Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

by Charles James Lever

There is something unspeakably calming in the solitude of a forest, unlike the lone sensations inspired by the sea or the prairie; the feeling is one of peaceful quietude. The tempered sunlight stealing through the leaves and boughs entangled; the giant trunks that tell of centuries ago; the short, smooth, mossy turf through which the tiny rivulet runs without a channel; the little vistas opening like alleys, or ending in some shady nook, bower-like and retired,—fill the mind with a myriad of pleasant fancies. Instead of wandering forth over the immensity of space, as when contemplating the great ocean or the desert, the heart here falls back upon itself, and is satisfied with the little world around it.

Such were my reveries as I lay down beneath a tree, at first to muse, and then to sleep; and such a sleep as only a weary foot-traveller knows, who, stretched under the shade of a spreading tree, lies dreamless and lost. It must have been late ere I awoke; the sunlight came slanting obliquely through the leaves, and bespoke the decline of day. I rose. At first my limbs were stiff and rigid, and my sensations those of debility; but after a little time my strength came back, and I strode along freely. Continuing the path, I came, after about three hours' fast walking, to a little open spot in the wood, where the remains of a hut and the charred fragments of firewood indicated a bivouac. Some morsels of black bread strewn about, and a stray piece of dried venison, argued that the party who had left them had but recently quitted the spot. Very grateful for the negligent abundance of their waste, I sat down, and, by the aid of a little spring,—the reason, probably, of the selection of the spot for a halt,—made a capital supper, some chestnuts that had fallen from the trees furnishing a delicious dessert. Night was fast closing in, and I resolved on passing it where I was, the shelter of the little hut being too tempting a refuge to relinquish easily. The next morning I started early, my mind fully satisfied that I was preceded by some foot party, the path not admitting of any other, with whom, by exertion, I should be perhaps able to come up. I walked from day to dawn with scarcely an interval of rest, but, although the tracks of many feet showed me my conjecture was right, I did not succeed in overtaking them. Towards evening I again came upon their bivouac-ground, which was even more abundantly provided than the preceding one. They appeared to have killed a buck; and though having roasted an entire side, had contented themselves with some steaks off the quarter. Upon this I feasted luxuriously, securing a sufficient provision to last me for the next two or three days.

In this way I continued to travel for eight entire days, each successive one hoping to overtake the party in advance, and, if disappointed in this expectation, well pleased with the good luck that had supplied me so far with food, and made my journey safe and pleasant; for it was both. A single beast of prey I never met with, nor even a serpent larger than the common green snake, which is neither venomous nor bold; and as for pleasure, I was free. Was not that alone happiness for him who had been a prisoner among the “Léperos” of Bexar?

On the ninth day of my wandering, certain unmistakable signs indicated that I was approaching the verge of the forest: the grass became deeper, the wood less dense; the undergrowth, too, showed the influence of winds and currents of air. These, only appreciable by him who has watched with anxious eyes every little change in the aspect of Nature, became at last evident to the least observant in the thickened bark and the twisted branches of the trees, on which the storms of winter were directed. Shall I own it? My heart grew heavy at these signs, boding, as they did, another change of scene. And to what? Perhaps the bleak prairie, stretching away in dreary desolation! Perhaps some such tract of swampy moor, where forests once had stood, but now, lying in mere waste of rottenness and corruption; “clearings,” as they are called, the little intervals which hard industry plants amid universal wildness, I could not hope for, since I had often heard that no settlers ever selected these places, to which access by water was difficult, and the roads few and bad. What, then, was to come next? Not the sea-coast,—that must be miles away to the eastward; not the chain of the Rocky Mountains,—they lay equally far to the west.

While yet revolving these thoughts, I reached the verge of the wood; and suddenly, and without anything which might apprise me of this singular change, I found myself standing on the verge of a great bluff of land overlooking an apparently boundless plain. The sight thus unexpectedly presented of a vast prairie—for such it was—was overwhelming in its intense interest. My position, from a height of some seven or eight hundred feet, gave me an uninterrupted view over miles and miles of surface. Towards the far west, a ridge of rugged mountains could be seen; but to the south and east, a low flat horizon bounded the distance. The surface of this great tract was covered for a short space by dry cedars, apparently killed by a recent fire; beyond that, a tall, rank grass grew, through which I could trace something like a road. This was, as I afterwards learned, a buffalo-trail, these animals frequently marching in close column when in search of water. The sun was setting as I looked, and gilded the whole vast picture with its yellow glory; but as it sunk beneath the horizon, and permitted a clearer view of the scene, I could perceive that everything—trees, grass, earth itself—presented one uniform dry, burnt-up appearance.

Not a creature of any kind was seen to move over this great plain; not a wing cleaved the air above; not a sound broke the stillness beneath. It was a solitude the most complete I ever conceived,—grand and imposing! How my heart sank within me as I sat and looked, thinking I was there alone, without one creature near me, to linger out, perhaps, some few days or hours of life, and die unseen, un-watched, uncared for! And to this sad destiny had ambition brought me! Were it not for the craving desire to become something above my station, to move in a sphere to which neither my birth nor my abilities gave me any title, and I should be now the humble peasant, living by my daily labor in my native land, my thoughts travelling in the worn track those of my neighbors journeyed, and I neither better nor worse off than they.

And for this wish—insensate, foolish as it was—the expiation is indeed heavy. I hid my head within my hands, and tried to pray, but I could not. The mind harassed by various conflicting thoughts is not in the best mood for supplication. I felt like the criminal of whom I had once read, that, when the confessor came to visit him the night before his execution, seemed eager and attentive for a while, but at last acknowledged that his thoughts were centred upon one only theme,—escape! “To look steadfastly at the next world, you must extinguish the light of this one;” and how difficult is that!—how hard to close every chink and fissure through which hope may dart a ray,—hope of life, hope of renewing the struggle in which we are so often defeated, and where even the victory is without value!

“Be it so,” sighed I, at last; “the game is up!” and I lay down at the foot of a rock to die. My strength, long sustained by expectation, had given way at last, and I felt that the hour of release could not be distant. I drew my hand across my eyes,—I am ashamed to own there were tears there—and just then, as if my vision had been cleared by the act, I saw, or I thought I saw, in the plain beneath, the glittering sparkle of flame. Was it the reflection of a star, of which thousands were now studding the sky, in some pool of rain-water? No! it was real fire, which now, from one red spark, burst forth into a great blaze, rolling out volumes of black smoke which rose like a column into the air.

Were they Indians who made it, or trappers? or could it be the party in whose track I had so long been following; and, if so, by what path had they descended? Speculation is half-brother to Hope. No sooner had I begun to canvass this proposition than it aroused my drooping energies, and rallied my failing courage.

I set about to seek for some clew to the descent, and by the moonlight, which was now full and strong, I detected foot-tracks in the clayey soil near the verge of the cliff. A little after I found a narrow pathway, which seemed to lead down the face of the bluff. The trees were scratched, too, in many places with marks familiar to prairie travellers, but which to me only betokened the fact that human hands had been at work upon them. I gained courage by these, which at least I knew were not “Indian signs,” no more than the foot-tracks were those of Indian feet.