With such conjectures occupying my thoughts, no wonder I was not in a mood for merriment. My companions noticed my dejection, and in their rude but kind way, rallied me as we rode along. They failed, however, to make me cheerful like themselves. I could not cast the load from my heart. Try as I would, the presentiment lay heavy upon me, that all was not well.
Alas, alas! the presentiment proved true — no, not true, but worse — worse than my worst apprehensions — worse even than that I had most feared.
The news that awaited me was not of marriage, but of death — the death of my mother — and worse than death — horrid doubt of my sister’s fate. Before reaching home, a messenger met me — one who told an appalling tale.
The Indians had attacked the settlement, or rather my own plantation — for their foray had gone no further: my poor mother had fallen under their savage knives; my uncle too: and my sister? She had been carried off!
I stayed to hear no more; but, driving the spurs into my jaded horse, galloped forward like one suddenly smitten with madness.
Chapter Seventy Three
A Bad Spectacle
My rate of speed soon brought me within the boundaries of the plantation; and, without pausing to breathe my horse, I galloped on, taking the path that led most directly to the house. It was not the main road, but a wood-path here and there closed up with "bars." My horse was a spirited animal, and easily leaped over them.
I met a man coming from the direction of the house — a white man — a neighbour. He made motions as if to speak — no doubt, of the calamity. I did not stop to listen. I had heard enough. My eyes alone wanted satisfaction.
I knew every turn of the path. I knew the points where I should first come in sight of the house.
I reached it, and looked forwards. Father of mercy! there was no house to be seen!
Half-bewildered, I reined up my horse. I strained my eyes over the landscape — in vain — no house.
Had I taken the wrong road, or was I looking in the wrong direction? No — no. There stood the giant tulip-tree, that marked the embouchure of the path. There stretched the savanna; beyond it the home-fields of indigo and maize; beyond these the dark wood-knoll of the hommock; but beyond this last there was nothing — nothing I could recognise.
The whole landscape appeared to have undergone a change. The gay white walls — the green jalousies — the cheerful aspect of home, that from that same spot had so often greeted me, returning hungry and wearied from the hunt — were no longer to be seen. The sheds, the negro-cabins, the offices, even the palings had disappeared. From their steads I beheld thick volumes of smoke ascending to the sky, and rolling over the sun till his disc was red. The heavens were frowning upon me.
From what I had already learned, the spectacle was easy of comprehension. It caused no new emotion either of surprise or pain. I was not capable of suffering more.
Again putting my horse to his speed, I galloped across the fields towards the scene of desolation.
As I neared the spot, I could perceive the forms of men moving about through the smoke. There appeared to be fifty or a hundred of them. Their motions did not betoken excitement. Only a few were moving at all, and these with a leisurely gait, that told they were not in action. The rest stood in groups, in lounging attitudes, evidently mere spectators of the conflagration. They were making no attempt to extinguish the flames, which I now observed mingling with the smoke. A few were rushing to and fro — most of them on horseback — apparently in the endeavour to catch some horses and cattle, that, having escaped from the burnt inclosure, were galloping over the fields, neighing and lowing.
One might have fancied that the men around the fire were those who had caused it; and for a moment such an idea was in my mind. The messenger had said that the foray had just taken place — that very morning at daybreak. It was all I had heard, as I hurried away.
It was yet early — scarcely an hour after sunrise — for we had been travelling by night to avoid the hot hours. Were the savages still upon the ground? Were those men Indians? In the lurid light, amidst the smoke, chasing the cattle — as if with the intention of driving them off — the conjecture was probable enough.
But the report said they had gone away: how else could the details have been known? — the murder of my mother, the rape of my poor sister? With the savages still upon the ground, how had these facts been ascertained?
Perhaps they had gone, and returned again to collect the booty, and fire the buildings? For an instant such fancies were before my mind.
They had no influence in checking my speed. I never thought of tightening the rein — my bridle arm was not free; with both hands I was grasping the ready rifle.
Vengeance had made me mad. Even had I been certain that the dark forms before me were those of the murderers, I was determined to dash forwards into their midst, and perish upon the body of a savage.
I was not alone. The black was at my heels; and close behind, I could hear the clattering hoofs of the hunters’ horses.
We galloped up to the selvidge of the smoke. The deception was at an end. They were not Indians or enemies, but friends who stood around, and who hailed our approach neither with words nor shouts, but with the ominous silence of sympathy.
I pulled up by the fire, and dismounted from my horse: men gathered around me with looks of deep meaning. They were speechless — no one uttered a word. All saw that it was a tale that needed no telling.
I was myself the first to speak. In a voice so husky as scarcely to be heard, I inquired: "Where?"
The interrogatory was understood — it was anticipated. One had already taken me by the hand, and was leading me gently around the fire. He said nothing, but pointed towards the hommock. Unresistingly I walked by his side.
As we neared the pond, I observed a larger group than any I had yet seen. They were standing in a ring, with their faces turned inwards, and their eyes bent upon the earth. I knew she was there.
At our approach, the men looked up, and suddenly the ring opened — both sides mechanically drawing back. He who had my hand conducted me silently onwards, till I stood in their midst. I looked upon the corpse of my mother.
Beside it was the dead body of my uncle, and beyond, the bodies of several black men — faithful slaves, who had fallen in defence of their master and mistress.
My poor mother! — shot — stabbed — scalped. Even in death had she been defeatured!
Though I had anticipated it, the spectacle shocked me.
My poor mother! Those glassy eyes would never smile upon me again — those pale lips would neither chide nor cheer me more.
I could control my emotions no longer. I burst into tears; and falling upon the earth, flung my arms around the corpse, and kissed the cold mute lips of her who had given me birth.
Chapter Seventy Four
To the Trail
My grief was profound — even to misery. The remembrance of occasional moments of coldness on the part of my mother — the remembrance more especially of the last parting scene — rendered my anguish acute. Had we but parted in affection — in the friendly confidence of former years — my loss would have been easier to endure. But no; her last words to me were spoken in reproach — almost in anger — and it was the memory of these that now so keenly embittered my thoughts. I would have given the world could she have heard but one word — to know how freely I forgave her.