator, cask, and all, in a fashion rendered all the more ridiculous by the climax of oratory it illustrated.
"Just so sure will your hollow and inhuman schemes fail from under your feet!" exclaimed Mr. Villars, as soon as he learned what had happened. "So surely and so suddenly will you fall."
This incident occurred as Toby's flogging was about to begin in earnest. Virginia had instinctively covered her eyes to shut out the terrible sight, her ears to shut out the sounds of the beating and the poor old fellow's groans. Luckily, Silas had fallen partly in the barrel, and partly across the sharp edge of it, and being too tipsy to help himself, had been seriously hurt, and was now helpless. The ruffians hastened to extricate him, and raise him up. Carl, who, with an open knife concealed in his sleeve, had been waiting for an opportunity, darted at the tree, cut the negro's bonds in a twinkling, and set him free.
Both took to their heels without an instant's delay. But the trick was discovered. They were pursued immediately. Carl was lively on his legs, as we know; but poor old Toby, never a good runner, and now stiff and decrepit with age, was no match even for the slowest of their pursuers.
They ran straight into the orchard, hoping to lose themselves among the shadows. The glare of the burning wood-pile flickered but faintly and unsteadily among the trees. Carl might easily have escaped; but he thought only of Toby, and kept faithfully at his side, assisting him, urging him. A fence was near—if they could only reach that! But Toby was wheezing terribly, and the hand of the foremost ruffian was already extended to seize him.
"Jump the vence over!" was Carl's parting injunction to the old negro, who made a last desperate effort to accomplish the feat; while Carl, turning sharp about, tripped the foot of him of the extended hand, and sent him headlong. The second pursuer he grappled, and both rolled upon the ground together.
Favored by this diversion, Toby reached the fence, climbed it, and without looking how, he leaped, jumped down upon—a human figure, stretched there upon the ground!
Notwithstanding his own danger, Toby thought of his patient, and stopped.
"Is it you, massa?"
The man rose slowly to his feet. It was not Penn; it was, on the contrary, the worst of Penn's enemies, who had stationed himself here, in order to observe, unseen, and from a safe distance, the operations of Silas Ropes and his band of patriots.
"O, Massa Bythewood!" ejaculated Toby, inspired with sudden joy and hope; "help a poor old niggah! Help! De Villarses will remember it ob ye de longest day you live, if you on'y will."
"Why, what's the matter, Toby?" said Augustus, full of rage at having been thus discovered, yet assuming a gracious and patronizing manner.
Toby did not make a very coherent reply; but probably the young gentleman was already sufficiently aware of what was going on. He had no especial regard for Toby, yet his credit with Virginia and her father was to be sustained. And so Toby was saved.
Augustus met and rebuked his pursuers, released Carl, who was suffering at the hands of his antagonist, and led the way back to the house. There he expressed to Mr. Villars and his daughters the utmost regret and indignation for what had occurred, and took Mr. Ropes aside to remonstrate with him for such violent proceedings. His influence over that fallen orator was extraordinary. Ropes excused himself on the plea of his patriotic zeal, and called off his men.
"How fortunate," said Augustus, conducting the old man, with an excessive show of deference and politeness, back into the sitting-room,—"how extremely fortunate that I happened to be walking this way! I trust no serious harm has been done, my dear Virginia?"
Bythewood no doubt thought himself entitled to use this affectionate term, after the service he had rendered the family.
After he was gone, Toby, having recovered from his fright and the fatigue of running, and got his clothes on again, rushed into the presence of his master and the young ladies.
"I've seed Mass' Penn!" he said. "Arter Bythewood done got up from under de fence whar I jumped on him, I seed anoder man a crawlin' away on his hands and knees jest a little ways off. 'Twas Mass' Penn! I know 'twas Mass' Penn."
But Toby was mistaken. The second figure he had seen was Mr. Lysander Sprowl, now the confidential adviser and secret companion of Augustus.
Where, then, all this time, was Penn? He was himself almost as profoundly ignorant on that subject as anybody. For two or three hours he had been lost to himself no less than to his friends.
When he recovered his consciousness he found that he was lying on the ground, in the open air, in what seemed a barren field, covered with rocks and stunted shrubs.
How he came there he did not know. He had nothing on but his night-dress,—a loan from the old clergyman,—besides a blanket wrapped about him. His feet were bare, and he now perceived that they were painfully aching.
Almost too weak to lift a hand to his head, he yet tried to sit up and look around him. All was darkness; not a sign of human habitation, not a twinkling light was visible. The cold night wind swept over him, sighing drearily among the leafless bushes. Chilled, shivering, his temples throbbing, his brain sick and giddy, he sat down again upon the rocks, so ill and suffering that he could scarcely feel astonishment at his situation, or care whether he lived or died.
Where had he been during those hours of oblivion? He seemed to have slept, and to have had terrible dreams. Could he have remembered these dreams, it seemed to him that the whole mystery of his removal to this desolate spot would be explained. And he knew that it required but an effort of his will to remember them. But his soul was too weak: he could not make the effort.
To get upon his feet and walk was impossible. What, then, was left him but to perish here, alone, uncared for, unconsoled by a word of love from any human being? Death he would have welcomed as a relief from his sufferings. Yet when he thought of his home far away, in the peaceful community of Friends, of his parents and sisters now anxiously expecting his return,—and again when he remembered the hospitable roof under which he lay, so tenderly nursed, but a little while ago, and thought of the blind old clergyman, of Virginia fresh as a rose, of kind-hearted Carl, and the affectionate old negro,—he was stung with the desire to live, and he called feebly,—
"Toby! Toby!"
Was his cry heard? Surely, there were footsteps on the rocks! And was not that a human form moving dimly between him and the sky? It passed on, and was lost in the shadows of the pines. Was it some animal, or only a phantom of his feverish brain?
"Toby!" he called again, exerting all his force. But only the wailing wind answered him, and, overcome by the effort, he sunk into a swoon. In that swoon it seemed to him that Toby had heard his voice, and that he came to him. Hands, gentle human hands, groped on him, felt the blanket, felt his bare feet, and his head, pillowed on stones. Then there seemed to be two Tobys, one good and the other evil, holding a strange consultation over him, which he heard as in a dream.
"We can't leave him dying here!" said the good Toby.
"What dat to me, if him die, or whar him die?" said the other Toby. "Straight har!" He seemed to be feeling Penn's locks, in order to ascertain to which race he belonged. "Dat's nuff fur me! Lef him be, I tell ye, and come 'long!"
"Straight hair or curly, it's all the same," said Toby the Good. "Take hold here; we must save him!"
"Hyah-yah! ye don't cotch dis niggah!" chuckled Toby the Bad, maliciously. "Nuff more ob his kind, in all conscience! Reckon we kin spar' much as one! Hyah-yah!"
Something like a quarrel ensued, the result of which was, that Toby the Good finally prevailed upon Toby the Malevolent to assist him. Then Penn was dreamily aware of being lifted in the strong arms of this double individual, and borne away, over rocks, and among thickets, along the mountain side; until even this misty ray of consciousness deserted him, and he fell into a stupor like death.
And what was this he saw on awaking? Had he really died, and was this unearthly place a vestibule of the infernal regions? Days and nights of anguish, burning, and delirium, relieved at intervals by the same death-like stupor, had passed over him; and here he lay at length, exhausted, the terrible fever conquered, and his soul looking feebly forth and taking note of things.
And strange enough things appeared to him! He was in an apartment of prodigious and uncouth architecture, dimly lighted from one side by some opening invisible to him, and by a blazing fire in a little fireplace built on the broad stone floor. The fireplace was without chimney, but a steady draught of air, from the side where the opening seemed to be, swept the smoke away into sombre recesses, where it mingled with the shadows of the place, and was lost in gloom which even the glare of the flames failed to illumine.
Such a cavernous room Penn seemed to have seen in his dreams. The same irregular, rocky roof started up from the wall by his bed, and stretched away into vague and obscure distance. All was familiar to him, but all was somehow mixed up with frightful fantasies which had vanished with the fever that had so recently left him. The awful shapes, the struggles of demoniac men, the processions of strange and beautiful forms, which had visited him in his delirious visions,—all these were airy nothings; but the cave was real.
Here he lay, on a rude bed constructed of four logs, forming the ends and sides, with canvas stretched across them, and secured with nails. Under him was a mattress of moss, over him a blanket like that which he remembered to have had wrapped about him last night in the field.
Last night! Poor Penn was deeply perplexed when he endeavored to remember whether his mysterious awaking in the open air occurred last night, or many nights ago. He moved his head feebly to look for Toby. Which Toby? for all through his sufferings the same two Tobys, one good and the other evil, who had taken him from the field, had appeared still to attend him, and he now more than half expected to see the faithful old negro duplicated, and waiting upon him with two bodies and four hands.
But neither the better nor even the worse half of that double being was near him now. Penn was alone, in that subterranean solitude. There burned the fire, the shadows flickered, the smoke floated away into the depths of the dark cavern, in such loneliness and silence as he had never experienced before. He would have thought himself in some grotto of the gnomes, or some awful cell of enchantment, whose supernatural fire never went out, and whose smoke rolled away into darkness the same perpetually,—but for the sound of the crackling flames, and the sight of piles of wood on the floor, so strongly suggestive of human agency.
On one side was what appeared to be an artificial chamber built of stones, its door open towards the fire. Ranged about the cave, in something like regular order, were several massy blocks of different sizes, like the stools of a family of giants. But where were the giants?
Ah, here came Toby at last, or, at any rate, the twin of him. He approached from the side where the daylight shone, bearing an armful of sticks, and whistling a low tune. With his broad back turned towards Penn, he crouched before the fire, which he poked and scolded with malicious energy, his grotesque and gigantic shadow projected on the wall of the cave.
"Burn, ye debil! K-r-r-r! sputter! snap! git mad, why don't ye?"
Then throwing himself back upon a heap of skins, with his heels at the fire, and his long arms swinging over his head, in a savage and picturesque attitude, he burst into a shout, like the cry of a wild beast. This he repeated several times, appearing to take delight in hearing the echoes resound through the cavern. Then he began to sing, keeping time with his feet, and pausing after each strain of his wild melody to hear it die away in the hollow depths of the cave.
"De glory ob de Lord, it am comin', it am comin',De glory ob de Lord, let it come!De angel ob de Lord, hear his trumpet, hear his trumpet,De angel ob de Lord, he ar come!"
"De glory ob de Lord, it am comin', it am comin',De glory ob de Lord, let it come!De angel ob de Lord, hear his trumpet, hear his trumpet,De angel ob de Lord, he ar come!"
At the last words, "He ar come!" a shadow darkened the entrance, and Penn looked, almost expecting to see a literal fulfilment of the prophecy. A form of imposing stature appeared. It was that of a negro upwards of six feet in height, magnificently proportioned, straight as a pillar, and black as ebony. He wore a dress of skins, carried a gun in his hand, and had an opossum slung over his shoulder.
"Hush your noise!" he said to the singer, in a tone of authority. "Haven't I told you not towake him?"
"No fear o' dat!" chuckled the other. "Him's past dat! Ki! how fat he ar!" seizing the opossum, and beginning to dress him on the spot.
"Past waking! I tell you he's asleep, and every thing depends on his waking up right. But you set up a howl that would disturb the dead!"
"Howl! dat's what ye call singin'; me singin', Pomp."
"Well, keep your singing to yourself till he is able to stand it, you unfeeling, ungrateful fellow!"
"What dat ye call dis nigger?" cried the singer, jumping up in a passion, with his blood-stained knife in his hand. "Ongrateful! Say dat ar agin, will ye?"
"Yes, Cudjo, as often as you please," said Pomp, calmly placing his gun in the artificial chamber. "You are an unfeeling, ungrateful fellow."
He turned, and stood regarding him with a proud, lofty, compassionating smile. Cudjo's anger cooled at once. Penn had already recognized in them the twin Tobys of his dreams. And what a contrast between the two! There was Toby the Good, otherwise called Pomp, dignified, erect, of noble features; while before him cringed and grimaced Toby the Malign, alias Cudjo, ugly, deformed, with immensely long arms, short bow legs resembling a parenthesis, a body like a frog's, and the countenance of an ape.
"You know," said Pomp, "you would have left this man to die there on the rocks, if it hadn't been for me."
"Gorry! why not?" said Cudjo. "What's use ob all dis trouble on his 'count?"
"He has had trouble enough on our account," said Pomp.
"On our 'count? Hiyah-yah!" laughed Cudjo, getting down on his knees over the opossum; "how ye make dat out, by?"
"Pay attention, Cudjo, while I tell ye," said Pomp, stooping, and laying his finger on the deformed shoulder. Cudjo looked up, with his hands and knife still in the opossum's flesh. "This is the way of it, as I heard last night from Pepperill himself, who got into trouble, as you know, by befriending old Pete after his licking. And you know, don't you, how Pete came by his licking?"
"Bein' out nights, totin' our meal and taters to de mountains,—dough I reckon de patrol didn't know nuffin' 'bout dat ar, or him wouldn't got off so easy!" said Cudjo.
"Well, it was by befriending Pepperill, who had befriended Pete, who brings us meal and potatoes, that this man got the ill will of those villains. Do you understand?"
"Say 'em over agin, Pomp. How, now? Lef me see! Dat ar's old Pete," sticking up a finger to represent him. "Dat ar's Pepperill," sticking up a thumb. "Now, yonder is dis yer man, and here am we. Now, how is it, Pomp?"
Pomp repeated his statement, and Cudjo, pointing to his long, black finger when Pete was alluded to, and tapping his thumb when Pepperill was mentioned, succeeded in understanding that it was indirectly in consequence of kindness shown to himself that Penn had come to grief.
"Dat so, Pomp?" he said, seriously, in a changed voice. "Den 'pears like dar's two white men me don't wish dead as dis yer possom! Pepperills one, and him's tudder."
Pomp, having made this explanation, walked softly to the bedside. He had not before perceived that Penn, lying so still there, was awake. His features lighted up with intelligence and sympathy on making the discovery, and finding him free from feverish symptoms.
"Well, how are you getting on, sir?" he said, feeling Penn's pulse, and seating himself on one of the giant's stools near the bedstead.
"Where am I?" was Penn's first anxious question.
"I fancy you don't know very well where you are, sir," said the negro, with a smile; "and you don't know me either, do you?"
"I think—you are my preserver—are you not?"
"That's a subject we will not talk about just now, sir; for you must keep very quiet."
"I know," said Penn, not to be put off so, "I owe my life to you!"
"Dat's so! dat ar am a fac'!" cried Cudjo, approaching, and wrapping the warm opossum skin about his naked arm as he spoke. "Gorry! me sech a brute, me war for leavin' ye dar in de lot. But, Pomp, him wouldn't; so we toted you hyar, and him's doctored you right smart eber sence. He ar a great doctor, Pomp ar! Yah!" And Cudjo laughed, showing two tremendous rows of ivory glittering from ear to ear; capering, swinging the opossum skin over his head, and, on the whole, looking far more like a demon of the cave than a human being.
"Go about your business, Cudjo!" said Pomp. "You mustn't mind his freaks, sir," turning to Penn. "You are a great deal better; and now, if you will only remain quiet and easy in your mind, there's no doubt but you will get along."
Many questions concerning himself and his friends came crowding to Penn's lips; but the negro, with firm and gentle authority, silenced him.
"By and by, sir, I will tell you everything you wish to know. But you must rest now, while I see to making you a suitable broth."
And nothing was left for Penn but to obey.
Three days longer Penn lay there on his rude bed in the cave, helpless still, and still in ignorance.
Pomp repeatedly assured him that all was well, and that he had no cause for anxiety, but refused to enlighten him. The negro's demeanor was well calculated to inspire calmness and trust. There was something truly grand and majestic, not only in his person, but in his character also. He was a superb man. Penn was never weary of watching him. He thought him the most perfect specimen of a gentleman he had ever seen; always cheerful, always courteous, always comporting himself with the ease of an equal in the presence of his guest. His strength was enormous. He lifted Penn in his arms as if he had been an infant. But his grace was no less than his vigor. He was, in short, a lion of a man.
Cudjo was more like an ape. His gibberings, his grimaces, his antics, his delight in mischief, excited in the mind of the convalescent almost as much surprise as the other's princely deportment. For hours together he would lie watching those two wonderfully contrasted beings. Petulant and malicious as Cudjo appeared, he was completely under the control of his noble companion, who would often stand looking down at his tricks and deformity, with composedly folded arms and an air of patient indulgence and compassion beautiful to witness.
Meanwhile Penn gradually regained his strength, so that on the fourth day Pomp permitted him to talk a little.
"Tell me first about my friends," said Penn. "Are they well? Do they know where I am?"
"I hope not, sir," said the negro, with a significant smile, seating himself on the giant's stool. "I trust that no one knows where you are."
"What, then, must they think?" said Penn. "How did I leave them?"
"That is what they are very much perplexed to find out, sir."
"You have heard from them, then?"
"O, yes; we have a way of getting news of people down there. Toby has nearly gone distracted on your account. He is positive that you are dead, for he believes you could never have got well out of his hands."
"And Miss—Mr. Villars——?"
"They have been so much disturbed about you, that I would have been glad to inform them of your safety, if I could. But not even they must know of this place."
"Where am I, then?"
"You are, as you perceive, in a cave. But I suppose you know so little how you came here that you would find some difficulty in tracing your way to us again?" This was spoken interrogatively, with an intelligent smile.
"I am so ignorant of the place," said Penn, "that it may be in the planet Mars, for aught I know."
"That is well! Now, sir," continued the negro, "since you have several times expressed your obligations to us for preserving your life, I wish to ask one favor in return. It is this. You are welcome to remain here as long as you find your stay beneficial; but when you conclude to go, we desire the privilege of conducting you away. That is not an unreasonable request?"
"Far from it. And I pledge you my word to make no movement without your sanction, and to keep your secret sacredly. But tell me—will you not?—how you came to inhabit this dreadful place?"
"Dreadful? There are worse places, my friend, than this. Is it gloomy? The house of bondage is gloomier. Is it damp? It is not with the cruel sweat and blood of the slave's brow and back. Is it cold? The hearts of our tyrants are colder."
"I understand you," said Penn, whose suspicion was thus confirmed that these men were fugitives. "And I am deeply interested in you. How long have you lived here?"
"Would you like to hear something of my story?" said the negro, the expression of his eyes growing deep and stern,—his black, closely curling beard stirring with a proud smile that curved his lips. "Perhaps it will amuse you."
"Amuse me? No!" said Penn. "I know by your looks that it will not amuse: it will absorb me!"
"Well, then," said Pomp, bearing his head upon his massy and flexible neck of polished ebony like a king, yet speaking in tones very gentle and low,—and he had a most mellow, musical, deep voice,—"you are talking with one who was born a slave."
"You know what I think of that!" said Penn. "Even such a birth could not debase the manhood of one like you."
"It might have done so under different circumstances. But I was so fortunate as to be brought up by a young master who was only too kind and indulgent to me, considering my station. We were playmates when children; and we were scarcely less intimate when we had both grown up to be men. He went to Paris to study medicine, and took me with him. I passed for his body servant, but I was rather his friend. He never took any important step in life without consulting me; and I am happy to know," added Pomp, with grand simplicity, "that my counsel was always good. He acknowledged as much on his death-bed. 'If I had taken your advice oftener,' said he, 'it would have been better for me. I always meant to reward you. You are to have your freedom—your freedom, my dear boy!'"
The negro knitted his brows, his breath came thick, and there was a strange moisture in his eye.
"I loved my master," he continued, with simple pathos. "And when I saw him troubled on my account, when he ought to have been thinking of his own soul, I begged him not to let a thought of me give him any uneasiness. My free papers had not been made out, and he was for sending at once for a notary. But his younger brother was with him—he who was to be his heir. 'Don't vex yourself about Pomp, Edwin,' said he. 'I will see that justice is done him.'
"'Ah, thank you, brother!' said Edwin. 'You will set him free, and give him a few hundred dollars to begin life with. Promise that, and I will rest in peace.' For you must know Edwin had neither wife nor child, and I was the only person dependent on his bounty. He was not rich; he had spent a good part of his fortune abroad, and had but recently established himself in a successful practice in Montgomery. Yet he left enough so that his brother could have well afforded to give me my freedom, and a thousand dollars."
"And did he not promise to do so?"
"He promised readily enough. And so my master died, and was buried, and I—had another master. For a few days nothing was said about free papers; and I had been too much absorbed in grief for the only man I loved to think much about them. But when the estate was settled up, and my new master was preparing to return to his home here in Tennessee, I grew uneasy.
"'Master,' said I, taking off my hat to him one morning, 'there is nothing more I can do for him who is gone; so I am thinking I would like to be for myself now, if you please.'
"'For yourself, you black rascal?' said my new master, laughing in my face.
"I wasn't used to being spoken to in that way, and it cut. But I kept down that which swelled up in here"—Pomp laid his hand on his heart—"and reminded him, respectfully as I could, of the doctor's last words about me, and of his promise.
"'You fool!' said he, 'do you think I was in earnest?'
"'If you were not,' said I, 'the doctor was.'
"'And do you think,' said he, 'that I am to be bound by the last words of a man too far gone to know his own mind in the matter?'
"'He always meant I should have my freedom,' I answered him, 'and always said so.'
"'Then why didn't he give it to you before, instead of requiring me to make such a sacrifice? Come, come, Pomp!' he patted my shoulder; 'you are altogether too valuable a nigger to throw away. Why, people say you know almost as much about medicine as my brother did. You'll be an invaluable fellow to have on a plantation; you can doctor the field hands, and, may be, if you behave yourself, get a chance to prescribe for the family. Come, my boy, you musn't get foolish ideas of freedom into your head; they're what spoil a nigger, and they'll have to be whipped out of you, which would be too bad for a fine, handsome darkey like you.'
"He patted my shoulder again, and looked as pleasant and flattering as if I had been a child to be coaxed,—I, as much a man, every bit, as he!" said Pomp, with a gleam of pride. "I could have torn him like a tiger for his insolence, his heartless injustice. But I repressed myself; I knew nothing was to be gained by violence.
"'Master,' said I, 'what you say is no doubt very flattering. But I want what my master gave me—what you promised that I should have—I shall be contented with nothing else.'
"'What! you persist?' he said, kindling up. 'Let me tell you now, Pomp, once for all, you'll have to be contented with a good deal less; and never mention the word "freedom" to me again if you would keep that precious hide of yours whole!'
"I saw he meant it, and that there was no help for me. Despair and fury were in me. Then, for the only time in my life, I felt what it was to wish to murder a man. I could have smitten the life out of that smiling, handsome face of his! Thank God I was kept from that. I concealed what was burning within. Then first I learned to pray,—I learned to trust in God. And so better thoughts came to me; and I said, 'If he uses me well, I will serve him; if not, I will run for my life.'
"Well, he brought me here to Tennessee. Here he was managing his aunt's estate, which she, soon dying, bequeathed to him. Up to this time I had got on very well; but he never liked me; he often said I knew too much, and was too proud. He was determined to humiliate me; so one day he said to me, 'Pomp, that Nance has been acting ugly of late, and you permit her.' I was a sort of overseer, you see. 'Now I'll tell you what I am going to have done. Nance is going to be whipped, and you are the fellow that's going to whip her.'
"'Pardon, master,' said I, 'that's what I never did—to whip a woman.'
"'Then it's time for you to begin. I've had enough of your fine manners, Pomp, and now you have got to come down a little.'
"'I will do any thing you please to serve your interests, sir,' said I. 'But whip a woman I never can, and never will. That's so, master.'
"'You villain!' he shouted, seizing a riding whip, 'I'll teach you to defy my authority to my face!' And he sprang at me, furious with rage.
"'Take care, sir!' I said, stepping back. ''Twill be better for both of us for you not to strike me!'
"'What! you threaten, you villain?'
"'I do not threaten, sir; but I say what I say. It will be better for both of us. You will never strike me twice. I tell you that.'
"I reckon he saw something dangerous in me, as I said this, for, instead of striking, he immediately called for help. 'Sam! Harry! Nap! bind this devil! Be quick!'
"'They won't do it!' said I. 'Woe to the man that lays a finger on me, be he master or be he slave!'
"'I'll see about that!' said he, running into the house. He came out again in a minute with his rifle. I was standing there still, the boys all keeping a safe distance, not one daring to touch me.
"'Master,' said I, 'hear one word. I am perfectly willing to die. Long enough you have robbed me of my liberty, and now you are welcome to what is less precious—my poor life. But for your own sake, for your dead brother's sake, let me warn you to beware what you do.'
"I suppose the allusion to his injustice towards me maddened him. He levelled his piece, and pulled the trigger. Luckily the percussion was damp,—or else I should not be talking with you now. His aim was straight at my head. I did not give him time for a second attempt. I was on him in an instant. I beat him down, I trampled him with rage. I snatched his gun from him, and lifted it to smash his skull. Just then a voice cried, 'Don't, Pomp! don't kill master!'
"It was Nance, pleading for the man who would have had her whipped. I couldn't stand that. Her mercy made me merciful. 'Good by, boys!' I said. They were all standing around, motionless with terror. 'Good by, Nance! I am off; live or die, I quit this man's service forever!'
"So I left him," said Pomp, "and ran for the woods. I was soon ranging these mountains, free, a wild man whom not even their blood-hounds could catch. I took the gun with me—a good one: here it is." He removed the rifle from its crevice in the rocks. "Do you know that name? It is that of its former owner—the man who called himself my master. Do you think it was taking too much from one who would have robbed me of my soul?"
He held the stock over the bed, so that Penn could make out the lettering. Delicately engraved on a surface of inlaid silver, was the well-known name,—
"Augustus Bythewood."
"Augustus Bythewood."
Penn was not surprised at this discovery. He had already recognized in Pomp the hero of a story which he had heard before.
"But all this happened before I came to Tennessee, did it not? Have you lived in this cave ever since?"
"It is three years since I took to the mountains. But I have spent but a little of that time here. Sometimes, for weeks together, I am away, tramping the hills, exploring the forests, sleeping on the ground in the open air, living on fish, game, and fruits. That is in the summer time. Winters I burrow here."
"If you are so independent in your movements, why have you never escaped to the north?"
"Would I be any better off there? Does not the color of a negro's skin, even in your free states, render him an object of suspicion and hatred? What chance is there for a man like me?"
"Little—very true!" said Penn, sadly, contemplating the form of the powerful and intelligent black, and thinking with indignation and shame of the prejudice which excludes men of his race from the privileges of free men, even in the free north.
"These crags," said the African, "do not look scornfully upon me because of the color of my skin. The watercourses sing for me their gladdest songs, black as I am. And the serious trees seem to love me, even as I love them. It is a savage, lonely, but not unhappy life I lead—far better for a man like me than servitude here, or degradation at the north. I have one faithful human friend at least. Cudjo, cunning and capricious as he seems, is capable of genuine devotion."
"Have you two been together long?"
"One day, a few weeks after I took to the mountains, I was watching for an animal which I heard rustling the foliage of a tree that grows up out of a chasm. I held my gun ready to fire, when I perceived that my animal was something human. It climbed the tree, ran out on one of the branches, leaped, like a squirrel, to some bushes that grew in the wall of the chasm, and soon pulled itself up to the top. Then I saw that it was a man—and a black man. He came towards the spot where I was concealed, sauntering along, chewing now and then a leaf, and muttering to himself; appearing as happy as a savage in his native woods, and perfectly unconscious of being observed. Suddenly I rose up, levelling my gun. He uttered a yell of terror, and started to cast himself again into the chasm. But with a threat I prevented him, and he threw himself at my feet, begging me to grant him his life, and not to take him back to his master.
"'Who is your master?' said I.
"'Job Coombs was my master,' said he, 'but I left him.'
"'You are Cudjo, then!' said I,—for I had heard of him. He ran away from a tolerably good master on account of unmercifully cruel treatment from the overseer. But as he had been frightfully cut up the night before he disappeared, it was generally believed he had crawled into a hole in the rocks somewhere, and died, and been eaten by buzzards. But it seems that he had been concealed and cured by an old slave on the plantation named Pete."
"Coombs's Pete!" exclaimed Penn.
"You have good cause to remember the name!" said Pomp. "As soon as Cudjo was well enough to tramp, he took to the mountains. It was a couple of years afterwards that I met him. We soon came to an understanding, and he conducted me to his cave. Here he lived. He has always kept up a communication with some of his friends—especially with old Pete, who often brings us provisions to a certain place, and supplies us with ammunition. We give him game and skins, which he disposes of when he can, generally to such men as Pepperill. He was going to Pepperill's house, after meeting Cudjo, that night when the patrolmen discovered and whipped him. That led to Pepperill's punishment, and that led to your being here."
"Does old Pete visit you since?"
"No, but he has sent us a message, and I have seen Pepperill."
"Not here!"
"Nobody ever comes here, sir. We have a place where we meet our friends; and as for Pepperill, I went to his house."
"That was bold in you!"
"Bold?" The negro smiled. "What will you say then when I tell you I have been in Bythewood's house, since I left him? I wanted my medicine-case, and the bullet-moulds that belong with the rifle. I entered his room, where he was asleep. I stood for a long time and looked at him by the moonlight. It was well for him he didn't wake!" said Pomp, with a dancing light in his eye. "He did not; he slept well! Having got what I wanted, I came away; but I had changed knives with him, and left mine sticking in the bedstead over his head, so that he might know I had been there, and not accuse any one else of the theft."
"The sight of that knife must have given him a shudder, when he woke, and saw who had been there, and remembered his wrongs towards you!" said Penn.
"Well it might!" said Pomp. "Come here, Cudjo."
Cudjo had just entered the cave, bringing some partridges which he had caught in traps.
"It's allus 'Cudjo! Cudjo do dis! Cudjo do dat!' What ye want o' Cudjo?"
Pomp paid no heed to the ill-natured response, but said calmly, addressing Penn,—
"I have told you my reasons for escaping out of slavery: now I will show you Cudjo's."
The back of the deformed was stripped bare. Penn uttered a groan of horror at the sight.
"Dem's what ye call lickins!" said Cudjo, with a hideous grin over his shoulder. "Dat ar am de oberseer's work."
"Good Heaven!" said Penn, sick at the sight of the scars. "I can't endure it! Take him away!"
"Don't be 'fraid!" said Cudjo. "Feel of 'em, sar!" And taking Penn's hand, he seemed to experience a vindictive joy in passing it over his lash-furrowed flesh. "Not much skin dar, hey? Rough streaks along dar, hey? Needn't pull your hand away dat fashion, and shet yer eyes, and look so white! It's all ober now. What if you'd seen dat back when 'twas fust cut up? or de mornin' arter? Shouldn't blame ye, if 't had made ye sick den!"
"But what had you done to merit such cruelty?" exclaimed Penn, relieved when the back was covered.
"What me done? De oberseer didn't hap'm to like me; dat's what me done. But he did hap'm to like my gal; dat's more what me done! So he cut me up wid his own hand,—said me sassy, and wouldn't work. Coombs, him's a good man 'nuff,—neber found no fault 'long wid him; but debil take dat ar Silas Ropes!"
"Silas Ropes!"
"Him was Coombs's oberseer dem times," said Cudjo. "Him gi' me de lickins; him got my gal—me owe him for dat!" And, with a ferocious grimace, clinching his hands together as if he felt his enemy's throat, he gave a yell of rage which resounded through the cavern.
"Go about your work, Cudjo," said Pomp. "What do you think of that back, sir?"
"It is the most powerful anti-slavery document I ever saw!" said Penn.
"He is a native African," said Pomp. "He was brought to this country a young barbarian; and he has barely got civilized—hardly got Christianized yet! I will make him tell you more of his history some day. Then you will no longer wonder that his lessons in Christian love have not made a saint of him! Now you must rest, while I help him get dinner."
The manner of cooking practised in the cave was exceedingly primitive. The partridges broiled over the fire, the potatoes roasted in the ashes, and the corn-cake baked in a kettle, the meal was prepared. The artificial chamber was Cudjo's pantry. One of the giant's stools, having a broad, flat surface, served as a table. On this were placed two or three pewter plates, and as many odd cups and saucers. Cudjo had an old coffee-pot, in which he made strong black coffee. He could afford, however, neither sugar nor milk.
Penn's wants were first attended to. He picked the bones of a partridge lying in bed, and thought he had never tasted sweeter meat.
"With how few things men can live, and be comfortable! and what simple fare suffices for a healthy appetite!" he said to himself, watching Pomp and Cudjo at their dinner. Pomp did not even drink coffee, but quenched his thirst with cold water dipped from a pool in the cave.
That afternoon, as Penn was alone, the mystery of his removal from Mr. Villars's house was suddenly revealed to him.
"I remember it very distinctly now," he said to Pomp, who presently came in and sat by his bed. "Ropes and his crew had been to the house for me. Sick and delirious as I was, I knew the danger to my friends, and it seemed to me that Imustleave the house. So I watched my opportunity, and when Toby left me for a minute, I darted through his room over the kitchen, climbed down from the window to the roof of the shed, and from there descended by an apple tree to the ground. This is the dream I have been trying to recall. It is all clear to me now. But I do not remember any thing more. The delirium must have given me preternatural strength, if I walked all the distance to the spot where you found me."
"That you did walk it, your bruised and bleeding feet were a sufficient evidence," said the negro. "You had just such delirious attacks afterwards, when it was as much as Cudjo and I wanted to do to hold you."
"And the blanket—it is Toby's blanket, which I caught up as I fled," added Penn.
He now became extremely anxious to communicate with his friends, to explain his conduct to them, and let them know of his safety. Besides, he was now getting sufficiently strong to sit up a little, and other clothing was necessary than the old minister's nightgown and Toby's blanket.
"I have been thinking it all over," said Pomp, "and have concluded to pay your friends a visit."
"No, no, my dear sir!" exclaimed Penn, with gratitude. "I can't let you incur any such danger on my account. I can never repay you for half you have done for me already!" And he pressed the negro's hand as no white man had ever pressed it since the death of his good master, Dr. Bythewood.
Pomp was deeply affected. His great chest heaved, and his powerful features were charged with emotion.
"The risk will not be great," said he. "I will take Cudjo with me, and between us we will manage to bring off your clothes."
At night the two blacks departed, leaving Penn alone in the fire-lit cave, waiting for their return, picturing to himself all the difficulties of their adventure, and thinking with warm gratitude and admiration of Pomp, whose noble nature not even slavery could corrupt, whose benevolent heart not even wrong could embitter.
It was late in the evening when the two messengers arrived at Mr. Villars's house. All was dark and still about the premises. But one light was visible, and that was in the room over the kitchen.
"That is Toby's room," said Pomp. "Stay here, Cudjo, while I give him a call."
"Stay yuself," said Cudjo, "and lef dis chil' go. Me know Toby; you don't."
So Pomp remained on the watch while Cudjo climbed the tree by which Penn had descended, scrambled up over the shed-roof, reached the window, opened it, and thrust in his head.
Toby, who was just going to bed, heard the movement, saw the frightful apparition, and with a shriek dove under the bed-clothes, where he lay in an agony of fear, completely hidden from sight, while Cudjo, grinning maliciously, climbed into the room.
"See hyar, ye fool! none ob dat! none ob your playin' possum wid me!" said the visitor, rolling Toby over, while Toby held the clothes tighter and tighter, as if to show a lock of wool or the tip of an ear would have been fatal. "Me's Cudjo! don't ye know Cudjo? Me come for de gemman's clo'es!"
"Hey? dat you, Cudjo?" said Toby, venturing at length to peep out. "Wha—wha—what de debil you want hyar?"
"De gemman sent me. Dis yer letter's for your massy."
"De gemman?" cried Toby, jumping up. "Not Mass' Penn? not Mass' Hapgood?"
Immense was his astonishment on being assured that Penn was alive, recovering, and in need of garments. Carl, who had been awakened in the next room by the noise, now came in to see what was the matter. He recognized Penn's handwriting on the note, and immediately hastened with it to Virginia's room. A minute after she was reading it to her father at his bedside. It was written with a pencil on a leaf torn from a little blank book in which Pomp kept a sort of diary; but never had gilt-edged or perfumed billet afforded the blind old minister and his daughter such unalloyed delight.
It was long past midnight when Pomp and Cudjo returned to the cave, bringing with them not only Penn's garments, but a goodly stock of provisions, which Cudjo had hinted to Toby would be acceptable, and, more precious still, a letter from Mr. Villars, written by his daughter's own hand.
Penn now began to sit up a little every day. Gloomy as the cave was, it was not an unwholesome abode even for an invalid. The atmosphere was pure, cool, and bracing; the temperature uniform. Nor did Penn suffer inconvenience from dampness; though often, in the deep stillness of the night, he could hear the far-off, faint, and melancholy murmur of dropping water in the hollow recesses of the cavern beyond.
One day, as soon as he was well enough for the undertaking, Pomp ordered Cudjo to light torches and show them the hidden wonders of his habitation. Cudjo was delighted with the honor. He ran on before, waving the flaring pine knots over his head, and shouting.
Penn's astonishment was profound. Keen as had been his curiosity as to what was beyond the shadowy walls the fire dimly revealed, he had formed no conception of the extent and sublimity of the various galleries, chambers, glittering vaults, and falling waters, embosomed there in the mountain.
"Dis yer all my own house!" Cudjo kept repeating, with fantastic grimaces of satisfaction. "Me found him all my own self. Nobody war eber hyar afore me; Pomp am de next; and you's de on'y white man eber seen dis yer cave."
It grew light as they proceeded, Cudjo's torch paled, and the waters of a subterranean stream they were following caught gleams of the struggling day from another opening beyond. Climbing over fragments of huge tumbled rocks, and up an earthy bank, Penn found himself in the bottom of an immense chasm. It had apparently been formed by the sinking down of the roof of the cave, with a tremendous superincumbent weight of forest trees. There, on an island, so to speak, in the midst of the subterranean darkness, they were growing still, their lofty tops barely reaching the level of the mountain above.
"It was out of this sink I saw the wild beast climbing, that turned out to be Cudjo," said Pomp.
"Dat ar am de tree," said Cudjo. "No oder way but dat ar to get up out ob dis yer hole."
"What a terrible place!" said Penn, little thinking at the time how much more terrible it was soon to become as a scene of deadly human conflict.
Beyond the chasm the stream flowed on into still more remote parts of the cave. But Penn had seen enough for one day, and the torch-bearing Cudjo guided them back to the spot from which they had started.
Penn had now completely won the confidence of the blacks, who no longer placed any restrictions on his movements. It had been their original purpose never to suffer him to leave the cave without being blindfolded. But now, having shown him one opening, they freely permitted him to pass out by the other. This was that by which he had been brought in, and which was used by the blacks themselves on all ordinary occasions. It was a mere fissure in the mountain, hidden from external view by thickets. Above rose steep ledges of rocks, thickly covered with earth and bushes. Below yawned an immense ravine, far down in the cool, dark depths of which a little streamlet flowed.
Pomp piloted his guest through the thickets, and along a narrow shelf, from which the ascent to the barren ledges was easy. Upon these they sat down. It was a beautiful April day. This was Penn's first visit to the upper world since he was brought to the cave. The scene filled him with rapture; the loveliness of earth and sky intoxicated him. Here he was among the rugged ranges of the Cumberland Mountains, in the heart of Tennessee. On either hand they rolled away in tremendous billows of forest-crowned rocks. The ravines in their sides opened into little valleys, and these spread out into a broad and magnificent intervale, checkered with farms, streaked with roads, and dotted with dwellings. Spring seemed to have come in a night. It was chill March weather when Penn left the world, which was now warm with sweet south winds, and green with April verdure.
"How beautiful, how beautiful!" said he, receiving, with the susceptibility of a convalescent, the exquisite impression made upon the senses by every sight and sound and odor. "O! and to think that all this divine loveliness is marred by the passions of men! Up here, what glory, what peace! Down yonder, what hatred, violence, and sin! No wonder, Pomp, you love the mountains so!"
"It is doubtful if they leave the mountains in peace much longer," said Pomp. He had heard the night before that fighting had begun at Charleston, and the news had stirred his soul. "The country is all alive with excitement, and the waves of its fury will reach us here before long. Take this glass, sir: you can see soldiers marching through the streets."
"They are marching past my school-house!" said Penn. He became very thoughtful. He knew that they were soldiers recruited in the cause of rebellion, although Tennessee had not yet seceded,—although the people had voted in February against secession: a dishonest governor, and a dishonest legislature, aided by reckless demagogues everywhere, being resolved upon precipitating the state into revolution, by fraud and force,—if not with the consent of the people, then without it. "I had hoped the storm would soon blow over, and that it would be safe for me to go peaceably about my business."
"The storm," said Pomp, his soul dilating, his features kindling with a wild joy, "is hardly begun yet! The great problem of this age, in this country, is going to be solved in blood! This continent is going to shake with such a convulsion as was never before. It is going to shake till the last chain of the slave is shaken off, and the sin is punished, and God says, 'It is enough!'"
He spoke with such thrilling earnestness that Penn regarded him in astonishment.
"What makes you think so, Pomp?"
"That I can't tell. The feeling rises up here,"—the negro laid his hand upon his massive chest,—"and that is all I know. It is strong as my life—it fills and burns me like fire! The day of deliverance for my race is at hand. That is the meaning of those soldiers down there, arming for they know not what."
Weeks passed. But now every day brought to Penn increasing anxiety of mind with regard to his situation. His abhorrence of war was as strong as ever; and his great principle of non-resistance had scarcely been shaken. But how was he to avoid participating in scenes of violence if he remained in Tennessee? And how was his escape from the state to be effected?
"You are welcome to a home with us as long as you will stay," said Pomp. "I shall miss you—even Cudjo will hate to see you go."
Penn thanked him, fully appreciating their kindness; but his heart was yearning for other things.
Day after day he lingered still, however. The difficulties in the way of escape thickened, instead of diminishing. In February, as I have said, the people had voted against secession. Not content with this, the governor called an extra session of the legislature, which proceeded to carry the state out of the Union by fraud. On the sixth of May an ordinance of separation was passed, to be submitted to the vote of the people on the eighth of June. But without waiting for the will of the people to be made manifest, the authors of this treason went on to act precisely as if the state had seceded. A league was formed with the confederate states, the control of all the troops raised in Tennessee was given to Davis, and troops from the cotton states were rushed in to make good the work thus begun. The June election, which took place under this reign of terror, resulted as was to have been expected. Rebel soldiers guarded the polls. Few dared to vote openly the Union ticket; while those who deposited a close ticket were "spotted." Thus timid men were frightened from the ballot-box; while soldiers from the cotton states voted in their places. Then, as it was charged, there were the grossest frauds in counting the votes. And so Tennessee "seceded."
The state authorities had also achieved a politic stroke by disarming the people. Every owner of a gun was compelled to deliver it up, or pay a heavy fine. The arms thus secured went to equip the troops raised for the Confederacy; while the Union cause was left crippled and defenceless. Many firelocks were of course kept concealed: some were taken to pieces, and the pieces scattered,—the barrel here, the stock there, and the lock in still another place,—to come together again only at the will of the owner: but, as a general thing, the loyalists could not be said to have arms. It was in those times that the precaution of Stackridge and his fellow-patriots was justified. The secrecy with which they had conducted their night-meetings and drills, though seemingly unnecessary at first, saved them from much inconvenience when the full tide of persecution set in. They were suspected indeed, and it was believed they had arms; but they still met in safety, and the place where their arms were deposited remained undiscovered.
All this time, Penn had no money with which to defray the expenses of travel. When his school was broken up, several hundred dollars were due him for his services. This sum the trustees of the Academy placed to his credit in the Curryville Bank; but, in consequence of a recent enactment, designed to rob and annoy loyal men, he could not draw the money without appearing personally, and first taking the oath of allegiance to the confederate government. This, of course, was out of the question.
Meanwhile he learned to rough it on the mountain with the fugitives. Pomp taught him the use of the rifle, and he was soon able to shoot, dress, and cook his own dinner. He grew robust with the exercise and exposure. But every day his longing eyes turned towards the valley where the friends were whom he loved, and whom he resolved at all hazards to visit again, if for the last time.
At length, one morning at breakfast, he informed Pomp and Cudjo of his intention to leave them,—to return secretly to the village, place himself under the protection of certain Unionists he knew, and attempt, with their assistance, to make his way out of the state.
"Why go down there at all?" said Pomp. "If you are determined to leave us, let me be your guide. I will take you over the mountains into Kentucky, where you will be safe. It will be a long, hard journey; but you are strong now; we will take it leisurely, killing our game by the way."
"You are very kind—and——"
Penn blushed and stammered. The truth was, he was willing to risk his life to see Virginia once more; and the thought of quitting the state without bidding her good by was intolerable to him.
"And what?" said Pomp, smiling intelligently.
"And I may possibly be glad to accept your proposal. But I am determined to try the other way first."
Both Pomp and Cudjo endeavored to dissuade him from the undertaking, but in vain. That evening he took his departure. The blacks accompanied him to the foot of the mountain. Notwithstanding the friendship and gratitude he had all along felt towards them, he had not foreseen how painful would be the separation from them.
"I never quitted friends more reluctantly!" he said, choked with his emotion. "Never, never shall I forget you—never shall I forget those rambles on the mountains, those days and nights in the cave! Let me hope we shall meet again, when I can make you some return for your kindness."
"We may meet again, and sooner than you suppose," said Pomp. "If you find escape too difficult, be sure and come back to us. Ah, I seem to foresee that you will come back!"
With this prediction ringing in his ears, and filling him with vague forebodings, Penn went his way; while the negroes, having shaken hands with him in sorrowful silence, returned to their savage mountain home, which had never looked so lonely to them as now, since their beloved and gentle guest had departed.
The night was not dark, and Penn, having been guided to a bridle-path that led to the town, experienced no difficulty in finding his way on alone. He approached the minister's house from the fields. Although late in the evening, the windows were still lighted. He was surprised to see men walking to and fro by the house, and to hear their footsteps on the piazza floor. He drew near enough to discern that they carried muskets. Then the truth flashed upon him: they were soldiers guarding the house.
Whether they were there to protect the venerable Unionist from mob-violence, or to prevent his escape, Penn could only conjecture. In either case it would have been extremely indiscreet for him to enter the house. Bitter disappointment filled him, mingled with apprehensions for the safety of his friends, and remorse at the thought that he himself had, although unintentionally, been instrumental in drawing down upon them the vengeance of the secessionists.
Penn next thought of Stackridge. It was indeed upon that sturdy patriot that he relied chiefly for aid in leaving the state. He took a last, lingering look at the minister's house,—the windows whose cheerful light had so often greeted him on his way thither, in those delightful winter evenings which were gone, never to return,—the soldiers on the piazza, symbolizing the reign of terror that had commenced,—and with a deep inward prayer that God would shield with his all-powerful hand the beleaguered family, he once more crossed the fields.
By a circuitous route he came in sight of Stackridge's house. There were lights there also, although it must have been now near midnight. And as Penn discerned them, he became aware of loud voices engaged in angry altercation around the farmer's door. It was no time for him to approach. He stole away as noiselessly as he had come. In the still, quiet night he paused, asking himself what he should do.
The Academy was not far off. He remembered that he had left there, among other things, a pocket Bible, a gift from his sister, which he wished to preserve. Perhaps it was there still; perhaps he could get in and recover it. At all events, he had plenty of leisure on his hands, and could afford to make the trial.
He heard the mounted patrol pass by, and waited for the sound of hoofs to die in the distance. Then cautiously he drew near the gloomy and silent school-house. Not doubting but the door was locked,—for he still had the key with him which he had turned for the last time when he walked out in defiance of the lynchers,—he resolved not to unlock it, but to keep in the rear of the building, and enter, if possible, by a window.
The window was unfastened, as it had ever remained since he had opened it, on that memorable occasion, to communicate with Carl. Softly he raised the sash, and softly he crept in. His foot, however, struck an object on the desk, and swept it down. It fell with a loud, rattling sound upon the floor.
It was a musket; the owner of which bounded up on the instant from a bench where he was lying, and seized Penn by the leg. The school-house had been turned into a barrack-room for recruits, and the late master found that he had descended upon a squad of confederate soldiers.
Lights were struck, and the sleepy sentinels, rubbing their eyes open, recognized, struggling in the arms of their companion, the unfortunate young Quaker.
"I knowed 'twas him! I knowed 'twas him!" cried his overjoyed captor, who proved to be no other than Silas Ropes's worthy friend Gad. "I heern him gittin' inter the winder, but I kept dark till he knocked my gun down; then I grabbed him! He's a traitor, and this time will meet a traitor's doom!"
"My friends," said Penn, recovering from the agitation of his first surprise and struggle, "I am in your power. It is perhaps the best thing that could happen to me; for I have committed no crime, and I cannot doubt but that I shall receive justice all the sooner for this accident. You need not take the trouble to bind me; I shall not attempt to escape."
His captors, however, among whom he recognized with some uneasiness more than one of those who had been engaged in lynching him, persisted in binding him upon a bench, in no very comfortable position, and then set a guard over him for the remainder of the night.