"Nobody there," said Webster.
"Nobody living, at least, in or about that shanty!" was the reply of Crawford. "The people are either burned, saved, or there have been none there."
"One of the three—yes—I should say so!" replied Webster to this self-evident proposition.
"And as there seems nothing to be done, in the way of putting out the fire, saving anybody or killing anybody, suppose we go back to the Hill?" said Crawford.
"Not yet," answered Webster. "We have not yet been on the other side of the house. Perhaps there may be outbuildings on that side, that have not yet taken fire; and if there is no one living in the house, there may be cattle or hogs roasting in the enclosures."
"Very well said, Bob," said Crawford. "Let us see the other side of the house." And the two soldiers advanced as near as was comfortable to the blazing building, for that purpose. It had not yet fallen, though every board had dropped away, and every timber was a thin line of fire, fast charring to coals. The house had evidently been that of a person of some condition, though of perhaps no remarkable wealth. It had been of two stories, with a piazza in front and a neat little yard showing a few flower-shrubs, a bordering of fruit-trees at the sides of the enclosure, and two medium-sized Lombardy poplar trees at the gate. No negro-quarter was visible, or any evidence that the "peculiar institution" had formed any part of the domestic policy of the occupants.
Just as the companions approached the gate and stood observing these particulars, the demon of fire obtained his last triumph over the material of the building. The snapping and crackling of the flames increased for a moment, and the forked tongues seemed licking closer and closer around the doomed pile; then there was a sudden change—the arched rafters sunk away—the slight shock disturbed what had yet remained of the frame-work—and the instant after, with a loud rumbling crash, the whole building went down into a heap of ruins, one high burst of flame shooting up skyward as a signal that the destruction had been accomplished, and showers of sparks following it, like a burst of fireworks at some grand celebration. With the fall, the broad light of the fire over the surrounding fields and on the neighboring woods died away, and there only remained a great heap of burning timbers, smouldering coals and embers, giving scarcely more light than an ordinary watch-fire.
But the peculiar interest of that scene did not die out with the fall of the building: on the contrary, it was at that moment that it began to assume proportions more easily recognized. For mingled with the crash of the fall there seemed to be the sharp, shrill, terrible scream of a human voice in agony; and the very instant after that scream was repeated, so distinctly that it drove the blood from the cheeks of both the soldiers at the gate.
"My God! did you hear that?" said Crawford.
"Didn't I!" answered Webster. "I wish I hadn't! Jack, do you know, there must have been somebody in the house after all, burning to death; and that scream, when the building fell, was the wind-up of a life!"