Chapter II
You may be sure there was trouble on the Gaston place when night came and the children did not return. They were missed at dinner-time; but it frequently happened that they went off with some of the plantation wagons, or with some of the field-hands, and so nothing was thought of their absence at noon; but when night fell and all the negroes had returned from their work, and there was still no sign of the children, there was consternation in the big house and trouble all over the plantation. The field-hands, returned from their work, discussed the matter at the doors of their cabins and manifested considerable anxiety.
“THE FIELD-HANDS DISCUSSED THE MATTER.”
At first the house-servants were sent scurrying about the place hunting for the truants. Then other negroes were pressed into service, until, finally, every negro on the place was engaged in the search, and torches could be seen bobbing up and down in all parts of the plantation. The negroes called and called, filling the air with their musical halloos, but there was no reply save from the startled birds, or from the dogs, who seemed to take it for granted that everybody was engaged in a grand ’possum hunt, and added the strength of their own voices to the general clamor.
While all this was going on, Mrs. Gaston was pacing up and down the long veranda wringing her hands in an agony of grief. There was but one thought in her mind—the river, the RIVER! Her husband in the midst of his own grief tried to console her, but he could not. He had almost as much as he could do to control himself, and there was in his own mind—the RIVER!
The search on the plantation and in its vicinity went on until nearly nine o’clock. About that time Big Sam, one of the plough-hands, who was also a famous fisherman, came running to the house with a frightened face.
“Marster,” he exclaimed, “de boat gone—she done gone!”
“Oh, I knew it!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston—“the river, the river!”
“Well!” said Doctor Gaston, “the boat must be found. Blow the horn!”
Big Sam seized the dinner-horn and blew a blast that startled the echoes for miles around. The negroes understood this to be a signal to return, and most of them thought that the children had been found, so they came back laughing and singing, and went to the big house to see the children.
“Wh’abouts you fine um, marster?” asked the foreman.
“They haven’t been found, Jim,” said Dr. Gaston. “Big Sam says that the boat is gone from the landing, and that boat must be found to-night.”
“Marster,” said a negro, coming forward out of the group, “I seed a boat gwine down stream dis mornin’. I wuz way up on de hill—”
“And you didn’t come and tell me?” asked Dr. Gaston in a severe tone.
“Well, suh, I hollered at um, an’ dey ain’t make no answer, an’ den it look like ter me ’t wuz dem two Ransome boys. Hit mos’ drap out’n my min’. An’ den you know, suh, our chillun ain’t never had no doin’s like dat—gittin’ in de boat by dey own-alone se’f an’ sailin’ off dat a-way.”
“Well,” said Dr. Gaston, “the boat must be found. The children are in it. Where can we get another boat?”
“I got one, suh,” said Big Sam.
“Me, too, marster,” said another negro.
“Then get them both, and be quick about it!”
“Ah-yi, suh,” was the response, and in a moment the group was scattered, and Big Sam could be heard giving orders in a loud and an energetic tone of voice. For once he was in his element. He could be foreman on the Oconee if he couldn’t in the cotton-patch. He knew every nook and cranny of the river for miles up and down; he had his fish-baskets sunk in many places, and the overhanging limbs of many a tree bore the marks of the lines of his set-hooks. So for once he appointed himself foreman, and took charge of affairs. He and Sandy Bill (so-called owing to the peculiar color of his hair) soon had their boats at the landing. The other negroes were assembled there, and the most of them had torches.
“Marster,” said Big Sam, “you git in my boat, an’ let little Willyum come fer ter hol’ de torch. Jesse, you git in dar wid Sandy Bill. Fling a armful er light’ood in bofe boats, boys, kaze we got ter have a light, and dey ain’t no tellin’ how fur we gwine.”
The fat pine was thrown in, everything made ready, and then the boats started. With one sweep of his broad paddle, Big Sam sent his boat into the middle of the stream, and, managed by his strong and willing arms, the clumsy old bateau became a thing of life. Sandy Bill was not far behind him.
The negroes used only one paddle in rowing, and each sat in the stern of his boat, using the rough but effective oar first on one side and then the other.
From a window, Mrs. Gaston watched the boats as they went speeding down the river. By her side was Charity, the cook.
“Isn’t it terrible!” she exclaimed, as the boats passed out of sight. “Oh, what shall I do?”
“’T would be mighty bad, Mist’iss, ef dem chillun wuz los’; but dey ain’t no mo’ los’ dan I is, an’ I’m a-standin’ right yer in de cornder by dish yer cheer.”
“Not lost! Why, of course they are lost. Oh, my darling little children!”
“No ’m, dey ain’t no mo’ los’ dan you is. Dey tuck dat boat dis mornin’, an’ dey went atter ole man Jake—dat’s whar dey er gone. Dey ain’t gone nowhar else. Dey er in dat boat right now; dey may be asleep, but dey er in dar. Ain’t I year um talkin’ yistiddy wid my own years? Ain’t I year dat ar Marse Lucien boy ’low ter he sister dat he gwine go fetch ole man Jake back? Ain’t I miss a whole can full er biscuits? Ain’t I miss two er dem pies w’at I lef’ out dar in de kitchen? Ain’t I miss a great big hunk er light-bread? An’ who gwine dast ter take um less’n it’s dem ar chillun? Dey don’t fool me, mon. I’m one er de oldest rats in de barn—I is dat!”
Charity’s tone was emphatic and energetic. She was so confident that her theory was the right one that she succeeded in quieting her mistress somewhat.
“An’ mo’ ’n dat,” she went on, seeing the effect of her remarks, “dem chillun ’ll come home yer all safe an’ soun’. Ef Marster an’ dem niggers don’t fetch um back, dey ’ll come deyse’f; an’ old man Jake ’ll come wid um. You min’ wa’t I tell you. You go an’ go ter bed, honey, an’ don’t pester yo’se’f ’bout dem chillun. I’ll set up yer in the cornder an’ nod, an’ keep my eyes on w’at’s gwine on outside.”
But Mrs. Gaston refused to go to bed. She went to the window, and away down the river she could see the red light of the torches projected against the fog. It seemed as if it were standing still, and the mother’s heart sank within her at the thought. Perhaps they had found the boat—empty! This and a thousand other cruel suggestions racked her brain.
But the boats were not standing still; they were moving down the river as rapidly as four of the stoutest arms to be found in the county could drive them. The pine torches lit up both banks perfectly. The negroes rowed in silence a mile or more, when Big Sam said:
“Marster, kin we sing some?”
“Does it seem to be much of a singing matter, Sam?” Dr. Gaston asked, grimly.
“No, suh, it don’t; but singin’ he’ps ’long might’ly w’en you workin’, mo’ speshually ef you er doin’ de kind er work whar you kin sorter hit a lick wid the chune—kinder keepin’ time, like.”
Dr. Gaston said nothing, and Big Sam went on:
“’Sides dat, Marster, we-all useter sing ter dem chillun, an’ dey knows our holler so well dat I boun’ you ef dey wuz ter year us singin’ an’ gwine on, dey’d holler back.”
“Well,” said Dr. Gaston, struck by the suggestion, “sing.”
“Bill,” said Big Sam to the negro in the other boat, “watch out for me; I’m gwine away.”
“You’ll year fum me w’en you git whar you gwine,” Sandy Bill replied.
With that Big Sam struck up a song. His voice was clear and strong, and he sang with a will.
Oh. Miss Malindy, you er lots too sweet for me;
I cannot come to see you
Ontil my time is free—
Oh, den I’ll come ter see you,
An’ take you on my knee.
Oh, Miss Malindy, now don’t you go away;
I cannot come to see you
Ontil some yuther day—
Oh, den I’ll come ter see you—
Oh, den I’ll come ter stay.
Oh, Miss Malindy, you is my only one;
I cannot come ter see you
Ontil de day is done—
Oh, den I’ll come ter see you,
And we’ll have a little fun.
Oh, Miss Malindy, my heart belongs ter you;
I cannot come ter see you
Ontil my work is thoo’.
Oh, den I’ll come ter see you,
I ’ll come in my canoe.
The words of the song, foolish and trivial as they are, do not give the faintest idea of the melody to which it was sung. The other negroes joined in, and the tremulous tenor of little Willyum was especially effective. The deep dark woods on either side seemed to catch up and echo back the plaintive strain. To a spectator on the bank, the scene must have been an uncanny one—the song with its heart-breaking melody, the glistening arms and faces of the two gigantic blacks, the flaring torches, flinging their reflections on the swirling waters, the great gulfs of darkness beyond—all these must have been very impressive. But these things did not occur to those in the boats, least of all to Dr. Gaston. In the minds of all there was but one thought—the children.
The negroes rowed on, keeping time to their songs. Their arms appeared to be as tireless as machinery that has the impulse of steam. Finally Big Sam’s boat grounded.
“Hol’ on dar, Bill!” he shouted. “Watch out!” He took the torch from the little negro and held it over his head, and then behind him, peering into the darkness beyond. Then he laughed.
“De Lord he’p my soul!” he exclaimed; “I done clean fergit ’bout Moccasin Shoals! Back yo’ boat, Bill.” Suiting the action to the word, he backed his own, and they were soon away from the shoals.
“Now, den,” he said to Bill, “git yo’ boat in line wid mine, an’ hol’ yo’ paddle in yo’ lap.” Then the boats, caught by the current, moved toward the shoals, and one after the other touched a rock, turned completely around, and went safely down the rapids, just as the children’s boat had done in the forenoon. Once over the shoals, Big Sam and Sandy Bill resumed their oars and their songs, and sent the boats along at a rapid rate.
A man, sitting on the river bank, heard them coming, and put out his torch by covering it with sand. He crouched behind the bushes and watched them go by. After they had passed he straightened himself, and remarked:
“Well, I’ll be switched!” Then he relighted his torch, and went on with his fishing. It was the same man that Lucien and Lillian had seen.
The boats went on and on. With brief intervals the negroes rowed all night long, but Dr. Gaston found no trace of his children. In sheer desperation, however, he kept on. The sun rose, and the negroes were still rowing. At nine o’clock in the morning the boats entered Ross’s mill-pond. This Dr. Gaston knew was the end of his journey. If the boat had drifted into this pond, and been carried over the dam, the children were either drowned or crushed on the rocks below. If their boat had not entered the pond, then they had been rescued the day before by some one living near the river.
It was with a heavy heart that Dr. Gaston landed. And yet there were no signs of a tragedy anywhere near. John Cosby, the miller, fat and hearty, stood in the door of the mill, his arms akimbo, and watched the boats curiously. His children were playing near. A file of geese was marching down to the water, and a flock of pigeons was sailing overhead, taking their morning exercise. Everything seemed to be peaceful and serene. As he passed the dam on his way to the mill, Dr. Gaston saw that there was a heavy head of water, but possibly not enough to carry a large bateau over; still—the children were gone!
THE MILLER AND HIS CHILDREN
The puzzled look on the miller’s face disappeared as Dr. Gaston approached.
“Well, the gracious goodness!” he exclaimed. “Why, howdy, Doc.—howdy! Why, I ’m right down glad to see you. Whichever an’ whichaway did you come?”
“My little children are lost,” said Dr. Gaston, shaking the miller’s hand. The jolly smile on John Cosby’s face disappeared as suddenly as if it had been wiped out with a sponge.
“Well, now, that’s too bad—too bad,” he exclaimed, looking at his own rosy-cheeked little ones standing near.
“They were in a bateau,” said Dr. Gaston, “and I thought maybe they might have drifted down here and over the mill-dam.”
The miller’s jolly smile appeared again. “Oh, no, Doc.—no, no! Whichever an’ whichaway they went, they never went over that dam. In time of a freshet, the thing might be did; but not now. Oh, no! Ef it lies betwixt goin’ over that dam an’ bein’ safe, them babies is jest as safe an’ soun’ as mine is.”
“I think,” said Dr. Gaston, “that they started out to hunt Jake, my carriage-driver, who has run away.”
“Jake run away!” exclaimed Mr. Cosby, growing very red in the face. “Why, the impident scoundull! Hit ain’t been three days sence the ole rascal wuz here. He come an’ ’lowed that some of your wagons was a-campin’ out about two mile from here, an’ he got a bushel of meal, an’ said that if you didn’t pay me the money down I could take it out in physic. The impident ole scoundull! An’ he was jest as ’umble-come-tumble as you please—a-bowin’, an’ a-scrapin’, an’ a-howdy-do-in’.”
But the old miller’s indignation cooled somewhat when Dr. Gaston briefly told him of the incident which caused the old negro to run away.
“Hit sorter sticks in my gizzard,” he remarked, “when I hear tell of a nigger hittin’ a white man; but I don’t blame Jake much.”
“And now,” said Dr. Gaston, “I want to ask your advice. You are a level-headed man, and I want to know what you think. The children got in the boat, and came down the river. There is no doubt in my mind that they started on a wild-goose chase after Jake; but they are not on the river now, nor is the boat on the river. How do you account for that?”
“Well, Doc., if you want my naked beliefs about it, I’ll give ’em to you, fa’r an’ squar’. It’s my beliefs that them youngsters have run up agin old Jake somewhar up the river, an’ that they are jest as safe’an’ soun’ as you is. Them’s my beliefs.”
“But what has become of the boat?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. Old Jake is jest as cunning as any other nigger. He took an’ took the youngsters out, an’ arterwards he drawed the boat out on dry land. He rightly thought there would be pursuit, an’ he didn’t mean to be ketched.”
“Then what would you advise me to do?” asked Dr. Gaston.
The old man scratched his head.
“Well, Doc., I’m a-talkin’ in the dark, but it’s my beliefs them youngsters ’ll be at home before you can get there to save your life. Jake may not be there, but if he’s found the boy an’ gal, he ’ll carry ’em safe home. Now you mind what I tell you.”
Dr. Gaston’s anxiety was too great to permit him to put much confidence in the old miller’s prediction. What he said seemed reasonable enough, but a thousand terrible doubts had possession of the father’s mind. He hardly dared go home without the children. He paced up and down before the mill, a most miserable man. He knew not where to go or what to do.
Mr. Cosby, the miller, watched him awhile, and shook his head. “If Doc. don’t find them youngsters,” he said to himself, “he ’ll go plum deestracted.” But he said aloud:
“Well, Doc., you an’ the niggers must have a breathing-spell. We’ll go up to the house an’ see ef we can’t find somethin’ to eat in the cubberd, an’ arterwards, in the time you are restin’, we’ll talk about findin’ the youngsters. If there’s any needcessity, I’ll go with you. My son John can run the mill e’en about as good as I can. We’ll go up yan to ’Squire Ross’s an’ git a horse or two, an’ we’ll scour the country on both sides of the river. But you’ve got to have a snack of somethin’ to eat, an’ you’ve got to take a rest. Human natur’ can’t stand the strain.”
Torn as he was by grief and anxiety, Dr. Gaston knew this was good advice. He gratefully accepted John Cosby’s invitation to breakfast, as well as his offer to aid in the search for the lost children. After Doctor Gaston had eaten, he sat on the miller’s porch and tried to collect his thoughts so as to be able to form some plan of search. While the two men were talking, they heard Big Sam burst out laughing. He laughed so loud and heartily that Mr. Cosby grew angry, and went into the back yard to see what the fun was about. In his heart the miller thought the negroes were laughing at the food his wife had set before them, and he was properly indignant.
“Well, well,” said he, “what’s this I hear? Two high-fed niggers a-laughin’ beca’se their master’s little ones are lost and gone! And has it come to this? A purty pass, a mighty purty pass!” Both the negroes grew very serious at this.
“Mars’ John, we-all was des projickin’ wid one an’er. You know how niggers is w’en dey git nuff ter eat. Dey feel so good dey ’bleege ter holler.”
Mr. Cosby sighed, and turned away. “Well,” said he, “I hope niggers ’s got souls, but I know right p’int-blank that they ain’t got no hearts.”
Now, what was Big Sam laughing at?
He was laughing because he had found out where Lucien and Lillian were. How did he find out? In the simplest manner imaginable. Sandy Bill and Big Sam were sitting in Mr. Cosby’s back yard eating their breakfast, while little Willyum was eating his in the kitchen. It was the first time the two older negroes had had an opportunity of talking together since they started from home the day before.
“Sam,” said Sandy Bill, “did you see whar de chillun landed w’en we come ’long des a’ter sun-up dis mornin’?”
“Dat I didn’t,” said Sam, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—“dat I didn’t, an’ ef I had I’d a hollered out ter Marster.”
“Dat w’at I wuz feared un,” said Sandy Bill.
“Feared er what?” asked Big Sam.
“Feared you’d holler at Marster ef you seed whar dey landed. Dat how come I ter run foul er yo’ boat.”
“Look yer, nigger man, you ain’t done gone ’stracted, is you?”
“Shoo, chile! don’t talk ter me ’bout gwine ’stracted. I got ez much sense ez Ole Zip Coon.”
“Den whyn’t you tell Marster? Ain’t you done see how he troubled in he min’?”
“I done see dat, en it makes me feel bad; but t’er folks got trouble, too, lots wuss’n Marster.”
“Is dey los’ der chillun?”
“Yes—Lord! dey done los’ eve’ybody. But Marster ain’t los’ no chillun yit.”
“Den wat we doin’ way down yer?” asked Big Sam in an angry tone.
“AN’ OLE MAN JAKE, HE DAR TOO.”
“Le’ me tell you,” said Sandy Bill, laying his hand on Big Sam’s shoulder; “le’ me tell you. Right cross dar fum whar I run foul er yo’ boat is de biggest cane-brake in all creation.”
“I know ’im,” said Big Sam. “Dey calls ’im Hudson’s cane-brake.”
“Now you talkin’,” said Sandy Bill. “Well, ef you go dar you ’ll fin’ right in the middle er dat cane-brake a heap er niggers dat you got ’quaintance wid—Randall Spivey, an’ Crazy Sue, an’ Cupid Mitchell, an’ Isaiah Little—dey er all dar; an’ ole man Jake, he dar too.”
“Look yer, nigger,” Sam exclaimed, “how you know?”
“I sent ’im dar. He come by me in de fiel’ an’ tole me he done kilt de overseer, an’ I up an’ tell ’im, I did, ‘Make fer Hudson’s cane-brake,’ an’ dar ’s right whar he went.”
It was at this point that Big Sam’s hearty laughter attracted the attention of Dr. Gaston and Mr. Cosby.
“Now, den,” said Sandy Bill, after the miller had rebuked them and returned to the other side of the house, “now, den, ef I’d ’a’ showed Marster whar dem chillun landed, en tole ’im whar dey wuz, he’d ’a’ gone ’cross dar, en seed dem niggers, an’ by dis time nex’ week ole Bill Locke’s nigger-dogs would ’a’ done run um all in jail. You know how Marster is. He think kaze he treat his niggers right dat eve’ybody else treat der’n des dat a-way. But don’t you worry ’bout dem chillun.”
Was it possible for Sandy Bill to be mistaken?