"Lady maybe fifteen, twenty, mile 'way," he said. "We take camp 'long."
"That's very well if you take it," I laughed, "but I've no idea of lugging that stuff half over Florida. Why not carry the things we need?"
"Maybe need all," he answered, then smiled: "Camp light."
At this he arose with a subtle power that reminded me of a huge black leopard and began making our things into a pack. Never had I seen, anywhere from Newfoundland to the Rockies, a bundle of duffle more skillfully arranged, and I said with no small degree of admiration:
"I'd take off my hat to you, Smilax, if the storm hadn't blown it away!"
He grinned, feeling the praise if not understanding its medium; then asked:
"We go now?"
"Let's wait half an hour to see if theWhimcomes insight," I told him. "There's a lot to talk over, anyway, before we start. For one thing, if we get separated how shall we find each other?"
"If you lose me, you hunt good place to wait, and wait. Me find you."
For some time we discussed other details. Finally I asked:
"How far down in those islands do you think they are?"
He was sitting with his knees drawn up, his arms crossed upon them, and now let his forehead, too, rest there in meditation.
"One place," he slowly answered, "no white hunter ever get. Injuns know it, but 'fraid to go 'cause evil spirit live there—near mouth of river Seminole call Il-lit; in white man tongue, mean Death. Me think maybe find 'em there."
"Death river's a good place for that old scoundrel to hang out," I agreed. "How far?"
"Maybe fifteen mile, maybe ten, maybe twenty; no can say. We see."
"By the way, Smilax, how do you say 'damn old scoundrel' in Seminole?"
He raised his head and appreciatively grinned, answering:
"Hal-wak esta-had-kee, mean 'bad white man.'"
"That's neither bad nor short enough. What else?"
"Host-cope-e-taw, mean thief."
"Good but too long. I want something I can remember; to christen him, understand? What's your shortest word?"
"Shee."
"That's more like it. What's 'shee' mean?"
"Feathers."
"But, hell, Smilax," I burst out laughing, "there'd be no sense in calling him feathers!"
"Efaw," he said again, "mean dog; kotee, toad; chesshe, rat. Maybe him dog-toad-rat!"
"That only begins to be him," I declared, with the same glorious contempt for pronouns. "In the prospective waters of Death river I christen him Efaw Kotee, the dog-toad!"—But in my heart I offered an apology to the canine family, many of whose sons and daughters have been among my most loyal friends.
"We go; maybe find him," the black giant grinned again, bending backward to get his shoulders beneath the ropes and then straightening up as though two, and not two hundred, pounds of weight came with him.
I walked quickly out to the point and took one more look, a searching, lingering look across the green water. Nowhere was theWhim, nowhere even a speck of sail or any other craft. Except for a pelican of sober mien, rising and falling with the waves, the Gulf seemed barren of any life. But something told me that the yacht was safe.
A scrub jay, in a near-by thicket of mangroves, mocked my solitude with a raucous note; yet it gave me heart, for I saw in it the call of the land and knew that thoughts of theWhimmust be put aside. So I went back to Smilax, and together we strode through the fringe of palms into a shadowy jungle; our faces set toward a mysterious place, unknown to us, where Death river meets the sea.
Intuitively I dropped behind and walked at the heels of Smilax who, as if he were treading a well-defined trail instead of unknown jungle land, moved with a free stride that challenged my endurance. Clinging vines pulled at my clothes as things alive, causing both noise and annoyance. Silence was a virtue on our present expedition.
After an hour of this we came to a cypress swamp, and for several miles waded through water ankle-deep although on a bottom of firm sand. Hardly any undergrowth was here, but in all directions stood gray, dismal cypress trees, coarsely buttressed at the water's edge and tapering to slender tips. Draped in long streamers of Spanish moss which were delicately swayed by an almost imperceptible current of air, this was a ghoulish place—suggesting a rookery for shrouded spirits which perched along the bonelike branches awaiting their resurrection. Here, too, upon some convenient root of these gray ancients—perhaps the longest lived of our southern trees—lay coiled the dozing moccasin. And from this grim place we merged once more into the jungle where my clothes again became the prey of clawing things.
But Smilax, never faltering, moved with the ease of a shadow. At last, by watching him I, too, came to learn his secret and was charmed to find that it mademy pace both quiet and swift. Indeed, I took great care to practice this silent trail walking—a knack that can be acquired only by the closest observation; for a hundred books could not teach a hundredth part as much as a ten-mile hike at the heels of a trained woodsman when he is trying to go noiselessly. Finally he turned and looked at me, saying:
"You do good now."
Noon brought us to a higher country whose beauty could not be surpassed. Dark and cool it was, even dismal without bringing depression. The mid-day suns of a hundred years must have been tempered to the aisles of this wild cathedral by venerable specimens of mahogany and black olive trees; and, where the branches of these did not touch, rose the slenderer red ironwood. The mahoganies, alone, stood as a proof that we were entering a region which had escaped the eyes of white man for—how long? It was even seventy years ago that bands of wood pirates, known as "the mahogany cutters," invaded southern Florida from the Bahamas and ruthlessly pillaged this desirable wood for foreign markets; so here, at least, was a spot that had remained undiscovered, where perhaps a white foot had never trod.
Charmed as I was, a greater enchantment awaited, when the next few steps brought me to a pool; a pool of crystal transparency, though dark for reflecting the black bowl of earth in which it lay. Without a ripple it nestled close against the roots of a golden-fig tree—an unfruitful parasitic giant of squat stature and tremendous girth; while, pendant from one gnarled out-reaching branch, and almost touching the mirror-like surface into which it looked, hung a solitary streamer of Spanish moss.
One might have fancied that this pure water slept in the tranquillity of being forever blessed by a gaunt old friar, the gray sleeve of whose cowl hung from an arm perpetually outstretched in silent benediction. Around the bank, and leaning their purple flowers above the more purple depths, grew a fringe of wild iris; while sprinkled at random farther out were a few blooms of "bonnet"—the yellow water-lily of southern ponds. And then, in a darker nook, erect and motionless upon one leg, a pink flamingo stood. I caught my breath in amazement at the beauty of this place!
To me it possessed a soul; and the soul, arms, that were amorously held out, inviting, pleading. This was the spot, and not by the green waves, to strip my mind of culture, to tear a club from nature's forest and do battle for existence! Here, in the very birthplace of silence where I could smell the loam of untouched wilderness, would be the haunt of my re-created, or pre-created, self. Throughout the days I would hunt—and slay; in the nights I would sleep among the branches. But there would come dawns and sunsets when in some corner of this wild temple I would raise a pagan altar, light a tiny wish-wood flame, and conjure the forest's soul of many arms to reach across the earth, bringing me a living, breathing Psyche with iris-colored eyes to gaze into the limpid pool!
In the contemplation of such an Eden I had forgotten Smilax, who now shattered my illusion by swinging down the pack and saying, as he turned to me:
"We eat."
O, mundane worm, that he could think of food while my spirit was communing with our common ancestor! However, without much reluctance, I arrived at his point of view when, filling my pipe, I stretched out towatch his savory preparations. And now to my surprise, but increasing admiration for his woodcraft, he raised a hand as I was about to strike the match.
"Wait," he said. "Wind wrong; maybe some one smell; me go see."
"Never mind," I protested, wanting to spare him additional work after the amount he had already accomplished. "I don't care about smoking."
"Cook fire smell," he said, rather pityingly that I should have overlooked this obvious fact. "Me go see; get good wood." Then, grinning broadly, he added: "Maybe Efaw Kotee somewhere."
I knew that if he went for wood he must mean buttonwood, because there was no end of other kinds about; but buttonwood is the only fuel in Florida—dry mangrove being a close second—that, burning slowly like charcoal, is both very hot and smokeless, and he was evidently taking no chances. I knew, too, that he would have to go far toward the coast for it, since only on tidewater shores may it be found; and with a pleasant feeling of excitement I wondered if he would also bring back news of—her; some sign, a thin line of smoke above the trees! It was not the excitement of battle, or a skirmish; no, it was the approaching reality of a dream that had gripped me with soft fingers since the moment I entered this forest. Since my eyes had rested on that pool, my heart had called afresh for her. The arms of the place were about me.
Softly I arose and went back to it. The pink flamingo was there, but as I approached, nearer this time, he gave signs of uneasiness and at last clumsily took wing for some other sanctuary where his solitude might be untroubled by strange beings.
Standing on the flowery bank, I looked deep into thewater. No fish, nor life of any kind, disturbed its sweet serenity. So like her soul, I thought, was the soul of this! Yet could her soul be undisturbed? Was it not, indeed, turbulent with apprehensions? Did it—I asked the question eagerly—did it sometimes hope that I would come? And something in the water answered yes. So I picked a blossom of the iris—that had taken its color from her eyes—and put it carefully away. By the spirit of her glance, by the unspoken message of this place, I swore—oh, why put down here all I swore? Men have stood beside solemn pools before, and women, too. Those who commune in the woods think more sublimely than they speak, so I can not speak now, in written words, my immeasurable longing.
Soon Smilax, grinning broadly, emerged from the shadows.
"All right," he said. "You smoke; me cook."
"Did you see anything? How far did you go?" I asked, and he answered in the curious way he had of dealing with one question at a time.
"No see signs of Efaw Kotee. Long way."
While the combined aroma of bacon and coffee was for the moment throwing its cloak of materialism about the romance of my forest, I asked again:
"Why are we heading so far inland, when they must be somewhere along the coast?"
"Best go this way. All right; you smoke."
I was smoking, but that seemed to be his way of telling me to put my mind at rest. Yet I persisted with another question:
"How do you know we haven't passed them already?"
"Me know," he grinned. "All right; you smoke."
He was a funny cuss, but I let it go at that.
Biscuits, bacon and coffee might properly be called the Woodsmen's Ambrosia, but it is not a feast over which man is inclined to loiter, and Smilax was soon re-wrapping the pack.
Up to this time I had walked practically empty handed, yet now I conscientiously rebelled, insisting that a share of the load must rest upon my shoulders. But here he showed himself as obdurate as a mule until, arbitrarily, I strapped on our second automatic, took out our second rifle, and filled my pockets with extra cartridges. He raised no objection to this; he even approved it. We were getting down into the Death river country and ready fire-arms made agreeable companions. Furthermore, at his direction I tied the rather goodly supply of buttonwood into a bundle and swung it to my back.
Toward evening we saw on our left evidences of open country and bore in that direction, for when one has walked many hours in the shadows of interlocking branches it is as natural to be drawn toward a spot of sunlight as it would be to approach an open window after having been confined in a dismal room. So we bore in that direction and came to the edge of a vast prairie stretching before us as a sea of lifeless grass.
Except for a gray line on its horizon, marking, I afterward learned, the boundary of the Great Cypress Swamp, there was but a single break on this expansive waste. That was a rich growth of trees about two miles out, to the southeast of us; an oasis, it would have been called in the Sahara, but in the Florida prairies known as an "island." Whether this term of "island" finds origin in the similarity of these verdant places to real islands, seeming as they do to float upon an inland sea of grass, or whether because, being of higher ground,they actually become islands during rainy seasons when much of the prairie land is inundated, the native "cracker" is unable to explain. At any rate, fanned by the prairie breeze, they afford agreeable shelter where, in perfect seclusion, one may look out upon the surrounding country for great distances.
"We camp there," Smilax nodded.
"A good place," I affirmed.
"You stay hide," he said again. "Me find out if nobody 'round to see us go."
"Why can't I look with you?" I asked, wanting to study more of his methods, but he squelched me by answering:
"You look whole lot; no see anything."
I would have given him a good piece of my mind had he not suddenly disappeared; returning soon with his usual smile and saying:
"Come."
Single file, as before, we pushed into the breast-high grass, and the walking was easy. Once we crossed a patch of oozy turf from which arose a score of jack-snipe; again we skirted a drying pond whose boggy edges were the hunting ground of marsh hens. Yet other trails could be read here: deer, wildcat, raccoon, and innumerable wee things. And here, too, around the "bonnet" leaves, the silent moccasin lay coiled, so it was well to step with caution in a place like this.
A wound by the cotton-mouth moccasin, if treated properly, may not result in death. Like other viperine bites, however, it so affects the surrounding flesh that blood poisoning may follow days after the first crisis has been passed. Yet, even with this two-fold menace lurking in its fangs, it is not the most feared of Floridasnakes. Preëminent in that capacity stands the diamond-back rattler, largest of the world's venomous species and second to none in point of deadliness. Smilax insisted—on I do not know what authority—that more dangerous than either of these is the beautiful little coral snake,elaps fulvius, whose victim becomes ravingly insane and invariably dies. That he possessed some uncanny knowledge of the creature must be admitted because of its close relationship to the Cobra-de-Capello, of Asiatic fame, whose poison, we know, flies directly to the nerve centers and almost entirely ignores the tissue. Four days later I had good reason to remember this.
"Are there many snakes hereabouts?" I asked.
"Winter, not much; summer, heap."
However, at that very moment he held his hand back to stop me, then beckoned me forward.
"Look!" He was pointing tensely ahead of us, moving his arm leftward and indicating a circle of perhaps thirty feet in diameter.
Whatever it was, I could see the tops of the grass shake as their stems were slightly jostled by this unknown creature's progress, which continued with incredible speed and was circling back toward us. Then, with a slightly swishing sound as its body glided through the dry grass, that friend of Florida woodsmen—the king snake—passed before our feet like a brownish-green streak.
"Rattler! You watch!" Smilax whispered. His eyes were wide with interest, for it is not permitted many men to see a duel between these mortal enemies.
Somewhere directly ahead of us a diamond-back rattlesnake must have awaited the attack he sensed, though we could not yet see him. Time after time the king snake swept by in front of us, decreasing the circlesand, I thought, increasing his speed. After each revolution we stepped in a little nearer, being careful not to interfere with his course nor distract his attention from the serious business at hand.
Soon the viper became visible. His flat head, elevated a few inches above his heavy coil, turned anxiously with the sounds in the grass. He knew what was coming, I think, but did not rattle until the king had reduced the circles about him to a diameter of six or seven feet. Then he became electrified. The rattles sounded viciously, and his head began an ominous swaying motion, out and in, as he searched for a vital spot at which to strike.
The king, although keeping just outside the danger line, was also watching for an opportunity. He may have realized his immunity to poisons, yet did not care unnecessarily to suffer the laceration of fangs. Rather did he choose to rely upon the further protective gifts that nature had given him: length and strength, speed and agility, and a skin that blended elusively with the ground colors; therefore, revolving in these smaller circles, he seemed to make almost a continuous line, without beginning or end, and the rattler was at a loss to act. Now, profiting by a moment when the venomous eyes were turned away, he darted in and caught the viper close up behind its head. Wrapping himself about the squirming body he ruthlessly straightened out. We heard the vertebrae being torn until his victim lay crushed and stretched into a helpless mass.
For several minutes the sleek avenger remained perfectly quiet. Then, uncoiling warily but not releasing the hold with his teeth, he worked his body aside. Last of all he dropped the head and drew suspiciously back as if alert for a sign of life. Of course, there was none,and soon he glided into the grass, not seeming to have noticed us at all.
"Whew!" I said, taking a deep breath. "I wish we had king snakes around us all the time!"
"Heap good friend," Smilax grinned, stooping to cut off the rattles that were large and perfect.
"I thought you said there weren't any snakes out in winter!"
"Not much; maybe no see any for long time."
He told me now as we proceeded across the prairie that the Seminole Reservation lay about fifty miles north of us, and I wondered what our chances would be of getting a squad of "braves," should theWhimnot show up and we found ourselves on the eve of a fight against rather big odds. It was worth keeping in mind.
The "island," when we reached it, was by far the largest I had ever seen, and proved to be an ideal place to camp. High pines and stately palms grew here in great profusion, while there also might be found a sprinkling of hardwoods; and yet in some parts there was enough sunlight to permit the growth of really luxurious grass, as trim as if it had been cut by the hand of man. Smilax, pointing to a number of tracks I had not observed, said the deer kept it short by grazing. One's first impression here was of a well-kept park, intersected by green avenues that stretched beneath the best specimens of trees which a landscape architect had carefully planned to leave standing. But there were wilder portions; perhaps three acres of heavy jungle. About midway, festooned with vines, was the pool I had hoped to find, of quite good size and cool. It, like the other that had entranced me, nourished a few stalksof iris, but there was no "bonnet" or other place on its closely cropped bank for the wily moccasin.
"My private bath," I declared, feeling at this sundown hour the call strong within me.
Smilax had remained behind. His reconnoissance as we entered the prairie must be completed by another as we emerged from it; and I had left him standing behind the trees looking back across our trail, searching for any distant movement. At last he came up, saying:
"All right; you smoke."
"I don't want to smoke," I laughed. "I want to get in that pool, if we can find another supply of drinking water."
"No need um," he grinned. "Big spring come up there," he pointed toward the farther end. "Me know island now; been here one time."
I afterwards saw that he referred to one of those unique springs, occasionally to be found in Florida—a transparent water of bluish tinge, bubbling up through the bottom of its deep, self-made reservoir; keeping the sand in a subdued state of agitation, and bringing pleasure to the eye of man.
By the spirit of Pan, my pool felt good after the long day's hike!
The wind had changed with the waning afternoon and now blew gently from the southwest, promising a period of fair weather. It gave us, also, the advantage of greater freedom in noises; for, when living in the wild, one comes to realize how potent a carrier, or muffler, of noises is the wind. A fire at night, or smoke by day, may be tempered with human ingenuity, but nature bandies the sound waves with her breath.
I dined in the elegance of simplicity, and Smilax extinguished our small fire of buttonwood. Leaning myback against a stalwart pine, I watched the shadows stealing through our avenue of trees. Somewhere above my head a whistling owl, one of those lovable little feathered cavaliers that showers his mate with unstinted adulation, fluttered and courted. Later the mournful call of a whooping crane floated across the prairie.
I heard these things in a lazy, contented way, but my thoughts were on another island—a real island surrounded by water, where waves lapped the beach and two eyes, that had given color to the iris, watched for deliverance. Then with a jerk I sat up. Smilax had turned his head to listen, and in his attitude dwelt a note of agitation.
"What is it?" I whispered; for surely I had heard a sound that did not belong to these creatures living in the forest about us.
He raised his hand to caution silence. Then came the sound again, slowly: one—two—three—four—
"Axe," he said, his eyes shining as beads and his finger pointing into the southwest from where the breeze was coming. "You wait; me go see."
"I'll go, too," I announced.
"No; maybe make too much noise. Smilax go."
"Who d'you suppose it is that close to us?" I excitedly asked. "Not them, surely?"
He looked at me with grave eyes and answered:
"No can say; maybe hunters find way in here. You smoke; me go see."
Yet his sudden gravity left little doubt in my mind of what, at least, he suspected; for he well knew that hunters did not find their way into this unsurveyed wilderness! Then, too, there was something in the stillness of the night that seemed to portend great things.The leaves transmitted their restlessness to my yawning nerves, as iron dust springs to a magnet.
Intending to wave good luck as he melted into the darkness, without being observed I walked silently behind him to the prairie's edge; but there he stopped, opened his arms, raised his face to the sky, standing motionless. And a great peace came over me, for I saw that, in the simple way of the old-time Seminoles who invariably turned to their Great Spirit on the eve of hopes or fears or dangers, Smilax was praying.
Religion is the poetry of the savages' existence. Alas, that we are civilized! He does not spend his nights poring over The Laws and The Prophets, and his days peppering a neighbor across the head with a new-born creed. No, he puts an abiding faith in some Great Spirit, be it the sun, the moon, the stars; or fashioned of stone, or clay, or wood. But his soul looks into the Infinite as his physical sight, less far reaching, feasts upon the Symbol. And what does he lose? He loses the privilege of bickering with evangelists; he loses the acid frequently to be found in church organization—the feeling of pity or contempt of one denomination for another, each of which stands upon the Holy Rock searching for motes and waving a princely disregard to beams. And, because he remains benighted and in darkness, he also loses doubt; wherefore, as a trusting child, he touches the hand of God.
I had long since finished my second pipe when Smilax returned. He came out of the darkness as he had gone into it, with the stealth of a panther, and was close to me before I knew it. But a striking change had taken place in him. His breathing was fast, though not from exertion, and pointing back he hurriedly whispered:
"Efaw Kotee there! Lady, too! Me see!"
Sylvia there! I bounded up as though some one had sent a galvanic current through my body, exclaiming:
"Good Lord! How far, Smilax? Come quick, let's go!"
He answered each of my exclamations in sequence, a peculiarity he had:
"Yes, Lord good. Two mile, maybe some more. Plenty time, we go back soon."
"But we couldn't have heard that axe two miles," I said incredulously.
"Still night, when wind on prairie right; yes, sometime."
"How are they camped? How many are there? Come, man, don't keep me waiting!"
He drew himself up to full height and, with one arm pointing toward the southwest, spoke deliberately as if realizing his importance, seeming to choose his words—seeming, rather, to grope for them.
"Over there forest is little strip thick, maybe half mile; then come water—Gulf. Me know um is Gulf; taste and find um salt. Close by shore big island, close by um little island. More island all 'round. Too dark to see much, but Efaw Kotee live on big island. Many cabin. On little island Lady live. One cabin. She come to door and me get good look, for light in cabin. Old woman live with her; Injun squaw; me know by way she walk. Before day we go hide in good place onshore. Watch all day and see. Must watch all day, or they see us if we leave 'fore dark. Now you smoke; then we go 'sleep l'il while."
Sleep! How could I sleep while she was within three miles of me, surrounded by ten or a dozen devils the combined virtues of whom would not fill a gnat's eye! Of course, she had lived in this situation for years, but I had not heard of it until very recently, and that makes a world of difference.
But after we got back to camp and I had stretched out on my blanket to let the telescope of my fancies pierce the realm of hopes, sleep did come. I would not have believed it, but it did; for soon I realized that some one was shaking my arm, while a voice said over and over:
"Time we go; time we go!"
It was yet night when I opened my eyes, but Smilax had lit a small buttonwood fire and breakfast was waiting. While I stumbled to the pool to drive the cobwebs from my brain he took the canteens and filled them at the spring; for, in the all-day strain ahead of us—and few things are more trying than to lie concealed and watch from the gray of dawn till the black of night—we should need a liberal supply of water.
"Shall we take rifles?" I asked, when everything was ready and each of us had our snack of food.
"No," he answered. "Too hard to crawl like snake. They no see us to-day. We take l'il crack-crack."
"Little crack-crack" meant an automatic revolver, greatly admired by Smilax and, since Tommy's coaching, handled by him with no mean skill. So I swung one of these to the small of my back, into position when we should begin crawling, and handed him the other; whereupon, without further ado, we traversed the"island" and melted into the prairie. Forty minutes later Smilax moving slowly and cautiously ahead, entered the narrow strip of forest. Another ten minutes, and we got to our hands and knees. In this way we proceeded perhaps a hundred yards when, putting his lips close to my ear, he whispered:
"We hide here; come still like snake."
I put out my hand and felt the ragged edge of saw-palmetto, then slipped in behind him, moving scarcely more than a yard a minute. Heaven help us, I thought, if we had to lie on that torturous stuff for fifteen hours! But Smilax was equal to every occasion. When we reached the far side of the patch, leaving only a fringe of leaves to shield us from those we came to watch, he worked a while with his hands, then whispered: "Now lay down." Lo, the uncomfortable roots had been pressed in other directions and the soft sand received my body. He remained, however, long enough on his knees to make sure that none of the fronds had been twisted out of line, else uncompromising daylight might show our enemy that all here was not right.
The night remained very still and impenetrably black, though I think that Smilax could see a little with his extraordinary catlike sight. Then came a first sleepy bird note. The day, at last, was on the wing!
When from obscurity the saw-tooth stems took shape before my eyes and the distance receded farther, I saw that we were near the edge of a steep bank. Perhaps twelve feet below us lay the water, as a mirror on which some one has breathed. A mist hung over it—and in that gossamer shroud a little island floated whereon my Sylvia dwelt—where now she slept.
A minute later the forest awoke with bird life; dawn came rapidly. Islands took shape, trees stepped outfrom their obscurity and small details drew into focus. First I sought her home and could hardly take my eyes from it. Low and rambling, it stood two hundred feet away, nestled in a most inviting shade of splendid trees. Flowers and climbing vines were everywhere, touched with the rich coloring of poinsettia and bougainvillea—although this very approach of day began to close the fragrant moon-flowers and spelled death to the night-blooming cereus. The walls of her bungalow seemed to be tinted red, varying to purple, which gave a strange yet most pleasing effect in the setting of blossoms. Not till later did I learn that this was the rare Cat's Claw wood, nowhere to be found but in southern Florida.
On the larger island, not over a hundred feet from us, were perhaps ten buildings of about the same size and plan, and presumably sleeping quarters. But in their midst stood a structure of some pretensions that we afterwards knew to be a dining hall. Quite off in the background were two small bungalows whose air denoted quality, but the roof of one had been fitted with a skylight which gave me the impression that here Efaw Kotee worked his trade at counterfeiting. Still beyond this was a tower rising above the low trees, perhaps intended for a lighthouse, although there had been no light burning when we came. But these were at best surmises that arranged themselves in my mind while noting everything in sight and awaiting a further sign of life.
Soon a hinge squeaked. A man stepped from one of the smaller huts, looked at the sky, yawned and stretched. A second appeared from another hut, walked away and came back with an armful of wood that he took into the dining hall. As they passed there was scarcely a nod of greeting. A surly pair, I thought.After this smoke issued from the chimney, and other men, one by one from other huts, came dribbling out into the day, until altogether we had counted seven. The six now before us, after make-shift splashes in the basins beside their doors, went as the chap with the wood had gone; and shortly we heard sounds of knives and forks rattling on china.
It was at this moment that a thin line of smoke arose from the chimney of Sylvia's bungalow. Longingly I watched it; tingling to my finger tips I blessed it. A side door opened, but it was an Indian woman who emerged with two pails and walked back of the house—doubtless to a tank of rain water, because she returned with them full and went in, taking care to close the door softly. The deference of her manner, the affection with which she apparently guarded her mistress' sleep, strongly appealed to me, and I knew that the Indian woman would be my friend.
The next move came again from the dining hall when a swarthy fellow emerged wiping his mouth upon his sleeve. His hair was long and black, reaching below his shoulders. With a rifle nested in the hollow of his arm he disappeared toward the tower, and Smilax whispered:
"Him Injun."
Now to our surprise some one appeared to be looking down from the tower, and a few minutes later the Indian was seen above the mangroves climbing up to him. There must have been strips spiked crosswise to one of the uprights, making a kind of ladder.
"So that's a watch tower," I said cautiously. "And he makes eight."
Smilax nodded.
The fellows talked a while, then the one who had been relieved came down, going for his breakfast.
"What do you think of it?" I whispered.
"No see him before," Smilax looked grave. "Maybe one up in tree 'round here."
"Gee, you think so?" It was not a comforting suggestion.
"No, maybe not," he answered, after a moment of thought. "They no look for us by land; all by water. We all right. Look! Efaw Kotee have breakfast!"
Two men left the dining hall, each bearing a tray of food, and we watched until they entered the rather exclusive house next to the work shop. This without doubt was the old scoundrel's headquarters, but why did he have two trays? Could by any chance Sylvia be kept beneath the same roof with him? Had Smilax been mistaken? The weight of my automatic felt good just then.
When they came out, empty handed, one turned toward the watch tower but the other went for still a third tray. This, which he carried with an air of deference, was covered by a white cloth. He came to the boats across from us and got into a punt, balancing his tray across the bow while he paddled, standing, toward the little island. Now I became more than ever tense, and perhaps I moved, for Smilax pressed my arm in caution.
As the punt touched at the landing platform below Sylvia's house the fellow did not get out, but gave the call of an ibis—a weird, beautifully mystic call that is rarely heard and almost impossible to imitate. Smilax appreciated this, for he grunted: "Good."
The door opened and the Indian woman looked out.
"Hey, there, Echochee," he said. "I got a present from the boss."
She slammed the door, and I do not know when in my life I was ever so charmed by this simple act.
"Then you go to hell," he drawled. "But I tell yer this: the boss said if no one come down to git it, for me to leave it in yer parler."
While Echochee had slammed the door she was evidently listening; for now she came out again, a picture of fury, crying:
"Don't you put foot here!"
"Then come an' git it," he carelessly replied.
She hesitated.
"Lay um down, then go back. Me get um."
"Naw, old hatchet-face. Jest come on down an' git it yer own se'f, or I'll bring it up."
"My Lady no let any one come here," she warned. "You go back quick!"
"That's all right 'bout yer Lady, but the boss says fer me to hand this right in myse'f, an' what the boss says—goes! Yer git that, don't yer? So come on down an' git this, an' that'll make two things yer git," he laughed boisterously, adding: "It's a weddin' present, an' if yer don't git a move on maybe the boss'll come his own se'f!"
I could see from the woman's face that she was in a towering rage, but she went—lithely as a girl, for all her years—to the landing.
"That's what I call sense, old hatchet-face," he sneered, stepping gingerly over the seat—for a punt is a tippy thing—and holding the tray out to her.
With a snarl she jerked it from his hands, raised it quickly and brought it down on his head. Of course, the cloth and everything beneath it went scattering tothe winds, while he tumbled backward into the water. Not content, she picked up several of the various fruits the tray had held and began to pepper him with such good aim that he hastily and profanely splashed back to the other shore. Then the tray, its cover, and the spilled fruits not already used in the form of ammunition, were contemptuously tossed in his direction. After this she tied the punt as though nothing had happened, went back into the house and closed the door. Smilax was shaking with silent delight.
"Bully," I whispered.
"Good," he said. "Look—water not much deep. We 'member that." Though at the time I did not see how this held any advantage for us, being distinctly of less protection for Sylvia.
The man dragged himself up the oozy bank, cursing roundly, and started post-haste for Efaw Kotee's bungalow. We could hear the water sloshing in his shoes, and knew that he was quite as uncomfortable in mind as in body. He did not go upon the porch, but stood below, hat in hand, calling. Then I saw the old chief—the same man who had paid his supper check with a new fifty-dollar bill. Smilax squeezed my arm, saying:
"Him boss on yacht."
I felt well satisfied at this identification, which was the first definite assurance that the owner of theOrchidand my neighbor in the café were one and the same. He came out scowling, listened unmoved to the fellow's recital and turned back without a word, while the aggrieved one walked sulkily to his quarters.
But soon Efaw Kotee reappeared, this time with another man, and Smilax became excited.
"Look," he whispered. "Him name Jess. Him bust Smilax head!"
It was the fellow who had drawn back when Tommy and Monsieur went to the gambling rooms, but now without his uniform he seemed coarser and more cruel.
"That makes ten, all told," I whispered.
"Whole lot," was the black's only comment.
They came slowly, talking in low tones. At the water's edge across from us they halted and Jess, pointing to the punt, said something whereupon the older man's face turned dark with anger.
"Echochee!" he called.
No answer; the door of Sylvia's dwelling remained closed.
"Echochee," he called again, and his voice grated hatefully on my nerves, "bring that punt over here!"
Then the door did open, I thought reluctantly, and the Indian woman came out.
"What you want?" she asked.
"Say: 'What you want,Master!'" he yelled at her.
"Why I say that?" she asked, a dull fire of hatred kindling in her eyes.
"Because it's so," he thundered, stamping the ground in fury while his palsied head shook more noticeably.
"You lie," she replied. "You no master of my Lady or me, any more. We go to Great Spirit any time now."
A chill ran over me. What, in God's name, did she mean? Was Sylvia dying? Again Smilax touched my arm to caution prudence.
Efaw Kotee was, I think, trying to control himself, yet his long arms and veiny hands were swinging, pendulum-like, to and fro across his body. It was an uncanny indication of anger, suggesting rather a beast than a human being. The captain was standing silent, with his arms folded.
"Echochee," said the chief, "bring us that punt. We must see your Lady."
"My Lady see no one."
"I want that punt," he bellowed at her.
"You got plenty punt; me go in house," she replied stoically.
There were, indeed, three or four punts tied to the shore near by.
"Hold on, there," he commanded, "or it'll go bad for you! I want that punt, there, understand?"
"Then get that punt there," she said indifferently.
"You damned old hag," he screamed, now quite beside himself, "one of your rotten tribe's in that lookout tower, d'you understand? If you don't bring that punt across I'll have him crucified before your eyes! Hear me, hag?"
"All right," she said quietly. "Him no 'count; do him good."
She turned back to pass through the door, but was stopped by some one coming out. Sylvia! Never more beautiful than now! Echochee put up both arms to stop her and I noticed—for in tense moments one's eyes retain some of the most insignificant details—how incongruously her brown old bony fingers sank into the dainty folds of her lady's morning gown. But Sylvia would not be stopped. She placed a hand on the woman's shoulder and spoke a few hurried words, then raised her head and looked imperiously at the men, saying:
"You shan't hurt any one because Echochee obeys me. Is the punt all you want?"
Jess moved uneasily, but there was no trace of embarrassment in the bearing of Efaw Kotee.
"No, it's not! We want to cross to you!"
"No one comes on this island," she said.
"I've had enough of your nonsense," the old fellow cried. "I believe yet you steered that bunch of pups after us, in spite of hell I believe it; but, whether you did or didn't, I've had enough of bowing and scraping like a nigger, and begging to be allowed to go over there! Enough, I tell you!"
"Then don't try any more," she indifferently replied, turning to go in; but he checked her with another threat—and by the way she flinched I knew that he meant it.
"If you go in that door till I'm through," he bellowed, "that crucifying comes off in ten minutes—right on this spot where you can hear the beggar squeal!"
She stopped and looked at him, and I realized that we had come in the nick of time for some great crisis which was enveloping her.
"Now, see here," he continued, in a calmer voice, "you've kept this up since yesterday morning, and it's unreasonable. Why don't you let us come over and have a talk? I've been a good father to you! You've had everything you want—and just bought six trunks full of clothes in Havana last week! Why do you keep us—keep me—away?"
While absorbedly listening, I was struck by the oddity of a girl in this wilderness buying six trunks full of clothes; but it then occurred to me that Efaw Kotee would encourage extravagant buying of all things, when theOrchidvisited a city, in order that he might get bona fide change for his spurious bills. At least there was good reason for her gown to be modern, smart, and becoming, as Havana's best Americanized shops are quite continental.
"I keep you away," she answered icily, "becauseyou're planning to marry me to an unprincipled scoundrel."
"A what?" Jess yelled.
"Shut up!" the old one snapped at him.
"An unprincipled scoundrel," she answered evenly, "who's as loathsome as an ape. And I shan't be married to that kind of thing, or any one else. You've had my warning. If you, or he, or any of your beastly men come to this island, you'll get only my dead body. And Echochee, dear soul, is going with me. What's more, if you start any tortures, we'll die before witnessing them."
"Then, by God," he screamed, "you and your damned hag'll begin to starve from this day! With no more provisions sent over we'll see who obeys me! And in three more days if you don't come to your senses I'll crucify an offering to your dead body—head down on the spot I stand!" He had been raving, but now his tone quickly changed to one of whining entreaty, as he added: "I hope you understand how it pains your dear old father to threaten you, my child!"
It was so maudlin an exhibition that I wondered if he were sane.
"Dear old father," she repeated, giving a short laugh of contempt.
I did not know how much of this was real and how much acting on her part, although it did seem genuine enough when she could not be looking for relief. Yet, as she stood there calmly mistress of herself while Efaw Kotee writhed beneath her scorn, I was reminded of an angler who had hooked an ungainly fish—she with intellect at one end, he at the other representing brute strength, fear, cunning; both connected by a barely visible thread that in this case was not a line, but Fate.For another moment she let him writhe, then turned and went in.
Jess laughed.
"Shut up, you clown," the old chief turned on him.
"Clown yourself," the captain snarled. "I'll have you know I won't take any of your lip!"
"Then I back out of our bargain, that's all!"
"If you say that again I'll twist off your palsied head with these two hands," Jess held them under Efaw Kotee's nose and wriggled his fingers, until the old man shrank back, cowering. "The men'll follow me when I tell 'em you play double, an' you know it! You swine, I'm sick of this place! I'm going to take my share of the stuff, an' the girl, an' clear out! It's been fifteen years since we raised these cabins—more'n that! An' what have we got? Plenty of the slickest money ever printed—an' the other stuff, too—an' you afraid to take a chance. Three times I've stopped a mutiny for you, an' you'd be dead an' buried if I hadn't. Then came this last when things went wrong. You say the girl peached, but 'tween you an' me I say you tried to turn State's evidence—don't deny anything," he held up his hand when the other would have interrupted. "That's passed now. But I've agreed to forget it, to keep the mutinies stopped for keeps—by marrying the girl. You agreed, too. Now you talk of backing out. Is killing too good for you?"
"I don't want to, Jess; I don't, honest," Efaw Kotee said, with a whine. "But you see yourself how she is! If we rush the place, day or night, she'll kill herself. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it!"
"You've done about all you can for a while," Jess grumbled, adding: "If she don't run away."
"Where'd she run to?" the other sneered.
"Well, some kind friend might show her!"
"You're crazy," the chief contemptuously exclaimed.
"Crazy or not, you just see that she doesn't. Then, if starving three days doesn't bring her, maybe crucifyingyouhead down might do the trick."
"Wha—what d'you mean?" The old fellow sprang around and stared at him, seeming to have grown hollow and gray.
"Oh, nothing," Jess grinned. "Just a little idea I had—worth keeping in mind, though. It might be healthy for you to see she can't run off, that's all."
Efaw Kotee looked at the captain suspiciously, and said:
"I'll guarantee she doesn't run off—and your other little ideas aren't pleasant. Let's go back and have a drink."
When they had entered the bungalow a silence fell over the settlement. I did not see a man anywhere. But I drew a long breath of relief because Sylvia was for a little while safe, even while I raged at the realization of her danger. My body was cramped, and cautiously I stretched my legs. Smilax had not moved.
"It looks like we got here just in time," I whispered. "But what shall we do?"
He relaxed then, and slowly answered:
"Me think 'while. Echochee good old woman; always kind to l'il black boy."
"You know her?" I could hardly have hoped for that stroke of luck.
"Me know all Seminole; not many left. 'Echochee' mean what white man say 'li'l deer.' She old woman when me l'il black boy in Reservation. Me think 'while; you, too."
Schemes of every wild kind, daring and impossibleplans of rescue, raced through my brain; seeming reasonable enough at the time, but Smilax quickly found the flaws in each until I had exhausted my supply. Finally he spoke, and I knew that he spoke with judgment.
"To-night," he said, "we watch and see if they put out guard. Maybe they do, after what Jess said 'bout Lady run off. When dark come, me swim to l'il island and give owl call—two times, then stop soft in middle. Long 'go in Injun village that mean: 'panther, come quick, gun,' Echochee will hear and 'member. Good. Then we talk and fix all up. First we see if Efaw Kotee put out guard."
This was so different, so tame, to the brilliant, suicidal dashes into the thick of rescue and glory—and doubtless destruction—as my plans ran, that I almost felt ashamed. Smilax could neither read nor write; his vocabulary might have been held in the hollow of one's hand, but in many respects he was the sanest creature I ever met.
"Do you suppose Echochee will trust us to get them away?" I whispered.
"If Lady say come, she come," he answered.
This set me thinking, and I decided to write a note that Smilax could deliver. Sylvia might then feel assured that she was not being abducted by a negro whom Echochee had known only in childhood. But, on second thought, I wondered if she would risk escape with an unknown white man; if she would not rather face the supreme issue, once and for all, than perhaps be forced into it later by an over-zealous stranger! In her distracted state of mind I feared she would find the rescue too precarious—too easily offering the same danger thatbeset her now, and lacking her present weapon of defense. Yet if she refused to come—what then? I could always rush the camp, if but to die with her. Having gone over these possibilities, I whispered to Smilax:
"She'll come easier if she doesn't know I'm here. Echochee will remember you, and reassure her. You might tell Echochee that you were hunting this way and saw her beat the chap over the head with the tray. Understand? After that you saw the rest and realized how much trouble she was in. How about it?"
"Good," he grunted. "That good. To-night me tell Echochee get ready, and to-morrow night we run 'way—maybe to Reservation. But we come by camp and find you; then all work 'round to yacht. Good."
"Well," I demurred, "that isn't the way I meant, for I intend to stay here and help. Some of those devils might get busy!"
"That good, too. Now we eat; then you go sleep."
While tackling our rations we discussed the plan again and again. I did not want to leave Sylvia another night within the grasp of those fiends, but Smilax insisted; explaining that she was practically safe for three days, at any rate. Of course, each twenty-four hours would make her and Echochee weaker from starvation and, as they would need strength, we dared not wait too long. Immediate help from theWhimwas all but a forlorn hope. The rescue had come suddenly up to us, and it must be met without a thought of failure.
But as the tiresome afternoon wore on without further incidents to keep us aroused, my fancies drifted from rescues to the rescued; and after a while I whispered:
"I'll take that nap now,"—scarcely hearing him reply:
"Good."
Close to my ear I heard a warning: "Sh!"—at the same time feeling a hand squeeze my arm. It was dusk. While I slept the shadows had lengthened and blended into those soft gray tones of twilight that give mystery to forests of the South. Cautiously I raised my head and, following the tense stare of Smilax, saw the cause of his agitation.
Three men were standing on the larger island, at the spot where Efaw Kotee and Jess had stood, and one held a piece of coiled rope tied to a grappling hook. They were whispering and chuckling. Then he with the iron hook began to swing it back and forth, finally letting it fly across the water into the punt, whereupon they chuckled again. Now they began to haul in the line at a lively rate, doubtless fearing that Echochee, aroused by the noise, would rush out and frustrate them. But the house remained quiet, even dark; and, since the boat's painter was of slim material, there could be only one result when they gave a hard pull—the punt was theirs.
This procedure disturbed Smilax, no less myself. There was deviltry afoot, yet hardly a plan for capturing the girl as other punts were available. But the next moment we breathed easier, for the men broke into a boisterous laugh, and one called:
"Ole hatchet-face, yo're done out-punted this time!"
Another, bending over and slapping his thigh in mirthful ecstasy, guffawed:
"Bill says she's done out-punted," whereupon they again laughed, and a third called:
"This here busts yo' chance of makin' a git-away to-night, yer ole she-devil! The chief's on to yer, he is!"
"They expect an escape," I whispered.
Smilax nodded. His face was grave.
Then came a most exasperating moment, when I hugged the ground so close that my body felt no thicker than a playing card. The men, each picking up a rifle, stepped into the punt and paddled to our side. Two of them climbed the bank, one going about a hundred yards to our left, and the other, passing within ten feet of us, went the opposite way. We could not follow him with our eyes but knew, by counting his steps, that he stopped at about an equal distance. Then the punt glided back and disappeared behind the little island. Guards! Sentinels! We were trapped, as well as those whom we had come to save!
The firm fingers of Smilax had never left my arm, a continuous caution for silence that I minded well. Ten minutes passed, and the trees had all but lost their shapes. In another ten minutes the night wholly enveloped us, and then the black man moved so that his lips were at my ear, while he barely whispered:
"Me go; noise in camp will help. You wait still like dead; me come back soon."
I did not attempt to answer, for there was nothing to say. Flanked by the two sentinels, I was pretty sure to wait, and wait like dead, too. He began to move then, yet he did not seem to move. But as I watched—more with my senses than my eyes—I knew that he had worked his head and shoulders out of our shelter, andwas edging himself along at the rate of perhaps a foot a minute. Soon I realized that he had entirely gone; that, free of the saw-palmetto—a most difficult stuff in which to move silently—he was topping the bank. I could imagine how he glided now, alligator fashion, head downward to the water; and I could almost feel the moment he slid noiselessly into it. I waited for the owl call—"two times, then stop soft in middle."
And now an electric torch flashed where the sentry on my right was posted, and I froze, wondering if it were directed at Smilax. But no challenge came. In a very short interval it flashed again, and the fellow called in military style:
"Post one, seven o'clock, and all's well!"
The voice at my left took it up:
"Post two, seven o'clock, and all's well!"
From somewhere beyond Sylvia's island the third guard called post three, and silence followed. I was glad to find that they called their posts. It told us that there were only three, and gave a very fair idea of their positions. Of course, we could not hope, with this military precaution, to have one of them fall asleep at a convenient moment. Especially would this not happen with a newly placed guard—and these fellows were on watch to-night for the first time, else we would have seen them, or they us, when we came that morning. Smilax, also, would have discovered them the night before. Sylvia and Echochee, therefore, had just come under suspicion of intending to escape—and we were in the nick of time, although I felt staggered by the job ahead of us.
After another wait the fellow at post one again flashed his torch—on his watch, no doubt, because from time to time there were other flashes and, after the last of these,he called half-past seven. That was good for us, too—the half hours! Eight o'clock came, then half after, then nine. The lights in the camp had been extinguished. A real owl hooted mournfully somewhere back in the forest. I was waiting for post one to be called again when a voice, not twelve inches from my face, whispered:
"All right; come; slow like me. When you think you can no go more slow, then go two times as slow."
Had it not been for that last piece of advice I might have made a mess of things, but by moving at first scarcely more than an inch a minute, by distributing my feeling sense to every part of my body, detecting the slightest pull at my clothing, the merest contact with any little twig that might traitorously snap—in fact, by almost wishing myself along—I came at last free of the palmettoes and lay beside him. From there our progress was easier, and shortly we got to our hands and knees.
After following in this manner for two hundred yards Smilax stopped and sat down.
"You do good," he said. "Wait; me go back."
"What for?" I asked, in surprise. "Tell me what Echochee said?"
"After 'while," he answered. "Me go fix pine needles where we crawl out; then take look at all's-well-men. You wait."
I should never have thought about obliterating our trail in the pine needles, yet now saw that it was a very necessary thing to do, for men can not crawl on their stomachs without mussing the ground if it is at all soft. In the morning those fellows would see our tracks leading from the palmetto patch and, to a certainty, be waiting for us when we returned.
He was back sooner than I expected, and we took a good swinging pace to camp. Not till he had made a mere handful of fire and warmed over some coffee (gods of good things, how delicious it was!) and I had lighted my pipe (O, goddess Nicotine, what a pipe!) would he speak. Then suddenly he said:
"We no lay out to-morrow."
"Why?" I asked, quickly alarmed that Sylvia had refused to come.
"No use. When men on guard call, we find 'em easy. No much palmetto; we slip up good."
I laughed; not at what he said, but because to laugh was irresistible. My nerves were just a little drunk on relaxation.
"Come across with what Echochee said," I told him.
He grinned and nodded.
"Echochee know me. Me no call like owl, for 'fraid all's-well-men no be fooled; so crawl close and scratch on wall. She come to place inside, then me put mouth to crack and say in Seminole: 'Echochee, me Tachachobee.' She squat down by crack and whisper back: 'You lie. What your father name?' Me say: 'Black boy got no father; Echochee friend, Wanona, squaw of Kittimee, raise him.' Then she ask back quick: 'How many pickaninny Kittimee and Wanona had?' Me say: 'Boy child.' She whisper quicker: 'What wigwam stood in morning shadow to Kittimee?' Me say: 'Echochee wigwam.' She say: 'Who next?' Me say: 'Pattawa, him shoot long gun.' She wait 'while, and say: 'If you Tachachobee, what scar you got on left leg?' Me say: 'No scar on left leg, scar on right leg; four teeth of Pawpawloochee spotted dog what wildcat kill.' She know then me tell no lie, and unlock door and comeout, and take my hand. 'You big man now, Tachachobee,' she say. 'Me got big man job, Echochee,' me say, and tell her how me take 'em 'way."
I was charmed with the way Echochee had put Smilax through the third degree, so to speak, because it proved that Sylvia had a shrewd protector; one who would at least not be outmatched except by force—and, judging from the tray episode, even force would have to be considerable.
"She go in," Smilax continued, "and tell Lady, then Lady come out and say: 'Good. We be ready. How we know when you come?' And me tell her this, Mister Jack, so you listen for you have to do um. Me say: 'You hear men call what time?' She say she do. Me say: 'You hear 'em call all's well?' She say she do, and me say: 'When you hear one call all's-er-well, unlock door for me come quick.'"
"You want me to call all's-er-well, instead of all's-well? Is that the idea?"
"Good. We slip up on guard; you take man at One, me man at Two; we kill 'em quick and make no noise. Man at Three far off; him no count. Me wait then till time for next call. If me hear all's-er-well, me know you no dead, and go in water. Then you come quick and quiet to place where Two is dead and make call for him. Then Three will answer; we no care 'bout Three. If me take long, and come time for 'nother call, you do um same as first. Soon we be over."
"You won't have a punt," I suggested.
"No need um; water so," he drew his hand across his waist. "Tote Lady, then Echochee."
"She doesn't know I'm to be there?"
"No; plenty time."
That night I slept heavily, as a man who has regained the bloom of health, and awoke with the rosy dawn. Afew fiery bars shot across the sky, which the trees, brush and grass reflected. Red, everywhere red; and I thought how much more red the night would be after Smilax and I had silenced Posts One and Two. I raised my head and looked for him. The fire was burning, our breakfast was cooking. He had doubtless gone to the spring for water, so I rolled out of my lean-to and started to the pool; but stopped, listening.
Somewhere ahead of me I heard his voice, deep and musical, droning a weird kind of chant that seemed to be utterly everlasting. It was not loud, but rather like a deep organ note that carries a long distance. In a while he came nearer, walking unconcernedly with his face to the sky. Over and over and over the chant continued; truly a sort of world without end.
"Do you know the second verse?" I cheerily asked, as he was about to pass.
He stopped, swung around, and showed his teeth in a smile that was as free from worry as the day.
"Me sing askabee," he explained. "Enemy go down when me sing askabee."
"Then pray continue, by all means," I said hurriedly, "Maybe after breakfast we can manage to knock out a duet."
"We build fort after breakfast," he replied, unmindful of my banter. "Breakfast 'bout ready. Get wet quick and come back soon." It's a wonder he hadn't told me to smoke.
On the southern and western edge of our "island"—thus being nearest Efaw Kotee's settlement—were a lot of fallen palms; trees that many years ago had been killed by fire and now lay partially rotted. The best of these Smilax had planned to make into a fort; not an elaborate affair, but a shoulder-high hollow square,around which was to be built another hollow square, a three foot space between their walls to be filled with sand. It was a good idea, and would stop a Krag or modern Springfield bullet with ease.
We worked on this till noon; he trimming, lifting and placing the logs—and elephants have never swung teak more splendidly—while I, with our jointed camp spade, filled in the sand. The use of an axe could not possibly betray our position as Efaw Kotee had been betrayed, because the breeze continued from him to us, and also for the equally good reason that the bite of an axe in soggy palmetto does not sound with anything like the ring that is caused by hardwood. So our walls grew, being fitted with nice precision that gave them more than enough strength to sustain the filling of sand—which, in turn, was kept from sifting through the interstices by a double lining of palm leaves.
After an early luncheon we went back to add a few finishing touches, and then stood off admiring it.
"Oughtn't we put in a stock of provisions?" I asked.
"No stay long 'nough in there to get much hungry," Smilax shook his head. "One night and they pull um down and got us. Good to keep 'em off in daytime; after dark we run in grass."
There was something in what he said.
With the approach of evening a curious calm came over me. Perhaps it was the nearness of action, perhaps because I had accustomed myself to the thought that before another dawn I must deliberately slip upon a fellow man and destroy him. In France, with a battle raging, men lost their identity, and if—or when—we killed one, we rarely knew it. But in this peaceful country it seemed a more murderous thing to do. Yetperhaps the truest reason why my nerves had turned to steel was the dominating thought of Sylvia.
Twice I rehearsed before Smilax what I was to do. I stood apart and called: "Post One, nine o'clock, and all's-er-well!" to let him judge if my voice differed materially from the one we heard last night. This was most important, as the suspicion of the guard at post Three must not be aroused. I then called the next post in an altered voice, and felt well pleased when Smilax said the tones were near enough to pass.
It was an uncanny rehearsal, this imitating the voices of those whom we should have made forever silent, but if there existed anywhere on earth a justification for the taking of human life it rested with Smilax and me. We were not killers, but defenders; we did not go so much to destroy as to save. Our way was the only way to rescue a helpless girl and a faithful old woman from destruction. Two men, or two hundred, made no difference now; I would kill all, or any number, who stood in the way of that beloved girl's safety.