Chapter Sixteen
A Predicament in Prospect

For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace continued wide enough to admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no word passed between us. My guide had relapsed into his attitude of melancholy – deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he had just received – and sat loosely in his saddle, his head drooping forward over his breast. Bitter thoughts within rendered him unconscious of what was passing without; and I felt that any effort I might make to soften the acerbity of his reflections would be idle.

There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain – when, instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. I made no attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on by his side, silent as he. Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness in my own reflections to give me occupation. Though troubled by no heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither brilliant nor attractive. The foreknowledge I had now gained of squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. Once, or twice, was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling companion; and why not? With the openness of an honest heart, had he confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret of his life. Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject of comparatively little importance? My reason for not making a confidant of him sooner has been already given. It no longer existed. So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all likelihood I should have him on my die. At all events, I felt certain that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of the situation, that might be worth having.

I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards me. In the former movement, I imitated his example.

“The road forks here,” said he. “The path on the left goes straight down to Holt’s Clarin’ – the other’s the way to my bit o’ a shanty.”

“I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered me, and say ‘Good-night.’”

“No – not yet. I ain’t a-goin’ to leave ye, till I’ve put you ’ithin sight o’ Holt’s cabin, tho’ I can’t go wi’ ye to the house. As I told ye, he an’ I ain’t on the best o’ tarms.”

“I cannot think of your coming out of your way – especially at this late hour. I’m some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out the path.”

“No, stranger! Thar’s places whar the trace is a’most blind, and you mout get out o’ it. Thar’ll be no moon on it. It runs through a thick timbered bottom, an’ thar’s an ugly bit o’ swamp. As for the lateness, I’m not very reg’lar in my hours; an’ thar’s a sort o’ road up the crik by which I can get home. ’Twan’t to bid you good-night, that I stopped here.”

“What, then?” thought I, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while he was pausing in his speech.

“Stranger!” continued he in an altered tone, “I hope you won’t take offence if I ask you a question?”

“Not much fear of that, I fancy. Ask it freely.”

“Are ye sure o’ a bed at Holt’s?”

“Well, upon my word, to say the truth, I am by no means sure of one. It don’t signify, however. I have my old cloak and my saddle; and it wouldn’t be the first time, by hundreds, I’ve slept in the open air.”

“My reezuns for askin’ you air, that if you ain’t sure o’ one, an’ don’t mind stretching’ yourself on a bar-skin, thar’s such a thing in my shanty entirely at your sarvice.”

“It is very kind of you. Perhaps I may have occasion to avail myself of your offer. In truth, I am not very confident of meeting with a friendly reception at the hands of your neighbour Holt – much less being asked to partake of his hospitality.”

“D’ye say so?”

“Indeed, yes. From what I have heard, I have reason to anticipate rather a cold welcome.”

“I’deed? But,” – My companion hesitated his his speech – as if meditating some observation which he felt a delicacy about making. “I’m a’most ashamed,” continued he, at length, “to put another question, that war on the top o’ my tongue.”

“I shall take pleasure in answering any question you may think proper to ask me.”

“I shedn’t ask it, if it wa’n’t for what you’ve jest now said: for I heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an’ I heerd your answer to it. But I reckon ’twar the way in which it war asked that offended you; an’ on that account your answer war jest as it should a been.”

“To what question to you refer?”

“To your bisness out here wi’ Hick Holt. I don’t want to know it, out o’ any curiosity o’ my own – that’s sartin, stranger.”

“You are welcome to know all about it. Indeed, it was my intention to have told you before we parted – at the same time to ask you for some advice about the matter.”

Without further parley, I communicated the object of my visit to Mud Creek – concealing nothing that I deemed necessary for the elucidation of the subject. Without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my story to the end. From the play of his features, as I revealed the more salient points, I could perceive that my chances of an amicable adjustment of my claim were far from being brilliant.

“Well – do you know,” said he, when I had finished speaking, “I had a suspeecion that that might be your bisness? I don know why I shed a thort so; but maybe ’twar because thar’s been some others come here to settle o’ late, an’ found squatters on thar groun – jest the same as Holt’s on yourn. That’s why ye heerd me say, a while ago, that I shedn’t like to buy over his head.”

“And why not?” I awaited the answer to this question, not without a certain degree of nervous anxiety. I was beginning to comprehend the counsel of my Nashville friend on the ticklish point of pre-emption.

“Why, you see, stranger – as I told you, Hick Holt’s a rough customer; an’ I reckon he’ll be an ugly one to deal wi’, on a bisness o’ that kind.”

“Of course, being in possession, he may purchase the land? He has the right of pre-emption?”

“’Taint for that. He ain’t a-goin’ to pre-empt, nor buy neyther; an’ for the best o’ reezuns. He hain’t got a red cent in the world, an’ souldn’t buy as much land as would make him a mellyun patch – not he.”

“How does he get his living, then?”

“Oh, as for that, jest some’at like myself. Thar’s gobs o’ game in the woods – both bar an’ deer: an’ the clarin’ grows him corn. Thar’s squ’lls, an’ ’possum, an’ turkeys too; an’ lots o’ fish in the crik – if one gets tired o’ the bar an’ deer-meat, which I shed niver do.”

“But how about clothing, and other necessaries that are not found in the woods?”

“As for our clothin’ it ain’t hard to find. We can get that in Swampville by swopping skins for it, or now an’ then some deer-meat. O’ anythin’ else, thar ain’t much needed ’bout here – powder, an’ lead, an’ a leetle coffee, an’ tobacco. Once in a while, if ye like it, a taste o’ old corn.”

“Corn! I thought the squatter raised that for himself?”

“So he do raise corn; but I see, stranger, you don’t understand our odd names. Thar’s two kinds o’ corn in these parts – that as has been to the still, and that as hain’t. It’s the first o’ these sorts that Hick Holt likes best.”

“Oh! I perceive your meaning. He’s fond of a little corn-whisky, I presume?”

“I reckon he are – that same squatter – fonder o’t than milk. But surely,” continued the hunter, changing the subject, as well as the tone of his speech – “surely, stranger, you ain’t a-goin’ on your bisness the night?”

“I’ve just begun to think, that it is rather an odd hour to enter upon an estate. The idea didn’t occur to me before.”

“Besides,” added he, “thar’s another reezun. If Hick Holt’s what he used to be, he ain’t likely to be very nice about this time o’ night. I hain’t seen much o’ him lately; but, I reckon, he’s as fond o’ drink as ever he war; an’ ’tain’t often he goes to his bed ’ithout a skinful. Thar’s ten chances agin one, o’ your findin’ him wi’ brick in his hat.”

“That would be awkward.”

“Don’t think o’ goin’ to-night,” continued the young hunter in a persuasive tone. “Come along wi’ me; an’ you can ride down to Holt’s in the mornin’. You’ll then find him more reezonable to deal wi’. I can’t offer you no great show o’ entertainment; but thar’s a piece o’ deer-meat in the house, an’ I reckon I can raise a cup o’ coffee, an’ a pone or two o’ bread. As for your shore, the ole corn-crib ain’t quite empty yet.”

“Thanks thanks!” said I, grasping the hunter’s hand in the warmth of my gratitude. “I accept your invitation.”

“This way, then, stranger!”

We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter – a log-cabin surrounded by a clearing. I soon found he was its sole occupant – as he was its owner – some half-dozen large dogs being the only living creatures that were present to bid us welcome. A rude horse-shed was at hand – a “loose box,” it might be termed, as it was only intended to accommodate one – and this was placed at the disposal of my Arab. The “critter” of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and choose his stall among the trees – but to that sort of treatment he had been well inured. A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome, constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitable clapboard roof of the young backwoodsman – Frank Wingrove.

Chapter Seventeen
The Indian Summer

 
Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters
Its frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:
That forest, through which the great “Father of Waters”
For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!
Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,
With a heaven above it of glorious blue,
And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,
Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?
Or think’st thou, that e’en in the regions of bliss,
There’s a landscape more truly Elysian than this?
 
 
Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed,
Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!
And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade,
The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!
Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,
And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;
And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,
Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold;
And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen,
And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green!
 
 
And list to the music borne over the trees!
It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic —
The song of the birds and the hum of the bees
Commingling their tones with the ripples erratic.
Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal’s call
From the groves of annona? – from tulip-tree tall
The mock-bird responding? – below, in the glade,
The dove softly cooing in mellower shade —
While the oriole answers in accents of mirth?
Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?
 
 
In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers,
Who falsely declared ’twas a land without song!
Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbers
That liven its woods through the summer-day long —
Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees,
Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze,
He would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong —
“Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.”
Ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour,
You had never beheld the magnolia’s flower?
 
 
Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found —
For how could such land to the gods be unknown?
And where is there spot upon African ground
So like to a garden a goddess would own?
And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,
Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea,
Destroyed before plucking the apples of gold —
Was nought but that monster – the mammoth of old.
If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed,
Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West!
 

The memory of that scene attunes my soul to song, awaking any muse from the silence in which she has long slumbered. But the voice of the coy maiden is less melodious than of yore: she shies me for my neglect: and despite the gentlest courting, refusing to breathe her divine spirit over a scene worthy of a sweeter strain. And this scene lay not upon the classic shores of the Hellespont – not in the famed valleys of Alp and Apennine – not by the romantic borders of the Rhine, but upon the banks of Mud Creek in the state of Tennessee! In truth, it was a lovely landscape, or rather a succession of landscapes, through which I rode, after leaving the cabin of my hospitable host. It was the season of “Indian summer” – that singular phenomenon of the occidental clime, when the sun, as if rueing his southern declension, appears to return along the line of the zodiac. He loves better the “Virgin” than “Aquarius;” and lingering to take a fond look on that fair land he has fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his intruding antagonist, the hoary Boreas. But his last kiss kills: there is too much passion in his parting glance. The forest is fired by its fervour; and many of its fairest forms the rival trod of the north may never clasp in his cold embrace. In suttee-like devotion, they scorn to shun the flame; but, with outstretched arms inviting it; offer themselves as a holocaust to him who, through the long summer-day, has smiled upon their trembling existence.

At this season of the year, too, the virgin forest is often the victim of another despoiler – the hurricane