I've Been Thinking Part 7

'Oh dear, dear! what are we comin' to?--jist think of it.'

Mrs. Bloodgood had her own peculiar ways, and was not always very particular what she said or did, when overcome by the little vexations of life; but she had a feeling heart, and would cry as hard as she would scold, if there was any thing calculated in an especial manner to bring tears; and now they were chasing each other down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

'I don't wonder you cry about it. I tell you what: when that little fellow took hold on me this morning, and begged me to help his father, and looked up at me so pitiful, and said that he would thank me all his life, and pay every cent of the debt as fast as he could earn it--why I tell you, Sally, I cried like a child. And now, I tell you what it is; we mustn't leave that man lying there like a thief. I can't eat, nor sleep--I can't do it, Sally. I haven't got but little; but Billy must help--it's thirty dollars. I know it's a great deal for poor folks to raise, but it must be done, somehow--mustn't it, Sally?'

Mr. Bloodgood had been a silent spectator of the scene--he could not be said to be a listener. He saw that Mr. Cutter was very much engaged, and that his wife was quite to the other extremity of her feelings; but what was to pay he did not know. He kept looking first at one, and then at the other, for some explanation, taking large pinches of snuff all the time from a horn box which he held in his hand.

'Any body dead?'

Mrs. Bloodgood put her nose close to his ear, and hallooed--'No!'

Mr. Cutter pushed his chair back a little--the unearthly noise startled him.

'Why! do you have to holler at that rate? I should think you'd split your throat, or your nose, or something or other. I never heard such a noise.'

'Oh dear! I tell you, Uncle Sam, he gits wus and wus. I do candidly believe it's the snuff; he stops every thing up with it. His head ain't got no more sound to it than the harth stone.'

'Well, I don't know but it's the best thing he can do, if he's got to have sich noises as them made in it. I should want to stop every thing up too; and how upon airth you are ever going to tell him what I want, I don't see. Let me get a little ways off afore you begin; my head sings now like a dozen teakettles.'

With that the old man pushed his chair off against the opposite wall, while Mrs. Bloodgood undertook the task of explaining matters to her husband, and she accomplished it in much less time than could have been expected. Being nowise friendly to Mr. Grizzle, she handled his name in a very free way; and as her husband confided in her management, when she was through with the story, he looked at her very significantly-- 'Shall I do it, Sally?'

'Yes, yes; do it--quick.'

So he looked at Mr. Cutter, smiled, and nodded, and then left the room.

'Well, well; all things was made for some use. I often wondered what your nose was made for, but I see now. But it will be the death of you, yet; you'll split something or other one of these days.'

'Why, no, Uncle Sam, you see I'm used to it; but it does make me weak at the stomach like, it takes sich a power of wind to keep it up any time so; a body can holler pretty loud two or three words, and not mind it. But I s'pose it's my lot, and I must be content with it.'

Mr. Bloodgood soon returned, making signs to Uncle Sam to draw up to the table. We must leave them to arrange matters, and carry out their kind designs as best they may be able.

How beautifully the water sparkled with the bright rays of the morning sun, and how clean the sh.o.r.e looked, and how fresh every thing appeared, as Sam drew near to his home; but how very sad his heart was, none but such as have suffered like him can well imagine. But sad as were his feelings, it did not hinder his attending to all the duties which devolved upon him. The net was examined, and the fish for the morning's meal brought up. The pigs were fed, and the boat looked after, and all things done as usual. It was a solitary meal, that breakfast, and soon ended. But the best fish were frying by the fire, and on the griddle was a fine thick bread-cake cooking, and a little basket was brought and placed on the table, and a clean cloth lay beside the basket; and Sam had his hat in his hand, and was leaning against the fireplace, watching his mother, as she went about the little room getting things together.

'May be he'd like a little pickle, mother. You know he eats it sometimes with his breakfast.' And the mother made no reply; but wiping away the tears that started as reference was made to him, she went directly to the cupboard and brought the pot of pickles; and then the fish was taken from the fire, and placed on a plate and put into the basket; and the cake was taken from the griddle, and broken in two and laid on the fish; and the pickle, and a little salt and pepper, and a knife and fork; and then the clean cloth was put over the whole, and Sam, taking the basket, walked straight out of the house, and his mother threw herself into the chair, and wept aloud.

As Sam ascended the little rise of ground behind their dwelling, he looked across to the house of his friends, Jim and Ned, to see if they were out--as he then felt a sight of them would be good. There they were, working away in their garden. Presently one of them stops and looks round, walks to the fence, jumps over, and is running toward Sam, with Jowler after him.

'There comes Ned. What shall I say to him?'

'Sam, how are you? ain't this a beautiful morning? What have you got in your basket? where are you going?'

'Oh, I am going a short distance.'

'If you are not going too far, I'll go with you. I'm tired of hoeing. Jim has had me up ever since daybreak, and I mean to rest a few minutes. But what is the matter, Sam? What makes you look so? You ain't well, are you?'

Sam did look pale, for he was alarmed at Ned's offer to accompany him.

'Oh, I think you had better not go with me: it is something of a walk, and as you have been at work so long, you will be tired.'

'No; I shan't be tired. But now, Sam Oak.u.m, tell me what's the matter,' at the same time taking hold of him. 'There is something the matter, I know--you always tell me every thing.'

'I know I do, Ned; but somehow I do not like to tell you this. Haven't you heard any thing.'

'Heard any thing? No. Do you think we should not have been down to see you, if we had known that any thing was the matter? But do tell me, Sam.'

'Father is in jail.'

'That's Grizzle.'

'Yes.'

Ned stooped and caught up a good-sized stone, and aiming it at another still larger, sent it with such force that it was shivered into small fragments. He then looked at Sam a moment, with his hands in his pockets. He dared not speak, for his heart was aching so hard. It would have been a great relief to have cried; but Ned never cried--he could do any thing but that. He felt so much like it now though, as he kept his eyes on Sam, who looked so sad and pale, that all at once he turned short round, and walked away towards home; and Sam went on his way toward the jail.

The two miserable beings who had filled the old jail with their ravings through most of the night, were now asleep; and as Sam was admitted again into the miserable room, he cast his eye upon them as they lay in all their loathsomeness. Never before had he seen human nature in such an appalling form--their garments filthy, and torn into shreds; their hair, long and matted, lay over their faces and among the straw which formed their bed; their faces bloated, bruised, and b.l.o.o.d.y. He shrunk back involuntarily. He cast his eye to the further end of the room, and it met the smile of his father. He hurried past these dreadful objects, and placed his basket beside his pale and sorrow-stricken parent. Sam started, when he saw how very pale he looked, and how great a change his countenance had undergone since he last saw the daylight shine upon it. He took off the cloth which covered the basket, and upon that he placed the good breakfast his mother had prepared; and then he saw his father put his hands together, and that his eyes were closed, and his lips moved. He had never known him to do so before. Could it be that he was praying for a blessing, ere he tasted this token of love from earthly dear ones and heaven's bounteous King? Oh, Sam! how little can you realize the ordeal that parent has pa.s.sed since the last setting sun. But the agony that racked his spirit has purified it also; and it has turned, 'trembling, hoping,' to its G.o.d. When years have pa.s.sed, and you shall stand by his dying bed, and walk in the church-yard where rises the little mound of earth over the resting-place of his body, you will think of this night, and you will bless G.o.d for his goodness to you and your's.

'It is very good, Sam; and it is very kind in you all to think of me so.'

'Oh, father, don't say so; it makes me feel so bad.'

'To think how much trouble I have been to my family.'

Sam could stand it no longer, but wept aloud.

'I don't wish to make you feel bad, Sam; but all your kind feelings, and all your mother's kind feelings, make me think how wrong I have acted, and wonder how anybody can care for me.'

'But they do care for you--everybody cares for you. Uncle Sam Cutter says you shan't stay here--that you shan't.'

'Did he say so? Well, I thank him for his kind feelings; and I hope, if the Lord please, I may get my liberty soon, that I may be able to work and earn an honest living, and pay my debts. But, Sam, this place ain't so bad, gloomy as it looks. A bad life and a guilty conscience are harder things to get along with than this jail. I have spent worse hours, looking at you and your mother, and the little ones, with a fire burning in my bosom, than I spent here last night. I never knew before that there could be such things.'

'What things, father?'

'Why, Sam, that there could be such peace within, when all about me was so horrible. But I believe G.o.d has done it--and all for my good. He does everything for good.'

Sam was utterly confounded at hearing such words from his father; but he rejoiced to hear them. He sat as long as he thought consistent with duties at home, and was preparing to return, when their attention was arrested by a bustle below stairs, and a loud puffing and blowing of some one ascending to the room.

'What steps you've got here, Mr. Tice!--so high, I can hardly get my old carca.s.s up. Oh, dear, dear, dear; what a world this is!'

The heavy bolt was drawn; and as the door, creaking on its hinges, slowly opened, the portly form of Mr. Samuel Cutter appeared, filling the open s.p.a.ce, and looking with a wild stare into and around the room.

'You can go clean in, Mr. Cutter, an you like to; and I'll shut the door, and you may stay as long as you like.'

'You will, hey? No, no, Mr. Tice, thank you, I'll do well enough here;' at the same time putting his hand out, and holding fast to the door. 'None of your shutting up; it's bad enough to look at, without your turning the old lock on a body. Of all sights!--are these men dead?'

'Oh it ain't nothin', Mr. Cutter; only they've been a little lively last night, and they're a sleepin' it out, I guess, this mornin'.'

'You don't call them human critters, laying there in that shape, Mr. Tice, do you?'

'Yes, they be, only their hair is got tangled a little. I should a'most think they'd been a fightin', by their looks--they do look bad, that's a fact.'

More noises were now heard below, and there was the trampling of horses at the door, and soon a lively treading up the stairs.

'What does this mean, Mr. Tice? the jail door open, and people going in and out. Are the prisoners gone?' And Mr. Richard Tucker bustled up into the room. He was followed by Billy Bloodgood, and Uncle Sam Cutter's two boys. Mr. Richard seeing the doorway barricaded by a pretty large body, made no apology for hastily pushing through, and fairly taking the old gentleman quite into the room. He was about to shut the door when his arm was seized, and held by a grip as effectual as though an iron vice had embraced it.

'Stop, stop, man; none of your shutting up, with my carca.s.s in such a den as this. And besides, you came here now to let folks out; so the sooner you set about it, the better.'

Mr. Richard was full of wrath, but he knew whom he had to deal with; and seeing likewise that Billy Bloodgood was looking at him very earnestly, and pointing towards Mr. Oak.u.m at the other end of the room, he had no alternative; so called aloud in a very quick manner, 'Mr. Oak.u.m, you are at liberty, you are released; you can go.'

Sam jumped up, and caught hold of his father: 'Oh, father! come, come, father, quick!' And he fairly pulled his father along; who, amazed at the suddenness of his delivery, and weak with the agitation his mind had endured, almost staggered as he followed Sam to the door.

'Come along, man, come along; don't stay a minute longer.' And old Mr. Cutter hobbled out, partly leaning on Mr. Oak.u.m, and partly pulling him down the stairs, and out of doors.

To describe all Mr. Oak.u.m's feelings, when he found himself at liberty, and learned that a full settlement of his account had been made, and that it had dwindled down, under the scrutinizing eye of Billy Bloodgood, to the sum of twenty dollars, and that he could pay this amount back at his own convenience; or to describe the joy which danced in the heart of Sam when he saw his father once out of that place, and Uncle Sam Cutter shaking him with both hands; and Mr. Bloodgood nodding his head, and smiling, and running round--it would be vain to attempt.

It was a bright spot in Sam's life, and it was a good day for more hearts than one; for it was the means of winning into the little circle of working boys the two sons of old Mr. Cutter: they became diligent from that day forward, and were constant in aiding their father, either in the garden, the shop, or the field.

CHAPTER VII.

The establishment of Mr. Cross, up in the barrens, had not much to boast of as to its architecture or location. It consisted of a long, low building, formed of logs, but covered with boards, and the roof shingled. Attached to it were several buildings, constructed entirely of logs, but well shingled roofs were over the whole of them, and they were otherwise finished, so as to impress the beholder with the idea that the owner was in very different circ.u.mstances from those who occupied such buildings for many miles circuit. In front of this main house ran a piazza, its full length; while upon a tall pine tree, nearly opposite the centre of the premises, hung a rude sign, with the owner's name, D. Cross, in large letters on the bottom. The inside of the building presented a mongrel appearance of store and tavern; a little of both, and not much of either. There was a counter, and small scales upon it; with decanters, and a few dirty tumblers at one end. Barrels were standing in different parts of the room. There were one or two plain board tables, and a few benches, besides two chairs with backs, and several without. Three large casks were placed together against one side of the wall, and the faucets in them clearly told for what purpose they were used. Behind the counter ran some long shelves, upon which lay jumbled together a little iron ware, a little crockery, and very limited a.s.sortment of dry goods.

The location was not an unpleasant one for those who admire the seclusion of a forest; for lofty pines towered on all sides of it, except to the north, where a clearing having been made, probably when the house was erected, a thick growth of scrub pines had come forward, and presented the appearance of a swamp.

There was, however, somewhat of a clear s.p.a.ce immediately around the building, formed by the meeting of three or four roads, running off into different directions, and pointing out this spot to be, as it really was, the centre of attraction and influence to all that region.

The owner of this domain, Mr. David Cross, had become, from causes which have been explained in a previous chapter, a person of some consideration; he owned quite a number of acres of heavily timbered land, connectively with his house; and by various means had managed to bring the whole population, at least for some miles circuit, into a state of dependence upon himself. He was not gifted by nature with a very commanding form, being rather under than over the medium height. This deficiency, however, he did all he could to remedy, by holding himself very erect; and as he was a little inclined to be fleshy, it sometimes even appeared that he leaned backwards in his efforts to make the most of himself.

The only member of Mr. Cross's family in any wise related to him, was his son David; a young man of some activity in the way of business. But having been tutored entirely by his father, it may be supposed he had not the most correct notions in matters of morality; although, as yet, no very flagrant charges had been laid up against him in the minds of those who dealt there; for the very good reason, that the elder Mr. Cross chose to keep things in his own hand, and bear all responsibility. As to the mother of David, little was known respecting her--it was supposed she had died when her child was an infant, for he had no remembrance of her.

David was not unpopular with the inhabitants of the barrens. Being of a lively turn, and of careless, open manners, they felt a freedom in his presence, which was quite in contrast with the servile subjection they ever had to realize when dealing with his father.

As the tavern of Mr. Cross was the only place where the laborers he employed could find a lodging place during the season of the year when their services were required--the distance from their own homes being often too great to allow of return until the close of the week--it was seldom that the place was without sojourners; and too many of them had but a scanty allowance for their families, after their six days' toil.

It was a very warm day among the pines; no breeze abroad, and the air from the heated sand almost suffocating. Mr. Cross was behind his counter, busily employed in stirring the toddy stick, and waiting upon those who were calling for their favourite mixture; some were leaning over the counter, some resting on the benches, and not a few were lying at full length upon the piazza, and in the shade of the pine, scanty as it was, which served for the sign-post of the tavern, when the rumbling of a carriage was heard, and the unusual sound attracted the notice of all present. Those who were prostrate, arose at once, and looked forth through the different openings; and those who were in the act of drinking, suspended operations, and held their gla.s.ses on the counter, casting glances of inquiry at Mr. Cross and at each other.

'It's Dave, I suppose,' said Mr. Cross; 'although I didn't think he'd be along this hour yet.'

'That aint Dave,' replied one of the men; 'for it comes very slow, and sounds heavy: I can tell Dave's buggy a mile off, by its rattle.'

Mr. Cross, apparently satisfied that there was truth in the remark, walked slowly from behind the counter, and approaching the door, those who were standing there hastily made way, and left the post of observation to him alone; they collecting in groups on the outside. Convinced that it was not his son's carriage that approached, the little man stood with his hands in his pockets, his person straightened up, and his eye intently fixed on the road upon which the heavy vehicle was rumbling, and glimpses of which could be seen through occasional small openings in the pines.

Soon the cleared s.p.a.ce before the tavern was gained, and every eye turned instinctively towards Cross, as though asking an explanation from his countenance. The ruddy, or rather purple hue which it usually bore, immediately a.s.sumed a higher color; his hands were withdrawn from their resting-places, his head uncovered, and bustling through the crowd which surrounded his door, he was bowing, and smiling, and doing his best to play the agreeable, the moment the superb vehicle drew up before his sign-post.

The travellers were indeed persons of no small consideration, if an opinion could be formed from their equipage. The carriage was large and airy, hanging low and gracefully upon long sweeping springs; of a dark olive color, which contrasted finely with the light drab linings of the inside. The horses were two n.o.ble blacks, caparisoned in bra.s.s mounted harness, and driven by a negro somewhat advanced in life, and perched upon a heavy luxurious cushion. He was neatly dressed, in the fashion of days that were pa.s.sing away, and was very much absorbed in the management of his team; which, although covered with lather and dust, were evidently full of mettle, and not at all f.a.gged by their travel. Within sat a gentleman and lady, youthful in appearance, with two children; the eldest not over six years of age.

Mr. Cross did not wait for the footman to alight, but advancing to the door.

'Mr. Rutherford, your servant, sir,' opened it, and threw down the steps, before the gentleman had time to inform him that he was not intending to leave the carriage.

'Your lady will surely want to rest a little; our accommodations, indeed, are not much to boast of, but poor as they are, we shall be proud to have you use them.'

The lady bowed to Mr. Cross, acknowledging that she felt obliged for his offer.

'You must excuse us at present, Mr. Cross; we have some miles farther to ride, and if you will show the footman where to procure a little water for our horses, I will be much obliged to you.'

'Certainly, certainly; here, men, water, water; don't you hear? some water for these horses.' There was a great rush among those standing near to accomplish the request; but whether to obey Mr. Cross, or to oblige the traveller, may be questioned; for they had heard his name, and therefore knew that a man of more importance than Mr. Cross was present.

But as there were reasons why the last-named gentleman should, if possible, have an interview with his visitor, he felt that an effort must be made to obtain one.

'If Mr. Rutherford could favor me by stepping aside, but for a moment, it will not detain--'

'It would be scarcely worth while, Mr. Cross. I presume I know what you wish to converse about; and I am not just now prepared to give you an answer.'

'Ay--well, sir--I won't presume to dictate, sir; only you know we usually make our contracts about this time, so that we may make some calculations for hands, etc.'

'That's true, sir; but to be plain, Mr. Cross, I am not sure that I shall not make some other arrangement, at least, so far as my interest goes in these barrens. I do not feel satisfied with our present plan--we pay great wages, you must be aware.'

'Stand back, men, stand back; don't you know civility enough not to be crowding the gentleman?' Mr. Cross had his own reasons for not wishing too many listeners; for some ideas might possibly be conveyed to them not consonant with his interest.

'Our people are rough, as you see, madam,' addressing the lady, 'and you'll pardon their ill manners.'

'No pardon at all necessary, Mr. Cross; these good people are not the least in our way.' This the lady said in a voice sufficiently loud to be heard by all present; and then, with a pleasant smile cast upon the group, she asked, 'Will one of you be kind enough to bring me a gla.s.s of water for my little girl?'

Not one, but several gla.s.ses were, in an instant almost, at the carriage door. The lady took them all; and as they were returned to the brawny hands held out to receive them, dropped a piece of silver in each.

'G.o.d bless you, lady!' responded at once each of the lucky attendants, and a smile of pleasure lighted up all the dark countenances of the half savage-looking beings, who were gazing in wonder at the equipage and its inmates.

Mr. Cross was compelled to be a silent spectator of this little scene; but the dark scowl which pa.s.sed across his features told plainly that it was not quite agreeable to him.

'Am I in the direct road to Widow Brown's?' inquired Mr. Rutherford, casting a glance at the little man, and then around upon those present, as though it was a matter of no consequence from whom he received the answer. It came readily from many of the bystanders; the voice of Mr. Cross being lost in their louder exclamations; even if he answered at all, which is doubtful.

'Yes, sir--yes, sir; its about six miles from here; but you must turn to the right hand when you get to the edge of the great swamp.'

'Thank you, thank you all; and here is a trifle for you, my friend,' singling out the one who had procured the water for the horses, and tossing him a silver dollar.

'G.o.d bless you, sir--you're a gentleman.'

'Good day, Mr. Cross.' He bowed respectfully to the host, and to all the admiring group, and the heavy carriage rolled on its way.

Mr. Cross walked back into his stronghold with a very dissatisfied air, while the men gathered outside in little knots, discussing the strangeness of the whole scene, and wondering what ailed the old man, 'he seemed so out of sorts.' Scarcely had the carriage disappeared, when a rattling was heard, and the rapid and heavy stamping of horses' feet, and David Cross tore up to the door, among the groups of foresters, scattering them to either side, with as little consideration as though they had been so many sheep. Curses deep arose in their hearts, but came not forth at their lips.

'Here, Jo, you put Bony in the stable, and rub him down--won't you?'