XIX 263
'ri and I left the château that afternoon, putting up in the red tavern at Morristown about dusk.
My companion rode away proudly, the medal dangling at his waistcoat lapel.
"Jerushy Jane!" said he, presently, as he pulled rein. "Ain't a-goin' t' hev thet floppin' there so—meks me feel luk a bird. Don't seem nohow nat'ral. Wha' d' ye s'pose he gin me thet air thing fer?"
He was putting it away carefully in his wallet.
"As a token of respect for your bravery," said I.
His laughter roared in the still woods, making my horse lift and snort a little. It was never an easy job to break any horse to D'ri's laughter.
"It's reedic'lous," said he, thoughtfully, in a moment.
"Why?"
"’Cause fer the reason why they don't no man deserve nuthin' fer doin' what he 'd orter," he answered, with a serious and determined look.
"You did well," said I, "and deserve anything you can get."
"Done my damdest!" said he. "But I did n't do nuthin' but git licked. Got shot an' tore an' slammed all over thet air deck, an' could n't do no harm t' nobody. Jes luk a hoss tied 'n the stall, an' a lot o' men whalin' 'im, an' a lot more tryin' t' scare 'im t' death."
"Wha' d' ye s'pose thet air thing's made uv?" he inquired after a little silence.
"Silver," said I.
"Pure silver?"
"Undoubtedly," was my answer.
"Judas Priest!" said he, taking out his wallet again, to look at the trophy. "Thet air mus' be wuth suthin'."
"More than a year's salary," said I.
He looked up at me with a sharp whistle of surprise.
"Ain' no great hand fer sech flummydiddles," said he, as he put the medal away.
"It's a badge of honor," said I. "It shows you 're a brave man."
"Got 'nough on 'em," said D'ri. "This 'ere rip 'n the forehead's 'bout all the badge I need."
"It 's from the emperor—the great Napoleon," I said. "It's a mark of his pleasure."
"Wall, by Judas Priest!" said D'ri, "I would n't jump over a stump over a stun wall t' please no emp'ror, an' I would n't cut off my leetle finger fer a hull bushel basket o' them air. I hain't a-fightin' fer no honor."
"What then?" said I.
His face turned very sober. He pursed his lips, and spat across the ditch; then he gave his mouth a wipe, and glanced thoughtfully at the sky.
"Fer liberty," said he, with decision. "Same thing my father died fer."
Not to this day have I forgotten it, the answer of old D'ri, or the look of him as he spoke. I was only a reckless youth fighting for the love of peril and adventure, and with too little thought of the high purposes of my country. The causes of the war were familiar to me; that proclamation of Mr. Madison had been discussed freely in our home, and I had felt some share in the indignation of D'ri and my father. This feeling had not been allayed by the bloody scenes in which I had had a part. Now I began to feel the great passion of the people, and was put to shame for a moment.
"Liberty—that is a grand thing to fight for," said I, after a brief pause.
"Swap my blood any time fer thet air," said D'ri. "I can fight sassy, but not fer no king but God A'mighty. Don't pay t' git all tore up less it's fer suthin' purty middlin' vallyble. My life ain't wuth much, but, ye see, I hain't nuthin' else."
We rode awhile in sober thought, hearing only a sough of the wind above and the rustling hoof-beat of our horses in the rich harvest of the autumn woods. We were walking slowly over a stretch of bare moss when, at a sharp turn, we came suddenly in sight of a huge bear that sat facing us. I drew my pistol as we pulled rein, firing quickly. The bear ran away into the brush as I fired another shot.
"He 's hit," said D'ri, leaping off and bidding me hold the bit. Then, with a long stride, he ran after the fleeing bear. I had been waiting near half an hour when D'ri came back slowly, with a downhearted look.
"’Tain' no use," said he. "Can't never git thet bear. He's got a flesh-wound high up in his hin' quarters, an' he's travellin' fast."
He took a fresh chew of tobacco and mounted his horse.
"Terrible pity!" he exclaimed, shaking his head with some trace of lingering sorrow. "Ray," said he, soberly, after a little silence, "when ye see a bear lookin' your way, ef ye want 'im, alwus shute at the end thet's toward ye."
There was no better bear-hunter in the north woods than D'ri, and to lose a bear was, for him, no light affliction.
"Can't never break a bear's neck by shutin' 'im in the hin' quarters," he remarked.
I made no answer.
"Might jest es well spit 'n 'is face," he added presently; "jest eggzac'ly."
This apt and forceful advice calmed a lingering sense of duty, and he rode on awhile in silence. The woods were glooming in the early dusk when he spoke again. Something revived his contempt of my education. He had been trailing after me, and suddenly I felt his knee.
"Tell ye this, Ray," said he, in a kindly tone. "Ef ye wan' t' git a bear, got t' mux 'im up a leetle for'ard—right up 'n the neighborhood uv 'is fo'c's'le. Don't dew no good t' shute 'is hams. Might es well try t' choke 'im t' death by pinchin' 'is tail."
We were out in the open. Roofs and smoking chimneys were silhouetted on the sky, and, halfway up a hill, we could see the candle-lights of the red tavern. There, in the bar, before blazing logs in a great fireplace, for the evening had come chilly, a table was laid for us, and we sat down with hearty happiness to tankards of old ale and a smoking haunch. I have never drunk or eaten with a better relish. There were half a dozen or so sitting about the bar, and all ears were for news of the army and all hands for our help. If we asked for more potatoes or ale, half of them rose to proclaim it. Between pipes of Virginia tobacco, and old sledge, and songs of love and daring, we had a memorable night. When we went to our room, near twelve o'clock, I told D'ri of our dear friends, who, all day, had been much in my thought.
"Wus the letter writ by her?" he inquired.
"Not a doubt of it."
"Then it's all right," said he. "A likely pair o' gals them air—no mistake."
"But I think they made me miss the bear," I answered.
"Ray," said D'ri, soberly, "when yer shutin' a bear, ef ye want 'im, don't never think o' nuthin' but the bear." Then, after a moment's pause, he added: "Won't never hev no luck killin' a bear ef ye don' quit dwellin' so on them air gals."
I thanked him, with a smile, and asked if he knew Eagle Island.
"Be'n all over it half a dozen times," said he. "’T ain' no more 'n twenty rod from the Yankee shore, thet air island ain't. We c'u'd paddle there in a day from our cove."
And that was the way we planned to go,—by canoe from our landing,—and wait for the hour at Paleyville, a Yankee village opposite the island. We would hire a team there, and convey the party by wagon to Leraysville.
We were off at daybreak, and going over the hills at a lively gallop. Crossing to Caraway Pike, in the Cedar Meadows, an hour later, we stampeded a lot of moose. One of them, a great bull, ran ahead of us, roaring with fright, his antlers rattling upon bush and bough, his black bell hanging to the fern-tops.
"Don' never wan't' hev no argyment with one o' them air chaps 'less ye know purty nigh how 't's comin' out," said D'ri. "Alwus want a gun es well es a purty middlin' ca-a-areful aim on your side. Then ye 're apt t' need a tree, tew, 'fore ye git through with it." After a moment's pause he added: "Got t' be a joemightyful stout tree, er he 'll shake ye out uv it luk a ripe apple."
"They always have the negative side of the question," I said. "Don't believe they 'd ever chase a man if he 'd let 'em alone."
"Yis, siree, they would," was D'ri's answer. "I 've hed 'em come right efter me 'fore ever I c'u'd lift a gun. Ye see, they 're jest es cur'us 'bout a man es a man is 'bout them. Ef they can't smell 'im, they 're terrible cur'us. Jes' wan' t' see what 's inside uv 'im an' what kind uv a smellin' critter he is. Dunno es they wan' t' dew 'im any pertic'lar harm. Jes' wan' t' mux 'im over a leetle; but they dew it awful careless, an' he ain't never fit t' be seen no more."
He snickered faintly as he spoke.
"An' they don't nobody see much uv 'im efter thet, nuther," he added, with a smile.
"I 'member once a big bull tried t' find out the kind o' works I hed in me. 'T wa'n' no moose—jest a common ord'nary three-year-ol' bull."
"Hurt you?" I queried.
"No; 't hurt 'im." said he, soberly. "Sp'ilt 'im, es ye might say. Could n't never bear the sight uv a man efter thet. Seem so he did n't think he wus fit t' be seen. Nobody c'u'd ever git 'n a mild o' th' poor cuss. Hed t' be shot."
"What happened?"
"Hed a stout club 'n my hand," said he. "Got holt uv 'is tail, an' begun a-whalin' uv 'im. Run 'im down a steep hill, an' passin' a tree, I tuk one side an' he t' other. We parted there fer the las' time."
He looked off at the sky a moment.
Then came his inevitable addendum, which was: "I hed a dam sight more tail 'an he did, thet 's sartin."
About ten o'clock we came in sight of our old home. Then we hurried our horses, and came up to the door with a rush. A stranger met us there.
"Are you Captain Bell?" said he, as I got off my horse.
I nodded.
"I am one of your father's tenants," he went on. "Ride over the ridge yonder about half a mile, and you will see his house." I looked at D'ri and he at me. He had grown pale suddenly, and I felt my own surprise turning into alarm.
"Are they well?" I queried.
"Very well, and looking for you," said he, smiling.
We were up in our saddles, dashing out of the yard in a jiffy. Beyond the ridge a wide mile of smooth country sloped to the river margin. Just off the road a great house lay long and low in fair acres. Its gables were red-roofed, its walls of graystone half hidden by lofty hedges of cedar. We stopped our horses, looking off to the distant woods on each side of us.
"Can't be," said D'ri, soberly, his eyes squinting in the sunlight.
"Wonder where they live," I remarked.
"All looks mighty cur'us," said he. "’Tain' no way nat'ral."
"Let's go in there and ask," I suggested.
We turned in at the big gate and rode silently over a driveway of smooth gravel to the door. In a moment I heard my father's hearty hello, and then my mother came out in a better gown than ever I had seen her wear. I was out of the saddle and she in my arms before a word was spoken. My father, hardy old Yankee, scolded the stamping horse, while I knew well he was only upbraiding his own weakness.
"Come, Ray; come, Darius," said my mother, as she wiped her eyes; "I will show you the new house."
A man took the horses, and we all followed her into the splendid hall, while I was filled with wonder and a mighty longing for the old home.