The Death Shot: A Story Retold

One of the last, and latest, is the intention of the Armstrongs to remove from the neighbourhood. He has already heard of this, as also their destination. It might not so much concern him, but for the implied supposition that his sweetheart will be going along with them. In fact, he feels sure of it; an assurance that, so far from causing regret, rather gives him gladness. It promises a happier future for all. Jupe, too, has had thoughts about Texas. Not that the Lone Star State is at all a safe asylum for such as he; but upon its wild borderland there may be a chance for him to escape the bondage of civilisation, by alliance with the savage! Even this idea of a freedom far off, difficult of realisation, and if realised not so delectable, has nevertheless been flitting before the mind of the mulatto. Any life but that of a slave! His purpose, modified by late events and occurrences, is likely to be altogether changed by them. His Jule will be going to Texas, along with her master and young mistresses. In the hope of rejoining her, he will go there too – as soon as he can escape to the swamp.

On this evening he expects later news, with a more particular account of what is about to be done. Blue Bill is to bring them, and direct from Jule, whom the coon-hunter has promised to see. Moreover, Jupe has a hope of being able to see her himself, previous to departure; and to arrange an interview, through the intervention of his friend, is the matter now most on his mind. No wonder, then, his scanning the sky, or its faint reflection, with glances that speak impatience.

At length, becoming satisfied it must be near night, he starts off from the eyot, and makes way along the causeway furnished by the trunks of the fallen trees. This serves him only for some two hundred yards, ending on the edge of deep water, beyond which the logs lie submerged. The last of them showing above, is the wreck of a grand forest giant, with branches undecayed, and still carrying the parasite of Spanish moss in profusion. This hanging down in streamers, scatters over the surface and dips underneath, like the tails of white horses wading knee-deep. In its midst appears something, which would escape the eye of one passing carelessly by. On close scrutiny it is seen to be a craft of rude construction – a log with the heart wood removed – in short, a canoe of the kind called “dug-out.”

No surprise to the runaway slave seeing it there; no more at its seeming to have been placed in concealment. It is his own property, by himself secreted.

Gliding down through the moss-bedecked branches, he steps into it; and, after balancing himself aboard, dips his paddle into the water, and sets the dug-out adrift.

A way for a while through thick standing trunks that require many tortuous turnings to avoid them.

At length a creek is reached, a bayou with scarce any current; along which the canoe-man continues his course, propelling the craft up-stream. He has made way for something more than a mile, when a noise reaches his ear, causing him to suspend stroke, with a suddenness that shows alarm.

It is only the barking of a dog; but to him no sound could be more significant – more indicative of danger.

On its repetition, which almost instantly occurs, he plucks his paddle out of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift.

On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by the Penitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tilting it to one side, he bends low, and listens.

Certainly a dog giving tongue – but in tone strange, unintelligible. It is a hound’s bay, but not as on slot, or chase.

It is a howl, or plaintive whine, as if the animal were tied up, or being chastised!

After listening to it for some time – for it is nearly continuous – the mulatto makes remark to himself. “There’s no danger in the growl of that dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It’s the deer-hound that belong to young Masser Clancy. He’s no slave-catcher.”

Re-assured he again dips his blade, and pushes on as before.

But now on the alert, he rows with increased caution, and more noiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it does not hinder him from noting every sound – the slightest that stirs among the cypresses.

The only one heard is the hound’s voice, still in whining, wailing note.

“Lor!” he exclaims once more, staying his stroke, and giving way to conjectures, “what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must be something amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope ’taint no mischance happened its young masser, the best man about all these parts. Come what will, I’ll go to the ground, an’ see.”

A few more strokes carries the canoe on to the place, where its owner has been accustomed to moor it, for meeting Blue Bill; and where on this evening, as on others, he has arranged his interview with the coon-hunter. A huge sycamore, standing half on land, half in the water, with long outstretching roots laid bare by the wash of the current, affords him a safe point of debarkation. For on these his footsteps will leave no trace, and his craft can be stowed in concealment.

It chances to be near the spot where the dog is still giving tongue – apparently not more than two hundred yards off.

Drawing the dug-out in between the roots of the sycamore, and there roping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standing some seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees.

If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on the land; so long being away from it, he there feels less at home.

Guided by the yelps of the animal, that reach him in quick repetition, he has no difficulty about the direction – no need for aught save caution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty – his life – stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glides from trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till assured he can reach another without being seen.

He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a more prolonged period.

For he now sees the dog – as conjectured, Clancy’s deer-hound. The animal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever and anon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with the plaintive refrain.

For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogatives which the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he may address them. No man near – at least none in sight. No living thing, save the hound itself.

Is there anything dead? Question of a different kind which now occurs, causing him to stick closer than ever to his cover behind the tree.

Still there is nought to give him a clue to the strange behaviour of the hound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now be racking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed the strife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to the reader – with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself sole actor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke’s bullet, did not go directly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and it knew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature, while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once more turning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy.

This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the assassin – as he supposed himself – having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly made away. Despite the shroud thrown over its master’s body, the dog soon discovered it – dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing aside the moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue licking the cold face.

Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continues its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, while alarming him.

Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, therefore no one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. With confidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, and strides on to the spot where the hound has couched itself. At his approach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meet him. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, it suddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him.

After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side of the moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with face turned towards him – the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teeth clenched; the eyes fixed and filmy.

And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believes it to be dead.

He has no other thought, than that he is standing beside a corpse.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Is it a corpse?

“Surely Charl Clancy!” exclaims the mulatto as soon as setting eyes on the face. “Dead – shot – murdered!”

For a time he stands aghast, with arms upraised, and eyes staring wildly.

Then, as if struck by something in the appearance of the corpse, he mutteringly interrogates: “Is he sure gone dead?”

To convince himself he kneels down beside the body, having cleared away the loose coverlet still partially shrouding it.

He sees the blood, and the wound from which it is yet welling. He places his hand over the heart with a hope it may still be beating.

Surely it is! Or is he mistaken?

The pulse should be a better test; and he proceeds to feel it, taking the smooth white wrist between his rough brown fingers.

“It beats! I do believe it does!” are his words, spoken hopefully.

For some time he retains his grasp of the wrist. To make more sure, he tries the artery at different points, with a touch as tender, as if holding in his hand the life of an infant.

He becomes certain that the heart throbs; that there is yet breath in the body.

What next? What is he to do?

Hasten to the settlement, and summon a doctor?

He dares not do this; nor seek assistance of any kind. To show himself to a white man would be to go back into hated bondage – to the slavery from which he has so lately, and at risk of life, escaped. It would be an act of grand generosity – a self-sacrifice – more than man, more than human being is capable of. Could a poor runaway slave be expected to make it?

Some sacrifice he intends making, as may be gathered from his muttered words:

“Breath in his body, or no breath, it won’t do to leave it lyin’ here. Poor young gen’leman! The best of them all about these parts. What would Miss Helen say if she see him now? What will she say when she hear o’ it? I wonder who’s done it? No, I don’t – not a bit. There’s only one likely. From what Jule told me, I thought ’t would come to this, some day. Wish I could a been about to warn him. Well, it’s too late now. The Devil has got the upper hand, as seem always the way. Ah! what ’ll become o’ Miss Armstrong? She loved him, sure as I love Jule, or Jule me.”