Bart off on an Expedition.—The Search after Solomon.—The aged Toiler.—The Flaming Fury.—The brandished Broomstick.—Collapse of Solomon.—Extinction of the Flaming Fury.—Solomon vanishes.—Terrible Tidings.—An anxious Search.—Despair.
MEANWHILE Bart had started off, as we have seen, on his expedition after old Solomon. The place in which he proposed to seek after him was distinguished by the euphonious and historical name of Loch Lomond, which name originated from the existence of a small but very pretty lake in that locality, which was in the neighborhood of a hill. Now, this lake and this hill bore a fanciful resemblance to the famous Scottish lake and hill, and the names were applied to these by some enthusiastic Scotchman. The lake was one of a chain, all of which were small and rather pretty, and the whole region round about went by the name that properly belonged to the lake.

Two or three miles away from this lake there was what is called a “colored settlement,” which, of course, means a settlement inhabited by people of color. This was also called the “black settlement,” and also the “nigger settlement.” Solomon had informed Bart that he intended visiting this place, and Bart thought of this as the only place where he could be heard of.

The colored settlement was founded by some slaves, brought away from the Southern States by the British during the war of 1812. They had been presented with land here, and had been told to chop down the trees, clear the land, and become farmers. The settlement had not been a very great success, however, and it was generally admitted that the genius of these people did not lie in colonizing new countries.

It was a beautiful morning, and though Bart saw high fog banks piled up to the skies in the harbor and in the bay, yet he soon left behind him all thought of this, and entered the country. The scenery was attractive, the air was clear and exhilarating, the horse was fast, and everything conspired to fill him with joyous feeling. His mind reverted to Bruce’s letter, and he passed most of his time during the drive in speculating about the coming excursion, and in rejoicing over the happy accident that had taken Captain Corbet to Prince Edward Island, and brought him within sight of Bruce before he had engaged about the oats. Amid such pleasant thoughts as these his mind busied itself, and at length he reached the colored settlement.

He stopped at a rude log hut, which had a roof of poles and mud, from which a flour barrel projected, and served as a chimney. Here some squalid children were playing on the turf, and an elderly colored lady was engaged in washing. Her Bart accosted with a polite inquiry about Solomon.

“Solomon!” said she. “Wha dat ar? What? dat ar ole man? Mrs. Franklin’s ole man?”

Bart didn’t know anything about Mrs. Franklin, but he gave a description of Solomon, which was sufficiently accurate for this lady to recognize it.

“Dem’s um,” she said, in a positive tone. “Wal—dat ar ole man’s libben at Mrs. Franklin’s—”

“And where is Mrs. Franklin’s?”

“Jes you go ahead till you come to de meetin’ house, an it’s de sebent house after you get to de meetin-house.”

Bart drove on, and in due process of time reached the meeting-house, and then began to count the houses. He found a little difficulty about this, as he could hardly distinguish between what might be a house and what might also be a barn, and was stopping at a place in the road opposite a hut like the one at which he had first stopped, when his attention was arrested by the sight of a man in the field on the other side of the way. The man’s back was turned towards him, and he was toiling with all his might over a stone and a crowbar, occasionally straightening himself up and rubbing his back, and uttering groans which reached Bart’s ears even at that distance, and smote upon his heart.

That aged figure,—aged it was,—could that indeed be Solomon? and was this the way he enjoyed himself while on a visit to his friends? With a crowbar, prying up granite boulders? What a thought!

In a moment Bart was out of the wagon, and was running over the fields towards the old man. He came up close just as the old man was rubbing his back. He caught him by the arm. The old man gave a wild leap, and turned round with an expression of awful fear.

But the object of his fear resolved itself into the pleasant face of Bart, and all the terror fled, and a smile of joy illumed the venerable, yet dusky face. Tears started to his eyes, and, reaching out both hands, he dropped the crowbar; then, coming forward with a low moan of happiness, he exclaimed,—

“You! Mas’r Bart. You, Mas’r Bart—you—you—Mas’r Bart—”

Yes, it was Solomon.

Full of wonder and pity, Bart seized the hands of his old friend, and began asking him a thousand questions. What was he doing here? What did he mean by keeping away? And then, without waiting for an answer, he went on to tell about Bruce’s letter, and their proposed expedition, and the necessity which there was for him to accompany them. Finally he urged him to get ready as soon as possible.

To all this Solomon listened in silence, without saying a word. He stood with his hands clasped together, with his eyes fixed at times on Bart, and at times half closed, while his lips kept muttering low, inaudible words. At length, however, his face and manner underwent a change. He started back, his eyes were fixed on something in the distance, and that same expression of terror came over his face which Bart had seen upon it when he first accosted him.

At this Bart turned instinctively to see what it was that inspired such terror in the mind of Solomon.

He saw a colored lady—tall, gaunt, with a turban on her brow of flaming red, with a look of fury on her face, and a broom in her hand, which she was brandishing wildly. She came with great strides at a run, and was evidently coming towards them. Bart’s first idea was, that she might be a mad woman, and he had a vague impulse to run; but the next instant his mind connected this woman with Solomon, and suggested her as the cause of his fear. As for Solomon, he was now quite beside himself with terror. His hands fell nerveless by his sides, his jaw dropped, his head shook as with a palsy, his knees knocked together, he seemed scarce able to stand erect, and could not utter one single word; all the while his eyes were fixed on the advancing Fury with the flaming turban, and his look was the look of one who expected instant annihilation.

The Fury of the flaming turban drew nearer. Her course showed that she had emerged from the house on the opposite side of the road. As she rushed on, and as she brandished her broom, she howled out the most terrible threats against somebody, which somebody Bart now supposed must be Solomon, and at once, full of pity, determined to defend the old man from her fury. He therefore stood in front of Solomon, and was just about to call to his servant to come and help him, when the idea struck him that the Flaming Fury seemed strangely familiar to him; and as she came yet nearer, he recognized her perfectly. To his utter bewilderment and unbounded amazement, the Flaming Fury turned out to be no other than one who, for the last few years, had been quite a visitor at his father’s kitchen, and a dependant on his father’s bounty. “Black Betsy” was the name by which she was known. A silvery voice, a truly humble and grateful mind, a meek and quiet spirit, a winning demeanor, a smile that always charmed every one upon whom it beamed,—such was the Black Betsy that was known and loved in the Damer kitchen. But what was this? What had happened?

This Black Betsy? This Virago, this Terror, this Flaming Fury? This! Impossible. Yet there was the astounding fact. There was only one explanation. Black Betsy was mad!

No, Bart, she was not mad; she was only drunk;—mad drunk, if you like, but not what is generally called mad.

And thus, mad drunk, the Flaming Fury came bounding up, howling and brandishing her broom. The moment that he recognized her, Bart felt not the slightest fear of her. He stood in front of Solomon. He looked at her fixedly, and raised his hand with a quiet frown.

It is just possible that, if Bart had been a stranger, the Flaming Fury would have swept him away with her broom, as she would have swept a straw. But seeing him, and recognizing him, produced an effect instantaneous and most astonishing. She stopped, still staring at him. The broom for a few moments remained poised in her hands, and then slowly sank towards the ground; while, at the same time, the hard ferocity of her face died out utterly, and was succeeded by a smile so gentle, so amiable, and so motherly, that Bart looked at her in fresh amazement.

“Why, ef it ain’t de dear chicken! Ef it ain’t de dear little Mas’r Bart, his bressed sef. De sakes, now!”

This exclamation was uttered in the softest, and most silvery, and most winning of those tones which Bart had always associated with Black Betsy. This additional proof of the identity of this amiable being with the Flaming Fury only increased his wonder.

“An how is dat ar bressed angel, your mudder, Mas’r Bart? Clar ef dese yer ole eyes ain’t farly achin to see her agin.”

“She’s very well, thanks,” said Bart, slowly.

“Dat’s good; dat’s lubly. Clar ef it don’t go clean to my ole heart! An so you dribe out to see de ole man! Wal, I allus sez, dat ar Mas’r Bart, I ses, ef he ain’t de ’stror’nest, ’fecsh’nest chicken! All heart, I sez, he is; all clar lub—no mistake. An what is dis life wurf widout lub? Why, it’s notin but de soundin brasses an templin simplum. Clar ef it ain’t!”

While this conversation had been going on, Solomon had regained consciousness; and seeing the change that had come over the woman, and that the Flaming Fury had subsided into the gentlest of beings, he began to gather together his scattered senses. Bart’s back was turned to him, and so he did not see him. But Solomon did not care for that. His one idea now was to save himself for the time, at least.

So, first of all, he edged away a little, very slowly and very cautiously. No notice was taken of this, and he ventured to retreat still farther. Still Black Betsy went on talking in her silvery voice, and with her winning smile. So Solomon retreated still farther. Black Betsy saw all this movement, and once she raised the broom and held it in the air. But her face was wreathed with smiles, and her soft, gentle accents flowed on in a mellifluous strain; and so it was, that the upraised broom, instead of calling Solomon back, only hastened his retreat. He thereupon turned abruptly, and making his way as rapidly as possible to the nearest woods, he soon disappeared.

Black Betsy still went on, mellifluous and voluble. The warmth of her nature seemed boundless. Tears stood in her eyes as she told Bart how she loved his mother. Finally she stopped with a sob, overcome with emotion, as she related the kindness she had received from his father, and began to cry.

At this Bart, who had been trying in vain to understand her, finally gave it up, and thought of Solomon. He turned around to speak to him.

To his amazement Solomon was not there.

And now this completed his bewilderment. He drew a long breath, and gave up altogether every effort to understand anything at all.

“Why, where has Solomon gone?” he asked.

“Berryin,” said Black Betsy, gently—“berryin. De ole man dreadful fond o’ berries.”

“Berries? Well, that’s odd. Why, I want to see him.”

“He tink he gib you pleasant ’prise—go pick berries for de dear chicken,” said Black Betsy, in a tender voice.

“But I want him,” said Bart. “I want him now. Where did he go?”

“Don-no, Mas’r Bart—no mor’n a chile. You call out real loud,—you got to call loud fore dat ar ole man’ll har you. He’s got dreadful deaf an hard o’ hearin o’ late—dese times.”

Bart now shouted over and over again, but there was no response. He asked his servant if he had noticed Solomon. The servant had noticed him, and told him about the retreat to the woods. Bart did not know what to make of it all. The apparition of the Flaming Fury had gradually lost its force, and he thought only of the gentle, silvery voice of Black Betsy. The retreat of Solomon, therefore, did not seem to arise from fear of so gentle a being, but from something else—and what could that be?

“De ole man tinks you gwine to spen de day,” said Black Betsy. “He gone olf to dig sassy-prilla to make beer. You wait and he come back soon.”

So Bart waited a little while, hoping that Solomon would return.

But Solomon did not return.

Black Betsy entertained him with remarks in her usual strains, chiefly of an affectionate and endearing character; but Bart was so disappointed that he paid but little attention to her. He had come out to get Solomon’s consent to go with him, and had not been able to do so. What was the reason? Could it be possible that Solomon did not want to go, but did not like to refuse, and so had taken this way of getting out of the difficulty? It seemed very much like it.

Bart waited an hour or so, and then drove away to an inn on the borders of the lake. Here he dined. Then he drove back again to see Solomon. To his deep disappointment he learned that Solomon had not made his appearance since. He therefore left a message to the effect that he would drive out again on the following day, or, if it was stormy, on the first fine day. This was all he could do; and so, mastering his disappointment as well as he could, he drove home again.

It was evening when he reached home. Here a fresh surprise awaited him; for on asking after Phil and Pat, he learned that they left the house after breakfast, and had not been seen since. He wondered at this, as he could not imagine what would take them away, particularly on an occasion like this, when they ought to be naturally anxious to learn the result of so important a thing as his search after Solomon. He concluded, however, that they had gone off on some long walk, or out in the harbor in a boat, and had been detained.

After a time, as he was wandering about, the servant who had driven him to Loch Lomond met him, and told him that there was a report of some accident that had occurred at the Falls that morning.

In a moment Bart’s most anxious excitement was aroused, and he asked about the accident. The servant did not know anything in particular. He had only heard that a boat had been upset in the Falls with two men. Some said they were boys. People had seen them swept under the suspension bridge. It was said that they were drowned.

At the mention of this, Bart felt for a few moments as though he were turned to stone. He could not move or speak. In those few moments there flashed across his mind the remembrance of what Pat and Phil had said about a visit to the islands, together with mysterious hints and casual remarks that he had heard afterwards, to which at the time he had paid no attention, but which now all came back to his memory with fearful distinctness and accuracy. From all this there arose within him the fear that Pat and Phil had made the attempt against which he had warned them, taking advantage of his absence, and that the boat that had been upset was no other than theirs.

What was to be done?

He did not know what. By this time his father was home, and he at once went to him and told him all about it. At this story Mr. Darner’s anxiety was equal to that of Bart. He himself had heard, in the course of the day, about the accident, but had never imagined that it so nearly affected him. The moment that he learned this from Bart, he at once went forth to make further inquiries, to see what could be done, and to commence a search in any possible way in which a search might be made.

He went first of all to the suspension bridge, and made inquiries of the toll-keeper. That functionary was able to tell him all that could be told. It amounted to very little. He had heard shouts on the bridge, over which two or three people were passing, and had gone out to see what was the matter. He had just got out in time to see two men—or two boys, he did not know which—swept by the current under the bridge. There was a boat also, bottom upwards. He and all the rest stood staring in horror without doing anything. To do anything was in fact impossible. The bridge was far above the water, precipices intervened, and the current was running so fast that the figures were swept away before they could fairly understand what had happened.

Were they alive, or dead?

This was the question which Bart asked in intense anxiety and dread.

The toll-keeper could not say, but his impression at the time was, that they were alive; he also had an idea that one of them was clinging to a bit of wood. But he would not be sure.

“Could he make out their clothes—what they were like?”

No; for only their heads were above water. They had no hats. They uttered no cry, and made no noise whatever, but he did not think that they were dead. Still they did not seem to be swimming, and the whole thing was a puzzle.

Unable to get any more satisfaction from the toll-keeper, Mr. Darner next went to the town, and made inquiries among the boatmen and fishermen. There was but one reply from all of them, and that was, that they had seen nothing. They informed him that there had been a thick fog in the harbor all day, and a boat might drift out to sea without being noticed. All of them thought it very unlikely that any men, after being upset in the Falls, could avoid drowning, although, at the same time, they were willing to allow that it was just possible. But if so, the only chance that they could have was to be picked up while in the harbor. If any men were to drift down the harbor, in the fog, without being observed, out into the bay, there did not seem any chance of their being saved.

Such was the opinion of those who knew most about it. Full of anxiety, and almost despair, Bart and his father then went elsewhere on their hopeless errand. They visited the tug-boat men, the ferry-boat men; they questioned many of the scow men and rafts-men; but though most of these men had heard about the accident, none of them had either seen or heard of any men, or of any boat, drifting down the harbor.

This took away from Bart and his father almost their last hope. Yet still they were not willing to give up their search, but continued until late into the night their now apparently hopeless task.