“He can’t be courting a lass!” exclaimed Hilda, diverted.
“Not from that direction, I hope,” said Ernest grimly. “Nothing but the very poor, Dutchmen and such, and river rats down there, and squatters.”
Hilda uneasily turned to the window, on whose polished blackness the candles and lamps of the room were reflected cosily. A light autumn rain was falling, whispering against the glass, and the trees outside rustled lonelily. Hilda, with a sense of refuge, held out her plump short hands to the fire, felt pleasure as a coal dropped and hissed in its bed. She glanced about the crowded room with its red wallpaper and dark-red carpet and heavy, ugly furniture. Then, feeling chilly, she pulled her India shawl about her black silk shoulders. Then she spoke again, musingly:
“I’m sorry it’s not a lass. Martin shows no interest at all in females. It is not right at his age. It is always Jacques.”
“And whatever he finds in the swamps near the river,” said Ernest. Hilda, suddenly alarmed, looked at him. “The swamps? Are you certain, Ernest? The Bouchards live near the river, still, you must remember, and he may have taken a walk after seeing Jacques.”
“On a sleety night, with the river rising? No, Ma, there’s something else. But perhaps Mr. Renfield was mistaken, and it was not Martin,” he added, with a soothing smile as he saw how disturbed she was.
“Oh, certainly, he must have been mistaken!” she said, relaxing, though still somewhat uneasy. “He took his horse, tonight, though, and he usually walks to the Bouchards. But perhaps that is because it is raining.”
She sighed, looked a little bewildered and sad, and resumed her work. But Ernest stared into the distance, tapping his lips with the end of his pen.
But Martin had not as yet gone to the Bouchards. Having saddled his horse himself, he had buttoned the collar of his greatcoat closely about his throat, sprung into the saddle with grace and lightness, and had ridden out into the cool wet quietness of the autumn night. He rode quickly, keeping to the back streets of Newtown, his hat pulled down over his eyes. His longish mane of silvery-gold hair shone with drops of moisture; occasionally he touched his horse gently with the whip he held in his gloved hand. He was tall and slender, and had a fine seat on his horse, though the going became rough and the animal stumbled at times, and slipped on wet and oily ground; moreover, it was exceedingly dark, with a street light flickering dully here and there. In the silence the clatter of the iron hoofs raised echoes.
Gradually the streets became meaner and meaner; an air of poverty and desertion hung about them, and the lights became fewer. No one was abroad, though shrill and drunken voices came from the wretched houses. Martin swung steadily toward the river, whose voice he now heard, hoarse and muttering and sullen as the winter approached. Trees appeared as the streets dwindled, and the darkness thickened. The horse picked his way gingerly on the rough road with its mudholes and stones. He knew his way, for he often came here. He was a fine animal, and resented these excursions. Martin spoke to him soothingly, loosened the reins.
Now only an occasional house was passed. Steadily, they still turned toward the river. In the pallid darkness of the autumn night they could see the water, dull and livid. They passed squatters’ shacks, squalid and wretched, the broken chimneys smoking redly, the ground about them strewn with refuse and rowboats, fishing nets and lines, wooden boxes and old bedding, all sodden in the rain. Curs howled dismally as Martin passed; candlelight gleamed through small and dirty windows. The voice of the river was becoming a dull roar.
The squafters’ shacks disappeared at last, and now the banks of the river were quiet and lonely, thick with trees and tall dead grasses. A light appeared in the distance between the trunks, and Martin spurred his horse. They came to a small clearing on which stood a low neat house, very small and compact, with a little dock running down into the water. There was a garden behind the house, and other evidences of pride and decency, though it was apparent that those who lived here were poor. There was a dim reflection of red firelight on the small high windows, but this was the only evidence of life in the river-filled silence and darkness.
Martin dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and started up the wooden walk to the house. A dog barked suddenly and loudly within. Martin reached the sturdy wooden door and struck it three short raps with his whip, waited an instant or two, and struck two slow blows. Then he whistled sharply. He unbuttoned his coat collar, and winced as cold wet drops ran down his neck.
The dog stopped his barking, as though admonished by a whisper. Then the door opened grudgingly an inch or two. A man peered out.
“It is I, Martin Barbour,” said Martin. He pushed the door, the man fell back and Martin entered the house.
He stood in a long, low room, the walls of unpainted pine, the furniture simple and sparse. Two wing chairs stood on each side of a gigantic fire that roared like a bull up the chimney. The floor was uncarpeted, but scrubbed to a silken whiteness. In the center of the room stood a small round table, set with a coarse white cloth, on which stood a pewter pitcher of milk, a platter of cold ham, a plate of thickly sliced bread, and a comb of honey. A black kettle hissed and sang on the fire, and the firelight was the only illumination in the room. Despite the evident poverty of those who lived in this plain dwelling, there was an air in the room of comfort and dignity, charm and peace and pride.
A middle-aged woman sat knitting in one of the wing chairs, a woman shapeless and tall and grim-faced, with steel-rimmed glasses behind which blue eyes snapped alertly. Her hair, pale yellow, was thick with white streaks, and caught in a hard knob at the nape of her neck. She wore a white apron over a blue calico dress. Her features, tight and gaunt, bore a Teutonic stamp, and when she said “Gut efenin’” to Martin, her voice was thick with gutturals. She laid down her knitting and stood up, and thus standing she was as tall as Martin, and broad and flat. She smiled at him tightly, but with evident respect and affection.
The man who had admitted Martin helped him to remove his wet coat, clucking concernedly as he did so. He was shorter than his wife, and plump and rosy, a yellow beard hiding half of a pink and twinkling face. He was coatless, and his coarse white shirt collar rolled back from a fat and faintly damp short throat. His feet, in felt slippers, slapped the wooden floor as he carried Martin’s coat to the fire. His wife poked the coals vigorously, and the flames leapt upward and devoured the kettle.
“The tea,” she said, “you shall haf in a moment.”
“It is very wet outside,” Martin said, smiling, as he rubbed his hands before the fire. “But I have had my supper, Mrs. Heckl.” He glanced about the room, quickly, almost furtively. “Carl has gone? The river is high tonight, and the current sounds swift. I hope he won’t have any trouble.”
“So we hope,” said Hans Heckl, his small eyes bright under their shelves of yellow eyebrows. He, too, rubbed his hands before the fire, but they trembled. A dog approached from a dark corner, a shaggy brute of some unnamed breed; he leaned against Martin’s leg, and Martin absently stroked his head.
Martin drew out his watch and frowned at it. “He should have been here. We must wait. Let us pray he was not caught.”
“O Gott, do not say so!” exclaimed Hans tremulously. His wife glared down at him while she poured hot water into a blue German teapot. She berated him shortly in her gutturals. Martin smiled. However, he was a little uneasy. He sat down at the little table, and Hans sat with him. But neither could eat much. They listened. Finally Mrs. Heckl, who had been talking steadily, fell silent, also. They waited in the firelit warmth and dimness of the room. The voice of the river seemed to come closer, threateningly, and a wind rattled the small windows. Mrs. Heckl knit determinedly, as though each stitch kept fear at bay; the clicking of her needles and the dropping of coals sounded very loud in the stillness.
Martin glanced at Hans. The latter’s face was sweating profusely now, and it was very pale. He kept blinking his eyes, which were full of scared tears. He looked very defenseless, his
fat little paunch resting on his fat, spread little knees, and he rolled bread into pills between short fat fingers. He looked at the door steadily, and his lips moved as though he were praying. Mrs. Heckl knitted on, nodding her head as though she were counting each stitch.
“Sometimes,” whispered Hans, not taking his eyes from the door, “it iss too much. Each night I wait for the police, but that iss not too bad. It iss this waiting, for mine Carl, out on the river, alone, in the darkness and the rain. And always waiting.”
“You haf no strength, Hans,” said Mrs. Heckl contemptuously, still knitting. “You haf no faith in Gott. Our Carl is not alone on the river; the gut Gott is with him. He is doing the Lord’s work; nothing can hurt him.”
“Nothing can hurt him,” repeated Martin gently.
Hans’ eyelids squeezed together, and a tear rolled down his cheek. Martin watched it slip into the yellow beard. He covered the other man’s wet and trembling hand with his thin warm fingers, comfortingly.
The silence deepened, though the rising wind shook the windows menacingly and caused the fire to rumble and flame. The room was bathed in red light, which reflected itself on the shining knitting needles, danced over the white floor, shone on Mrs. Heckl’s glasses. The dog, sensing the uneasiness of the men and the woman, walked restlessly about the room, turned several times on the hearth, and sat down. He laid his wolf’s head on his paws, but could not rest. He walked about again. Suddenly he stopped, rigid, his head pointing alertly toward the door. Then he growled, low and deep in his throat. Martin and Hans sprang to their feet, and Mrs. Heckl rose slowly, her lips shaking. There was no sound for several moments but the wind and the river; then they heard a soft thumping and bumping at the little dock. Instantly the dog became frenzied, leaping at the door, barking, whimpering. Hans seized Martin’s arm, tears running over his cheeks.
“He iss here!” he whispered. He snatched the coat Mrs. Heckl brought him; Martin put on his own coat. Hatless, they ran out into the wet and windy darkness, the gale tearing at their clothing, choking their breath. Their running feet sank into the mud, icy water oozed into their boots, and they slipped several times. Once Martin fell to his knees in the mud, and rose, shivering. They reached the little wooden dock and ran out upon it. The water, which had risen, washed over it and shook it. They had brought no light with them, but they saw the faint cold glow of a muffled lantern at the end of the dock.
A large flat rowboat was tied at the dock, and five dim shapes of men were climbing from the boat. They were voiceless, and their crouching attitudes showed their deadly terror. A young man detached himself from the group and gripped Hans’ extended hands. “Papa!” he whispered hoarsely, and chuckled as though with hysterical excitement. “I did it again! I am home, safe!”
The muffled light shone on his face, fair and flushed, shone on his excited blue eyes and glittering white teeth. He picked up the lantern and turned toward his companions, who were huddled together like frightened chickens. They lifted their heads and turned their faces in sick fear toward the light. They were all negroes, two of them strapping middle-aged bucks, one a frail boy and the other an old man with white woolly hair and beard. The old man was blind in one eye, and his cheek was frightfully scarred, as though it had been branded with a hot iron. Their clothing was tattered, and through the tears their dark flesh gleamed, cold and wet. Their teeth chattered audibly.
The feeble rays of the lantern fell over them and behind them, showing the black and restless water fanged with livid foam. The wind, rising fiercely, shook the little wharf, and the negroes clung together, whispering, inaudibly praying. They stared at the three white men, the whites of their eyes glaring with terror.
“Come on, come on,” said Carl, grinning at them, and taking the old man by the arm. “We are quite safe, now. Quite safe, my poor fellows.” Docilely, like cattle, they followed their rescuers toward the house. The dog had escaped his mistress, and met them with hoarse barks and growls. The negroes shrank. Carl whistled, and the dog came leaping and fawning upon him, writhing in the mud, dancing in circles. They entered the house, and the door was closed behind them, the iron bar dropped. Mrs. Heckl had competently shrouded the windows, and stood, waiting, on the hearth. The newly filled kettle hissed on the flames; a large pot, filled with thick soup, swung on the crane.
The horror and terror of the last few days was still upon the negroes, the memory of the long and dangerous journey on the stormy river stark in their eyes. They shivered, clung together in the center of the room, stared longingly and dumbly at the fire, and did not move. Their rags dripped wetness onto the white floor. They were more like stricken animals than men. The old blind man had begun to whimper, like a sick calf.
“Come here!” exclaimed Mrs. Heckl crossly, jerking her head at the fire. “Don’t stand there dripping like pumps all over my floor.” Their eyes rolled at her, they dropped their heads, slunk toward the fire. Pity and sorrow twisted her face, but her voice was rough. “Hans, in a minute, take them away and give them the clothes. And hurry. The soup iss hot.”
The old negro turned the sightless side of his face to her, and over the bridge of his broad flat nose his one good eye looked at her and filled with tears. Humbly he crouched down, humbly he caught her hand, humbly he pressed his thick wet lips to it. She did not wince, but she turned away as though she could not bear the agony of that sight. She pulled her hand from his grasp.
“Come, now, you will all be sick on my hands,” she said hoarsely. “Hans, are you taking them?”
They trooped after him into an inner room, and could be heard scuffling into dry clothing behind the door. Once or twice one of them spoke in a high and whining voice, and another voice answered: “Safe across the Jordan, blessed Jesus!”
Carl, excited and exuberant, slapped Martin on the back. He was a voluble young man, grinning, amiable and fearless. He was shorter but broader than Martin. He kissed his mother resoundingly, kissed his father as fondly, marched about the room, stamped, strutted, related his adventures, roared with mirth, wrestled with the dog, talked endlessly. It was evident that he had been badly shaken for a time, for there was a high note in his voice that came from relaxed nerves. He told his mother that he was starving, that he and his negroes had not eaten for two days, that they had been pursued, lost their pursuers, were pursued again by those eager for rewards for restoring runaway negroes. He laughed again, high and shrill and unrestrained. At last Martin pushed him into a chair.
“You are very tired, Carl,” he said quietly. “And everything is not over, yet, as you know. There is still the trip to Auburn.”
Carl, sprawling in the chair, snapped his fingers impudently. The warm fire flowed over his strong young body. He yawned, grinned. “That, for Auburn! We are quite safe.” He yawned again, slumped in the chair, and went promptly to sleep. Martin stood up, smiling, and threw his coat over him. “Let him rest,” he said to the mother and father.
The boy began to snore. Mrs. Heckl poked the fire, set the table with four large bowls and pewter spoons and cups, and poured the hissing soup. The negroes came out timidly, clad in old but warm and assorted clothing. They sniffed the soup, looked, trembling, at the woman, then, as she gestured, they sat down and began to eat with loud noises.
Martin and Hans sat in silence before the fire. Carl snored on, sunk in the profound sleep of exhaustion. The dog laid his head on the young man’s feet, and in the firelight his savage eyes welled and darkened with devotion. Mrs. Heckl continued to pour soup, to slice bread, to refill the milk pitcher and cut ham. She moved heavily but swiftly, resolutely not looking at the timid faces and trembling hands of the runaways. Once or twice a black hand touched her calico skirts humbly, as a dog would touch them, but she appeared not to notice. Her expression grew tighter and grimmer.
After the negroes could eat no more, Hans brought a high stepladder and stood it in the middle of the room. He climbed up, pushed against the ceiling, and a trap door opened. Silently, he pointe
d upward. There were beds up there, and home-made quilts and blankets. As silent as their host, the runaways climbed awkwardly up the ladder. When the last one, the old man, had disappeared above, and had let down the door behind him, Hans carried away the ladder into the other room. Carl still slept His mother had rolled her gray woollen shawl into a pillow for him, and his yellow hair shone like gold in the firelight.
Martin got into his coat. He laid a thick packet of bills upon the table, and put his hand upon them. “There are eleven hundred dollars there,” he said in a low voice to Mrs. Heckl and Hans. He put down a small cotton bag. “And five hundred dollars in gold in this. The gold, as you know, is to be given them when they cross into Canada.”
Mrs. Heckl suddenly remembered what another runaway had said of Martin: “Young Massa, he look like these yer angels they tell about in the Good Book.” Pious though she was, she had to admit grudgingly that this was so, for Martin’s slenderness and height, singular beauty of pale face, and large blue eyes, were other-worldly. If he had passions, there was nothing to betray them in the purity and gentleness of his expression.
“That was all the money I could take from my account without attracting attention,” said Martin. “The runners will have to take four hundred fifty dollars apiece, instead of the usual five hundred. Hans, when you come to work tomorrow, find an opportunity to see me alone and tell me that everything has gone well.”
Hans followed him to the door, shaking his head, his hand on the young man’s arm. “Them poor devils you got in the shops, Mr. Martin, iss hardly any better than these poor black men we got tonight,” he said. “Mr. Eugene said to me today: ‘Hans, you are a bad foreman. You encourage these men to play sick.’”
A faint hauteur cooled Martin’s face. He pulled on his gloves. “Raoul assures me that no matter how hard conditions are for them in this country they are better off than in their own country,” he replied.