Kate Aylesford: A Story of the Refugees

by Charles J. Peterson

“I’ll not stay,” she continued, “to hear sich tales. I wonder you ain’t ashamed, and before Pomp too.”

The abashed romancer could not utter a word. Dinah in vain interposed to persuade Aunt Chloe to remain. At last the offender, eager to purchase his peace, said that, if Aunt Chloe must go, at least she must permit Pomp to accompany her home. “Dar was nuffin so ungenteel,” he said, “dan fur company, ‘specially ladies, to be ‘lowed to go home alone.”

Pomp, whose ever active fears had been unpleasantly excited already, would fain have declined, but did not dare; and Aunt Chloe, somewhat mollified by this civility, set off with her attendant. The distance was about a mile, which was soon passed, too soon for Pomp, indeed, who, all the time, had been dreading the lonely walk back.

There was no help for it, however, and so, after leaving Aunt Chloe at her gate, the lad, whistling to keep his courage up, set his face homewards. As long as he remained within sight of the cabin, he managed to keep down his fears; but when he had fairly plunged into the forest, his teeth began to chatter, his knees to shake, and his heart to palpitate. The night was starless, as well as moonless, so that, even in the open country, it was quite dark, while in the narrow wood road the gloom seemed almost palpable. Pomp could not see a dozen feet ahead. He began to recall, not only the story his father had related, and which he firmly believed in spite of Aunt Chloe’s skepticism, but all the supernatural narratives he had listened to during his whole lifetime. Tales of the Arch Enemy, assuming the shape of a wild beast, and pouncing on lonely travellers from some dark covert; tales of the dead coming forth; tales of whole legions of devils carrying off benighted wayfarers; these, which he had often heard beside the kitchen fire, recurred to him now, till his hair stood on end, and he started at every sound.

His road lead near the grave-yard, and as he approached it, his terror redoubled.

All at once, and when at the very darkest part of the road, what seemed a groan made him come to a halt. He immediately rallied, however, and tried to persuade himself that it was only the wind in the tree-tops, which had again momentarily startled him. But as he listened, it came once more, an awful, unearthly sound, that chilled his very marrow. His limbs now refused to support him, and he sank nerveless and shaking to the ground. But when a moment had elapsed, and the sound was not repeated, he began to gather a little courage, thinking that, perhaps, it was only the distant hooting of an owl. Reassured somewhat, by this idea, he rose feebly to his feet. But he had not advanced a step before the sound was heard again, and indisputably close at hand, so close indeed, that he seemed to feel the hot breath from the invisible presence that uttered it. He fell at once flat on his face, half dead with horror, and expecting the next instant to be clutched and borne off.

He was almost too frightened to pray, a duty in which, he now remembered, he had lately been remiss: but he managed, with rattling teeth, and nearly paralyzed jaws, to articulate at last.

“Oh! Marse Lord,” he cried, “don’t let de debbil git dis poor chile, not dis time anyhow. ‘Twasn’t Pomp, dat was in de watermelon patch dis mornin’, when he ought to have been at meetin’. Dar’s some mistake, deed dar is. It’s Sam Jonsing dat you want, Marse Debbil. Tink what my ole mammy will do if you—”

But he never finished his adjuration, for at this crisis two glowing eyes emerged out of the darkness, and stood staring over him, two enormous horns followed, a bellow was heard that seemed to shake the woods for miles, and Pomp felt himself lifted bodily from the sand. It was more than nature could endure. He fainted outright.

When he came to himself, he was lying at the side of the road, stiff with bruises. At first he could not believe that he was still alive. But gradually, though not till after he had pinched himself frequently, he became assured that he was yet in mortal guise; and that his unearthly enemy had disappeared. He now feebly struggled to his feet, and began to feel his limbs; but none were broken, though he found his breeches torn nearly off. Gathering courage, by degrees, he crept away, moving fearfully and cautiously, however, till he had fairly emerged from the woods and passed the grave-yard, when he broke into a run and fled homewards as fast as his limbs would carry him.